Torben Eastlander smiled at the hostess as he laid some coins upon the table to pay for his meal, but his mind was in turmoil. For so long now he had written about the adventurers and he was short on ideas; and coins. Their stories grew and grew, and were so big now he knew not where to take them. So much hack and slash. So many feats of daring. Saving the world with every adventure. With stories of the five swirling through his head Torben staggered out into the cold night air.

The half-orcs who had been waiting for him were still waiting for him, but this time in the shadows of an alleyway. The right side of leader’s face was visible in the moonlight – the left side in dark shadow. The rest of his hunched form and hands lay hidden in the shadows. His eyes followed Torben and then shifted to a slender, motionless figure who stood across the street. Their hood hid their face, but Torben did not notice for he walked past with eyes down at his feet and mind still deep in thoughts about the five. The slender figure motioned. The half-orcs made their move. The leader produced a rapier from under his cloak and in but a few quick strides drew close to Torben.

The tip of the weapon was plunged deeply and directly into Torben’s abdomen. The sight of this was clearly visible to Torben as his eyes had been cast down. At first the extremely sharp blade didn’t hurt, but Torben knew that it soon would as he had experienced so many paper cuts in his life, being a writer. Now the adrenaline kicked in and everything moved in slow motion. He looked up from the fist that held the blade and into the eyes of the half-orc holding the instrument of death. Funny, there was no malice in the eyes of that man-orc. Puzzlement came across Torben face. All he could do was to blurt out, “Why?”

Now the pain became quite real and as an involuntary scream came surging from his throat, the three half-orcs held him up on his feet and dragged him deeper into the shadows of the alley. Torben felt light headed. Bright red was pouring out of his belly, with the blade still held firmly in place. “This is how I will die,” he thought. His body was going numb. Regrets flooded his mind. He began to lose consciousness.

Was he dreaming? A vision of the five filled his thoughts, with the one whom they called Tasedar. Where was the tunnel? Tasedar was instructing the heroes. Where was the bright light? Torben thought he could hear this Tasedar giving instructions for the five to fight the demons. Where were the Elysian Fields of green fed by cool blue streams? Rift was summoning horses via a magic ritual. What, no busty valkyries?

With these visions passing through his mind, Torben lost track of time and gave himself over. He could see and hear the adventures talking with a man named Geralt about riding to the Northlands. First they would have to go to Kengistan. So vivid was this dream! The wreckage that was Kengistan was laid out before him and Torben knew this to be real for word of the devastation had already spread. Torben became alarmed for he now thought that his mind may have left his body. Was he dead? Was this the out-of-body experience that some had told of?

Still, he saw the five act with compassion. Z’alden walked the charred and smokey landscape healing the wounded and giving aid to whomever he could. Back in Fallcrest where his body lay, Torben’s eyes welled up with tears as he witnessed the good deeds of the five. Their inspiring leadership was to give new hope to the Kengi – to open free lands to the Kengi for their new homeland.

Torben’s vision then changed to the Temple of the Arcane, where the five and Geralt now stood with Illidan, who in another life consorted with demons but now held off their invasion. It became clear to Torben just how important the role of the five was in this world. They were saviors, of sorts, and not just adventurers seeking excitement and loot. Their actions had saved the world so many times, and he had questioned them. His folly now weighed upon him and back in Fallcrest tears streamed down Torben’s face.

The scene changed yet again and Torben could see the five and Geralt making their way though what must have been the Northlands. Torben heard the scream of a woman as if her very life was in peril. He could see Geralt moving quickly and efficiently, dispatching three villains. “The five walk with others of virtue,” thought Torben, “These are true heroes.” His mind then relaxed in blissful reflection and realization. When he regained focus the heroes were in a tavern and standing up to more villains. Torben’s physical body wept.

Soon the adventurers and Geralt were in search of a young man and endangering themselves in a horrible graveyard. They did this not for fame, nor wealth, but out of sympathy for a distraught mother. The righteousness of their actions continued to impress itself upon Torben. Though the visions seemed clear, he was on a tour that he could not control. In the back of his mind, he wondered why he had been chosen for this journey. His emotions struggled in the chaos of a vortex that was inexorably leading to a conclusion that he felt coming, but he not yet understood. Was it death? Was it new life?

In that graveyard, Torben saw the adventurers contract a terrible disease – not a wound of the normal sort – something insidious that would prey upon them over many days. The visions moved forward quickly to seeing Rift upon her death-bed, blind and having no good fortune from the healers. Erik too was sick and unable to be helped by the healers. Torben watched, though his body still lay upon the cold ground in some alleyway, in the town known as Fallcrest. He cried out in pain as he watched Rift die. Erik followed soon after.

Wraiths! From Rift and Erik’s bodies rose apparitions of all that is impure and immoral. Z’alden, Barrick, Tira and Geralt quickly dispatched the entities of pure evil. A thought was then introduced into Torben’s awareness and he realized that these manifestations of evil had sprung from within Rift and Erik and by exiting them had actually left Rift and Erik more pure. They had been cleansed. Z’alden administered glowing potions of light to Rift and Erik and they returned from the dead to the living. They were alive! The enormity of the vision took hold of Torben and he lost all control and wept without inhibition. Everything went to black.

---

Torben Eastlander awoke with a start. His head was buzzing and he felt faint. A cloaked woman was crouched over him, holding his head off the hard stone passageway. At first he thought he might still be experiencing the vision, as she was so beautiful, but his physical pain reminded him that he had returned to reality.

“Rest,” said the woman, “you have been gravely injured. Fortunately I have administered an elixir that provides potent healing. Still, you are not well. You require much more healing.”

Her voice was calming and trustworthy, so Torben attempted to heed her instructions to rest. Yet the visions he had just experienced were too strong, too powerful, too life-altering. He struggled to get words out through his now blood encrusted lips. This “angel of mercy” continued to calm him and urged him to rest. He persisted. Finally, she said, “Well, you must have an incredible story to tell. Let us go back to my dwelling where it is safe and you can recover at a proper pace.”

The lady left him for what seemed like an eternity to Torben, but he then heard hoof-steps. Still in quite a bit of a daze, the lady helped poor Torben up on a mighty black stallion. She then gracefully mounted her steed and Torben held on tightly. The powerful beast lead them out of the city and up an old road. It was Fall and normally the shadows cast by the combination of leafless trees and moonlight would have scared most men, but Torben felt comfort and safety not just in his personal savior but the new understanding of the five, who were savior to all.

Rounding a final bend, the lady stated, “This is my home. Welcome.”

Torben was now a bit more lucid and could see a tall, grey-stone mansion before him. It was the old church that looked over the city, long known to have fallen into disuse and disrepair. The lady noticed the question Torben’s face and laughed, “Oh, yes, that is indeed the old church, but I am in the process of giving it new life. It is warm inside. Come.”

Torben replied, “I am a writer.”

“Yes, of course. Rest here. I want to hear your story. Perhaps you can tell everyone… everyone your story,” replied the beautiful lady.

---

That evening, as Torben slept amongst the softest feathers, wrapped in the finest silk, the lady sat alone high in highest tower of the old church, overlooking the city and beyond. Before her was a large wooden box with a lock. With magic words, the box was unlocked. Within the box was a sphere, covered in a impossibly black magical cloth. With gloved hands she removed the crystal orb from its sheath and rested it upon a jeweled pedestal. It began to glow a bit of red and she sat upright, with full attention upon it.

The form of a humanoid figure shimmered within the orb. The lady nodded, eyes cast down. Then she spoked to the orb, “I have the writer. The virtues of the five will be revealed to all that are willing to listen. Everything is proceeding as you have predicted.”

Then the figure in the orb spoke.

“Continue the plan, but not too fast. There is plenty of time. Plenty of time. Be patient. Control takes time. Your soul shall be rewarded, my sweet Elana.”

Torben Eastlander had a problem. As he sat nursing his glass of Nentir ‘97 in the Nenlast Outpost, he pondered his dilemma. He believed the adventurers; he really did. Yes, they told fanciful stories and perhaps embellished the truth. But at his core, he knew they were telling the truth. The problem was the public – those howling masses who demanded ever greater excitement. They didn’t care about noble causes, saving the world, rescuing the dragonborn. No, they just wanted a ripping good yarn full of death and destruction, back-stabbing, romance, and spurned lovers. And Torben knew that his friends just didn’t have those kinds of adventures.

Take for instance their latest adventure. Barrick, as effusive as ever, had slapped him on the back hard enough to knock out his platinum filling.

“Have we got a tale for you!!” the dwarf had exclaimed.

Torben looked down at his scrawled notes and sighed. Fandril Staghelm? Chief Druid of the Flame? His readers would scoff. It was all so absurd. Okay, so the guy had gems floating around his head, that was somewhat interesting. And there was some strange connection to Tira Duskmeadow. The audience might like that – they always seemed to gravitate towards the beautiful sorceress. And that look of shock and panic in Fandril’s eyes. Perhaps Torben could make something of that. Was it really Tira’s long-lost father? Tira made it clear that Fandril was under a charm, and he had given an amulet to someone. But who?

Torben took a deep sip. Now if the party had suddenly turned on Fandril and attacked, then he would have had something to work with. Tira, being conflicted, might have tried to stop them or even defended her father (?). But instead, Fandril had simply said “I can give you an audience with Ragnaros”, shot some red beams out of his gems, opened the door, and immediately been turned to stone by Ragnaros. Boring!

At least the battle with Ragnaros was interesting. There was some background about the Prince of Frost (Ahune?) in the realm of cold, but Torben could simply leave that out. Then, just when Torben was worried that they would actually try to negotiate with Ragnaros, the ranger Erik had lost his cool and shot an arrow in Ragaros’ face. Thank Correllon for that!

And then there were the four elementals. Now there was something that Torben could work with. Erik, shooting his arrows like a mad man into the magma elemental. Rift wielding her dark star staff on the fiery tornado, only to get hit by a terrible fire blast. Z’alden with his fancy colored sacred flames, fighting alongside the mad dwarf Barrick, both of them struck by a fireball.

Torben muttered to himself, “what about the bag of gold?” A nearby half-orc cocked an eyebrow and nudged his table mates.

Ah yes, Barrick had dumped an entire bag-of-holding full of gold onto the magna elemental’s head. Okay, a little humor, that helps. But he needed more Tira; the way that wild sorceress vaporized the elementals with her thunder and lightning. Rift, with the ray of frost, and again with the same ray of frost. Boring!

Now Ragnaros waded into the fray, hitting Rift and Z’alden, stunning them, unconscious, dazed. Good stuff that! But a blast of cold from Rift and a strange day/night spell from Tira pushed Ragnaros back. Barrick, throwing his axe (good dwarf!) and jumping onto the giant’s back. Why did the dwarf like to ride giants? Was he making up for his own small stature? Perhaps Torben could explore that angle further.

Torben took a sip of ankheg stew. By this point in his notes, Z’alden was near dead, his cleric healing used to help others but not himself. Ragnaros picked up Barrick and threw him across the room at Erik. That was good! Then Torben stopped and sighed. Of course the adventurers couldn’t finish the battle themselves. They had to summon that pesky Ur Feyn, the stupid lich. Torben’s readers would think he was just making that up to save the story, like he couldn’t come up with anything better.

Okay, so Ur Feyn had helped the party by removing all of their afflictions. Torben could just leave that part out. Much better to concentrate on Tira, who in the middle of battle, had wandered off into another room, looking for treasure? And then had found a healing potion just in the nick of time to save Rift. Was there something going on between those two? Hmmm, Torben thought, then shook his head. No, much better to keep the tension between the ranger and the two elves.

Barrick stunned Ragnaros, then (perhaps his dwarven greed getting the best of him) also went into another treasure room, discovering a cache of sapphires and a forest green crystal.

Finally, Ragnaros swung Sulphurus, his mighty hammer, at Erik, knocking down the brave ranger. Torben had scribbled “Erik crawling!” on his notes at this point. Z’alden had made Ragnaros disappear, giving time for Erik to apply a gem (Torben hadn’t written down which one) to his war glaive. The gem somehow (damn his notes!) gave Erik the power to destroy Ragnaros completely. A burst of crackling red fire, and Ragnaros exploded (good!).

“2000 rubies?!” Torben exclaimed to himself. The half-orc and his companions were now staring greedily at Torben. One of them fingered a knife in his belt.

Yes, there was the forest green crystal, a scarab-looking amulet, and some other damaged amulet. Useless!

Torben slumped back in his seat, defeated. How would he turn all of this drivel into a coherent story that his editors in Fallcrest would accept?

The half-orcs rose from their seats, loosening their knives in their scabbards.

…
As the battle raged on, Barrick began to stir. The chrysalis surrounding the dwarf was tough, but “Ha!” thought Barrick, “I am tougher!” Barrick flexed his mighty thews to try and shatter his cocoon, and …
nothing happened, nothing except of course for the pain one feels when sinking slowly into lava encased in a cocoon.
Erik was getting tired of Pyro’s constant resurrection, but what could he do? Again Erik’s arrows flew true, but again Pyro would not die. Pyro lept back at Erik, also wondering just what it takes to kill this creature? But this time Erik was the quicker and Pyro missed, two sets of fangs chopping into thin air.
Z’alden called again upon the Great Dragon to heal Barrick, but that was distraction enough. Cinder spat lava at Z’alden, hitting him fully upon the back. Z’alden’s eyes watered, only for a brief span of time, but that too was enough, Golemaag took advantage and hit the cleric again, this time stunning him outright!
The sorceress, seeing Pyro’s frustration at missing Erik, again, quickly fired two balls on energy, one light, and one dark. Unfortunately both bolts missed, slamming into the floor beneath the hound. Fortunately the spall from the explosions of the errant attacks hit the dog’s underbelly. With a yelp, the beast fell, again.
The ever resourceful Z’alden quickly saved himself from the stun and created a warding zone. But no sooner than he had finished with this task, the good cleric found himself immobilized as another spat of lava, this time from Cinder, wracked his body.
Rift pointed her Darkstar staff at Cinder and surrounded him in a sphere of mirrors, awaiting the moment when she could turn his powers back on himself in this arcane trap. Tira glances over her shoulder at this, one eyebrow raised; she did not think Rift was powerful enough to be able to cast this spell twice on the same being, were there other secret abilities Rift was keeping from her friends? No matter, the sphere worked, and again Cinder appear to die.
Barrick, watching all this helplessly from his prison, struggled one more time to break free. Barrick flexed his mighty thews to try and shatter his cocoon, and …
success! Barrick leaped from the lava and gave his blood a few seconds to flow hotly through his veins whilst surveying the situation.
Golemaag, enraged at the loss of his hounds, first brought his pets back to life, then stomped toward Tira and smashed her down hard, Tira barely staggered away, blood dripping from her wounds. She feebly tried to fight back, but to no avail.
Erik tried to avenge his friend, shooting twin arrows at the Titan, but also, to no avail.
The Great Dragon again appeared at Z’alden’s behest, healing Tira and lashing Golemaag with divine chains at the same time. Sensing that their master was hindered and hurt, the hounds doubled the ferocity of their attacks. As one the two dogs lunged forward biting and spitting. Pyro’s teeth sunk into Erik at the same time that Cinder lava spit set Tira on fire.
Seeing that Golemaag was visibly hurt, the brave adventurers decided to shift their focus from the dogs to the Titan, hoping that if the master was killed the beasts would at least flee the battle.
Barrick started running in closer to the giant, ignoring the heat surging off the Titan’s body. Golemaag tried to bring a huge fist down on the dwarf, but Rift blasted the giant from behind as the fist slammed down on to empty rock. Barrick’s close attack hit and hit hard. Golemaag was dazed; but being a Titan, dazing was but an inconvenience. Golemaag struck back strong, taunting the stocky fighter as the attack hit and stunned Barrick.
A storm of chaos from the sorceress’s still burning hand wrapped around the giants head. Golemaag turned rapidly, not sure where to attack next. Seeing that Tira was fighting even though her clothes and skin were still smoldering, Z’alden unleashed his Sacred Flame, again healing the girl. Tira’s mind reeled, she had not been hit and healed this many times in one battle in quite some time.
The hounds attacks came on, just as vicious as the previous ones. Erik was bitten hard by Pyro. Cinder charged Rift. The wizard watched as the dog charged closer. At the last moment she decided not to get hit and a magic shield appeared, knocking the beast to one side. Smiling, Rift then fired off a powerful disintegrate spell. The beam hit the Titan square in the chest. Time seemed to slow as the party watched cracks appear throughout the body of the giant. Light shown out as the cracks widened. Then, with a loud snap, Golemaag burst apart. The five heroes turned their heads to block the shrapnel. When they looked back, not only was Golemaag dead, but the two dogs were sprawled prone, their life light dimming quickly like the last embers of a dying fire.
Wasting no time, the party secured the room. Rift cast an Arcane Lock to keep out any stray passerbyers whilst Tira searched the titanic rubble, bringing up the large red gem she sought. After a much needed rest, the group found that not only did they feel rested, but a little more powerful as well.
Rift showed the rest of the pack some letters she had found on the table whilst her companions slept. A rough translation revealed that the three factions, Golemaag, Fandril and Baleroc were at odds with each other. The primary issue was that the Firelord Ragnaros, along with Golemaag and Baleroc wanted to work with demons, whilst Fandril, Chief Druid of the Flames, was adamantly opposed to any contact with those foul beings. The adventurers looked at each other, this information could be useful.
Further searching found between 1 and 2 million pieces of gold inside a stone dais. This was way more than then group could carry, even including all the magical space inside their bags, sacks, and backpacks. With a little discussion, the party devised a way to get most of the gold. Rift opened an Arcane gate between their current location and the teleportation portal back at their home castle. Dumping and shoveling as fast as they could, they created a huge mound of gold back at home. It might be enough to prevent them from using the portal in the future, but gold is gold.
Now that everyone was fully rested, had new powers and feats to test out, and had absolutely no space left to carry so much as one more piece of umberhulk jerky, the party set out to find the next guardian, and the next needed gem.
Turning to their other right, they noticed that the fire around the gate, visible from pretty much anywhere around, was darker. It might be that Ragnaros shares his power with the guardians, and if so, this could be good, or bad.
It was not hard to find Baleroc, he stood massive and still, as still as a being made of flame can be. Baleroc was standing in front of the even more massive arched gateway leading to Ragnaros and his palace. In his hands was a great sword, and in the pommel of the sword was the gem for which they searched. Everything else looked normal, except that there were no railings on the sides of the wide path toward the gate. Beyond the path was a long long drop into elemental chaos. As much as Tira loved chaos, she had no desire to explore that, especially against her will. She closed her eyes and conjured a ghostly dragon that would support her if needed. A few more seconds of concentration and all her companions had their own dragon support vehicle.
They moved forward, toward Baleroc.
“HOLD” came the command from the fiery guardian.
They moved forward.
Again: “HOLD”
Barrick, the giant rider, and never one to be intimidated by those taller than himself, strode forward again. Baleroc lifted his sword. Baleroc lowered his sword and the ground began to glow, all but a narrow strip along the edges, where a misstep could send someone plunging into the chaotic abyss. Erik and Rift quietly sidled to the non-glowing strip whilst the others pondered what that could mean. Suddenly all the glowing bricks erupted into huge pillars of flame. Barrick, Z’alden, and Tira were burned and blinded by the hot blast. Without waiting to see if they survived the flames, Baleroc immediately fired off 5 bolts from his fingertips, one directed toward each of the heroes.
The sorceress wanted to try a new spell; being blind might normally have been a hindrance, but in this case, the sounds coming from the giant were enough to aim her energies. Suddenly, instead of resisting fire, as a being made of fire should do, Baleroc found that he was vulnerable to fiery attacks, along with the radiant damage the cleric is so fond of. Flying up into the air the giant continued his attack on the group.
Always looking after his friends first, Z’alden’s next action was to cure the blindness, then with a lethal combination of Abjure Undead and Turn Undead, Bahamut’s servent dealt a truly massive amount of damage in less than six seconds.
Rift waved her staff and casts a sphere of mirrors. Tira was about to say, “Wait a sec, three times in one battle!?” before she realized that this battle against a fiery giant was not the same battle as before. Sometimes the memories of the battles would bleed together in Tira’s low wisdom mind. And with that mental distraction her next lightning blast flew way wide.
Back and forth the battle raged. Erik flew to a small floating island and took cover behind a large brazier. Tira moved too close to the giant and was knocked unconscious. Z’alden kept healing. Barrick, being Barrick, stayed front and center, beating the Titan over and over again. But it was Rift that turned the tide. Time stopped for all except the wizard. Quickly she used the Black Hole of Doom on her staff to disintegrate Baleroc’s sword at the hilt, causing the gem to fall to the ground.
Tira quickly grabbed the gem, rolled directly underneath Baleroc and created a dense layer of floating ice crystals between herself and the flaming giant. Holding the new gem, a strange memory entered her mind. Somehow she knew what had been done before and what needed to be done now. She fused the two gems into one and, channeling that other memory, sent a powerful beam of cold and thunder right into the fiery creature.
Now the battle was really on. Erik fired his trusty twin strike, hitting both times. Barrick whacked with his axe. Rift casts rays with deadly accuracy. Z’alden slapped on Bahamut’s chains causing Baleroc to fall through the frozen shards, cutting him deeply. Tira crawled away and hit twice. Erik stowed his bow, drew his swords, lept across the chaotic chasm and hit with all his power. That was more than enough, the mighty Baleroc crumbled and fell leaving behind a loud cheer from the brave adventurers.
With barely a pause to breathe, their thoughts turned to the next battle…

Pouring sweat stings Z’alden’s eyes, and his thick-skinned left leg itches in the broiling heat. Why couldn’t those Kengi clerics have a used a human bone to regenerate my leg? This leg practically has scales. There is no time to stop and itch it through his mail. Or, to wipe away the sweat from underneath his helm. The burning heat and searing flames radiating away from the towering colossus of elemental fire that stand in front of him leave no idle time for such niceties.

Blinking eyes to clear them, Z’alden surveys again the ancient Fire Titan just two staff lengths in front of him. The Titan’s flames burn the cleric, even through his enchanted mail. Perhaps this is what the mail itself felt like when the dwarves had it at their forge. Perhaps this is what a pig feels like on the spit. No, that is a much cooler fire than what this goliath Golemaag the Incinerator has enveloping his body and burning all that are within five staff lengths of his huge figure.

Z’alden finds saliva form in his mouth as he thinks of a roasted pig. The five adventurers have not had a decent meal since arriving over a month ago in the Elemental Chaos and fighting as gladiators to raise money for a ship that could sail the ethereal regions between the lands in this plane. Their cause is urgent, with no time for such luxuries.

Even as he stands here at Golemaag’s feet, seeming little more than a squirrel to the Titan, Z’alden’s has a rending pang of regret at how long it has taken to find Molten Core, the city ruled by Golemaag’s master, the Primordial Lord of Fire Elementals, Ragnaros. And now, it was taking much too long to obtain the three keys to invade Ragnaros’s chamber. Who knew how many dragonborn Kengi were being slaughtered in fiery deaths even as Z’alden and his friends were here roasting in the heat of Golemaag’s flames. The Chosen of the one who is the god of Hope, must not himself lose hope! They must finish this battle and advance quickly to sever the Primordial’s connection to the army of elementals he has invading the homeland of their friend, comrade, and now most-high-chief of the Kengi and king of Kengistan, that most noble Paladin Felsmon. But the way has been full of difficulty. Defeating Golemaag and taking the gemstone key lodged in his forehead would still give the adventurers only one of the three keys they need. Ragnaros’s other two counselors, Fandral Staghelm, the leader of some “Druids of the Flame,” and Balerock, allegedly a being of pure fire, each possess the remaining gemstone keys embedded in their bodies. All three keys are needed to unlock the massive portal that bars their way to Ragnaros.

The sweat pours like rain down Z’alden’s brow. The cleric thinks ruefully to himself, “at least it is only raining sweat and not raining demons.” The clank of the two chains on the two heads of Golemaag’s ferocious giant fire hound Pyro, off to the cleric’s right, close to Z’alden’s friends Erik and Rift, and the other two-headed hound Cinder, close to Tira’s form, snap Z’alden’s mind to the moments before a rain of demons had indeed started.

The paymaster had just awarded the Valers their four million gold pieces of winnings from their gladiator battle. Hopefully, the 7 young wizards Rift had brought with them on the adventure would quickly find the spelljammer flying ship they needed. The bags of coins clanked with a sound that made Z’alden rejoice at the time. His breast swelled with hope: the invasion of Kengistan would be halted, as the ship they could now purchase would rapidly get them to their confrontation with Ragnaros, the Lord of the fire elementals, who they would defeat. Then the Kengi would then be free of this menacing foe forever. Loud crashes boomed in the paymaster’s chambers and interrupted Z’alden’s reverie of their upcoming success. Outside, fel green boulders of flame and acid were falling all across the City of Brass. The ground shook with each crashing rock, and twisted demons forms emerged as hundreds more fell to the ground. The sky glowed an evil green, eerily similar to that above the Temple of the Arcane when the five had battled a demonic Illadin Stormrage and the hordes of demons he had summoned. Had Stormrage returned to his evil ways and brought some onslaught to the famed alloy city?

Not fearing for themselves, the five Valers had rushed outside together. They quickly observed that the rain of demons was a few hundred per hour. Overwhelming for the five, but nothing for which the guard of the City of Brass was not prepared. Still, the City would suffer heavy losses.

Rift quickly observed this demonic “weather” and clued the others into her extensive knowledge. Something powerful had opened a direct connection between this part of the Elemental Chaos and the Abyss. These were not ordinary demons, but were corrupted fire elementals. The wizard could also discern that this Rain was not random, but was concentrated on the harbor, where the many ships that ply trade at the City are docked, and on the navy yard of the ships that defend the City.

Swiftly, the five ran to the harbor. The massive ballistae on the walls of the city fired non-stop to destroy the fel boulders before the demons within emerged. The result was feeble. Chaos in the City was tangible. The destruction was compounding as the adventurers reached the harbor. Z’alden’s face fell as he saw how many ships were destroyed. Nearly all in the harbor. Erik’s deft perception noticed that some ships were destroyed, not from the infernal boulders, but had been magically exploded. There was an inside job to destroy these ships.

Puzzled by this mystery, but fixed on their mission, Tira then noticed a complete, newly-built spelljammer just across the way. They scrounged for sails, as most in the area had been destroyed, and got the ship underway into the aether, narrowly dodging the fall of infernal boulders.

The sharp eyes of the Ranger spotted a ship flying some 12 miles off of the port bow. Even at this distance, Erik could recognize that the massive craft was a warship from the Nine Hells. Even the brilliant mind of the wizard was confused by the presence of devils in this the plane of the demons. Of course, she realized, the City of Brass is a major trading port. Perhaps they were here to sell hellish trinkets. With some certainty, at least, Rift’s quick study of the arcane energy ascertained that there was a 100% chance of heavy demons in the Brass sky not being connected to the presence of Hell’s vessel.

Wanting to approach unseen, the five racked their brains to devise a way. Then, out of the blue, Tira remembered a Bottle of Smoke she had long carried with her, found in a treasure hoard many years earlier. Uncorking the bottle, most of the spelljammer was enveloped in an obscuring cloud that moved with the ship. Powerful magic indeed.

As they narrowed the distance, the five discussed the puzzle of the destroyed ships and the infernal weather. Z’alden reasoned, with some pain at using his brain for logical thinking, that the combination of the sabotaged ships and the demonfall pointed to someone inside the City being responsible. Possibly for some religious reason. Rift concurred that the methods and the arcane signatures did not point to the diabolic beings they were fast approaching.

Nearing the Hellship, Tira let loose a Chaos Bolt, just to get their attention. Subtle.
An away team of devils came over to the spelljammer.

As he blinks away more sweat, Z’alden remembers how his holy symbol had burned at his chest as he saw four devils approach in an astral skiff. It is nearly burning now, but in a very different way, as Golemaag readies a blast of sulphurous fury. Even as the Titan draws back to release it, the cleric stands resolute, as resolute as he had been standing on the bow of the spelljammer as the devils closed the distance.

Erik had the most poise in the parley, though. During the exchange, the five learned that these devils could predict the abyssal Fall from signs that appeared weeks before. This current downpour was the third Fall in 4 weeks. These events troubled their Master who wanted the great cities to thrive. While the four would not give their own names, they said that they serve the devil Prince of Eyes, Al Jazeer. They related that their diabolic prince suspects that a fallen devil prince, once a servant of Asmodeus himself, called Grazz’it, now lost in infernal chaos, or one Grazz’it’s powerful sycophants, was responsible.

Finding these diabolic beings so knowledgeable of the matters of the Elemental Chaos, and help being in short supply, the party asked them if they knew how to find the Lord of the Fire Elementals, as the party’s business was with him. The speaker of the group’s eyes grinned with a diabolical light, “Every one of you five is touched by destiny. That is clear to our vision. As such, our prince will want an envoy in your halls, one that would stay as an advisor and diplomat for his interests. In return, we could have you to the gates of Ragnaros’s demesne within an hour.”

The party debated among themselves. While Z’alden was almost torn with pain over making a deal with devils compared to the expediency of saving the Kengi, and most of the others were willing to entertain it, the Ranger was the calmest and yet the clearest, “No good can come from having a devil in our chambers night and day. Always, he would be trying to sway us, making deals that are like unseen arrows in our backs at night.” Rift realized that her knowledge was sufficient to guide the ship towards the plane of Fire, the lands where dwells the Lord of Fire elementals. The devil speaker was beside himself with rage when the party rejected his offer, “you have made an enemy of our master today.” It was all Z’alden could do to not to blast the pompous horned villain where he floated in the skiff. Tira had observed the cleric’s body tense and leaned next to him, “Steady there Light Boy. This is not our battle today. The Hellship has hundreds of devils. We do not have the firepower for this fight now.” Calmed, Z’alden can still recall their departure, “Just one good burst of Supernal Radiance would have taught them a thing or two. Another day.”

It had been more than another day. It had been a long month since then. Even as the Demon Fall continued, they had gotten 5 fighters from a tavern in the City. They were all too happy to leave the horrendous infernal weather and help man the ship. Erik had used his magic maps to anticipate and avoid problem areas and keep the ship on course. It took three tedious weeks to reach the plane of fire, and another few days to find the castles and villages of some Fire Giants who might, with some persuasion, direct them to Ragnaros’s citadel.

And now, here they are, in a chamber deep inside the citadel of Molten Core. As Cinder snarled at the cleric, and Z’alden shakes his head to clear his eyes again, he readies a potent spell that will have these fiery two-headed creatures burning with the Light of the Great Dragon. For a brief instant, Z’alden can see a different creature in front of him, not with two heads but with three massive horns: a Tri-horned Behemoth. While Cinder and his brother hound Pyro are creatures serving elemental evil, the Behemoth had turned out to be little more than a giant cow. They had stumbled upon the Behemoth after first getting directions from a githzerai family, and then finding a small town with a Fire Giant shopkeep who promised directions straight to the city of Ragnaros, Molten Core, if only the adventurers would take care of a pest. Erik’s proficiency with the Giant language had allowed him to converse with the shopkeep, but the dialect was tricky. What exactly was a “pest”? It had turned out to be an almost docile creature whose only offense was to eat and then destroy everything around it with beams of energy that shot from its eyes. It was easy enough for the five to kill the pest, and it was for a good cause, but all five felt as though they had killed a sacred cow after the dead was done. Indeed, they had. These Behemoths are worshipped by the Fire Giants, the Fire Titans, the denizens of Molten Core, and Ragnaros himself. The shopkeep, Snewer, was sacrilegious, and was in a long-running feud with the caretakers of this particular Behemoth. He had snookered them and gotten them to destroy an almost harmless sacred beast to settle a score. Still, he lived up to his end of the bargain and, after several more days, the spelljammer reached Molten Core.

It had been the direct approach in the end that the five had chosen to enter the Sulphurous Citadel. Hiding themselves in the gift of Behemoth statue, like those legendary warriors of Droy, among other far-flung, flying entrance plans had been considered. With wiser heads, they realized they would not have fun storming the castle with any of these daft plans. After conversing with some githzerai about the city and the Citadel, they had obtained an audience with the oldest and supposedly wisest of Ragnaros’s counselors, his majordomo, Golemaag. In parley with Golemaag, they had tried to convince him that one of the other two counselors was going to betray him. The githzerai had told them, in fact, Fandral Staghelm already believed that Golemaag was going to betray him. The githzerai had also told them that massive armies had left Molten Core two weeks earlier. Z’alden’s heart had fallen at that news. The destruction of the Kengi had already begun. Their righteous decision to refuse the costly help of the devils would itself come with a great price. Hope remained that severing Ragnaros from his army would give the dragonborn a chance at avoiding complete annihilation.

Unfortunately, the audience with Golemaag had quickly gone south. The adventurers had posed as minstrels with songs of death to entertain the Fire Titan. Golemaag was only interested in hearing songs he knew by heart, from the voice of the dwarf. Barrick was more than up to this vocal challenge. What was unexpected was Golemaag’s demand that they sell the dwarf to him as a pet. While the adventurers tried to turn this somehow into a way to see Ragnaros,
Erik even tried to barter for one of the hounds, the ancient Fire Titan’s patience grew thin and his elemental voice reverberated in the massive chamber, “No one sees the Lord of Fire Elementals in the flesh. His Lord’s chamber is secure and inviolate. You can speak to him now through the embers here in my chamber.” The group was stymied and frozen for a moment. Too long a moment. “Fools!” the Titan had cried out, “I am weary of your presence. Taste the Flames of Sulphur. Feel the power of the Voice of Ragnaros!” The room had exploded with fire, burning the five, leaving them senseless, and pushing them back. Barrick had fallen into one of the several pits of lava in the room.

An epic battle had begun. Barrick remained trapped in the lava, unable to move. It was as though he wasn’t even there, the boisterous dwarf was so quiet sinking into the molten rock, but perhaps this was just from the perspiration clouding Z’alden’s vision and clogging his ears. In a few short heartbeats, the other four had engaged the monstrous hounds while being battered continually by Golemaag’s searing flames, massive fists, and deadly elemental powers. Unfazed, with his razor sharp War Glaives, Erik had quickly sliced one of the core hounds to embers. Golemaag roared with rage, “You killed Pyro. For this you will die.” Calmly, the Ranger retorted, “I told you I wanted the dog.”

The battle raged on. The sorceress had split into her four minion aspects and scattered them around the chamber, confusing the Titan and the remaining hounds. Z’alden had taken a draught from the Vial of Eternity and become insubstantial, the better to withstand being in proximity to the searing flames radiating from the Titan. He then called upon the Great Dragon, first to heal the group’s wounds, and then becoming the bane of demons and all elementals that he has trained to be, sending glorious radiant flames into these evil elemental creatures. While it had a small effect, Golemaag’s powers were undiminished. In a heartbeat, flaming energy leapt from the Titan to Pyro’s embers, and Pyro roared back onto the spot and into the battle. The Titan could raise his hounds! This was blow to the morale of the group, but they sallied on. Pyro’s return was unwelcome, and Tira let him know, causing ice to cover the hound, and then teleporting him up six staff lengths, only to have the hound fall hard to the floor of the chamber. Rift set off a chain of lightening that crackled and seared the flaming body of the Fire Titan. While the cleric stood stunned from Golemaag’s radiating flames that burned him deeply, and would have killed him if not for the Vial and being insubstantial, the Ranger’s War Glaives danced again, tearing into Pyro in an untamed outburst of ferocity, and in another half a heartbeat, Erik further lashed at the infernal hound, again creating a dog-shaped pile of embers. “Stay,” the Ranger said in a firm voice with a twinkle in his eye.

Only to their dismay, again flaming energy soared from Golemaag to Pyro’s pile, and the hound lived again! Rift could see that this was drawing on Golemaag’s own strength and costing him in his life force; it was a small sign of hope in otherwise dismal battle.

It was the wizard who rallied the party and perhaps began to turn the tide. Summoning a vortex of elemental cold energy, like a great mouth, Rift pulled Golemaag into this frozen maw with the most awesome power she can wield. Sharp ice spikes covered the Titan, draining his fiery life force, forcing him to the ground, and leaving him reeling. Despite these icy pains, Golemaag crushed by the cleric as he moved to slam the wizard with his fiery fist. Erik’s War Glaives again sang out into the infernal hound before him, dropping it to embers once more, “Stay, Bad dog!” the Ranger ordered. Tira put her consciousness into the minion closest to Cinder. Raw energy erupted from her hand, was focused into her dagger, and a tempest burst forth, whirling with arcane power, covering the two heads and body of the nearby infernal hound with the greatest of power that she could muster. The hound whined, it could feel pain and knew it then. The arcane tempest then raged over Golemaag, its incredible strength was maintained, and even this ancient Titan let out a gasp as the sorceress’s power enveloped him. Z’alden shook off the elemental flames, called on the healing power of Bahamut, and took another sip from the Vial, allowing him to draw on his own internal healing with a thought at any time. Radiant light flew from his symbol to envelope Golemaag. It was a light that is not easily extinguished and began to slowly sear the elemental Titan. Unfortunately for the cleric, Golemaag took scant notice of this dragon candle. Even with Tira’s tempest gone, however, Golemaag remained sufficiently dazed to be able to do little at that moment. He gathered himself, and fiery energy flew to the embers of Pyro. Again the hound stood, slaver in both of his mouths. Golemaag looked weaker, though, and dark spots began to show in the flames surrounding him. Rift pointed her Darkstar staff at the Titan and surrounded him in a sphere of mirrors, awaiting the moment when she could turn his powers back on himself in this arcane trap.

And now, Z’alden blinks once more, clears his eyes, and surveys the ancient Fire Titan in front of him and the hound Cinder two staff lengths away. Just the right distance, he thinks. The Chosen of Bahamut intones, “By Dragon’s Claw, by Dragon’s Might, You of Darkness now beware, today you feel the Dragon’s Light!” He prepares to utter the sacred name of the Platinum Dragon, and bring forth its sacred form, spanning 5 staff lengths, with claws and fangs to rip into these enemies and with freezing cold to render them incapable of action. He feels the Vial and recalls the temple of Bahamut where he heard the voice say, “The Universe wants you to win.” The cleric draws his breath to begin the spell.

To be continued.

Virtue was dancing with the wind. The curtain had been drawn back, revealing the adventurers’ true nature, though it had been known all along. Now before them was the lich Ur Feyn, at whose bidding the five would steal, and even kill. Times had changed. Oh well.

But as with all actions, there was rationalization. Those wicked deeds were for an ultimate good. The Book of Vile Darkness, full of evil secrets, surely would one day be put to good use by Ur Feyn. Perhaps for a triumph of good over evil? Tira and Barrick had retrieved it for this hollow remnant of a high elf, and now that it was clutched by his bony fingers it was out of their control. Oh well.

Another mighty figure in the lives of the adventurers was Tassadar, an ancient wizard from some primordial time. From him the adventurers learned of their destiny, or perhaps it was more of a quest, or perhaps it was just something to do. The cleric, the wizard, the sorceress, the fighter and the ranger were five in number, but there was to be a sixth to lead the world to a better place. Their first task was to find this sixth and so they came about with a plan to travel to the Temple of the Arcane. It was past time to catch up with Illidan, the potentially evil wizard they knew in another time.

Feeling the need for something different, the adventurers set out upon the northern shore of Lake Nen, heading west. This would be a fine trek, through a lush forest with abundant wildlife to appreciate, kill and feast upon. And so it was a merry time with no evil to fear nor conquer – just share the path with brothers and sisters.

Now, trouble was something the adventurers could not avoid for long, even if they did not seek it out. Just as the sun shines, so too is there shadow, and long had grown the shadows of our five adventurers. As fortune would have it, a mystery was presented: the forest contained deep and wide pits dug in the ground, with tiny bone fragments and these holes were never far from a teleportation circle. The adventurers explored this mystery for weeks, not just days, and mapped out the location of these sites. They lay in the pattern of a grid. Rift searched all her knowledge and concluded that some creature had been buried in these pits, perhaps to spread the bones so that they would be harder to find in total. They had been found. What creature was it? Surely something massive and powerful enough to be worth hiding and worth digging up. Every night, Rift’s dreams were filled with visions of a draco-lich. Was it just the imagination running wild?

There was now a second purpose to travel to the Temple of the Arcane. Not only were they looking for a possible sixth member of a ruling council, but perhaps the wizards would know more about the burial sites. Further still, perhaps one of the wizards was the one collecting the bones in order to create a terrible monster that would be known as a draco-lich. Everyone of power in the temple would be a suspect.

After a few more weeks of travel by foot, the adventurers reached the Temple of the Arcane. This time the four corner towers were floating in the air. This was powerful magic indeed. Unlike their first encounter with this temple, the place was busy with some students scurrying about and others in groups, studying for exams by performing basic and intermediate magic tricks. The five adventurers soon found themselves inside the temple, in the library.

The head librarian was an orc named Gurthmog, who was unlike any orc that Z’alden had ever encountered. An aberant of his race, Gurthmog was bookish, for the lack of a better term. He wore no armor. He carried no weapon. His eyes strained as he examined the five, who stood further than arms length.

“You want the headmaster?”, Gurthmog gruffly spat out, “I can see you are of some importance. You don’t need to tell me. Okay? Okay then. Follow the portals. You’ll figure it out. Go!”

Sometimes one can’t fully escape their origin, and Gurthmog’s curtness was amusing to the sorceress, whose social awareness was quite the opposite of the head librarian’s.

Traveling by portal should have been more familiar to the adventurers, but the dwarf felt uneasy. All this change in direction and location was without clues. How could he keep track of where they were? So far from the dungeon, they were. The five were getting closer to the headmaster’s chambers as they bounced around, but before they got there, they ran into Illidan. Recalling the path toward evil that Illidan had been on, the five were naturally on guard but they tried to hide this. The cleric spoke first.

“How are you, old friend?”, inquired Z’alden as the others watched every move, every expression, every mannerism for the subtlest clue to Illidan’s disposition.

To their relief, the wizard seemed genuine and happy with his role at the Temple of the Arcane. He had risen astoundingly fast as a student and though forever learning, he was now a master too, teaching young apprentices the ways of the arcane. The conversation quickly moved to that of the mysterious boneyards that the adventurers had found. Illidan recommended that the adventurers seek out masters Medivh and Kallazar to learn more. In the mean time, they were to be welcomed guests of the temple, with full access to the library. Supper would be at sundown and they were to join Illidan and his students at their table.

At the library, Z’alden sought out ritual books and was able to make a copy of “Shadow Walk”. Similarly, Rift sought to increase her ritual knowledge and gained an understanding of “Phantom Steed”.

Dinner was served promptly but lasted longer than the prescribed time, as Illidan’s apprentices were intrigued with Rift and Tira’s practical application of magic, specifically used for combat. The questions were cut short as Illidan informed the students that they must rest and that Rift would give a demonstration of her skills in the morning. The excited students would have to wait with overflowing eager anticipation like children who want something right now.

The next day the students met with Illidan and Rift at the top of the central tower. There, Rift demonstrated “combust” upon a hapless volunteer, whose singed hair, blinking eyes and bewildered expression had the other students even more gleeful. Illidan rolled his eyes. Rift asked, “Want to see that again?”

Meanwhile, Z’alden was sleuthing in the library and came across a most fascinating ritual book loosely translated to, “Build a Draco-Lich in Nine Easy Steps”. This ritual could only be performed by the most powerful of wizards and that left it out of reach of even Rift and probably Illidan. Furthering the difficulty of this ritual was the cost of its ritual components – thirteen million. Worse still, one would just happen to have the full skeleton of an ancient dragon. Throw in five extremely rare astral orbs and an even more rare “touch of Orcus”, and there you go, you have yourself a draco-lich that may or may not be under your control. Oh well.

Barrick was getting interested in the draco-lich mystery too, and being a direct kind of guy, asked the headmaster straight-way, “What do you know about creating draco-liches?” Then he pulled the mage in further with, “And what do you think of my axe, the “Talon of Orcus”… wouldn’t that be a “touch of Orcus” that could be used to create a draco-lich?” Of course, the dwarf was being clever. Naturally suspicious of all weavers of the arcane magics, the dwarf wanted to see just how interested this Kallazar would be in the axe. Perhaps too interested? Barrick observed the response closely.

“Yes, your axe would mostly likely be sufficient,” replied Kallazar. “Dwarf, were you thinking of conjuring a draco-lich?”

The question was delivered with a straight face to one who was clearly no wizard. Barrick grumbled beneath his beard.

“There is a rumor of an ancient white dragon. A dragon named Rime. Perhaps it is his bones that you seek?”

So the wizard was smart. Perhaps Barrick deserved a little punishment for his clumsy attempt to get the great wizard slip-up and reveal himself as a disciple of evil. Still, Barrick had not gone empty-handed. This information he would later relay to his comrades.

Meanwhile, Rift was now teaching “Elemental Maw”. After the latest demonstration, Rift said, “That was way cool. Next volunteer?” Illidan rolled his eyes.

Illidan quickly brought Rift’s lesson to an end and Erik, Tira, Z’alden and Barrick all re-joined to share their experiences of the day. With the mention of the ancient white dragon, Rime, Rift showed Illidan the sampling of tiny bone fragments she had collected. To their surprise, Illidan was able to confirm the original owner of the bone fragments – Rime.

Days passed as the adventurers took advantage of the temple’s facilities. Even the ranger, Erik, learned the simple trick of casting light at the tip of his war glaives. Yet the adventures could not stay far from trouble for long. Word came from Kengistan of pending war! King of the Kengi, former fellow adventurer and friend, Felsmon, had sent word that the armies of fire elementals would soon return to wage war. The adventurers were needed to help – to defeat the fire elementals at their source.

The arcane masters of the temple sat and consulted with the five adventurers. Kallazar spoke, “You must go and help save Kengistan. Time is limited. I will teach “planar portal” to Rift. This will save much time.”

Now things started happening very quickly. Rift focused and mastered the spell in record time, impressing Kallazar. Z’alden set about scrying Felsmon to determine if the message was indeed legitimate. He could see Felsmon in the great hall, in full war armor. This was for real.

Later that evening, Rift felt a thin but strong hand grasp the top of her skull. It was Tassadar. “The demons are building a fortress in the West. This is at the direction of a demon prince. It must be addressed immediately.”

At this point, Rift turned to Tassadar and with a look of complaint replied, “But we are to go to the East, to defeat the fire elementals who threaten Kengistan.”

Tassadar’s expression turned to frustration and then to calm. “Rift, I see a larger plan by the forces of evil. They wish to split the forces of good by engaging on two fronts.”

Rift sheepishly replied, “Oh, and then there’s this thing about the draco-lich…”

Tassadar’s expression turned to surprise and then anger. “Fiddlesticks.”

With that, the ancient wizard vanished and left Rift to tell her companions of her encounter with Tassadar. The temple’s masters had grave expressions on their faces and there was more consultation. It was ultimately decided that the adventurers would join Felsmon to fight the fire elementals. They would be aided by seven acolytes and adepts who were enthusiastic about the prospect of fighting evil. With that, and Rift’s newly learned “planar portal”, the adventurers and their small team of young wizards made it to Kengistar, the capital of Kengistan, in just one day.

“Thank Bahamut for your arrival,” greeted Felsmon, “The forests are burning. Just as last time, this was a precursor to invasion. You must go to the source – start at the City of Brass.”

The adventurers understood that their mission was to attack the fire elemental’s leadership. Felsmon would stay to defend Kengistan from those fire elementals that did come through. However, the adventurers were Kengistan’s only real hope. They were the Nentir Vale’s only hope. The fate of the world was in their hands.

Arriving in the City of Brass, the adventurers and seven young wizards found themselves without a ship to travel the Elemental Chaos. One would have to be procured, but with what money? As they were scratching their heads over what to do, one of the acolytes happened upon a poster on the wall. It was titled “Fight Night!” and went on to describe the thrill of mixed martial and arcane arts fighting (MMAA). It encouraged the citizenry and visitors to come see the greatest spectacle in all of the Elemental Chaos. There was a rendering of the flamboyant promotor, complete with spiked-up white hair and surrounded by beautiful, scantily clad females of various races.

“Gambling,” Barrick nonchalantly uttered, “I’ve heard of this. This is big-time money. In a place like this, there are enormous sums gambled on who will win and who will lose. They payouts are truly a fortune. Fighters get paid. Well, or they die.”

Z’alden’s eyes lit up, “So, we could win enough to purchase a ship?”

“Yeah, easily,” continued Barrick, “Just have to avoid dying.”

Erik and Tira looked at each other. Blood sport? Really? Oh well.

So the adventures sent the seven wizards off to hold tight while they would do a bit of “street fighting”, as Barrick termed it. They soon found the promoter, who really did look like his rendering on the poster. Tira kept away, with the plan being that she would bet what money they had to increase their winnings, should they not die.

“Well, you have options. It’s not technically to the death,” explained the promoter, “But you do get a bigger payout, the more risk there is, naturally. There is an option for, uh, fighting to the death. It’s really not so bad. You know, the eternal afterlife. Hey, you look pretty tough there ranger.”

Erik’s eyes grew big and he started to cough. The more phlegm the better. Rift caught on quickly and patted his back, “Oh, the terrible cough. We thought you were getting so much better. Are you sure you want to do this?”

The promoter cast a suspicious eye, being one familiar with cons.

The adventurers agreed to a contest that would be “to the drop”. The promoter assured them that healers would be on hand, but the adventures thought this a bluff. The payout would be three to one. Not bad.

Time passed slowly as the adventurers waited the night in their rooms above a tavern. The streets were loud with late-night revelers. What would tomorrow bring? It would bring an oval arena with thirty foot high walls, with stands extending even higher above. The ground was of sand, and in the middle the fight announcer bellowed out to the packed house…

“Tonight, from the Nentir Vale, a band of four thrill-seekers seek out their destiny. Featuring the dwaaarven fighter, Baaaarick. The rrrranger, Erik. The cleric, Zaaaalen, and his gorgeous concubine Rift!”

One by one, the adventures were lead into the arena. Erik spotted Tira up in the stands, who noticed him back and stuck her tongue out in jest.

The fight announcer paused as the crowd clapped with faltering continuity. They must never have heard of the Nentir Vale.

“Now, their opponents tonight. You know them. You love them. They’ve dominated every match for the last several months, setting records for the fastest fall and fastest kill, please let me introduce, the main attraction, the one, the only, Cooooolossusssss and the Forsaken!”

With that, the announcer levitated up and out of the way just as doors on the opposite side of the arena opened. The ground seemed to shake as a colossus and two forsaken entered. The adventurers recalled that “forsaken” were the material form of the dispersed power of dead gods. Great. Just great.

The crowd went wild.

Round one went to the colossus and the forsaken as the adventurers were stunned, immobilized and otherwise rendered rather ineffective. Still, Z’alden was able to deal plenty of on-going damage and Rift’s practicing of “elemental maw” paid off.

Round two saw the sand drawing away to reveal some fire pits, just to elevate the spectator’s excitement. This surprised the adventurers as they had thought that this match was “to the drop”, not “to the death”. Z’alden also found out that the crowd definitely had its favorite. As he flew up in the air to avoid the colossus, he got too close to the crowd and they grabbed and stabbed at him. Tough crowd. Still, round two narrowly went to the adventurers.

Round three saw a dramatic shift in fortunes as the adventurers took control of the match. The fire pits turned to lava pits and the colossus found himself in the unfortunate position of being stuck in one of them. Round three, and the match went to the adventurers.

The crowd went wild.

The payout was huge, not only to the victors but to Tira who had (mostly) bet on her fellow adventurers. The finally tally showed winnings of 4.1 million on 1.1 million wagered. The adventurers would now be able to procure a fine ship with which they could travel the Elemental Chaos. Of course, the price for this was the deaths of the the colossus and two “forsaken”, despite this match supposed to be only “to the drop”. Oh well. Oh well, oh well.

TBD

“Three years had elapsed. Three years of sitting around, bored, clearing out one orc nest after another,” Rift mused, as she sipped at her glass of Nentir ’97, then downed the rest in one gulp.

“Enough of this idleness.”

Rift, Z’alden, Erik, Tira, and Barrick were finally reunited, but for how long?

Suddenly, Lars burst into the room. “We must improve the castle!” he shouted to no one in particular.

“Um, okay?” exclaimed Erik.

Lars ignored the bemused ranger. As his body started glowing with divine light, the five adventurers backed away slowly. Tira fingered her dagger, wondering whether the dwarf had gone mad, or perhaps had had too many late nights with his screaming brat, Dweezil. Erik could never fathom why someone would want to saddle themselves with a wretched urchin. He would never be caught in such an abominable situation. He had enough trouble keeping track of his twin blades.

Z’alden recognized the glow. “By Bahamut, Pelor, and Moradin, we must get him to the temple.”

Lars continued to babble. “Start of a great civilization, where everything happens again.”

His eyes started to glow. “Arkosha, the Bal-Torath empire, where every race could come together.”

Tira rolled her eyes, and nudged Rift in the ribs. “Whacked, this one.”

Lars continued, “You need to find the chosen one, who has the ear of the people and gods. Seek the council of six. Find the answer within the well.”

At the mention of a well, Z’alden’s ears perked up. “Lars is not mad. He is speaking of those who follow a different path of Bahamut, the followers of Pure Justice.”

Just then, their nemesis-turned-boss, Ur Feyn, appeared. The lich looked the same as ever, all skin and bones, his clothes hanging in tatters. Pointing his decaying fingers at the stunned adventurers, he croaked, “You must seek out a tome far to the south. The Book of Vile Darkness.”

Tira gaped at the undead horror. “Is it just me, or are things getting strange around here? Barrick, did you spike the mead again?”

The lich turned his head all the way around to glare at Tira. “You.” he said. “And you,” he continued, looking down at the horrified dwarf. “Seek the tome.” Suddenly, Barrick and Tira disappeared in a cloud of greasy smoke.

“Hey!” shouted Z’alden. “At least give us something in return to make up for the loss of our two companions.”

“Very well” whispered Ur Feyn with an evil cackle. “What’s fair is fair. I give you a manual of the planes. Use it wisely.” And with another cloud of greasy smoke, the lich disappeared, leaving a large tattered tome in his place.

After recovering from their shock, Erik, Z’alden, and Rift pondered the words of Lars and Ur Feyn.

“Lars said a council of six,” muttered Rift. “Who is the sixth?”

“That’s easy!” said Erik. “Our long-lost companion, Felsmon.”

Z’alden slapped Erik on the back. “My friend, you are a genius! We must seek out our friend Felsmon.”

---

After a journey of many days, the three travellers reached Kendistar, the capitol of Kengistan. To their dismay, they found that Felsmon was now the ruler of the Kengi. His adventuring days were over. But, Felsmon told them what he knew of the followers of Pure Justice.

“Seek the Scion of Arkosha. You are looking for a magic font in the Lost Temple of Bahamut. The followers of Pure Justice, or Justicars, have been seeking it for many years. Head to their monastery to the northwest and they should be able to guide you in your quest.”

“We thank you greatly, mighty chief of the Kengi,” said Z’alden, as he bowed low to his friend. “And now, I need to go clothes shopping.”

Rift gave Erik a puzzled look. “Clothes?” she asked Z’alden.

“Of course! We must be attired as true champions of Bahamut! And besides, the wizard stinks and you, my friend, have holes in your cloak.”

Erik spluttered. “Holes? I have no holes! This cloak is made from the finest deer hide. It was dyed in the richest wheatgrass, which, I might add, makes a wonderful pick-me-up drink in the morning.”

Rift rolled her eyes. “The cleric is right. I do stink, and your cloak has holes. Come,” she added, “I’m buying.”

Mounted on drakes, wearing their new garb, and smelling more-or-less clean, Z’alden, Rift, and Erik rode off to seek the monks.

Z’alden waved his mace high over his head, then, looking down at his burnt red drake, shouted “I shall name you ‘Razorbeak’!”

Erik, not wanting to be left out, whipped out his swords. “And you, my gray-blue friend, shall be called ‘Ironclaw’!”

Rift peered at her two strange friends, then looked down at her forest green drake. He looked up at her expectantly, his face scarred from many battles. “Um, ‘Scarface’?” she exclaimed tentatively. The drake seemed satisfied with his new name, racing to catch up to Razorbeak and Ironclaw.

---

The monk glared at Z’alden, Rift, and Erik. “Bahamut gave me a vision of three travellers seeking the Lost Temple.”

The three had arrived safely at the monastery, and after watching the dragonborn monks meditating and practicing swordplay, had finally managed to convince the head monk, or Justicar, that they were indeed the travellers in his vision.

The Justicar sighed. “Come, I will show you what we have found.”

He led them down into a stone library beneath the monastery. “We discovered the temple a few years ago.”

The monk sighed again and closed his eyes, as if the memory was too painful. “We attempted to enter the temple. But we were repulsed by evil creatures. Scaled demons. We fought them. I fought as best as I could. I swear it. But in the end, I had to flee. I alone survived.”

Z’alden could see the dragonborn’s pain. Putting a hand on his scaly arm, he said “Follower of Bahamut, mighty Justicar, I am sure that you fought well. None could have fought better. But you were right to flee. For if you had not, then who would have returned with the tale? Who could then lead us to the Temple?”

The monk took his hands down from his face. “Perhaps there is truth in your words, noble cleric. Come, I will lead you.”

---

After a journey of many days, in which the monk never rested, and Erik and Rift complained bitterly, the group reached the hexagon-shaped temple.

“I can go no further,” exclaimed the monk. Turning abruptly, he disappeared quickly into the trees, almost running in his haste to be away from the scene of his disgrace.

Inside the ruins, the ranger quickly found the remains of the Justicar’s companions, moldering away in the dust. “But where were the demons?” he wondered. As soon as the thought entered his mind, he felt a cold draft from behind, as if a door had opened to another dimension.

“Behind you!” shouted Z’alden.

Erik gazed at Z’alden in horror. “No, behind you!”

Erik spun and shot his bow, point blank at the evil demon. “Rift, what is it?” he shouted.

“A ‘sorrowsworn’ elemental, if I’m not mistaken,” Rift answered, firing off a blast of combustable gas.

Z’alden also answered, “Aye, that’s what they are. But ‘sorrowsworn’ or no, I swear that they will rue the day they met Zenithar al Denithar!” The cleric’s hands burned, a ball of solar wrath glowing, turning the undead into flames. “One down!"

Erik fired his bow again and again. “Take that, and that!” The arrows buried themselves into the demon. Then Erik, drawing his swords, cut the last demon in half, the creature still screaming as it collapsed to the floor, shrieking and gurgling as it’s evil essence flowed away.

Panting and recovering his arrows, Erik looked around the room warily. “Look, a chest!”

Rift eyes the chest eagerly. “It’s trapped, I’m sure of it! But don’t worry, I’ve got this!” she said excitedly. “I’m an expert!”

Z’alden and Erik backed away, the ranger closing his eyes to a narrow slit, his face scrunched up in concern. Z’alden shook his head, and began to speak, “Rift, are you sure you know…”

Just then, there was a tremendous “whoomph!” as the chest exploded open. Darts flew in all directions, their tips glistening evilly with a purplish liquid. Rift staggered back, her arms and torso punctured by the tiny barbs.

“Whoops!” she exclaimed. As the cleric tended to her wounds, she happily said, “I got it open, no?”

Erik sighed. “Yes, and for what it’s worth, there were 5000 platinum and 15 astral diamonds.”

Z’alden whistled in amazement. “Quite a haul. We shall have to dedicate this to Bahamut."

The brave party pushed onwards into the temple. They came at last to a set of giant doors, the height of three staffs, made of solid stones and carved with the symbol of Bahamut. Erik pushed on the doors, which slowly swung open, perfectly balanced. A giant temple lay beyond. Fonts filled with platinum light shown in the corners, and a great statue of Bahamut filled one side. Z’alden walked in, his eyes shining in the reflected platinum glow. This was indeed a temple of Bahamut to be proud of.

Erik and Rift approached the statue cautiously. Although the temple was dedicated to good, there could still be something evil lurking inside. Sure enough, just as the ranger stepped onto the statue’s dias, a tiny voice piped up.

“Who disturbs the sleep of Nahrlzen Albavar?” the voice screeched.

Erik and Rift jumped back. A tiny demon appeared beneath the claw of Bahamut. “You, intruders, you shall pay for bothering me!” Hopping madly from one foot to another, the demon snapped his clawed fingers.

“Alas!” cried Z’alden, “what is that foul thing doing in my temple?” Rift and Erik followed Z’alden’s gaze. A huge abomination of flesh lumbered out of thin air, it’s eyes protubing grotesquely from its bulbous head. Spotting the cleric, the abomination roared and lumbered towards the horrified half-elf.

Erik’s eyes gleamed. Quickly pulling out a magic whetstone, he applied it to his wicked swords. “Now there is a worthy foe!”

Rift spun around, trying to spot the tiny demon. “It’s disappeared!” she shouted. Then, the demon flickered into existence, right behind the hapless wizard. “Ah ha!” he cried. "Nahrlzen Albavar, the great servant of Jarraxxus, will get you!”

Terrible spells rained down on the wizard and the cleric. The cleric succumbed first, dropping heavily to the floor, but quickly using his powers of divine recovery to get back up. The wizard soon followed, Rift’s too-short life passing before her elven eyes. But the cleric was able to save her from the brink, throwing all of his healing might into a blast of divine radiance. Z’alden quickly followed that with a strike on the tiny demon, banishing him to an extraplanar prison where he might contemplate his transgressions.

Meanwhile, Erik continued to slash at the abomination, dodging the giant’s clumsy fists and burying his blades deep into the fleshy construct. “I claim this prize!” shouted Erik as he delivered the final killing blow to the monster. It dropped in a great heap of steaming flesh, already dissolving back into the primordial slime from whence it came.

Rift, Erik, and Z’alden fought on against the tiny demon, until, after a final blow from Erik’s sword, it disappeared with a final wailing “Nooooooooooo!”. The demon was gone, banished to his own demonic plane.

Wiping the sweat from his brow, Z’alden contemplated the statue. “There is a puzzle here that I cannot fathom.”

Erik and Rift began shoving and pulling at the statue. It moved, but only in certain directions. Finally, the cleric realized the solution. “Move the right wing higher, then the statue forward.” Erik obeyed, shrugging his shoulders. But indeed, that was the trick. The statue moved forward, uncovering a large pool of liquid. It was the well of eternity!

Z’alden kneeled and dipped his diamond vial into the pool. Without hesitation, he quaffed the platinum liquid. “The Universe!” he cried, “it wants me to win!” Z’alden suddenly felt as if this was the luckiest day of his life.

Rift eagerly followed Z’alden’s example, drinking her own vial of liquid from the pool. “I feel wise beyond my years!” she said in a surprised voice.

Erik stared at his two comrades suspiciously. “Are they deluded?” he wondered. There was only one way to find out. “Bottoms up!” he exclaimed, as he downed the vial.

Unknotting World Lines
May 27, 2016

Tu Narath

The five adventurers had been traveling the astral sea in search of a way back home. In this case, home was a few years ago in the future. Tassedar had alerted them to the damage that was occurring in the weave of the world, and this the adventurers believed for he was a being of immense magical powers and knowledge. So, here they were, in an astral skiff, just having captured a high-ranking Githyanki…

After some tense moments, the Githyanki realized that he would indeed be spared. For this, he offered his name, “I am Val Kath, Crown Prince of the Githyanki. Let us not be enemies.”

The cleric rubbed his chin. The fighter stroked his beard. The wizard raised an eyebrow. The sorceress batted her eyes. The ranger stared intently. The Githyanki looked perplexed and spoke further, “Come, let us set course for Tu Narath, capital city of the Githyanki. There you will meet our queen.” Awkward moments passed. “There will be a reward.”

“Yes,” replied the five adventurers, almost in unison, “Let’s set course of Tu Narath.”

So the adventures had the captain set course for the capital city and after not too long a journey their eyes set upon a city more odd than any they had ever seen before. Floating in the astral sea, the city had been assembled from countless ships of all sizes, from skiffs to battleships, from all corners of the astral sea. Some were in good repair, some were damaged, but all were connected by planks held them in a group as a cohesive whole. At first, the varied orientation of the ships disoriented the adventurers, but as they drew closer, their minds began to adapt to the astral sea’s lack of up and down.

As the small skiff approached a dock, Val Kath spoke to the adventurers about the protocols of the Githyanki. “So that no unintended offenses are given, let me advise you to the Lithani. It is the way of the warrior – a martial code not just of fighting, but living. It has certain demands and expectations. Interact with no-one. Follow my lead. Everything will be okay.”

With that, the skiff docked and Val Kath lead the adventurers through the maze of entangled ships. Barrick could sense that they were traveling toward the center of the city. Val Kath said nothing and neither did the citizens of Tu Narath. After some time, their destination became apparent – a truly massive and magnificent ship. If there was to be a palace, this was it, and it was large enough to house ten-thousand troops. Rift and Tira could feel the arcane magic that permeated the area. Val Kath lead them past guards, without even a word or a nod. Soon the adventurers arrived at a throne room.

This throne room felt heavy with arcane magic, yet the throne itself appeared to be of simple wood, with a straight back, meant for a disciple of the Lithani. There was no softness. In this throne sat an elder Githyanki female, adorned in the finest battle plate, complete with ornate inlays and inscriptions. Circling her head was a band of steel.

“Mother,” spoke Val Kath.

Minutes seeming like hours went by and the elder female said nothing. The adventurers felt like rubbing their chins and stroking their beards but decided the better of it.

“These adventurers returned me home and deserve a reward,” finished Val Kath.

More minutes went by and the adventurers puzzled over the complete lack of expression in either Githyanki’s face. However, their left hands both seemed jittery. Could it be an expression of anxiety? Tira thought to herself that these folk had inbred for too many generations.

Finally, the mother replied to her son, “Good to have you home. Something is strange about the visitors.”

Rift felt as if the queen was staring mostly at her. Looking over at Rift, Tira thought she could see Rift start to vibrate. “Hmm,” Tira thought, “the queen is right. Something is indeed strange with Rift.” Rift began to vibrate more and more. “Yes,” reflected Tira, “something is strange with Rift!”

Now Rift began to glow. A body-less hand appeared upon her shoulder and pulled her backwards and she was gone!

Then Tira noticed that all her companions were looking at her. “What? Why are you all looking at me like that? Stop staring, it’s rude!”, protested Tira. She could see that Z’alden was beginning to cast a spell in her direction. “Hey, I don’t mean to alarm you, but you guys are all vibrating…”

Z’alden furiously cast his spell, but it was too late. As the remaining three adventurers looked on in horror, Tira vibrated more and more, rotating colors and then as she disappeared, appeared to be ripped in half and then explode. The cleric, fighter and ranger stood looking at each other, the expression of agony in Tira’s face weighing heavily on them.

The ranger spoke first. “Z’alden, don’t take this the wrong way, but, um, do you think your spell, uh, tore Tira in half?”

The cleric looked down and sighed. Rift and Tira were gone. Somehow the Githyanki’s expressionless faces looked even more stern.

“What is this black magic?”, the prince demanded.

“Val Kath, they must leave now,” the queen commanded.

What’s in a Name?

Without a word, the prince motioned for the three adventurers to follow him and they all quickly exited the throne room. Once out of the palace, the prince explained that they would seek out the advice of a powerful wizard. Perhaps he could help with determining the fate of Rift and Tira. Across gangplanks and through ships Val Kath lead the way through the maze of ships that was the city. Soon they stood before a rather battered ship that looked to be from the Nine Hells.

The cleric bristled as they peered into what was once a most unholy vessel. Z’alden’s trepidations lessened as he could see piles and piles of books filling its small main chamber. Do devil’s read books with the same voraciousness as they feast on souls? Surely, this place would be okay.

“Master Namer, please open the door. We have urgent need of your services,” implored Val Kath.

Soon the door opened and a very young looking human opened the door. Barrick contemplated to himself, “Surely this is not the wise wizard we are looking for. All wise wizards have beards. Perhaps this is why Rift is not so wise. Now, if she were a dwarf…”

Val Kath lead the way in and, in Githyanki fashion, there was no speaking. The wizard was clearly familiar with the prince, and so his eyes slowly studied the cleric, moving next to the fighter and then finally the ranger. His penetrating gaze was a bit alarming and the three adventurers felt very self-conscious.

All the while the wizard had been studying the adventurers, they too had been studying him and his cluttered abode. Clearly he was quite eccentric, but he seemed trustworthy. From him they learned that the Githyanki often communicate without talking, using only their left hand to express emotion. The Lithani – path of the warrior – was now more understood. Emotion was vulgar. Communication should be pure and direct, unpolluted with unnecessary emotional expression. A warrior should only communicate pertinent facts.

Master Namer then asked Val Kath to step out for a few minutes.

As the pleasantries began to unfold between the good cleric and Master Namer, Erik observed that none of the books in the room were written in common. One book was covered in dragon skin and this was interesting not for just that fact but for it was a new book. Who would have a book of fresh dragon skin? He wore robes on top of leather armor and had a Gith sword on his hip. Several glass spheres rested upon the tables, each with a light source burning softly within. “Rift has nothing like this,” thuought Erik.

“Why named so?” blurted out Barrick, in his typical, direct style.

“Ah, yes,” replied Master Namer, “My name comes from the ability to observe and reveal the true nature of things. By knowing something’s true name one can have a profound understanding of it, and only by understanding can one control. Stone. Lightning. They all have other, deeper names beyond the obvious and gross abbreviations that we use in everyday language. This was all learned from a school; a small school, a unique school. With names comes understanding more powerful than the magic of arch mages. But you can call me ‘Tor’.”

With that, Tor gave a joking grin and a wink. “Now, tell me your story,” he earnestly implored.

So the three remaining adventurers told him of what had just transpired. The wizard listened intently, with quite human reactions, unlike he had with the Githyanki prince. He appeared to be a bit of a mimic, but only because he was completely in tune with the person he was speaking with. Perhaps he even took on a bit of their accent.

Tor then held up a finger to indicate “one moment, please” and after rummaging around in a back room he brought forth a water basin and a deep purple decanter. From the decanter Tor slowly poured water into the basin, moving the spout circularly around the basin as if to deposit the water evenly. “Now, focus on Rift and Tira,” he asked. The three adventurers obliged and Tor began to stare into the basin. This went on for many minutes and Z’alden and Erik could perceive much strain on the wizard. Beads of sweat began to form on Tor’s now wrinkled brow. He looked frustrated and his effort only increased. Finally, he collapsed in a heap!

Barrick rushed over to help him up and Z’alden offered healing, but Tor raised his hand in a motion to decline the offer. Then Tor pronounced, “Your companions are not here. We must take a different approach to solve this mystery.” The adventurers looked very disappointed that the scrying had failed, but were out of options. “Z’alden, you mentioned the Crystal Cave and a need to return to your original time. Will you let me look within you? Perhaps you have answers.”

Z’alden agreed and the session began with both Tor and the cleric sitting on the floor. Tor’s gaze was penetrating as he studied a very self-conscious Z’alden, who struggled to remain open and true. If Z’alden were to put up an emotional shield then perhaps any answers that were within him would not be found by Tor, and Rift and Tira would be lost forever. But should he completely let his guard down, would he reveal too much and Tor would gain power over him?

After a full hour, Tor broke off the session, once again weary. “Most peculiar,” Tor softly uttered, “I do not have a full understanding of you. There is much more to you. Thank you. It is rare that I am permitted to study a living creature.”

“Now, though we have not found your friends, I think I can still help,” Tor continued as he motioned for them to join him in another room. A bit perplexed, the three adventurers followed him. “A little trick that I learned not so long ago… let’s see, yes,” Tor continued, seemingly still both out-of-sorts and giddy with his excitement over the observation session with Z’alden. He then pulled out a large-ish circular metal ring into the center of the room. Tor ran his fingers over the ancient inscriptions. “Yes, indeed, I think I remember, yes that’s it,” he muttered as if re-learning the device. Soon it sprung to life, shooting up a cylinder of red light that was one plus one-half staff length in height.

“Step right on in,” Tor encouraged with a grin, “it’s good to go.” Z’alden looked over to the ranger with a puzzled look, which was returned by an equally mystified expression and a shrug.

“Oh, before you go, one more thing…” Tor blurted out as he rushed over to a locked chest. “Here, Z’alden, you keep it close to you. It has power. One day you will need it!” With that, Tor handed Z’alden a decanter made of an astral diamond – not diamonds held together in a lattice of another material – but of one diamond. As the exchange was made, Tor put his hand on Z’alden’s back and guided the cleric right into the portal. And he was gone. Erik and Barrick exchanged grins and followed close behind as they coincidently said in unison: don’t split the party.

Tor collapsed in his wizard chair with a flask of the hard stuff.

The Crystal Cave

The adventurers found themselves in the mountains of Celestia, their original destination in the Astral Plane. Tor had indeed helped them out and deserved many thanks, but there was no time now for they were running out of time. As the great wizard Tassedar had so impressed upon them, each moment spent in the wrong time would unravel the tapestry of history.

The surrounding landscape was heavenly and the mountains gleamed white with the stuff of astral diamonds. Grinning, Erik scraped some of the diamond-dust soil into a small sack and secured it in his pouch of holding. As beautiful a place this was and as much as they would have been content to stay there, the adventurers felt a powerful urge to find the Crystal Cave. With that, the way was supernaturally made plain to them as they effortlessly navigated the valleys and passes. Almost like a dream, they soon found themselves at the mouth of the Crystal Cave and unquestioningly entered without fear.

Deep within the cavern then came upon a large chamber which had a lake in the middle. This cavern, this chamber, these waters were exactly the same as when Tassedar was reformed from bones. This was where magic was born – the origin of all arcana. The emotional pull to find and enter the cavern now evolved into an overwhelming desire to enter the water. The three remembered the dangers of the water, as told by Tassedar, but the urge was too strong. Z’adlen said a prayer to Bahamut and motioned for Barrick and Erik to join him. They did and were soon pulled into the deep end and under the surface of the water. As when falling asleep, their thoughts changed form. Everything faded to black…

Kobolds!

The three adventurers found themselves in a clearing, surrounded by a forest and with rocky outcroppings. The sky was reminiscent of the Nentir Vale, only somehow different, and the grass was the greener. The air was thick and heavy, carrying the scent of the surrounding pine trees. This was a strange land, but weren’t they all? Erik quickly attempted to ascertain clues to their location and his eyes were immediately drawn to kobold tracks, and then an actual kobold. How could he not have seen the living creature before he saw its tracks?

“We mean you no harm,” Z’alden called out in perfect and eloquent Draconic, “We just want to know how to get home.”

The kobold ran away and the adventurers could hear him shout, “Steel Tooth, they are here!”

Barrick thought he saw a glimpse of a dragonborn rogue and a female Tiefling warlock, but as if he was in slow-motion, by the time he turned to look, they had vanished. In the mean time, Erik had moved behind a rock outcropping to spy Steel Tooth, who sure enough was bellowing orders to his kobold warriors. The ranger vaguely remembered “Iron Tooth” from an adventure so long ago. Or was it now? His mind grew confused and so he focused just on just one thing – the giant kobold leader must be killed. And with that he drew back his bow and let loose a fast arrow. It missed. How could it miss?

With the battle now underway, Barrick moved into attack position as Erik stealthily repositioned up on top of the rock outcropping. Steel Tooth advanced from his position to engage Barrick, only to have Erik do a perfectly executed forward flip with half-twist to bring down a Warglaive of Azzinoth down upon the kobold cheiftan. The acrobatic move felt so unreal to Erik as if his feet landed softly and his weapon seemingly guided itself. Strange. Further still, a Kobold moved from up behind Erik and without even looking, Erik swung his other warglaive backward, delivering a fatal blow to the kobold. “I’m good, but am I that good?” questioned Erik to himself.

Z’alden too noticed the strange sense of this place. Was it out of a memory? It certainly was vivid and Z’alden decided not to find out if a “pinch” from the kobolds would bring him out of it. So holding nothing back he cast “supernal radiance” which placed a terrible pain upon all foes, killing one outright. The fighter, Barrick, then waded into the fray with his mighty Talon of Orcus axe cleaving into the hapless kobolds.

Soon Steel Tooth would too be dead. All faded to black…

Swamp Things

The three adventurers now found themselves in a hazy swamp. The air was filled with the buzz of insects and croaking of reptiles. Also, before them were three Yuan-ti. These half-snake, half-man creatures would do well in such terrain which had little solid ground for the adventurers to move around on.

“He’s coming for the key!” one of the Yuan-ti shouted. Erik could see that one of the Yuan-ti was wearing the Key of Bonderstrong. Erik’s mind went back to a memory, formed so long ago, of the dwarf and the Key of Bonderstrong which held enormous power.

“Z’alden,” Barrick shouted, “are you okay?”

The good cleric was looking a bit transparent and ethereal.

“Yes, I am feeling great. Let’s go get the key,” replied Z’alden in a voice that was clear and strong, strangely not muted by the dense air and plant life. Almost as if floating just inches above the ground, the cleric advanced and commanded the Yuan-ti to hand over the Key of Bonderstrong. Yet they completely ignored him, without even looking at him, as if he wasn’t there. Now Barrick and Erik began to realize that perhaps Z’alden was not fully there aid them in this battle. At that moment they thought they saw a shaman pass through the haze. It was yet another fleeting ghost.

Now Barrick moved up and demanded the key. “You! You are the ones responsible for wrecking out plans!,” retorted a visibly angry Yuan-ti. “You freed Arumendor the dragon. Now the trolls are attacking the Yuan-ti. Frost trolls, in this land. Leave now!”

The Yuan-ti then attacked Barrick with crossbow bolts, missing twice. Having none of this Barrick advanced and engaged, attacking all three snake men. The battle was now fully underway, with Erik and Z’alden joining in. The Yuan-ti made good use of poison from both bolts and clouds of gas. But as in a dream, as Z’alden grabbed the key from the Yuan-ti, everything faded to black…

Under the Mountain

The adventurer’s blinked their eyes and found themselves in a dark cavern, with the clear markings of dwarven construction. There was a bridge over an underground river. On the other side were well crafted stone buildings, not to mention multiple Duegar.

“Keep them from the girl!” the main Duegar commanded his warriors.

Going with the flow, Z’alden immediately chimed in, “Give us the girl!”

“She is valuable. Very valuable,” retorted the Duegar.

“I offer this fine diamond, um, potion holder in exchange for the girl,” replied Z’alden in his most friendly, generous voice.

The Duegar looked at each other. After a moment, the leader replied, “We accept your fine potion holder, that is diamond. It better be diamond! Wait a minute. Here. I get the girl.”

The Duegar returned with Sarona, a face from so long ago when the adventurers made their way below Thunderspire Mountain. Now Z’alden had been very deceptive for a good and virtuous cleric, for he had no intent to give away the gift from Master Namer Tor. Its value was surely beyond compare, even beyond the value of the life of Sarona or any one of his compatriots. Only in time would that be revealed. So, with a straight face, Z’alden moved up to make the exchange, only to release powerful magic upon the Duegar. Stunning one, critically injuring another and immobilizing others, the cleric’s spell came completely unexpected. Further still, the Duegar were immediately reduced as one of them was killed out-right and another was pushed into the river to be washed away and drown.

Out came the beardicles, hitting the adventurers and poisoning them. Z’alden quickly untied the prisoner, Sarona, and Barrick rushed up to cocoon her in his “Shield of the Armadillo”. With the girl sufficiently rescued, everything turned to black…

The Mean One

Now the adventurers found themselves in a large chamber, perfectly hewed from hard stone. Luckily their eyes were just recently accustomed to scant light. One of the prime rules of adventuring is to look for the exits, and there was but one – a set of double doors, very large in size. Another important rule of adventuring is to be on the look out for things that could hurt you and there was but one – a large, shadowy humanoid adorned with a skull floating where a head would normally be. Acerak. In his hands he wielded a large blade, and by the light glancing off of it, it appeared to be rather sharp.

Gliding in behind Z’alden, Acerak swung his “dread blade”, hitting the cleric for about one-third of his life-force. Quickly following that was a terrible shriek that did psychic damage to both the cleric and fighter. Now the adventurers got their chance to respond to this unprovoked aggression. Erik drew his Warglaives of Azzinoth, to which Acerak glared at as they whistled through the air, striking the undead monster.

“What? You puny human. How do you come by way of these?” howled Acerak.

“How about this axe?” replied Barrick on behalf of Erik who was busy moving for his next attack. “Perhaps the Talon of Orcus will also get your attention, you filthy, undead, nasty, terrible, vile monstrosity.”

With that, Barrick let fly a giant slaying strike, stunning Acerak. The fighter then immediately followed it up with an even more ferocious blow, dazing the target. The cleric regained his composure and cast his “spirit flame”, bloodying the evil Acerak.

The battle continued with each side trading astounding damage. Finally the tide turned when Z’alden rendered the undead creature unable to heal and Barrick’s mightly “exorcism of steel” forced Acerak to drop his dread blade. Capitalizing on the success of his comrades, Erik delivered the final blow, sending Acerak back to his personal hell and away from this place.

Into Blackness

Looking at each other, the weary adventurers considered their options. The dream-state had gone on for many an encounter. When would it end? Each stage was more difficult than the last. What would be next? They were utterly exhausted.

Before them were the double doors. Erik opened them, but none of them could discern what was on the other side. Blackness.

Z’alden took out a coin and said, “Let’s see what this silver piece buys us.” He then threw it into the void.

“Ow!” was the reply from some ghostly voice across the divide.

“Well, into the black…”, said Z’alden matter-of-factly as he stepped forward once more into the unknown. Barrick and Erik found themselves staring back at each other, shrugging and stepping though behind Z’alden. Everything turned to black…

Now there was warm light, the sounds of good-time laughter and the sweet, sweet aroma of a home-cooked meal. Z’alden, Barrick and Erik found themselves in the Half-moon Tavern in Fallcrest. Tassedar, Rift and Tira were there sitting at a table, sharing a pint.

“Where have you been?” implored Rift, “It’s been two freak’n years!” Tira waited for an answer, fiddling with a silver piece. Tassedar smiled.

Sipping the hot tea his granddaughter Sheila had just handed him, Torben Eastlander relaxed. The seven little ones in front of him, well Sheila at 12 turns was no longer so little, were his delight and his joy. And they sat around his chair in a semi-circle, anxiously awaiting the promised story of the drow priestess Arraxis and how she was tangled up with their beloved adventurers, the Denizens of the Nentir Vale.

Torben could vividly recall the drenched night when he had staggered to the Half Moon Inn to swap tales with the five adventurers, as they called themselves. He had never been sure why he couldn’t come up with these fantasies himself, why he needed to hear their imaginings and then turn them into the books and tales that had sold so well that he had become quite rich. Rich enough to pay for several rounds of drinks and meals, though the dwarf might bankrupt him when several rounds turned into many rounds. No matter, tonight he was a little desperate. The last story about their battle with Sky Pirates had not sold as well as others, and he had outstanding debts that needed payment. Hopefully, this one would do better, though he wished he weren’t in such a rush.

The five adventurers sat around a large wooden table. They were clearly old friends, and a few of the scars that some of them had might even have come from real battles, though he doubted that. They were simply the most imaginative bunch of storytellers he had ever encountered. Much better than the halflings who had relayed a yarn about a magic ring that would rule the world when obtained by its creator, a disembodied evil wizard. Torben remembered that yawner. How the halflings bravely took the ring to a volcano to destroy it. Boring. But, the three volumes he penned, drawing out the story well beyond belief, had sold well enough, particularly among the elves when he made them figure prominently and added some beautiful elven maidens and wizards.

Those fictional women were nothing compared to the half elven sorceress Tira in front of him. Now, better descriptions of her would help among the lords who might buy the next book. He would try to remember that. And, to downplay the earnestness of the nobility of cause the half elven cleric of Bahamut Zenithar always brought to their meetings. Torben stared briefly at the cleric. His eyes were definitely water logged because he would have sworn that he could see the silver and purple flames that he often put into the stories to describe the magical healing that was necessary to explain why the group didn’t die from what were battles beyond belief. It was a crutch, he knew, but the audience bought it. Or at least had, until that last book.

Torben settled in, ordered ale, wine, and food for all, got out his notebook and quill, and looked at the five. “So, you were in the Astral Sea searching for mountains that would bring you back home. What happened after you returned the Githyanki princeling to his home?”

Zenithar, Z’alden to his friends, cleared his throat. Oh shoot, a sermon, thought Torben. I should have asked the question straight to Tira. Dragon’s fallings.

Z’alden said, “It was most remarkable. Dragon’s claws, the five of us stood on the deck of the Centurion, when in a blink, I found myself in a blackness and in a box.”

The dwarven fighter Barrick, the wizard Rift, and Tira all nodded, as if truly remembering this event. Surprisingly, Erik leaned forward a little. Ah, they were playing a new game. Erik would not be in this story. He had stayed on the ship in their little tale. A clever twist. His readers would not like this. The precise ranger, with arrows blazing and the romantic War Glaives slicing, was a favorite of young lords. Oh well. Maybe he could salvage the story somehow. If only he wasn’t in such a hurry.

Z’alden cleared his throat again. Torben’s mind had wandered, and the cleric who clearly thought too much of himself, probably thinks he is a demigod by now practically, waited until Torben was paying attention to continue.

“Grandpappy, grandpappy. Wake up,” little Miro was shaking Torben’s knee. He had nodded off as he remembered the time of the adventurers telling him the story he was trying to relate to his grandchildren. Bad form.

The old man took another deep sip of tea. “Well, it was an incredible thing. The five were on the deck of the Centurion, and then suddenly, Erik was by himself. Tira, Rift, Barrick, and Z’alden had vanished!”

“Yeah, right,” Mijfox muttered and then ducked before Sheila could wack him. The other five just glared at their petulant sibling.

“Even more amazing,” Torben laughed at Mijfox’s disbelief. This wasn’t history, and it was right to be skeptical, just as Torben had been when the Valers had tried to convince him it was all true.

“Even more amazing,” he continued, “ each of the four heard a voice as they were transported to an utter blackness and saw a vision of a spinning red ball of light with blue lightening.”

As she saw the vision, Rift heard a voice that said “Darkstar burns brighter.”
Tira’s voice said, “Steal the glance of the eight eyes.”
Barrick’s voice said, “Certain death means life.” Though he always said it was “Sergeant death”. Very stubbon that dwarf.
Z’alden’s voice said, “Blood is the answer.”

“As they described it to me, let me tell you from the cleric’s perspective. It was a confusing time. You will have to pay attention. Can you do that?” Seven heads nodded affirmative in unison. “Good,” said Torben.

The cleric awoke lying on his back. He was uncomfortable and in utter blackness. The air was stale and rank. He quickly realized he was probably in a coffin. Pushing on the lid above, it was heavy, but he could move it. He was in a square room, 3 staff lengths on a side.

Lighting an everburning torch, he ventured out a corridor, turned a corner, and there was his beloved dwarven friend and comrade Barrick! Z’alden was overjoyed. Reunited, Barrick and Z’alden traced out corridors in an ancient crypt. The air continued to be stale and still. It was oppressive and heavy.

Finding a door, they listened. Voices behind it caused the cleric to pause. He readied a silencing ritual so that whomever they found behind could not cry out in alarm and bring others. The ritual takes 10 minutes. The dwarf grew impatient as the half-elf chanted on. Finally, Barrick had had it. He shoved open the door and burst into the room on the other side.

“Bout time,” Mijfox muttered, again ducking swiftly. “The cleric takes forever. I prefer the direct approach.” A few others nodded while Sheila glared. Torben looked in askance at Mijfox, “Well I do!” the child said. “Continuing,” Torben said as he slurped more tea. Gella giggled at the slurp.

What Z’alden and Barrick didn’t know is that Tira and Rift had woken up in similar coffins and found each other. While the boys where pussyfooting around, the ladies had discovered a cadre of drow warriors and dispatched them with aplomb. The cleric and fighter encountered their own set of 4 drow warriors in their part of the crypt. Quickly, they dispatched all but one, who fled. Barrick gave chase, caught up with him, leaped over him, and sliced his head off with his powerful axe!

Sheila sucked in her breath at that. She imagined the leaping dwarf, vaulting over a drow warrior. Incredible. Then, she was ready to whack Mijfox for a comment. But, the comment never came. He was enjoying the story now. There would be no more interruptions.

Z’alden gave chase as two drow warriors ran away from him. In a few seconds, they had unfortunately run into Barrick and would have met the same fate as their comrade if Z’alden hadn’t seem the drop to the ground after bolts of force magic light them up. At that instant, from down the corridor, he heard his friend Rift say, “That is how it is done.” Rift! Z’alden rejoiced. And, joining up to Barrick, there was Tira, also. The four were together. No sign of Erik.

Together, the four advanced along the corridors of the tomb. The exploring reminded them of early carefree days when worlds did not hang in the balance of their actions. Rift carefully mapped each turn and door, “what if we have to come back. You will thank me for knowing how many staff lengths we have to go before turning left!” The eladrin could be touchy when mapping.

Eventually, they reached a massive door. Rift touched her staff Darkstar to the door. She could sense that they were deep underground. More than that. They were in the world called the Underdark, home of the drow. And, behind the door, hundreds to thousands of drow waited.

Barrick was through with patience, listening, and waiting. He opened the door to see a massive chasm in a even larger cavern chamber. The chasm was spanned by a web bridge. On the far side of the bridge, a towering cathedral with a webbed entrance awaited. To their right and left, thousands of drow were approaching.

The four ran across the bridge, even as they were spotted by the approaching drow armies. Rift burned the web bridge. To the right of the webbed entrance was a smooth obsidian rock, slightly larger than a hand. It glistened as though some drying liquid covered it. Z’alden recalled the voice he had heard. Before the others knew it, he had sliced open his palm and put his bleeding hand on the rock. The webbed door opened. Barrick’s jaw dropped, “How did you know to do that?” Z’alden just shrugged, “This seemed like a question. The voice had said `blood is the answer.` By the Claws, I guess it was.” As the webbed door opened and the armies converged, the four dove through the door, and Z’alden quickly found a similar rock that with his hand as the key, closed the door.

They were inside a massive temple structure, perhaps 80 staff lengths across. In the center of was a huge obsidian statue of a spider with the torso of a woman.

“The demon goddess Lolth,” little Miro blurted out, “Z’alden must have hated to see that!” His siblings nodded vigorously, knowing the cleric so well. Torben said, “Indeed, he vehemently told me how he could not wait to desecrate it, just as soon as they figured out what to do next.”

The statue had eight jeweled eyes. Tira quickly remembered what her voice had said about “stealing a glance.” She and Barrick climbed up, and Tira began to remove the magical jewels. Z’alden and Rift explored the room. At the far end from the door, Z’alden found a secret door that opened into a small chamber filled with gold, goblets, and 3 scrolls. The cleric opened the magical bag of holding that contained far more than the human eye would suspect. Not unlimited amounts, but an incredible about of space in an ordinary brown sack no bigger than Gella’s head.

“Like that could contain anything,” Mijfox laughed as he rubbed her head playfully and the others chuckled. “Indeed,” said Torben. “But the magical sack contained a king’s ransom of potions, magic items, and gold. Z’alden would normally have taken good care of it to stow it again, but he never got the chance.” Torben paused to take another sip of tea. Still hot. Good. It soothed his sore throat. His grandchildren waited impatiently for him to continue the story.

Just as Tira removed the last jewel, dropping from the ceiling, horrific giant spiders descended like lightening. Two zipped down, webbed Tira and Barrick and disappeared into the darkness above. Another two landed on the ground, one near Z’alden and one near the wizard. The spider closest to Z’alden launched a web at the cleric. He tried to spin away, but the webbing caught on the magical sack. Quick as a wink, the spider then pulled it out of Z’alden’s hands and webbed it to its body. Z’alden had lost the bag of holding to this thieving spider. He was incensed, but there was little he could do. He called out to Rift to root this spider in its place.

Above, Tira and Barrick had an aerial battle in the web of these thieving spiders. Tira lassoed the other spider, teleported free from the restraining web, and swung underneath the spider. If it moved, so would she. With her right hand, she twirled her enchanted dagger and sent a huge ball of light at the spider which burst and burned it. Immediately, the ball collapsed and a wave of cold covered the venomous beast, causing great pain. But, the spider spit out its venom at her, hitting her right arm. The arm went numb. Her magical dagger was no longer in her grasp. It fell to the ground of the temple some many feet below.

Barrick, also trapped in a web well above the temple floor, sharpened his axe and a mad gleam glinted from his eye. He sliced at the webs holding him, and plunged to the ground, maybe 200 feet below. But, the dwarf was not injured. The magical ring on his thumb, a ring of flight, made him float gently to the ground. As he landed, Z’alden pointed to the thieving spider, and Barrick charged it, getting stroke after stroke of his axe into the nightmarish arachnid. It turned to face him, but its fangs were no match for the experienced fighter’s shield.

Hanging from the spider, Tira dodged the venom it tried to spit at her. The poison interacted with the chaos of magic surrounding her. An explosion of light and magic, and the spider had stunned itself. Tira laughed.

The webbed door of the temple opened. In stepped a regal bearing drow priestess carrying an ebony rod in her right hand and a blood red jewel in her left. She crushed the jewel and blue webbed cocoon encapsulated Rift. The wizard was trapped. The priestess intoned, “You will feel the wrath of Arraxis of Lore!”

Sheila nodded, “so this is Arraxis. And, she trapped Rift. Now I get it.” The others murmured their understanding. They had gotten to the story of Arraxis. “The webbing of Arraxis was worse than the four would have believed,” Torben’s voice became animated. “The webbing was not so thick that Rift could not see, but her spells could not penetrate it. And, Arraxis could control Rift.”

At Arraxis’s command, the wizard moved next to the priestess. Arraxis’s hand easily passed through the webbing. “Give me your staff,” the priestess demanded. And, Rift complied.

“No!” shouted Liam. “Rift handed over Darkstar! How could she!” The other children were equally appalled. Torben had them now. “The drow bytch was powerful and controlled the great wizard’s mind.”

But, Rift’s friends were not so helpless. Tira remembered a potion that Z’alden had made for her. A potion that, once consumed, would let her fly. Pulling a spare magic dagger from her boot, she quickly drank and flew down from the web nest, launching her powerful Chaos Orbs while on the trajectory.

Barrick engaged the spider holding their valuable magic sack. He used the moves he knew so well to fight with a giant of beast like this and slay them. Back, around, forward, under, the arachnid could barely withstand the dwarf’s rapid, cutting blows. But, the thief did not fall.

Close to the door, Arraxis ordered Rift to give her the amulet protecting the wizard. Then, Arraxis opened her mouth, and an inky blackness of poison gas and dark magic enveloped the nearby Tira, nearly killing the sorceress in one breath. Z’alden felt helpless. Tira was too far away for his healing to reach her.

Rift shook her head vigorously and banished the bytch of a priestess from her mind. And realized that she could destroy the webbing encasing her. Then, the powerful wizard made time stop. Yes, stop. With all others frozen in time, the eladrin, calmly walked to Arraxis, took back her staff and amulet, slaps her in the face, and moves away to ready her next attack spell as time moves forward again.

Imagine what happens as it occurs. From her dagger, Tira launches a chaotic ray of energy at Arraxis. The priestess is not immune, but venom shoots forth from her, and both Tira’s arms go numb. The priestess approaches, and almost for the first time, the adventurers can see a cloud of small spiders surrounds her. Just being in this cloud, one will get bitten and stuck on the unnatural webs that surround her.

Even as his friends engage these enemies, to Z’alden’s horror, the thieving spider jumps up in the air 16 staff lengths, shoots a web into the nest in the blackness above and disappears, with their magical sack still attached to itself. Not rooted in place, Z’alden quickly moves closer to the remaining battle, still numb at the loss of powerful magic and goods in the bag.

Arraxis aims her rod at the wizard. A black necrotic bolt of powerful energy, clearly enough to slay the wizard comes barreling down on the Eladrin. Rift grasps Darkstar as if to absorb the powerful spell. And, it does! Darkstar crackles as though charged with the necrotic power. Rift twirls the staff over her head and then points it at the drow priestess, sending her spell back from whence it came, slaying the priestess. But, the spiders had no such problem. Their vicious fangs bite into Tira and Barrick, sending both to the floor unconscious. They are dying of poison.

“No!” shouted little Gella. The others looked equally horrified. Torben held out his hand, as if to signal not to interrupt.

This time, the cleric of Bahamut was not so far away. Silver and purple flames instantly bathed both of his friends at once. Their eyes fluttered, even as their wounds mended. Blasts of radiant light from the cleric slew one of the spiders. The other fled to the nest far above.

The adventurers worried not about the goods that had vanished above. Instead, they opened the door and peered into the massive cavern. Thousands of drow surrounded the entrance. Rift moved the others to the side and behind her. The eladrin rolled up her sleeves, grabbed Darkstar, and slammed it to the ground. “I have had enough!” Brilliant light burst forth from the staff with a sound like a lute smashing into the ground. Wave after wave of drow were obliterated. “Darkstar burns brighter, indeed,” Barrick muttered.

Barrick called out, “Follow me. Jump into the chasm itself.” Tira looked quizzically, “But that seems like certain death.” “Exactly,” said the smirking dwarf as he dove off into the chasm and the others, perplexed, exhausted, followed.

They vanished and, each saw the vision again. And, each reported hearing a little chuckling. They recognized the sound this time. The lich wizard Ur Feyn, with whom they had a made a pact just a few weeks earlier. He had sent them to the Underdark somehow.

As they reappeared back on the Centurion to the relief of a startled Erik, Tira swore, “Damn. That lich took the eight jeweled eyes from my pocket. Steal a glance. Ha!”

The seven children laughed, too. It was the only story that they could recall where the heroes won, but lost much of value. The tale of Arraxis was one to remember.

Torben Eastlander could not breathe. The seven little monsters called his grandchildren covered his torso and legs. Their fingers wriggled ceaselessly, as their giggling grew louder and louder. He had long stopped laughing, and now was just trying to catch a breath. A younger man could have held out longer. He was no longer a young man. He roared out, “You are a greater trap than Arraxis’s web!”

Immediately, 14 hands pulled away from him. “Grandpappy, tell us a story! Who is Arraxis?” Torben could see little Miro’s eyes widen as he awaited the answer. The other six were silent, their eyes just as wide, holding their breath for the answer.

Torben could finally draw a deep one himself. The flush on his face subsided. He rose up on an elbow. In a secretive tone, “Who is Arraxis? Now there is a question to frighten little snapping drakes like yourselves!” They all sucked in their breath in one bright-eyed, “Oooh”.

The old story-teller made his way slowly to the great comfortable chair next to the crackling fire. He took out the poker. “Sheila, put on another log. This story could take a while.” His eldest granddaughter, now 12 turns old and full of her self importance, fetched a log that soon blaze brightly.

“Ah, yes, much better. Who is Arraxis? Well, that will take some telling.” Torben eyes misted for a moment. These chapters of his stories had not sold as well to the bards, and his books had not done as well with the lordly class. Something about the whole time-travelling premise; well he hadn’t really bought it himself when those wild-tongued adventurers had told these yarns to him. Didn’t translate into compelling stories at the time. It was almost like he hadn’t written them.

But, here was a group of ears that didn’t have such jaded views of the world as an old scrivener who had made, and then lost, a fortune off of the tales of these Denizens of the Nentir Vale. He could see the five of them now around the table at the Half-Moon Inn as though it had been yesterday. Well, most were around the table. The dwarf Barrick was under the table snoring, quite drunk by the time the cleric Z’alden had finished his first glass of Nentir ’97. The fiery sorceress, Tira, had popped in and out while the half-elven cleric of Bahamut had told the stories surrounding Arraxis almost like sermon. That guy really did need to lighten up. Torben hoped the son of Denithar was happy serving the Great Dragon wherever he was at this moment. And, he thought of the wizard Rift. He remembered how she had listened intently to Z’alden’s telling, at least when he got the part about the Arraxis. It was as though she actually had lived out the infuriating web that had encased her. Oh, and in the corner, that the quiet ranger, Erik, whose intense gaze carried with it such clear understanding; Torben remembered how on the night of the story of Arraxis, Erik had listened intently. It was as if, for this one impossible tale, Erik hadn’t been there. As though any of them had really been there. But, Erik’s intense attention hadn’t made sense, either. How could Erik not have been in the story? They always included him. Well, not always, I suppose. Torben was getting muddled in his old age, he was.

And, he remembered how the story of Arraxis, to the extent it made sense at all, really didn’t make sense without the story of Tassedar sending the Valers out of the Castle and directing them to return to their true time. Yes, it was all coming back to him. Including why the whole set of books never sold well on this one. It was just too complicated.

“Grandpappy! You said you would tell us the story about Arraxis,” young Liam intoned with a higher version of the voice of his own daughter. Torben was torn out of his reverie. “Yes, Liam, I did. But, stories must have their place, and to understand how the mighty wizard Rift ended up trapped in the enchantment of a drow priestess named Arraxis, well, I can’t just jump to that. All things in their place. And the place to start is at Wizard Castle.”

A high-pitched Gella shouted out with delight, “That’s the home of the adventurers! Where they fought the wicked Beholder!” All the children clapped at that. They loved the story of the wicked Beholder and the deceptive Green Dragon. He had told them that one many times. But, this was not the story Torben was telling today.

“Yes, true. But this adventure at Wizard’s Castle was many years earlier. The Valers had found a way to stop the evil of the demon Illidan Stormrage by taking him back in time to when he was a boy and preventing him from ever becoming a demon, and…” Torben could see their eyes starting to glaze over. No, it was not a time for the metaphysics that he didn’t understand, even if it was fanciful, and even if Rift had tried to explain it to him five times. After the fifth glass of Nentir ’97, he still didn’t understand it, he would never understand it, and Rift had fallen asleep.

No, what mattered to these youngsters was the exciting bits. Skip to that.

He cleared his throat, took a deep sip of his now much-too-cool tea to really enjoy but he didn’t tell them that. He caught the eye of each child as they settled in on the cue, and began to speak.

The cleric Zenithar al Denithar, Z’alden to his friends, had walked down from the Castle to the island’s stony beach. The Chosen of Bahamut reflected on their recent battle to save the dwarfs from an orcish horde, he thought of his mission to serve the Great Dragon, serve Justice, bring Hope, and destroy the demons that plagued the worlds. The half-elf was startled by the sudden appearance of the ancient archmage Tassedar. Z’alden could not help but recall how the Valers had brought the archmage back to life from a mere skeleton by throwing him into the waters where magic began. And now, as then, it was unclear if Tassedar stood before Z’alden as friend or foe. There was no time to reflect. In haste, the archmage told Z’alden how reality itself was unraveling. The Valers must hurry off of this world, leave their Castle as they had it at that moment, and venture to the Astral Plane! A realm of mystery, a realm of flying ships. The realm of the gods, but also of great dangers, like the dreaded Githyanki pirates.

“Oh, pirates!” little Miro squealed. “Shush,” said his sister Sheila. Miro settled down under her withering stare. Just because she’s the oldest, she thinks she rules everything, Miro thought for a moment, before returning his attention to Grandpappy.

“Yes, Miro,” Torben said gently. “Pirates. And, they will enter the story soon enough. But not before the five have made some poor bets that almost cost them all their life!”

The children were silent at that.

Tassedar told Z’alden that the Valers must venture to the mountains of Celestia and find the Crystal Cavern there. The Cavern exists in many planes and places, it touches them all. It is the place where magic was born. In the Wizard’s Castle, you will find a gate to other planes. Find it, and go quickly, before your very presence here rips apart reality. You must save the future of the future!

Little Mijfox sniggered, “Yeah, right. When does the fighting start?” Sheila cuffed him on the ear. Miro stared at his twin brother in triumph. At least she isn’t lording it over me.

Torben remembered not exactly following this story well, either, when Z’alden had tried to tell it to him so many years ago. It didn’t matter now. It was the good parts he needed for this audience. Not the mysticism and earth-rattling that the Chosen of Bahamut had emphasized at such length. Not the celestial implications, or the righteousness of their work. Moving to the practical part of the story, Torben remembered how Rift had patiently explained, after another bottle had been opened at Torben’s expense, how the gate of which Tassedar spoke was nothing more than the Iris that had mystified the group when they had defeated the Beholder on the same floor of the Castle so many years before (or was it later. Very confusing). Z’alden had only shaken his head, and Barrick had snored more loudly, as Rift related that Erik had found a lever that they had never noticed before. The quiet ranger had smiled at that. What a good group of storytellers they were. Better than he was doing now. Most of the time they could keep a straight face when telling their fanciful tales to him.

The lever had obscure markings that only Erik could feel and describe. Rift had deciphered them. Pulling the lever to the correct setting would open the Iris and make it a portal to another plane. Incredible! But, the ancient mechanism behind the lever had jammed as Rift tried to move it. It took all of the dwarf’s strength and the ranger’s together to get it to move.

Torben gaze turned to little Miro, “and the Iris opened into a well 5 staff lengths across. The well had no bottom, at least as far as they could see. Nothing made a sound when they let a coin drop. Fall into that pit, and you fall forever.” Torben let that sink in. Miro’s little hand covered his mouth in surprise, “What did they do? How did they make the gate work?” The poor little one was getting worried.

Erik and Barrick found buttons hidden near the lever. Erik pushed one closest to the markings of what seemed to be the Astral Plane, where the lever had already been moved to. Another Iris, 10 staff lengths down in the pit appeared and closed below them.

Ladders were on the side of the pit. Bravely, all descended. When all were below the level of the open Iris, it closed. They were trapped!

Torben let that sink for a minute and took another sip. His story telling was warming his grandchildren but not his tea.

A ring of blue arcane energy formed on the walls, but nothing happened. Rift realized that the gate was broken. They were no longer in the Castle, but they had not moved to the Astral plane. They were nowhere, caught in an arcane portal that was neither here nor there.

Rift’s swift mind reached out for a solution. From her staff’s black jewel,
“Darkstar!” Liam cried out before Sheila cuffed his ears, “Shush you, too. Quit interrupting.”

“Yes, from Darkstar,” the old man smiled, “the wizard drew upon its power, and made a connection to the spirit of the ancient wizard who built the castle.”

The ancient one guided Rift’s mind to the breach in the gate, a void. With Darkstar focused, Rift could control the void. The others could feel themselves beginning to spin. A million million stars surrounded them. They were hurtling through space, hurtling through time itself. They were being ripped apart as the stuff of existence was beginning to come undone. Despite Tassedar’s warning, they had tarried too long. Tira felt herself thinning as the chaos that she binds together, that makes up her being, her very essence, started to come undone. Each clung to what was most important. Z’alden’s mind held tight to the image of his master and god, the great Platinum Dragon Bahamut. Barrick concentrated on a large mug of beer.

In a flash, Rift could see the stars separate, wane, and peaks of mountains appear. Then, she was on a floor. Erik could smell blood, sweat and the stink of stale steins. He could see a large tavern room made of iron and wood. The other four were close by. Behind him, Erik could hear Barrick’s nose sniffing at the smells the dwarf found pleasing.

Hundreds of different kinds of creatures and beings were in the largest tavern hall any of the adventurers had ever seen. Treasure hunters, explorers, lore seekers, all manner of folks. Githyanki

“Ow! I wasn’t even going to say Pirates,” Miro complained as he rubbed where Sheila had whacked his left ear. She just glared at him until her grandfather’s eyes met hers with a less than pleased look. She sat back. All the others stuck out their tongues at her.

Torben smirked, took a sip of the cold tea, and continued,”Githyanki, with their noses missing and just air holes in their shriveled, desperate green-grey faces. Sharp swords at their sides; Duegar, the dwarves of fire; humans, too; elves and Eladrin. Behind the massive bar, was a red-chested Efreet, an elemental being, almost kin to a demon.”

The old scrivener could still remember the fire in Z’alden’s eyes as the righteous demon hunter had described the Efreet. The wine glass had shattered in the cleric’s clenched hand. That guy really, really did need to lighten up. The Efreet was much too close a cousin to a demon for the priest, it was clear. The adventurers sometimes seem as if they really believed their own stories and were not telling him a second rate tale for a meal and a few drinks. Z’alden relayed this part of the story with such fervor, Torben almost believed this part of the yarn as though the cleric had really been to this enchanted tavern in the Astral Sea and kept his loathing of demons in check at great expense and self-control.

“Welcome to the Abdul Azeem Inn,” the Efreet barkeep had bellowed out to the five as they picked themselves off of the floor. Their sudden arrival was clearly no surprise in this place out of legend. With Tira’s charm, in a short time she had quickly learned all there was to know in the gossip of the place. The activity of the Nine Hells was a constant theme at the tables, stories of mercenaries moving into the home of demons: the Elemental Chaos, had perked up the cleric’s ears and distracted him from the pseudo-demon of a barkeep; stories of war between the Gith had interested the dwarven fighter only slightly, as the quality of the beer was excellent and these gossips were a distraction from the hoppy aroma and the flavorful experience. Rift and Tira were only mildly surprised to hear of a coup in the City of Brass. Somehow the good mayor had fallen. Tira had almost spit out her wine on a dandy explorer as he told her the tale. Little could the dandy have guessed it was the handiwork of the sorceress and the others that had caused the good man to fall so far.

While the five searched for some way out of the Inn and for a ship and pilot to get them from wherever they were to the mountains of Celestia, the sound of gaming caught the sharp ears of the ranger. One telling motion from Erik, and the dwarf and his ale were soon followed by the others. Games galore. It was a welcome distraction from the world-shattering implications of their actions. A stacking game entertained them for a time, but it was a three ball roulette and dice game that really sucked in the wizard.

Rift realized that she could control the balls as they rolled around. She could cheat. Z’alden had been against any cheating, until he became appalled, and his righteous anger was roused by the unfairness of the game. The bets required to play were completely unbalanced by the paltry payouts. The more Tira explained, the more Z’alden was sure – Rift, make us win the impossible: three 20’s on three dodecahedron dice at the same time would pay out a million gold on a hundred bet. The dice rolled. Rift gently tapped her staff and three 20s were in front of the house. The tableman eyed the adventurers, but said nothing. He only nodded politely and said that they could collect their incredible winnings through a curtained door, to which he pointed.

Advancing through the curtain, the five were confronted by two huge Cyclops flanking a well-dressed Efreet. Torzak, as the pseudo-demon called himself, accused them of magically tampering with a game. The sweet talking Tira tried to schmooze the Efreet, but Torzak would have none of it. And, when Z’alden could contain himself no more, and railed against the gambling and the righteousness of their actions against an unlawful game, lightening and thunder leapt from Torzak’s swords and rained down on the Valers. Not a small amount of damage either, and some were seriously burned, especially the magic wielders.

But, Torzak could also see that a prolonged combat with these five might not be the lopsided odds he was used to when enforcing the rules of Abdul Azeem. He told them of a captain, Hallasol, in another part of the Inn. If they left the gaming area quietly, and went straight to Hallasol and left the Inn, he would forget the matter. Z’alden had thought long and hard of all of the good a million gold could do. His right leg, cut off by demons and restored from dragon bones by the Kengi, itched like crazy. He thought about how good the Efreet’s head would look as a wall-hanging in a Bahamut temple, but Barrick’s strong arm on one side, and Erik’s on the other were more persuasive than the demon hunter’s hatred of the elemental kind.

Hallasol was a rough character who told them of his astral ship, the Centurion, and its first mate, Yeti. The ship wouldn’t attract unwanted attention and could avoid the Gith war zones. It would take four days to reach the mountains. And, it would cost them. A little persuasive gold from the Valers, three times the original amount, and the time shrank down to two days. The Centurion was fast when Hallasol put his mind to it, apparently.

What Hallasol didn’t explain after the first day of astral sailing across the open air between the worlds in the Astral Sea, was that a Githyanki astral skiff was even faster. And, that to make the two days that the party had wanted, he was crossing the war zone of the Gith.

And, the war came to the Valers. A pair of swift Astral Skiffs appeared almost out of nowhere in the wide open space of the Astral Sea. Githyanki Raiders! Pirates!

Torben kept his smile in check as the eyes of Liam, Miro, Gella, and even Sheila got wide and all seven children leaned in. He let the moment sink in.

The wizard knows many things, many languages including the Deep Speech of the Githyanki. The leader, a fine charismatic fellow cutting a dashing swath, Val Kath, replied to her inquiries, “The matter is very simple. We have a war effort that needs additional funding. Which you are keeping from us.”

Tira could not keep her mouth shut in this little exchange, and the Githyanki attacked! In a blink, magical force shot out from the Githyanki raiders, hitting the sorceress. Z’alden was horrified to see the effect. Tira was cut off from her own internal energy. He could not heal her with his Word. Only his touch could restore her, as he would draw directly on the Dragon’s power alone, and on none of Tira’s. Then, the energy enveloped Rift in the same manner. The cleric cringed. No one does that to my friends, and to attack us unprovoked, unjustified was such behavior. It was time to teach these pirates a lesson that would live in stories for years to come.

Before the cleric could formulate his plan, though, several raiders and Val Kath vanished from their skiff and appeared on the Centurion next to Rift. From Val Kath’s mind, bands appeared and surrounded the wizard. She was rooted in place. The ranger quickly drew both of his impressive War Glaives, sharpened them with a whetstone, and Val Kath felt the twin strike of both blades. Z’alden was troubled to see that psychic energy radiated from the pirate leader even as Erik struck. Erik was now dazed. His dwarven comrade sharpened his axe and tore into some of the other raiders. Barrick spit on his blade, focused his blow, and ripped wide, deep wounds in two raiders that would bleed Githyanki green for some time. For his work, seemingly bouncing out of their silver swords, a greyish psychic glow encased his legs and weighed them down. Barrick’s deft moves were limited. It was as though he were moving through a swamp, he was so slow. Another raider’s silver sword got past the dwarf’s shield. In addition to the pain of the blow, he too was cut-off from his internal energy. Raiders continued their offensive, spurred on by their leader. Tira and Z’alden both took blow after blow.

Z’alden realized that more than their normal attacks were needed. He called for a blessing from the Great Dragon. Holy sigils covered the Centurion as the cleric consecrated the ground to Bahamut. In the battle, he and his comrades could call upon the Great Dragon’s blessing to focus their own powers. It was a powerful aid.

Finding herself surrounded by enemies, the wizard was clearly ticked. She would put Z’alden’s blessing to good use. Darkstar took all light from the area and then the nearby raiders were encased in flames. The jewel glowed. One of the raiders screamed in pain as Rift’s magic tore into him with all of its impressive power of flame. But, the wizard was troubled. Her spell was at full of power and nearly its most accuracy. It was well-formulated, nearly perfect combustion. Val Kath had simply sloughed it off, dodging the arcane fire with a speed that was unbelievable. The adventurers had never seen an enemy avoid Rift’s spells with such aplomb. This leader was not to be taken lightly.

A battle raged as the dwarven axe, the ranger’s glaives, the spells of wizard, sorceress, and cleric parried and wounded the raiders. The ranger’s glaives were like thorns in the raiders, ripping and tearing them apart. The dexterous human whirled and struck. His adept fighting had none of problems of Rift’s spell. The ranger could make Val Kath bleed. Another raider was nearly defeated in a single blow from human.

To his right, the dwarf taunted the raiders mercilessly. Enraged, 5 raiders rushed at him, including Val Kath. The skilled figher’s axe twirled in front, behind, around. Green blood covered the Githyanki leader. The tide was turning, and not towards the beach of the pirates.

A raider with his silver sword shining engaged the sorceress. His poorly placed strokes became entangled in the chaotic magic that surrounds her. In a flash, the Githyanki was stunned. He could do nothing and move nowhere. She then reached into the chaos and slid him over the deck and off of the Centurion. He was falling in the Astral Sea. Into the air in which they were flying. No ground in sight. Tira then reached into the air and formed balls of magical energy. Nearly all the raiders were hit by this potent spell. Few still stood, but not all had fallen.

Val Kath, reflecting on the better part of valor, seeing that this was not his day, left his comrades, and teleported back to a skiff. In an instant, its sails were full and he was rapidly distancing himself from the battle. Erik was having none of this. He raced to the wheel of the Centurion and filled its sails as well. The chase was on.

Rift’s fingers twirled in the air. Lightening flew from them to the silver sword of Val Kath. Even at their distance of 11 staff lengths, all could hear his cry. The githyanki leader was in great pain.

For the others, the battle with the remaining raiders still raged. The sharpened vorpal dagger of the cleric severed a raider’s limb, while Tira, seeing Rift’s lightening, called her own down on a raider to equal effect. A raider’s sword pierced Rift deeply and a red badge covered her torso. The wizard could not be bothered. “It is only a flesh wound!” she yelled the cleric to leave her alone and concentrate on the remaining pirates.

In seconds, the Centurion had caught up to the skiff. Erik called out, “Surrender!” to the Githyanki leader. And, what had never happened before in the history of the adventurers happened. Val Kath surrendered!

The children leaped to their feet. They hugged and clapped. Maybe Torben should try again with this story. By leaving out the complicated parts, it wasn’t so bad. And, it had definitely spared him further torture from his grandchildren.

“But, what happened next?” Liam earnestly asked. They all settled down.

Torben continued.

Val Kath bowed his head. He knew he was beaten. His surviving raiders gave their swords to the cleric, as the others adventurers put the skiffs in tow. Stowing the swords, Z’alden hands sparkled with silver and purple flames as he healed Rift. The dwarf pointed his axe at Val Kath, “now what was that all about?”

“I am the Githyanki prince Val Kath, one hundred and fifty seventh of that name,” the githyanki captain intoned quietly but with pride in his eyes. His defeated pirates nodded their heads. They knew the noble identity of their captain hidden beneath ordinary armor and weapons. Barrick was not appeased, “Why would you lead pirates?” Val Kath’s eyes twinkled, “For the sheer adventure of it. Now, what will become of me and my men?”

The adventurers conferred just as Captain Hallasol, hearing the melee die down, came up. Hallasol was clearly a craven and pleased that none of his blood was glistening on the deck on the Centurion.

Z’alden and Rift both agreed, and convinced the others. The cleric’s hands again glowed with the silver and purple flames. He healed Val Kath and the surviving pirates even as he spoke, “We will return you to your home unharmed. Though in the wrong, you and your men fought bravely. You swallowed your pride and surrendered. To where should Captain Hallasol set sail?”

“At least we should get some pirate booty,” muttered Barrick more to himself than anything else. He had been just about to lop off the head of one of the pirates when the melee had been halted. He missed that satisfying thoosh of a well-placed blow to the neck that sends a head skyward to arch down many staff lengths away. He was sure that he could have made it drop into the portal hole about 10 staff lengths away. Would have been nice. Not as good as an ale, but satisfying none the less. When all of this adventuring was done, maybe he could make a game that was almost as good. Maybe with a morningstar instead of an axe. Something to think about it. In between beers.

“And then, Hallasol set sail to the Githyanki capital,” Torben said.

Torben looked around at his seven grandchildren. He was pleased with himself. Not only had he gotten a respite from their merciless tickling, which he loved more than life itself, if only this old body could last longer, but they were spellbound for a few moments from his own magic. He doubted any of the merry tales of the Denizens had even a shred of truth, but they were fun, and he loved to share that joy with others, especially this most precious audience.

Sheila hugged her siblings and then warmly embraced Torben. “Grandpappy, that was a really good story. But, I have a question. Who was Arraxis?”

“Ah, yes, that does still need telling. First, some hot tea, and some cookies, and then the story of Arraxis and how the adventurers tried to steal a glance,” the scrivener’s eyes twinkled brightly with mischief as he spoke. He wasn’t supposed to have cookies, but these were excellent accomplices in disobeying his daughter who worried about his growing girth. Six children rushed out to grab the cookies from their hiding place, while Sheila smiled brightly and prepared the tea.

Some would suppose that descending into the dark, pitiless depths of the airless sea, to the crushing limits of a dented, leaky vessel, led by a frothing madman to face an enormous creature renowned for its cunning and murderous intensity – the Kraken, no less! – would give pause to 5 mortals even if they were not to be fully dependent on twisted hoses for their life-giving air, while the beast would be at home in its very lair. But our band had frankly faced poor odds many times, and by now we had the confidence of immortals. We just shrugged our shoulders and went forwards as usual.

The Captain was mad all right, obsessed as he was with Wizard Island, and with the great sea beast that frequented the waters nearby. He swore – and as a sailor, he knew well how to swear! – that the kraken must shelter in an underwater cave near the cliff side of the island, probably more than 100 feet deep, since he and his men had already searched every crevice shallower than that. So we set out, the first voyage in a submersible for each of us, and we gazed in wonder at the inventiveness and audacity of the ship, since it seemed mostly engineered, not brought into existence through a spell.

After evading a storm, which only disturbed the surface of the water, we arrived at the cliffs, which we of course premembered. (Long story, told elsewhere) The crazy old salt started descending past his previous limit of 100 feet even before we had been given the breathing helmets and puny spearguns with which he imagined we would fell our giant quarry. Everybody held their breath, for if the ship were to break apart, it would take us with it, nowhere but down.

At 130 feet the ship began to creak.
At 150 feet the portholes showed debris floating by, which we swore were bones, but who knows what sea life looks like down here?
At 180 feet the first rivet popped, and ricocheted past our heads.
At 190 feet we feared the worst.
At 200 feet watery hell broke loose as water began to pour in through multiple openings!

The Captain blew out ballast to stop the descent, Barrick dwarfed the pumps, and Z’alden and Rift cast spells at the ship, until soon we had steadied the craft.

Luckily we had no need to descend further. A cave loomed nearby in the murk, and the Captain, sensing the creature that he had hunted for so long, bade us don the breathing helmets and investigate. Varis, who seemed as at home in the water as he did everywhere, which is to say proficient and efficient but somehow distant, swam a line to the cave and connected it so that the rest of us could pull ourselves over.

This cave was actually a tunnel-like entrance, and after a short distance, down a little then up again, we came to a much larger cave, and there we saw it, lazing in the center of the cave, the hideous Kraken, pulsing red under a blue-green light, all ten arms wiggling, two much thicker and longer than the others.

With grim faces under our helmets, we lost no time attacking, and for a while it seemed like no contest. A wallop of a punch from Varis, a lightning blast from Barrick’s new axe, a weakening spell from Z’alden, a poisonous spell from Tira, lightning bolts from Rift, and soon the goliath was thrashing in its inky pain. It grabbed everyone within reach, but we all know ways to escape from the clutches of monsters: a spell here; an axe strike there; teleporting as a last resort.

The Kraken’s attacks had little effect on our hardy band, until it realized that our tethers were important to us. It pulled out Z’alden’s and Barrick’s air hoses, and had it been able to do the same for all of us, our bones would have joined those floating about outside. Yet clever as this denizen of the deep was, Rift was more clever, and she cast a spell to stop time for everyone but her, so that she could float over and reattach the hoses. Then, she displayed her signature power by banishing the beast briefly to a parallel universe, giving us time to gather ourselves for a last flurry of attacks.

No sooner had the Kraken reappeared in the cave, but each of us attacked it with full determination, Z’alden and Tira with particular viciousness, and the beast expired!

---

After the mighty Kraken had been put down, Varis showed the others that the light coming from above actually led to a grotto. We left behind our helmets, sure that the Captain would give up on us eventually, and leave us for dead. Above, we found enough air, but also four Kobolds with clown faces. These attacked us immediately, then disappeared! Following corridors, we encountered them again and again, taking damage but dealing out more of it, killing them one by one – until two more popped up! Tiring of this painful game, Varis dispensed quickly with these last two. We were left in a hall than contained 6 rows of three consecutively numbered floorstones in what felt like a second trap, after the Kobolds, which had certainly been enchanted.

A trap it turned out to be; step on the wrong stones, and an attack would be triggered. Varis tried teleporting past, but was dealt a colossal blow for his efforts. Tara took multiple hits and was left stunned in the middle of the grid.

Each of us being tough enough to survive these attacks, we experimented in turn until we had a safe path going through numbers 2-5-7-11. But, the attacks were gaining in intensity with each new row, and two rows were left. Z’alden healed us as only he can, but who knew whether the last row would deal a fatal blow?

Luckily Barrick remembered the sequence of numbers from his days learning dwarven building traditions. Every young dwarf memorizes the first 10 “Dwarven Friends” in the number sequence 2,3,5,7,11,13,17,19,23,29, as handed down from the great dwarven builders of old. The dwarves believe that, when using repetition in a building project, only these numbers should be used, and each of them should be used for no more than one purpose in a structure. If you repeat an archway five stones wide somewhere in a building, it is OK to then repeat an archway on a higher level seven stones wide, but never four, or six, or 12.

Barrick always thought this to be an ancient superstition, but seeing the same pattern playing out now, he wondered whether there could be some reason behind the sequence. See how 2 was the only number in the sequence that described the world of dwarves, with their two hands and two eyes and two feet? And 3 was the only one that described the number of options a dwarf always had (stay here, go forwards, or go backwards). And 5 was the only one that counted the number of fingers on a hand or foot. No other number in the sequence (and Barrick, who had worked on large buildings, actually knew more than the 10 taught to every dwarf) counted the number of fingers on any number of hands! In fact, no number in the sequence counted the number of any other number in the sequence, no matter how many! There was something there all right – but what it was, Barrick couldn’t quite grasp.

“Thirteen” he announced, though his insight did not come before he had stepped on #14, and suffered 3 poison darts. Sure enough, the adventurers got out on 13, followed by 17. Salving their wounds and gritting their teeth for the next trap, they came to a door saying “Home Sweet Home”. They knocked … and a voice said simply, “Come In”.

To be continued …

Post to come…

Post to come…

Slaver ran down the fangs of Ur Alak Nabog and wetted the matted fur at the mouth of the young orc warrior. He listened raptly as the chieftain’s voice grew to a frenzy describing the feast of dwarf flesh the tribe would soon be relishing. As the bonfire crackled with each word of the glorious chief, Ur fantasized about the tender kid meat he would get if he made a mark for himself in the upcoming slaughter. Calling it a battle was an abuse of the word.

Their great chieftain, Narak dana Belvanog, Destroyer of forests, Smasher of chests, Eater of Brains had already told them what the Shaman had foreseen in the bones of the raven and the entrails of the pig for many days. Each day was the same. A few centogs of dwarf miners were all that guarded a host of dwarven kids and shes and rich treasures beneath a poor fortress. The dwarves were stupid to be there and easy pickings. The destiny of the tens of centogs worth of orcs was to massacre the dwarfs, eat the she-dwarfs and the kid-dwarfs in a great celebration as the power of the tribe of the Brain Eater continued to grow.

Ur longed to serve closer to the mighty chieftain that he too might have a taste of the brains of the conquered, like the lieutenants of the great Brain Eater. Dwarf brain straight from the skull was said to be like a gritty bread, like the dried ale from yesterday’s mug. Ur stood little chance of making a great name for himself in this massacre, though. His centog was to be near the back, catching any dwarfs that tried to escape their way. Shes work, really.

Thinking about shes made the young orc breathe deeply. A she-orc, Miraka, had caught his scent at home, and he had caught hers. He wondered if he could wrap stewed dwarf arms under his armor and take them back to her. How she would breathe deeply for him then! Yes, that is what he would do. But only if the meat held up better than the puny dwarfs would fare against the coming orc onslaught.

A crack in the fire turned him back to the speech of the Brain Eater. The shadows of the Gloomwood forest ran thick as the light wrapped the huge orc chieftan, “We are an Army of orcs against two centogs of dwarfs. We march at first light to take what is ours. Eat little tonight. For soon, we will be feasting on the marrow of miners and the flesh of their shes and kids!” All of the warriors roared in approval, slapping their spears against their shields. “Brain Eater, Brain Eater!” they chanted in unison. The Chief reveled in the chant.

That night, as the embers faded, Ur stood guard. He was proud to have been selected to be a sentry near his Centogak’s tent, not so far from the Chief and the shaman. The still night boded a good, clear morning for killing. In the quiet, he could hear the loud breathing of the hoard, the baying of the great dogs, the snoring of the giants that served Belvanog. He stared at his claws and wondered if dwarf fingers crunched when you bit them like a snail, or were just chewy like a slug? His fightmate Bu said that the best part was the calf of a she with a side of pickled Umber hulk. He was so hungry, he almost bit his own finger. Then, he heard a gravely, quiet voice. It could be the snoring giants. No, it was an orc speaking. An old orc. The voice was coming from the Shaman’s tent.

“Narak, the entrails have changed I tell you. Look. See here. These many blood curves are dragons. Half a centog of dragons. The pig does not lie. The seeing has become not the same as on the other nights.”

The snarling response of the Chief was unmistakable, especially at the closer distance that Ur had crept. “Old one, you have smoked too much hashog tonight. Your sight is clouded. For weeks, the coming victory has been clear to you. It will be recorded in the scrolls forever you said. The Massacre at Coradra Gap. Why should it change now?”

The Shaman’s voice did not cower like Ur expected. It was a deep voice, one that spoke with conviction knowing a truth, “I wiped your bottom when you were a squealing babe, Narak dana Belvanog. Do not presume to tell me when I have smoked too much. I know what the signs are saying. This break here in the raven wing bone speaks of two wielders of magic, but one is uncontrolled, wild, and one is focused. Both are powerful. And, these hard lumps where the bone should be soft, they mean a dwarf with axe and shield and the will, strength and knowledge to wield them well. This is no dwarf miner but a battle-hardened son of stone. This curve in the wing bone is another dragon, but strange, it was broken and then healed. And, see to the pig here. This charring from my flames in the porcine brain down to the foot – a great power from the mind to the hand and feet. See how the chars fan out. This great power is an elf,“ he sucked in, “that flies and kills.”

Ur heard the Shaman draw his breath deeply. “And look here. The loop in the gut pipe. The large green blood curve pooled there. That is a green dragon.”

Belvanog chuckled through his ale. “Next you will be telling me that the gods themselves will arrive with this bi-centog of dragons to save the hides of our dwarven feast.”

His eyes rose as Ur heard a mug shatter. The Shaman’s voice rose. If it got any louder, the next sentry would hear it too. “You fool. Here, in the heart, not the gods but one of their Chosen, yes, another blood curve – the Chosen of a dragon god. I cannot tell which. It matters not. This comes against you, too. Be not a fool. The signs do not lie. Your victory is no longer assured. Something has changed in all that I can see. Beyond the Gloomwood, there be much more than weak dwarves. Call off the attack. There will be easier prey another day.”

What followed came quickly. A muffled grunt. A thud. Silence. Ur hid behind a tree as he peered to see the Chief leaving the tent. His claws holding a torch glistened wet. A pool of blood soon ran out below the tent flap. A shudder ran through the young orc warrior. He would not sleep well when his duty ended later that night.

As the light slowly rose behind them, ten centogs of the orc army gathered, Ur stood straight and tall, proud to be part of such a hoard. He looked to his right, his left, behind, in front, and saw the press of orc warriors. “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.” Again he counted to eight. And again and again and again, until his head hurt. Yes, a centog is many orcs, and we have many centogs against the puny two of the dwarves. Dwarf toes roasted at the end of a knife over a fire made a good afterfeast snack his fightmate Bu had told him. The slaver ran thickly in his mouth just thinking about it. He looked to his left at Bu, then to all the others nearby. They all were hungry. This should be quick.

The arrayed hoard rallied to the swelling chant of their Chief. “Brain Eater, Brain Eater” a thousand orcs cried out in unison. It was a fearsome sound. It swelled their hearts with bloodlust.

Ur surveyed the ground ahead. Off in the distance, as he was up a small slope, he could see the ruined fortress that was the goal. Loaded with dwarf shes and kids to eat and treasure to make them rich. His centog was heading around a small hill to the right of the main hoard. Just over the hill was a river. Another centog would go over the hill and be part of a high ground attack on any foolish resistance. Ur’s centog formed the “rear guard”, such that it was in a slaughter like this. Ur saw the Chief and his three giants going up a hill to the left. Surely some great tactic was planned from there by the Destroyer of Forests and Smasher of chests. The many, many orcs of the hoard were before him. They advanced.

A soft, steady, cold rain began to fall. No matter. Orcs care not for the weather. They marched on. Far ahead to his left, Ur saw something that made his heart pause. In the distance, many young-sized dragons rising up from the ground. More than his squad of Eight. More than two squads. He counted quickly. Not quite 6 squads of dragons. Maybe seven. Maybe eight. What comes next? Who cares. It was many. These dragons had small humanoids on their backs. He could see through the raining mist and through the dragons. They were not real. But the dwarfs, some she-people, and a he-people were flying on them. And then, he saw other he-person that was flying in nothing but people furs. Thin they are, too. It was just as the Shaman had spoken. Ur sucked his breath in. He watched what he never expected.

The dwarves on the dragons had crossbows and rained down bolts on the centogs. One of the shes had a staff. The stafflight burned like some darkstar from a scare telling for kids. Brilliant brightness flew from the dagger of the other she and jumped from warrior to warrior in a few heart beats. These wild lights dropped many without spear or cudgel. The staffed she landed on the ground in the middle of centog. Ur could no longer see her. There was a sound like a fighter makes when hit hard in the gut. A dark force exploded out from where the she landed. An entire centog was gone and the staffed she remained, her robes swirling around her.

More bolts rain down from the dwarfs and the he covered in scale armor riding on their dragons. The battle is not going well, thought the young orc.

The flying elf lands in the middle of a centog of orcs. Many squads in a centog. The elf will die quickly, Ur thinks. A few heartbeats. A few more. Ur shudders. The entire centog is down on the ground, and the elf in his robes is still standing. The centogs of orcs behind know nothing else but to continue on. The elf has nothing but a small throwing star that glints in the sun. With his hands and his feet, and a flick of the star, in more heartbeats, another centog is down. Too many for Ur to count. In the confusion, Ur hears an order roared. “To the fortress. Get the feast food and the treasure!” Many centogs of orcs move quickly to follow the order passed throughout the hoard.

Ur turns his head to see that the Chief and his giants wait at the top of their hill. A centog has ascended the hill to his right and found some dwarfs there. Ah, some real slaughter now, he thinks to himself. Don’t chop off the good eating.

Most of the flying dragons bearing dwarfs start heading to the fortress also. Oh, the little bugs have run out of stingers, Ur thinks to himself. Maybe the Shaman was wrong. And, I have seen no green dragon or any sign of a Chosen or a real dwarf warrior. Yes, the rout is on.

Well, no. A cloud of gas appears centered on the staff she. A half of centog falls. Bright lights flare there. The remainder stand no more.

Ur has gotten closer to the fortress. He sees one little dragon that has the sturdiest looking dwarf that Ur has ever heard tell of. This one gives chase to the centogs heading for the dwarf feast food. Ur cannot see what happens to him. Could this be the dwarven warrior that the Shaman foretold? The many dwarf dragons land closer to the fortress. What are they doing? Do they think they can hold off the many centogs coming toward them. Could the dwarf warrior be trying to get the dwarf feast for himself. Why else would he get so close to the she-dwarfs and kids so soon to be slaughtered and eaten? Ur is puzzled.

Then, he hears a sound like an army of drums beating at once. Coming down the river. Ur can see the ripples of a giant green snake in the sky. Then he can see the wings that beat the mighty drums reflecting the morning sun. “Jadracogfrack!*” he thinks to himself. The ancient dragon clears the hill next to the river. Neither the orcs nor the dwarfs survive its blast.

As the elements of the battle come more and more to resemble the Shaman’s last telling, Ur begins to feel fear for the first time in his life. The smell from the remains of the orcs and dwarfs that fell before the ancient green dragon sting his eyes. Tears form. He looks to his fightmate next to him. He can no longer keep the secret. “Fightmate Bu, this is all coming to pass as the Shaman told to the Chief last night. This is no easy feast fight. We will fail and fall.” Blindingly fast, Bu turns on Ur, smashing his brains. “Coward,” the orc savage snarled. Ur would never smell Miraka again.

• translated from orcish: Green dragon, oh shit.

The young man nervously walked into the darkened room. “Come, sit, sit,” a kindly voice beckoned. Pushing his way through the curtain of hanging beads, his eyes adjusting to the dim light, the lad saw the lady, dressed in the garb typical of the wandering gypsies, sitting at the other side of a small plain wooden table. A single stool was on his side of the table, and it was here that he sat. The lady smiled; it was hard to tell her age in the soft light, she could be as old as the ladies that quilt the blankets back near home, or as young as the farm girls that delivered the milk. For what felt like a long time, neither of them spoke. The gypsy first broke the silence, “You wish to know your future, yes?”
“Um, yes, that’s right,” stammered the lad, far from being a full man. He dropped a handful of coppers on the table, “How much can I know for this?”
The gypsy frowned, “That is not a lot, I can give you one series of connected events, but nothing before or after. Is that OK?”
The boy nodded, “Can I get a series that involves me dying, well almost dying, so I might know what to do when it happens?”
This time it was the lady who nodded. “Be warned, I have no control over what the cards tell me, I only read them. If you do not like what the cards say, it is not my fault. Do you understand?”
“Yes’m”
“Fine, let’s begin.” The lady pulled a worn deck of Tarot cards from a small drawer beside the table. She shuffled the cards exactly three times, then had the lad shuffle the cards another three, telling him to think of his death whilst doing so. Then she had the boy cut the deck once. “All is in place, let’s see what your future holds.”
She began by flipping over three cards, placing them in an even row, the first, the 10 of Cups, the second, the 10 of Swords, and the third, Death. The fortuneteller looked confused as she stared at the cards. “Strange, it would appear you lay dying at the beginning of this, but the really odd part is that the cards are saying that the wind and the water are also wounded. I am not sure how wind could be hurt, but the cards do not lie. I wish I could be there to see how these events come to pass.”
“How did I get there? What tried to kill me?” the boy gasped.
“That the cards do not say yet. You might have to discover that on your own, I am afraid.”
The lad sighed, “Ok, go on. Do I survive, and how?”
The seeress dealt two more cards, one at each end of the original row of three; the Sun and the Star. “Still strange,” she muttered, and then speaking louder, “A friend of your either gives you something of vitality, or,” she pauses and stares at the cards, “Or this person sings you to health.” Both people look at each other, then at the cards, then back at each other, confused. Two more cards at dealt, the Ace of Cups and the 4 of Pentacles. “This is becoming stranger with every card. Now they say that Air and Water are hurting your friends, Air turns invisible, as if it were already not, then is forced back into visibility.” Shaking her head, she warily turns over two more cards, the six of Wands, “Ok, now this means attacking with fire,” then the five of Cups, “And the fire kills, no that is not quite right, evaporates the damaged Water. At least that kind of makes sense.”
The boy leans far forward, over the table, “What about me? Am I still lying almost dead?”
“Careful young Zenithar, do not disrupt the energy of the table and the cards.” She waits for him to sit back in his chair, aware that he did not notice her recognition of him. She adds another card to the tableau below Death, the Hermit. “Not only do you recover, but you go on to make an example for your friends, damaging the very wind around you. And this signifies knowing a name, an important name.” The gypsy then places a stack of three cards down, face up; the only one the boy can see is the top card, the seven of Swords. “Someone, not you, is crawling, although I cannot tell if they are hurt or doing it on purpose. Regardless, from prone this person destroys the Air, whilst you somehow heal your friend in much the same way you were just healed.”
“I have to sing?”
“No, one of the gods helps you, no singing required.”
“Good!” then sheepishly he adds, “My singing voice has not yet come in.”
The next card, placed above the Death card, is the Tower. “Not good, not good at all,” the gypsy shakes her head. “You are dying again, some evil being is doing terrible damage to you.”
The card that is dealt to the left of the Tower is the Moon. “You are healed by the crawling one, but in the process, that person vanishes.”
“How do I know these other people? Are they my friends?”
“Yes, very much so, you will have shared much with these companions at this time. If you fall a third time, I fear you will die for good, but will at least die amongst those you count most dear.”
“Do I know any of them know, is Jordy there?” he asks eargerly.
“I do not think so, but that is vague.” She stops for a long drink of a clear liquid from a blue bottle. “Let’s continue,” she says placing the Knight of Pentacles. “There is a rift, but the relation of this card to the others says the rift is alive, and is moving into a dark pool of magic.”
“You can tell all of that from one card?”
“Not from just the one card, but from where it lies and its position relative to all the cards previously laid.” Another stack of three cards is set down, this time with the King of Wands showing on top. “Oh my. You are fully healed now, but one of your friends, with a significance to the colour red, is now laying dying. There is a lot of dying happening here, it is no wonder this series of events came forth when you queried on death. Your god also heals your red comrade.”
The next card down is the Fool, “Uh oh,” the young man squirms, “Is that me?”
The gypsy laughs, “Not this time, but there will be other times for you. No this time the evil being you are all fighting makes a mistake, thinking that dragging your party to a different location will help him.” The Judgment card is next placed above the Fool. “The evil being ends up in the very spot he is trying to put all of you, not only getting hurt but healing all of you instead.”
“Is he dead? This, this thing?” the boy sputters.
The Nine of Wands is revealed, “No, not only is he alive, but he knocks one of your friends into, I am not sure, into a well?” Another card is turned up, the Ace of Pentacles, “A human friend is empowered, by walking on or activating something.”
A two-card stack this time, with the five of Pentacles on top, “The human saves another, a smaller, or at least shorter, companion, lifting it by part of the short one’s hair.” She chuckles and shakes her head, “This has to be the oddest reading I have ever done.”
“Not many cards left, I wonder if anyone will survive?” The three of Pentacles is placed next to the five. “The one that vanished, maybe into the rift, suddenly returns. Maybe you and your friends will survive after all.”
Above the five, the next card turned up is the World.
“That looks promising,” they boy more asks than states.
“Indeed,” the gypsy replies. “Working together, you and your companions finally defeat the evil being. Its place above the five states that the human was the one to give the killing blow.”
“Wooh, I live!”
“Yes,” she smiles, “this time. But be careful, this does not mean you can do anything you want before these events come to pass and assume you will always cheat death. Stupidity can easily override the will of the cards.”
“Is there anything else you can tell me? Does anything happen after we kill that thing?”
“There are four cards left in this reading, so something must happen.”
The Ace of Swords, “Weapons of great power, but I cannot tell if you, or one of your friends get to wield these.”
The Page of Pentacles, “Now see the three discs in the picture on the card? Those signify three magic rings.”
“Ooh, magic, I like magic!”
“Magic is nice, but remember, all magic comes with a price. Only two cards left.” The penultimate card is the Magician. “Aptly enough, in this case this really does mean a magician. Someone appears and either conveys you to safety or makes your surroundings safe again. Either way, this story is over.”
“But there is one more card, you said there were four more!”
“Ah yes,” The fortuneteller lifts one more card off the top of the deck. She looks at it, pauses yet again, and then reveals, the Hanged Man.
“Oh no! More death? Am I dead this time?” the lad wails.
“Fear not, this is an abstract card. All it means is that everyone in your party is experiencing something different, something important to each of them. You will find out what your experience is when you reach this adventure. That is all for now.”
The young man nods, exhales, then stands up and leaves lost in thought.
The gypsy turns over one more card, “Very very strange. It appears there are two ages given for your final death, 20 some years apart. Very strange indeed.”

Dirty Deeds

Tira hid her thoughts well behind long lashes and lushous red lips. All were subject to her charms, even her compatriots. They knew nothing of her inner thoughts that had been plaguing her mind for over one year now. It had been her chaotic nature that had made her draw the card. The Deck of Manny Things had tempted her and she had succumbed, not only then, but now as well. Twisted she was, wrapped up in obsessive thoughts of doing dirty deeds…

Many found their fortunes in the City of Brass. Many too had lost them, most likely, or so Tira thought to justify her schemes. The city’s magistrate was a good man, admired by most for having brought prosperity through freer trade and more equitable policies. He performed his duties with all the seriousness required of a true servant of the people. The magistrate was strong and capable, respected and even revered.

So began Tira’s campaign to bring the magistrate to ruin. And why not? A perfect target. Tira knew that she must first convince her companions to join her, but they would need to be swayed to a new logic. Power corrupts, does it not? How could a man of wealth and importance not be corrupt? Z’alden was convinced most easily. “Crony capitalist!”, decried Z’alden, “Surely his gains are ill-gotten! Justice must prevail!” Rift was next to fall to Tira’s persuasion, after all, the guy lived in a mansion, inhabited by no one else but himself. Something must be wrong with him. Magical constructs guard his estate. What possible need could he have for that level of security… unless he was hiding something! Barrick and Erik were last to be convinced. Did they agree to join in on the plans out of loyalty? Or the need for adventure? Perhaps it was Tira’s feminine wiles…

All this scheming had a secondary purpose, which also aided Tira in convincing the others to partake in her nefarious plans. They had an opportunity to recover the “astral” painting, stolen back in Nerrakus from its premiere bank. Word on the street was that it was here, in the City of Brass. In a seedy bar, the adventurers found a djinn that offered information on where to recover the painting, but for a price. That price was the magistrate’s astrillium ring – a family heirloom and symbol of his power. Without that ring, the magistrate would crumble.

Back in their rented lodging, Rift set to weaving the powers of a mighty ritual where she would be able to consult the mystic sages, gaining insight on where the ring slept and how it could be taken:

Rift: “Oh mystic sages, where is the magistrate’s astrillium ring?”
Sages: “In the crystal case, in the center of the floor, in the gem room.”
Rift: “How do I get past the magical constructs that guard the magistrate’s mansion?”
Sages: “He without power is powerless. Disable the central conduit of power.”

This was enough for the adventurers to form a plan. They would disguise themselves as city workers sent to repair the power conduit leading up to the magistrate’s estate. They would then sever the line, slip into the house and steal the ring. Simple.

Late that afternoon, the adventurers headed to the magistrate’s mansion, to reconnoiter and get a sense of just what they’d be up against. To their surprise, a knock on the door brought the magistrate before them. He was of a serious demeanor, stern and direct. As with most efreets, there was a pall of arrogance that surrounded him, and this only emboldened Z’alden in this quest.

“Begone. City business is to be done during business hours”, bellowed the magistrate. Z’alden and Barrick reeled at the perceived lack of hospitality. Still, the adventurers entreated him to grant them time now, for they had travelled far and were weary. “No. I do not have time now. Perhaps you would like to schedule time tomorrow? I have a free slot at the lunch hour. Decide quickly.”

The adventurers agreed to lunch and left, but not empty handed. They had seen the defensive constructs and the adamantium door and shutters. Yes, the powerful would need to be rendered powerless.

The next day the adventurers returned to the estate which sat outside the walls of the city. A long road lead up to the mansion, and under it lay a conduit that supplied magical energy to the estate, just as it did with other buildings within the city. Its success was one of the magistrate’s hallmark achievements. Dressed as a repair crew, the five began to dig. Barrick’s skill with a pick made the work look legitimate, but Rift’s disintegrate spell make it go quickly. Soon they were down to the exposed conduit. The energy running through the system was frighteningly powerful. High voltage!

To their horror, the magistrate walked past the construction zone on his way to work. Barrick began to hum a little tune: “If you’re having trouble with your city magistrate, he’s givin’ you the blues…”

“What now?”, snorted the magistrate, clearly frustrated, “This was working fine for over a year now. What changed? This is where the city’s money is going!”. Not to be late for the first of his endless meetings, the magistrate quickly continued on his way. The adventurers breathed a collective sigh of relief as he passed beyond the walls and into the city.

Now Rift could work the magic of her arcane gate. With one portal placed in the conduit and one directly in front of the mansion’s adamantium door, the power not only bypassed the remaining section of conduit but began blasting away at the door. This gave Barrick and Erik and opportunity to safely break the conduit, which they quickly did with mighty blows. Soon too was the door blown clean open. Within the walls, the constructs were lifeless. Tira hid a wicked grin – her schemes were going according to plan.

The adventurers quickly fled into the house as Rift prepared bring down the portal. That much untamed energy would deliver a mighty blast, and so it did. Shockwaves from the collapsed conduit blasted the house and its concussive force rattled the adventurers. Still, they were in. Tira and Rift quickly found the crystal box, which was said to contain the ring. They had their prize and so they raced out the back of the house, which now had a clean hole poked all the way through it from the initial blast of energy.

As the adventurers made their way back into the City of Brass, they could hear the city folk tell their version of what had happened. People were distraught and pointed to the black smoke that came from the direction of the magistrate’s house. Some said that the magistrate’s house had been destroyed by an accident with the power system. Others thought it had been attacked and that the magistrate was dead. There were cries of “villainy!”. There was sadness. There was fear of further attacks. The magistrate had done such a good job at making the city safer, and so what an ironic pity for this to befall him.

Back in their lodgings, Rift worked past the crystal box’s wardings to be able to open it. Sure enough, as promised, it held the magistrate’s ring. Success!

Barrick and Erik turned a suspicious eye to Tira. No better than common thieves they were. Dirty deeds, indeed.

Sympathy for the Devil

Wasting no time, Tira returned to the shady bar where she had met the unscrupulous efreet just a day before. She had been promised information about the painting in exchange for the ring. Now she wanted more. It was time to change the particulars of the deal. Location was not enough! After some hard bargaining, the djinn relented and offered not just the location of the painting, but help getting into the building. Tira was pleased. Her masterful plan to bring the magistrate to ruin was a success, and as a bonus she managed to secure the location of the painting. Not a bad couple of days. Or was it?

The next day the adventurers met the shady djinn and he them through the city, past shops, row houses, banks and foundries. Soon they stood before a warehouse and the djinn motioned for them to enter. The air was still and most strikingly, the street was bare.

“Enter! The painting is on the second floor, in the back”, said the djinn with smile that was difficult to read. How did he know just exactly where the painting was? The adventurers did not trust him, but what choice did they have? So they entered.

The warehouse stood nearly empty, being sparsely populated with only a smattering of old crates and open boxes. The floor was dusty. What kind of warehouse was this? Yet true to the efreet’s words, there was a steep staircase in the back. Erik lead the way ever so carefully. Did the wooden step creak as one would expect? Was the air as stale as expected? What of the quality of the light? Was all the world an illusion? The others followed, slowly, up the stairs to the second floor.

Reaching the top of the stairs, the adventurers found themselves in a small room of red oak – a deeper and bloodier red than normal, but perhaps it was just the lighting. No, before them stood a devil! Z’alden’s mind raced. He recoiled. He had to keep himself from lurching forward. Restraint.

“Pleased to meet you. Nicely done deed!”, said the devil, his wings perking up almost imperceptibly, “but this is not why you are here, now is it?”

The adventurer’s looked at each other, knowing that a dangerous game was now underfoot. “Please allow me to introduce myself”, continued the devil with a grin and penetrating eyes. “I am man of wealth and taste; you need not worry now. Our interests may, shall we say, coincide?”

The devil paused to examine the adventurer’s perplexed expressions. He kindly smiled. “You see, the demons will soon be on on the march.”

“Demons, you know I despise demons with a holy passion”, boldly stated Z’alden, “but why would ever even consider doing the devil’s work? Perhaps you should be the one to go to battle with the demons!”

The devil just smiled and bowed his head with eyes still on the adventurers, “I am but your humble servant. Here. Have some sympathy, and do me the courtesy of taking on this quest, won’t you? For devils cannot go forth into the Abyss. I surely would not bargain if I could do this myself.” He paused to study their response. “I can tell that you are puzzled by the nature of my game, but there is nothing to fear, nothing. To fear, at all. Let me help you. You and I, we are not so dissimilar. Just ask the magistrate.” The devil’s eyes lit up with that last barb, which he clearly could not resist, for it was his nature. The adventurer’s turned shades of red – for embarrassment or anger – but the effect was to make their color match the devil’s color more closely.

“What can you do for us?”, asked Rift, “Weapons? Majicks? What is in it for us?”

“I can expedite. Expedite your travels to the Abyss”, calmly replied the devil. “For I… have you guessed my name? Destabilize the demons. Kill Mal…” The devil softened his face and smiled. “Mal’Ganis. Mal’Ganis must be stopped. Yes. Stopped from his plans. And then there is the issue of the glaives. Yes, I know about your interest in them with respect to the one known as Illidan. You see, we really are on the same side. I can help you. What I offer is more for you than for me. Do we have a deal?”

With that, the devil waved his left hand in a circular motion and a portal appeared before the adventurers. With his other hand, he motioned for them to enter. He put on his best yet least convincing smile.

Z’alden was the first to enter, followed by Barrick. As the last of the five entered, they could feel the Cheshire grin of the devil behind, with echoes of the question, “Tell me, what’s my name?”

In My Time of Dying

Ripped from the Elemental Plane of Fire, the five adventurers found themselves even further from the Nentir Vale. Memories of home were hard to conjure in this barren, darkened and hostile landscape. No quarter for lost souls. The devil had delivered upon his half of the bargain by conveniently placing the adventurers at the footstep of Mal’Ganis’ fortress. Upon its flanks paced an assortment of demons, who seemed to bicker amongst each other, surely fueled by feudal status and an unyielding impulse to torment.

“To beat them, we must join them”, Z’alden concluded. “Put me in chains!” The others looked at each other and soon caught on. The potions of mimicry did the trick, making Rift, Tira, Barrick and Erik look like nyca-demons. Erik noticed that Tira was strangely fetching, for a demon. The chains on Z’alden looked quite convincing as the “demons” brought him forth, before the head demon who guarded the gates to Mal’Ganis’ palace.

“What you want?”, shouted the ultro-demon schemer to the four.

“We have a prisoner. Servant of Bahamut. For the slaughter!”, replied nyca-demon Tira.

“So slaughter him already!”, replied the ultro-demon, with his blood-seep demons soldiers slavishly snickering behind.

“But this one is special. One for Mal’Ganis’ direct pleasure.”

“No, kill him now. If you won’t, I will. Step aside!”, demanded the ultro-demon.

Z’alden winked at Rift and that’s all it took to convey the plan. “Mal’Ganis will be very displeased, you fool” shouted Rift, turning her attention to all the soldiers and pointing at each one of them. “Mal’Ganis will vanish all those who defy his wishes. Do not doubt this word!”

The ultro-demon gutturally chuckled and so too followed the blood-seep demons in an insane cackle, mocking Rift.

“You were warned!”, scowled Rift. And with all eyes on her, Z’alden was able to surreptitiously cast his magic, sending the ultro-demon into another plane. The other demons were stunned in disbelief.

“You have doubted the menacing power of our great leader”, taunted Rift, “perhaps you to would like to defy his wishes too?”

“No, of course we do not question”, mumbled the remaining demons as they cowered, “Proceed. Pass forth. Be glorious the slaughter most pleasantly for our master’s pleasure, that is, by his will, always. Go!”

With that the adventurers, still in their magical disguises, opened the great doors to the fortress of Mal’Ganis. So many times before on countless adventures lay chamber after chamber to protect the leader, but to the adventurer’s surprise, Mal’Ganis now sat before them on the far side of a great hall. So soon to see Mal’Ganis. A good thing?

Mal’Ganis’ throne was backed by a wall, with the glaives mounted below a large stained glass window that depicted an army of demons. The light making its way through seemed to be of a dark power. The great demon then stood, revealing fine scale mail armor and a war spear in hand. “Leave the prisoner and begone”, commanded Mal’Ganis.

“Uh, no. Let’s do things our way”, shouted Rift as she created a portal, enabling Barrick to rush through to the far side of the great hall and stand beneath the towering figure of Mal’Ganis. The dwarf was pushed aside, with Mal’Ganis mighty reach. Z’alden cast off his chains and was next through the portal, to cast a powerful spell, but the demons of the stained glass glowed and Mal’Ganis laughed as he shrugged off the attack. Erik’s turn was next and as he raised his bow, he took aim for his quarry’s exposed flesh. Three arrows let loose and three met their target, but the ranger could tell that the demon resisted much of the damage. Finally, from Tira’s hand sprung a prismatic beam, but to no avail.

Now it was Mal’Ganis’ turn and he brought forth a fire and earth elemental to combat the other adventurers as he personally went after the dwarf. Even after being able to dodge the attack, Barrick felt the force of fear and stood stunned in the shadow of Mal’Ganis.

As battle continued, the demon and his elementals focused on the servant of Bahamut, the cleric, Zenithar al Denithar. Attack after attack was laid down upon the cleric. It was a wise strategy, but so too did the adventurers have a similar strategy of their own, concentrating their attacks on the elementals, and soon the earth elemental was dispatched. With that, Mal’Ganis chanted, “Feel the maelstrom: wind and water.” And so an air and water elemental were conjured to join the battle. The demon’s massive spear swung a wide arc, hitting many of the adventurers in a single sweep. Erik’s arrows continued to fly and from Rift’s fingers sprung prismatic beams, poisoning, burning and dazing the elementals. The fire elemental would quickly fall, but all the while Z’alden took blow after blow. Such was the price for being a servant of Bahamut in the realm of demons.

A final blow set Z’alden’s thoughts afar. The room spun. The clangs of weapons upon armor rang out as distant bells. Swirls of bright colors and a cacophony of sound filled his head as confusion overtook his rational mind. The stone floor moved upward in slow motion to greet his weakening body – comfortable as a down pillow for flesh that has no feeling. Thoughts of a song drifted through… “If my wings should fail me, Bahamut, please meet me with another pair. Well, well, well, so I can die easy.”

Cough.

To be continued…

“Late one night a passing human saw a dwarf stooped over in front of a tavern. Seeing no trace of vomit, the human asked the dwarf if he had lost something. ‘Aye’, the dwarf replied, ‘the keys to me room at the inn’. So the human looked around a bit as well. The area was well lit by torches on either side of the tavern’s doors, but he saw nothing looking like keys. ‘Maybe you left them inside’, he said. ‘Nae’, said the dwarf, ‘I was drinking over there tonight’ – and he pointed at the closed, shuttered, darkened tavern across the street. Perplexed, the human asked, ‘Why aren’t you looking for your keys over there?’ Shaking his head as if speaking to an imbecile, the dwarf replied “Ain’t it obvious? It’s too dark over there, never find nuthin over there’.

Barrick, who had lately taken to retelling bar jokes as purported pearls of wisdom, shook with laughter, but Rift remained skeptical. “All three are just rumors – under the King’s Throne Room, says a scummy thief. Under a bank vault, says a strange dwarf. Under three feet of rubble at the Royal Armory, says a Bishop. None is likelier than the others. The obvious thing to do is none of the above.” But Barrick won the day. There was no easy way to scope out the King’s Throne room or the Royal Armory today, but the bank would be open for business. Search where the light is. Sometimes quests are like that.

An art theft having just taken place at the bank, the group pulled out the old reliable WeAreImportantPeopleWhoAreSupposedToBeHere act, which got them past the guards and clerks. The bank functionaries, in fine silk of green and gold, needed more convincing. Playing the conductor now, Barrick joined his thumb to his middle finger on each hand, with the two circles interlocked. This was an oft-used sign in the group, based on the ease with which drunkards and fools can be impressed, then confused. (One holds one’s hands like that without interlocking the fingers, turns one’s shoulders away, then shows one’s hands again, interlocked., repeating to unlock them. A drunkard, fool, or young child will inevitably try to mimic this by putting their hands behind their back from opposite directions, so they they will be unable to produce the effect.) Erik the Perceptive pointed out marks on the floor indicating something heavy had been moved, as well as a pile of clerks’ robes hidden from view. Suitably impressed, the functionaries gave the group free rein upstairs, and the bank director agreed to take them below – 8 levels below, where dozens of vaults lay along a corridor.

The theft was a fascinating problem. Three keys are needed for entry to a vault, two banker keys and one patron key. The robbed vault belongs to the King’s Nephew, an heir to the throne who is without debts, and who was given the painting by his uncle the King. Nothing else was taken from the vault. Vault doors do not close well, and one must wait some minutes after closing a vault door before being confident that it will not spontaneously reopen. This door was found ajar by passing clerks, which implies that it was not an inside job.

Curiouser and curiouser the case became. The bankers’ keys are kept in a keystore that can only be opened by the Director. They all look the same, but have different magical signatures. Importantly, they cannot be verified without first closing the door, and if they do not work, the door can never be reopened. This fact led to the adventurers’ next big break.

When the director tried to close the vault door to see whether the keys worked, several of the party stopped him vigorously. Barrick shouted out “Spit on the bar”, and everyone knew what he meant. A guy in a tavern asks the tough bartender whether he would like to bet 10 gold pieces that he can spit his beer the length of the bar into a spittoon at the far end. Seeing that the guy is drunk and weak-looking, the bartender agrees. The guy fails utterly, but raises the bet to 20 gold pieces, asking for three chances. Never coming close, he raises to 30, with 5 chances. The bartender agrees each time. The guy proceeds to spit vast quantities of ale down the bar, missing badly and at one point even hitting the bartender full in the face, producing howls of laughter from the bartender as he wipes down the bar. After paying up, the guy is thanked profusely with a warm handshake – but smiles broadly at the winner, who asked him,. “Why are you smiling, you’re out 60 gold pieces, and you never came close.” “True, but I bet those guys on the other side of the room 200 gold pieces that I could spit ale all over your bar for 20 minutes, as well as in your face, and you would clean it up and thank me afterwards.”

The point of this joke is to keep the opponent thinking that the quarry is different from what the quarry actually is. The adventurers explained patiently to the director that, to avoid the King’s Nephew’s wrath, and maybe the wrath of the King, they should first move the Nephew’s remaining things to another vault, in case the keys do not work. The door to the robbed vault, now empty, was closed, the keys tried, and – they did not work! The vault would likely be an empty tomb forever. But the group had saved the Director from a treasonable offense, and now had free run of the vaults – to go after their actual quarry.

As for the robbery, the solution was simple. Barrick told the joke: A banker, a customer, and a bank director are caught riding on the back of a dragon that had just destroyed and looted their bank. Hanging from a scale behind the dragon’s head are two Rings of Featherfall. The three discuss who should use the rings. The customer says that he should use one, because the customer is always right. The banker says he should use one, because he is the future of the bank when it is rebuilt. The bank director says he not only should use one because he is the most intelligent of the three, he is going to use one because he is in charge. He grabs a ring and jumps. The banker looks at the customer, who smiles and says, “The most intelligent of us just jumped off with my wedding band in his hand!”

Realizing that the people at the top of a hierarchy are probably the most useless, the group questions the director more directly. There had been only one guest all day whom the Director had not recognized, and his memory was fuzzy about that guy too, a possible sign of magic, which was soon dispelled by Z’alden and Rift. The bearded man had in fact been the King’s Nephew, and the clerks who escorted him had been dismissed some months before; they no doubt had stolen the keys to this vault. Why the King’s Nephew had done this in such a mysterious fashion was unknown, but also not really what interested the adventurers.

With the blessing of the grateful Director, the five examined the corridor, “checking things out”, and identified which vault should be closest to the cave. They managed access to it by asking to open their own vault, and stealing the bankers’ keys to their target – really, how can such a useless bank stay in business?

Without the patron key though, magic was required. Warding runes guarded the door, spelling out “Light. Theft. Origin.” Rift remembered the solution to an old childhood riddle:

“Follows You in the Light
Hides thieves in the Night
Starts where you start
Never comes apart”

While Tira distracted the hapless Director, the others worked to produce shadows on the door, matching markings found there, and the doors opened!

Inside were found about two gold millions’ worth of diamonds, walls made of platinum, and a tunnel going down. After grabbing all the loot, the party descended the tunnel, then a pit about 150 feet deep, which ultimately led to a huge cave with a lake. Briefly questioning the wisdom of reanimating such a powerful being as Tassadar, the group nevertheless threw his bones into the lake. “How many dead adventurers does it take to mop a floor?” Asked Barrick. “Five. One to hold the mop, four to walk him up and down the floor.” The group waited as the powerful being emerged whole from the lake; was it to be death or promotion?

The bed was made of rough-hewn logs. It had clearly been crafted by someone who was not an expert woodworker, yet there was still an elegance to it. Each log had been carefully chosen to be the exact right size, and the bark and branches had been hacked off with a sharp blade that removed only what was necessary but not a single ounce more. The rest of the room reflected the bed’s construction. The floor was lightly sanded oak, rough but even. The walls were pale birch, directing the sunlight cleverly around the room so that the entire space seemed to glow with a pale yellow. In the corner of the room a huge tree trunk came through the floor and went out through the ceiling.

A small table stood near the bed. On the table were two items – a decanter filled with a pale red fluid, and a large grimoire, blackened around the edges with age and perhaps traces of a fire.

There were only two decorations in the room. Hanging above the bed was a tiny bow made of ash and a beech quiver, containing a few small arrows. The bow was even more crudely made than the bed, yet on closer examination, the same spartan economy had been used in crafting the bow – it was clearly a child’s toy, yet had been constructed to be fully functional. It seemed easily capable of delivering one of its arrows with deadly force and precision.

On the other side of the room, directly visible from the bed, was the other decoration. It was a large scroll, held in place by four daggers driven deep into the wall. The scroll was covered with writing, written in a sharp hand in black ink. The language was unfamiliar, gutteral, with sharp lines. In the center of the scroll was a name, set apart from the rest of the text: "Illidan eth Stormrage”. The only other recognizable word was near the bottom, written this time in red ink, “Excommunicado”. At the bottom were the signatures of numerous people, perhaps twenty in all. All were written in black ink except one in red: “Malfurian”.

Illidan’s eyes flicked open. His transition from asleep to awake was instantaneous. He scanned the room, quickly assessing what had disturbed his peace. A bird perched on the windowsill, it’s eyes adjusting to the light. Just as the bird opened its beak to let out a warble, Illidan fixed it with his gaze. His left hand made the tiniest pinching gesture. The bird seemed to shimmer for an instant and then faded from sight, leaving only a trace of dust motes floating in the disturbed air.

Illidan sighed. Either his defenses were growing weaker, or the forest was again closing in on his haven. He would have to patrol the grounds carefully today, checking all of his traps and wards.

He sighed again, taking a sip from the red liquid in the decanter. He had had another disturbing dream. This time it seemed to take place in the future. His future? He could not tell. There had been a Archmage, who seemed to perhaps be himself. Sometimes he had been in the Archmage’s body, and other times, he had floated above. The Archmage was older and dressed in flowing robes covered with silver and red sigils.

The Archmage was in a huge room, divided into five areas, separated from each other by voids on unknown depth. The main area had strange markings on the floor and a large dais, raised a few steps above the remainder. The other areas had similar strange markings. The name “The Room of Creation” floated unbidden into Illidan’s dreaming mind.

The Archmage was clearly fighting a desperate battle against seemingly impossible odds. Five heroes were arrayed against him: A half-elf Cleric, an eladrin Wizard, a half-elf Sorcerer, a human Ranger, and a stout dwarf Fighter.

Illidan sensed another presence in the room, perhaps aiding the Archmage, or perhaps there to further its own ends. Again, a name floated into Illidan’s mind: “Jaraxxus”. Illidan shuddered in his sleep.

Illidan saw the Archmage raise his robed arms. Tendrils of force and acid shot forth, striking against the Cleric and the Wizard. “Good!” though the dreaming Illidan, target the spellcasters first, especially the Wizard. Illidan could sense that the Archmage recognized the threat of another magic user, a rival, a pretender to the true power! The Wizard must be eliminated first, obliterated. Then the others could be dealt with piecemeal. The Sorcerer was a threat, true enough, but her own chaotic nature would give the Archmage time to deal with her later. The Ranger was a pesky annoyance. His arrows could sting surely enough, and given enough time could cause serious damage, but he was weak to a full frontal assault of magic. The Fighter was easy enough. He could wield mighty blows, but in the end, what could might do against magic? Ha! The Cleric complicated things. He would have to be carefully watched. He could delay the battle indefinitely, with his meddling gods.

In the dream, Illidan peered more closely at the Cleric. Which god did this one pretend to follow? Bahamut? Ha! No wait, there was another. Tiamat? Ah, now that was more interesting. Perhaps this one could be made to change allegiance. Illidan urged the Archmage to notice, willing him to follow his dream advice, but the Archmage ignored him.

The Ranger loosed an arrow which struck a glancing blow off the Archmage. The Cleric quickly followed with a curse that made the Archmage reel. His defenses were down. Illidan cursed against his own impotence, wanting to join the battle and help his brother Archmage. Strange how much kinship he felt towards the nameless necromancer. Suddenly the Archmage lifted his arms and dropped them. The entire room shifted, and a new realm was entered. All magical effects ended. Illidan was stunned. This was what he had been looking for. He must find out who this Archmage was, and where he had gained such power.

The Archmage blasted the Wizard again and again. The Wizard raised her arms feebly, trying spell after spell, only to see them fizzle and fail. Her arms fell limply to her sides, she sighed, then collapsed in a heap of robes, her staff clattering to the ground. The other heroes stood, shocked. Apparently, Illidan thought wryly, they were not used to defeat. Illidan saw satisfaction gleaming in the eyes of the Archmage, echoing his own satisfaction. That had been a well-fought battle, with little wasted power and only minor inconvenience to the spell caster.

But of course, as heroes must, they continued to fight on, oblivious to their impending, obvious, defeat. The Sorcerer spun a whirlwind of dust and debris, a thunderclap pushing the Archmage away from the fallen Wizard. The Ranger ran to the eladrin’s aid, administering a potion of life. The Cleric added his own ministrations, and the Wizard’s eyes flickered open. Too bad. At least, thought Illidan, if she somehow survives the battle, she will have some scars to show for it and to teach her some humility.

The dwarf fighter now added his strength, with a blinding flash of steel blades that struck the Archmage. Illidan saw the Archmage grow angry. His arms were raised in a mighty incantation that would sweep all away. Illidan saw his lips muttering the spell, and even though it was a dream, Illidan realized that he recognized the words. Shocked, he stared at the Archmage. Was this indeed the same spell, the spell that he himself had created, years ago, and had been perfecting? If only he could see more clearly in his dream. Yes, he could almost make it out. Just a few more moments and he would be sure.

Suddenly, there was a flash of red, as a wing shot in front of Illidan’s face. Illidan caught a glimpse of the Sorcerer, her red hair flying in the breeze, whooping with chaotic joy as she swept by on a red dragon. Annoyed, both Illidan and the Archmage glared at the Sorcerer as she flew over to one of the glowing sigils etched on the floor. Illidan’s gaze swept back to the Archmage. “Finish the spell!” he shouted frantically in his dream. The Archmage lifted his hands, poised to shout the final Word of Power that would confirm Illidan’s suspicions.

The dream ended.

It was morning. The bird had been dismissed whence it came. Illidan sighed again. Was he never to discover the answer? Illidan put on his finest pale blue robes and strode outside, blinking in the warm sunlight as he climbed down from his tree abode. Something wasn’t right. Another wild animal to disturb his peace and order? He stared across the stream that divided his small clearing in the forest. There were several humanoid creatures standing on the other side, waving their arms in confusion and gesticulating wildly to each other. Well, this at least was more interesting, he though to himself. They might still need to be destroyed, but at least he could perhaps learn something useful from other “intelligent” beings, even if they could never hope to reach his level.

“Greetings!” called Illidan across the water. “Well met!” called back one of the people, a tall half-elf wearing clerical robes. Strange, thought Illidan, why do these people seem familiar to me? A half-elf Cleric, an eladrin Wizard, a half-elf Sorcerer, a human Ranger, and a stout dwarf Fighter. Yes, somehow that seemed correct. Had he had dealings with this party in the past? They did not seem threatening, but seemed somehow wary of him, as if they somehow knew something about him that even he didn’t know. Disturbing, indeed. He would need to be very careful, only revealing what was truly necessary.

Somehow Illidan sensed that in this meeting, his life was going to change. He strongly believed in the currents of time. You followed a current down one tributary or another, and events shaped themselves accordingly. This was a new current that he had never sensed before.

Two months later…

Good friends? No, but neither were they enemies. Illidan had indeed learned much from the travellers. Z’alden, Rift, Tira, Erik, and Barrick were strong warriors. They had travelled together for many years and had formed bonds that Illidan envied. Yet that was also their weakness. Now, at last, they had brought Illidan to the Temple of the Arcane. Here, they promised, the Archmage Calizar would instruct Illidan in the deeper mysteries of the arcane. He yearned for the knowledge. With it, he could finally put an end to his life of excommunication and punish those who had thought so little of him. Yes, the time was fast approaching when all would know the name of Illidan Stormrage, and, love him? Illidan smiled for the first time in many years.

And so he paced. Running his hands over the ancient stones, he whispered, “Test them, bring them down, break them. Only if they are broken can they rise.” The room rumbled, but calling it a room would be a heinous crime. This was a place of creation itself. A place where the forces of life and death swirled in unison, unbridled, unbroken, and in their infinite power. The most powerful man to ever live had built this ancient place, he had harnessed the strength of universe, contained it, and controlled it with his indomitable will. The man in the room now had the strength to control this power, for he had been touched by demons and gods.

The room boomed with the sound of a thousand thunderclaps and the scene before the man shifted. Six heroes stood, each in a realm of trial and test. The Dragonborn was shoulder to shoulder with his armies, preparing to fight giants of fire. The Dwarven hero open his eyes to a dimly lit place, with a cowering humanoid surrounded by dark creatures; wraiths. The Human Ranger stepped back from the cliff’s edge. Turning, he saw a Drow a short distance away, but the Ranger was weaponless; for his swords lay on a pillar a short distance away from him. The Sorcerer stood on rugged terrain. She was surrounded by a whirlwind, and at the edge of the storms eye three Drow surrounded a prisoner menacingly. The half-elf Cleric arose in a field of grass, in pleasant springtime. He stood on one side of a deep chasm, and on the other side stood a beautiful Elf maid, clutching an infant Orc. Each hero acted and moved forward. Holding fast to their beliefs, Dragonborn clashed with fire giants, the dwarf pulled the humanoid from the darkness, Drow were fought with, and an orc was spared. The room warped, bringing the adventurers together.

The man laughed and boomed, “Let them contest with themselves! They will know every weakness and every strength, every advantage and disadvantage. This will be a true challenege.” The six appeared on a burning pyre. Shadowy figures could be seen darting about the hallways, using arcane spells, martial prowess, and divine strength. Slowly, the adventurers began to realize the true danger that they faced, for this was a battle that the scale found even and equal. Ranger clashed with Ranger, Wizard fought Wizard, and adventurers fought themselves. It was only after truly great combat that a victor emerged. Those who were not shades of themselves proved that life is not something easily copied and replicated.

The heroes had completed the trial. Returned to the temple, they reequipped, rested, and prepared for a great battle. As they prepared, they grew silent, each contemplating their destiny, what their future was to bring. They had embarked on quests, saved kingdoms, and fought legendary foes. They sat. They began to recall their many victories, but fell into deeper contemplation as they thought of what was to come.

A silence of three parts filled the temple. Not an ordinary, hushed silence. This was a silence that filled the temple, permeated every nook, every cranny, even the very souls of those who would notice its existence. This first silence could be perceived by those who could hear the quickly beating hearts of the adventurers exploring. It was the quiet rasp of quickened breath, of a whetstone on the axe, and the anticipation of coming battle.

The second silence was a deeper, older silence. It filled every stone. The hieroglyphs on the walls screamed the silence to those who could hear them. The bones of the ancient mage were permeated by it. It was the silence of a place past its days of greatness, falling into the abyss of time. For only few remembered this place’s existence, and many of those few knew of it only in legend and myth.

The third silence was a new silence, not of the temple, but of one who knew it. This silence was one that you could hear if you listened for hours, it was the cracks of the stone floor, the settling dust. The silence of the hands of a great arcanist working to create a new place, to escape a destiny. As he paced you might realize that this temple was his, just as the third silence was. It filled every marking across his back, the sword and staff at his side, and the deep ebony crystal held in his hand. This was the silence of a man who is waiting to die.

“Uncle Torbie, tell us the one about catching the demons from the boat,” little Mira shouted. The other six children jumped up and down, “Yes, yes, that is a great story!”

“It wasn’t a boat, you dolt,” the much too big for his britches Karrick shouted at his sister. “It was a flying ship, the Astral Falcon.” Mira stuck out a tongue purpled from the rare licorice treat that their beloved Uncle had brought.

“But, I wanted to hear about the magic bubbles!” little Arifta shrilled. “There was only one magic bubble, the other was a magic circle that was impenetrable,” the smug face of Karrick nodded wisely looking to his uncle, both for confirmation and for affirmation for having used such a big word.

From the wrinkled face of the old scrivener came forth a long sigh. Torben Eastlander remembered the events just before he had heard this part of the tale of the adventurers from the Nentir Vale. He had made a deal with Verrin the Scum Lord. He could still smell the vomit on the floor, even after all of these years, as he had gone back to the Moonbeam Inn and shaken the dwarven fighter to consciousness and roused the others. He needed more material. The tale of the capture of a demon and the presentation of its head to the ancient living bones of a mighty Archmage still made him smile. It was the most ridiculous of the stories that they had told him up to this point. It had made him rich.

“But, Uncle Torben, you said you would tell the one about the 10,000 dragons that the wizard summoned through time and space to fight the demon horde!” the deep voice of Merik the man child boomed. Torben gentle chided, “Well, they were dragonborn, not dragons, at least according to the Valers, and it wasn’t really 10,000. And, remember, those dragonborn are meant to represent some very tough fighting people, but they don’t have any real relationship to dragons.”

Verrin had taken some of Torben’s best material and stretched and twisted it in so many ways, now folks were thinking that the story was about a wizard summoning dragons! Incredible. Even more incredible was the level of adulation, nigh worship, that his stories were getting from the common folk, or at least the stories the way that Verrin’s cronies had re-written them. Oh well, the pay was good. And, he had to remember that Verrin wanted to be called the Apogee now. Or was it Perigee? No matter. It wouldn’t last.

But, at this moment, he had an audience that was much more demanding, and much more pleasant to appease. They might actually listen to the story, instead of trying to find some life-changing meaning in these flights of fancy that were like the dreams of a chance roll of the dice. How the children loved these stories. They kept coming back and begging for more every time he visited.

“Well, everyone gather round,” the old scrivener intoned. “The story you want begins a little earlier, before the magic bubble was made, before the demon’s head was cut, back on the Isle of their Castle.”

“Remember, the Astral Falcon was badly damaged after the great battle with Illidan Stormrage, the plague of the demon horde, and the destruction the Tower of the Arcane. Two weeks of repairs would be needed before she would be ready for flight again. While the group undertook the repairs back at their castle, in that time, they knew that the horde of demons summoned by Stormrage would begin to ravage the Vale. They knew that, alone, they five could not stop the Horde. They needed an army to hold off the Horde while they went to find Stormrage.”

“The mighty dragons of the Kengi!” Merik shouted. “Led by Prince Felsmon the Flighty,” Mira chimed in, looking for approval from her older brother. “That’s Prince Felsmon the Mighty, you dolt,” Merik retorted, “he could fly, he wasn’t flighty.” The teenager rolled his eyes at his younger sister’s mistake with the impassioned feelings of the wisdom of 16.

Torben did not have the heart to then correct Merik that the flying Felsmon was nothing more than the flights of fancy of some overzealous fishtale-telling adventurers. Though that shield on his back was awfully large the last time the scrivener had seen the Paladin.

“Yes, yes, Merik, Rift made contact with Felsmon and arranged a plan to have him bring the army of the Kengi to just outside Winterhaven through a magic portal that she and Tira would make with the help of the powerful artifact, the Cube. The adventurers had continued to find that the Cube’s powers were almost limitless. With it, Rift had found Felsmon, communicated with him, and arranged a plan to make a powerful magical gate through which the Kengi could march from their homeland into Winterhaven in a matter of seconds, instead of the weeks it would normally take. Rift and Tira would bend space and time itself!”

The children gasped at the thought of such power. Torben remembered how loudly he had laughed when the cleric Z’alden had told him this part of the story. He could still remember staring at the half-elf, waiting for the man to crack a smile as he tried to tell the fantasy with a straight face. But, the cleric had only continued on.

He could still picture the scene in the Moonbeam Inn. Barrick was asleep on the floor after finishing the last barrel of ale. He would have made a good foot rest, if only he didn’t have a habit of swinging his axe when he rolled over. Rift and Tira had wandered off, almost embarrassed as Z’alden had relayed these, some of the most unbelievable parts of the fanciful tale. He remembered how he had leaned in as the cleric made grand gestures and drew him into the story. He could still hear that smooth, earnest voice.

“With the Falcon repaired, we flew like the Great Dragon himself to just outside Winterhaven and began the construction of the great Dimension Door to connect Kengistan directly to the western Vale, just outside of the town of Winterhaven. At that point, we knew much about our foe thanks to Tira’s and Erik’s probings with the Cube. Stormrage was more than a warped and twisted wizard, he was a minor demon prince who was haunted by a quest for power and recognition. Let that be a lesson to us all. Seeking the approval of others, feeling superior to those whose skills are less, believing that it is acceptable to trample upon them, that it is acceptable to reach for the darkest great powers, these thoughts lie on the path of darkness and make one a servant of Chaos. They consume you.” Torben remembered how he had interrupted the little sermon, “ah, good cleric, could you get back to the story part? I’m on a deadline here.”

“Claws! But, of course.” The cleric had settled in at that point, and as he did, the Moonbeam Inn had grown quiet. The patrons had tuned out the sermon, but they too listened intently as the cleric related the electrifying tale of grit and determination in the face of great need.

“Through sheer will, each of my comrades had used the Cube to enhance their already impressive abilities. Barrick had taken it, and channeled it until his arms and legs swelled, and he had the strength of a hundred giants. He lifted huge trees from their roots and started to build the arch that was needed for the Door.” The patrons eyes had widened at the thought of the prone dwarf moving a tree. Torben had suppressed a chuckle. Probably, these were branches in the arms of the dwarf. Small ones. “Erik had also gained this power. Together, they constructed a massive arch of wood, forty staff lengths across.” Sensing his audience, Z’alden paused. “Wide enough to move an army through.”

The cleric continued, “I had helped my friends more readily attune themselves to the Cube. Barrick and Erik gathered even more trees, and in leaps and bounds, notched the wood like it was sticks, and constructed a massive dome around us.”

“Then, the great magic of the ritual started. Rift drew on the artifact, and arcane runes representing space and time danced like fire from her fingertips onto the massive dome. It began to fuse together. Purple tendrils of arcane energy alighted on the dome, then red and blue tendrils intertwined from Tira’s hands and eyes spinning around the dome, fusing the trees. Intricate carvings appeared on the smooth wooden surface, scenes of great battles from the past, runes of power, runes of magic. Rift cried out as visions appeared to her of times when the Cube had been used to alter history: the Cube exploding, destroying an impenetrable Citadel; the Cube, alone on a field with but a figure next to it with hands outstretched, and then, a great Castle raised from nothing in an instant. We learned that the Cube was like a Teacher to us, and we had to struggle to learn its lessons to use it.”

“Use it we did. In a moment of control of the visions, Rift reached out her mind and searched for our foe Stormrage, trying to find the Staff and Sword that were his items of power. She saw only two green lights, then the vision sharpened, as if darkness can be clearer, into a figure made of darkness underground in the old part of the Temple. This figure was in a room with the power to create and destroy. It was in this same room that we had found the door which took us to the Astral Sea, but that is another tale. In this room of power, the figure was blasting with arcane might at one wall. The wall fell, and Rift could no longer see the dark shape. She searched her mind for anything that she might know about such powers, and she recalled an old legend of the Inner Temple. Whether this knowledge was hers, or a gift from the Cube, we never knew.”

“The most powerful Archmages would go to this room, this Inner Sanctum, where magical forces for creation and destruction from every place and plane could be gathered and channeled. The First Archmage, Tassadar, had used the room to create a demi-plane, a place between the planes, to take refuge from the Gods that he greatly hated.”

“As Rift related this to us, Tira took hold of the Cube, swept her hands across it and stretched out the dome. The wood changed to have an amethyst hue, and the entire dome became purple crystalline as the Cube itself glowed so brightly that to look upon it was painful, yet wonderful. I could feel that this dome was no longer in one place. Rift then took up the Cube, and pulled the power from the Dome’s center back into the Cube. She was changing the face of reality itself, warping space and time, as she linked where we stood to be next to where the Kengi army waited! She made a tesseract, like folding two sides of a scroll to be next to each other.”

“Erik knew that having the army of the Kengi here to fight the Horde would do little good if they knew naught of the surrounding lands. Taking up the Cube, he stretched his mind’s eye over the lands surrounding Winterhaven. In an instant, the natural Scout knew every river, every creek, every hillock, every gully. Felsmon’s army would know all that could be known about the terrain, its strategic values and pitfalls, its high ground and its killing fields. The Horde could be routed to slaughter.”

“Then, the amethyst glow flickered. It weakened. Tira had tried to add her powers to open the door between the dimensions and admit the Kengi. Instead, she had locked the door that Rift had started. I held my breath. Barrick’s eyes grew wide. Tira set her jaw in grim determination, as though she had been locked out of a treasure that was rightly hers. Indeed, the treasure was knowledge, and the sorceress would not be denied. We could visibly see the key that formed as she opened this door, and Rift jumped through.”

“In a moment of fancy, Barrick stuck his head through this incredible portal. I think he drinks so much now to forget that infinite nothingness that he would describe with a pale tone. I can only imagine.”

“Having seen the lay of the land, as we waited for Rift to appear with the Kengi, Erik reached out to the Cube. Who is this Stormrage? Why does he thirst for power so? A sequence of visions appeared to the Ranger. He saw a toddler, levitating under his own power. Then, a child, an arcane prodigy, with even greater power, but a ravenous hunger for more. And, the ranger could sense the ache for approval from his masters, how the child wants to show them that the limits they have set are not limits for him. They are wrong. Illidan has no limits.”

“Erik sees through Stormrage’s soul as he watches him seeking his Sword and Staff, drawing on dark forces that darken the young mage as well. He seeks control and power. Nothing can stop him, he believes. He longs to be greater than the first Archmage. To control a demon Prince. He will prove to everyone that he is the greatest. But, he is not yet evil. The Ranger has visions of the weakness of Illidan. The young mage begins to know fear. Fear of his own power and its connections.”

“Even as she begins her walk across time and space, Rift is distracted by Erik’s visions. The Cube connects us all. She cannot resist the quest that the Ranger has started. What is Illidan connected to? A scene forms in the mind’s eye of the wizard. It may be a costly one, as she is adrift in nothingness, somewhere between here and there, between now and then. It is a then she sees. A vision of Illidan at middle age. Power courses through the mage. His powers are only just shy of the Archmage. He has broken long held rules and gone deep into the Old Temple. He is in an empty room. Rift recalls it from our own adventures. Illidan summons the Sword and Staff from beyond. Lightning crackles. Rift beholds Illidan at twice the age, but he has not a new wrinkle across his brow. He stands in the same ancient forbidden room of the Old Temple. Ritual circles within circles surround him. The magical energy crackles and shrieks. Rift can hear a voice a shouting with a sound like coal shoveled into a fire. ‘I am Jarraxus, Demon Prince of Erador, Lord of the Burning Legions’. The Demon looks willing to help the mage. Time shifts again. Rift sees Illidan communing with this Demon Lord. Dark Power radiates from Illidan. He has surpassed the Archmage. But, still he longs for those things that he has ached for since childhood. To be acknowledged, to be hailed, to be recognized that he can do more than tradition ever dreamed possible. That he can dream and create anything he desires.”

“Distracted, Rift’s attention on the Dimension Door had weakened. Barrick takes up the challenge. Channeling the great halls of his ancestors into the Cube, he buttresses the door, turning it to unbreakable stone pillars. My heart stops. The now stone arch is missing the lintel. The dwarf does not falter. Out of nothing, he makes a massive lintel and throws it to the top of the huge pillars. The true door is complete. Erik can see through the door to a portal forming on the fields of Kengistan, but it wavers. Tira attempts to strengthen it, but it falters still. I call upon Bahamut to guide our quest here, my prayers are answered. The amethyst lights grow brighter. The stones resound with a final lock into place. Erik becomes the Great Guide and forms the purple light into a short tunnel between the two lands. Rift can see into all places and all times. She calls to Felsmon. Seven thousand Kengi warriors travel through the door in a matter of seconds. We have done it. The Kengi have arrived. The Vale will be saved!”

Torben still remembers the cheers that erupted in the Moonbeam Inn as the cleric finished his tale. But, this was not the end of the story. Far from it. The adventurers had climbed into the Astral Falcon, teaching their old mentor Valthrun how to pilot it, Z’alden had later related to him. This would be of use when they left the ship. They still had a Demon Mage Illidan Stormrage to find and defeat. A Demon Mage who seemed to have gotten access to some of the greatest magic of the greatest Archmage, Tassadar, while they had been constructing the Dimension Door. Attend to one fire, and another advances. There are only so many resources.

“Uncle Torbie, uncle Torbie, you haven’t gotten to the good part where Barrick goes Trawling for demons!” little Mira huffed impatiently. Merrick cuffed her ears. “That was the good part you dolt. The creation of a door between Winterhaven and Kengistan to move 10,000 dragons through. What is catching a demon while suspended from a flying ship compared to that?”
Karrick huffed at his sister,”and, it wasn’t just your beloved hero Barrick. The cleric Z’alden was there, too. He used his magical dragon claws of light to stun the demons and then Barrick could easily grab one.” “The dwarf stunned them, too!” little Arifta shouted shrilly, “Uncle Torbie, tell them!”

The old scrivener motioned for them to calm down. Reluctantly, they obeyed, more under the spell of his stories than out of any sense of duty to listen. “Maybe the best thing to do is to wait until the morrow to talk of this anymore.” “NO!” they all shouted, agreeing for the first time all evening. “Well, then, a moment’s peace.”

“Indeed, you are both right. Barrick and Z’alden hung on the end of a long rope, as Erik sailed the Astral Falcon back to the ruins of the Temple of the Arcane. While thousands of demons roamed the vicinity, only a few were on a patrol near the Temple. It was this patrol that the adventurers targeted. As the ranger deftly piloted the Falcon close to the demons, sapphire dragon claws of light exploded from the cleric, ripping into the demons and rendering them senseless. He sent Radiant light erupting from his mace, searing the demons, and pushing away all but their one prey. The powerful arms of the dwarf encircled this one demon, grabbing him and lifting him up. For good measure, Barrick whacked the demon upside the head, ringing his bell further to subdue him."

“From the Falcon, spells flew at the demons. Tira dropped enchanted balls of green acid, sizzling onto the demons below, while the cleric’s god took form in silver flames of power that singed the monsters. With Erik’s steady flying, the mighty dwarf could wield his axe against his captive, all while holding onto the rope with his feet! A feat of derring-do, indeed! Then, a bold plan emerged. With their prey stunned, Erik shouted to Barrick to drop him. Barrick was incredulous. No, really, the ranger cried out. Then, like a leaf dropping from the sky, Erik deftly steered the ship to land on top of the demon, pinning it between the keel and the ground. Tira jumped off of the ship, twirled her dagger, and unleashed the powers of chaos on this spawn of chaos. It had not long upon this plane. Searing white radiant light rained down upon the helpless demon, as Z’alden called upon the powers of Bahamut again. Then, Barrick aimed his axe with great precision, and in one chop, the demon’s body remained beneath the ship, while the head flew in the air, to land in Z’alden’s waiting bag. And that is how the sport of axcrosse was started.” Even the taciturn Merik smiled at that.

Before Arifta could protest, the scrivener held up his end. “But, let us not forget what happened next.” He motioned to her. “Unleash the Abyssal!” she shouted in her deepest voice, something between a squeak and a croak. The children’s eyes got wide. Could some of them really have forgotten what happens next?

The scrivener continued.
“A monstrously large demon swirling with a body of fire descended from the sky. Rift smirked and pulled out the Cube to as she ordered it to return forthwith to its place of origin, or to the next convenient parallel dimension. But, the wizard heard a sound like an ancient gear grinding to a halt, and nothing happened.”

“It’s not my fault!” the wizard cried out, “something ancient is interfering with even the Cube’s power. I can’t use it for much of anything. And, that thing is coming towards us. This is a distraction to keep us from Stormrage. This is not a fight we need. I need a way to keep it at bay. Wait!”

“The wizard opened her spellbook. The ritual of the Magic Circle. I can stop that thing from getting next to us with a Magic Circle. Then, the Ranger said, if we ram the wall, we can make a breach and the encircled ship will plug the hole. We get into the castle, while it is stuck outside. Erik flew the Falcon up above the Temple ruins, well out of reach of the Fiery Demon’s powers while Rift prepared the ritual. Tense moments ensued. Would the wizard’s Circle really have the strength to stop a monstrosity seven staff lengths high, with arms of fire larger than oxen and legs of flame bigger than ancient trees? The Ranger flew the ship low and behind the Temple, then quickly rammed into a fallen tower. Rift raised the Circle. All of the group lent their knowledge and power to Rift as she completed the ritual. A shimmering protective sphere enveloped the ship. Bam! the castle wall was breached, and the ship was knocked as the Fiery Demon pounded on the power of the Circle. But, he could not penetrate it. The adventurers hopped off and into the tunnel they had pierced. The floor could not support them, and they fell, deep into the Lower temple.”

The scrivener paused briefly, reveling in the moment. No brother was pinching a sister. No child was crying. They were spellbound. Maybe this is what magic really is.

“Yes, their daring plans had worked out. And, they had the head of a demon that the skeleton encountered so long ago had demanded before he would give them the Key to the Depths Below. The key that they believed that they needed to reach Stormrage. As luck would have it, after some searching, they found the tunnel that led to that very same skeleton."
‘The prodigal heroes return’ was his boney greeting to the group.
“The cleric was torn. Conversing with undead? Then, he stammered out an epiphany. ‘Tassadar? Are you the Archmage?’ As if awakening from a long sleep, the thing replied, ‘that is a name I have not heard in many an age.’ The cleric presented the skeleton with the demon head. I can tell you I can still see Z’alden’s look, somewhere between puzzlement and anger, as the skeleton that was Tassadar simply tossed it aside. Merely a test of power, you see. He didn’t care about the head. The issue was whether they could get one. Were these heroes worth the bother? Sometimes the objective is not the objective. Good to keep in mind.”
Torben was almost sounding like the cleric himself. This sermonizing was contagious when he reflected on that darn cleric. A child pinched another. He was losing them. Or, they were getting hungry. He didn’t want them to miss what happened next.

“They had come for the key, remember. Tassadar pulled out an obsidian sphere. ‘This is not the key to the depths below. The depths have been unlocked.’ Rift stared at the sphere, then said, ‘but, could it be used to unlock a realm beyond this one?’ Somewhere in that bony face, Z’alden was sure he saw a grin as the skeleton replied, ‘Yes.’ Rift pressed further, ‘a demi-plane?’ ‘Yes, in the depths, you will find my inner sanctum. If it is still there, you will use this key to access it. Be warned, below is a great sorcerer and great evil.’ The ranger pressed him now, ‘Can Illidan be redeemed?’ ‘Redemption is a state of mind,’ was the only answer he received. ‘What about the Sword and the Staff, can they be used for good?’ ‘Weapons can be used for either,’ the bones replied. The cleric had a question, too, one that might haunt him for some time, ‘what can we do to help you?’. Tassadar raised his skeletal eyes to pierce those of the cleric, ’Bring me to the gods, to my inner sanctum.’ Z’alden lifted up the skeleton, and placed it on his back. ‘We must help this one find peace.’”

“Then, the adventurers began to move down the tunnel. Suddenly,..”

“Children, Torben, the roast Umber Hulk is ready!” their mother yelled. “Gross!” Arifta barely muffled. “Ahhh, we wanted to hear more of the story,” the others whined in unison.
“Come on in, or it will get cold!” their mother reprimanded.

Torben suppressed a snicker. Eating cold roast umber hulk would be the least of his concerns tonight if he didn’t get his latest draft to the Committee of Five.

“The Thunderspire Ordinators did their job again; it will probably be a while before that gang of dwarfs known as the Crypts bothers anyone on the King’s road again.”
“And now to Armando with the weather.”

“Thank you. Yesterday the sun shouted out a burst of light, quietly contemplated it for 12 hours, and then retracted its statement. The forecast for today: Bright and sunny with an 80% chance that I am wrong. Back to you!”

“This just in. Something spectacular has happened near, or shall I say, over Winterhaven. Let’s have a live chat through the Arcane Gate with our on-site correspondent, Enna. Enna, are you there?”

“Yes Sosario, I am here. I hope you can see this through the gate.” Enna points upward. “Not more than 2 minutes ago, that ship, a pirate ship it appears to be, what with the blood red skull on the flag. That ship just magically appeared in the air. The ship is now turning and starting to move, it is moving quickly, toward the East. Hmm, you probably cannot see this, but over on the horizon there is a strange dark cloud, unlike any I have seen before. Sosario, can you send Armando over to check it out?”

“Certainly Enna, thank you for that update. More on the mysterious ship as information arrives.”
“We are currently transporting Armando over to the dark cloud, Enna you should be receiving a report any second now. Armando?”

Armando appears, but behind and all around him is very very dark, with streaks of dark red. Enna asks, “Armando, what is the weather like there?”
Armando frowns, “I don’t know, I’ll tell you when it clears. Let me try to move outside of this strange ominous feeling cloud.” The image of Armando wavers, and then settles back in. Armando is standing in a field, the dark cloud visible behind him. Armando points to the sky, “Look, that pirate ship that appeared over Winterhaven is approaching. It appears to be flying right at the storm. Yes, yes, it is entering the storm. Ooh, it is getting tossed around some; clearly whatever is controlling it is having difficulty with the storm. And now it has moved too far into the storm, I cannot see it anymore at all.”

Enna interrupts, “Can you use your scope to see closer? Can you see if anyone is on board the ship?”

“Of course!” exclaims Armando, “My scope!” He bends down out of view, and then stands back up with what appears to be a solid silver rod. But he puts one eye to one end and holds it like a person would a sighting glass. “There are five people on board, including two females and a dwarf. Whoa, a bubble just surrounded the ship, like a shield. Are they expecting conflict?”

Enna chimes in again, “Have a look around through the storm. See if you can see what is causing it, or what it is made of.”

“Of course!” exclaims Armando. “I see meteors, lots of them. No, wait, those are not normal meteors. Holy mother of …” Armando stops himself as he remembers he is being broadcast live. “Those meteors are demons, maybe the Dread Infernal demons if I am remembering correctly. Oh gods, demons are attacking! Ok, ok, not to panic yet, they do not seem to be leaving the storm area.” He pans the magical spyrod around. “Ah, I see it! In the middle of the storm there is a tall stone tower, and at the top of the tower is a man, a wizard of some sort, waving a crystal staff. He seems to be creating, or at least controlling the storm. Ahhh!” Armando drops the spyrod and jumps back.

“What, what is it?” Enna calls. “Armando, are you all right?”

Armando looks embarrassed as he picks the spyrod up off the ground. “Yes, I am fine. The wizard shot a couple lightning bolts from his staff and with my scope it appeared to be coming straight at me. I guess I panicked a little.” He puts the scope back to his eye. “It appears the ship was the target and that it was hit. Ooh, one of the females did something to boost the shield back to its original strength, very interesting. I understand why the shield was created. It appears our friends on the ship knew what they were getting in to.” He gasps again, ‘Oh my, a meteor just hit the ship. I don’t know how they are going to survive the storm and the wizard. Hmm, the dwarf made some repairs of some sort, but even so, I think they are doomed; what can one small ship do against such massive power?”

“Armando,” Enna asks, “Do you think the areas outside the storm, away from the tower are in any danger?”

“I do not think the wizard can do anything outside of the storm, but if all these demons that are falling join together in an army, then yes, we could all be in very grave danger.”

A worried look crosses Enna’s face, and then she composes herself. “Please continue to tell us what is going on.”

Armando resumes using the spyrod. “The ship has a ballista on it and they are firing it at the tower.”

“You mean at the wizard?” Enna questions.

“No, at the tower itself, near the bottom. I think they might be trying to topple the entire thing. Yes, there go another couple ballista shots, also toward the tower. Ooh, the wizard just shot a large green fireball, blasting the ship and really weakening that shield thing. There goes another fireball, wow that was close, but it missed. A redhead girl is firing the ballista. What the?” Armando stifles a laugh. “The missile just fell off the ship, what was she thinking?” He quickly turns serious again, “Oh no, the shield was just destroyed. Get out of there! What, they are not fleeing, they are moving in closer?! Oh, they have the shield back up. No, it is down! Whew!, it is up again. And back down. And up yet again. My this is exhausting, even from here, I cannot imagine what our friends up there are going through.”

“Can they survive?” Enna asks anxiously.

“I have no idea.” He replies. Armando’s eyes widen and his mouth drops agape. “I don’t believe it, they are ramming the tower. Oh my gods, they survived and actually backed out of the hole. But the tower did not fall!” The tone of Armando’s voice goes up and he starts to pant somewhat. “Now they are casting spells, firing the ballista, and it looks like they are going to ram again! I can’t watch!”

“Armando!” Enna yells, “Please, we have to know what is happening. The fate of the Vale could depend on this!”

“Ok, ok. The tower! It is tilting! It is falling! Curse that evil wizard, I hope he is crushed. No! It cannot be! The wizard just flew away. I cannot see where he went, but the tower is down and the ship is still flying, albeit slowly.”

“Are we safe?”

“Hold on. Gods no! As I feared, a demon army is marching this way. I do not know how much time we have until they get here. I cannot see anything else at the moment. I am returning to Winterhaven to prepare. This is Armando, signing off and wishing you all good luck!”

Enna let out a breath she was not aware she was holding in. “There you have it folks. Breaking news, only from your favourite Nentir News source, K-SPLUG. We will update you on the demon scourge as soon as we know more.”

Journal entry…

The Blood Lord summoned me and I did my usual groveling. It was only my peculiar talent that kept me from being a victim of his murderous tantrums. They were quite spectacular. Heads would be torn from healthy bodies and if the heart did not still beat sufficiently to squirt blood from the victim’s neck into his mouth, then the body would be squeezed so as to create a fountain, of sorts. One would think he would grow tired of this trick.

Yes, summoned for my skill of sight. Funny how I now look backwards, toward a time when things were different. For me. Wretched joy. That warm sunlight now burns my memories. I have a secret that no one must know. Those memories live and I cannot banish them, though I have tried all these years and years. Years. I have lost track of time. What is time? I received my immortality. My punishment. My greatest feat. My madness.

Yes, yes. The Lord of Undeath had sent for me but I could only stand so close, with exarches forming a barrier between. Blades stood at the ready should my supplications not be convincing enough. He directed me, the blades drew ever closer, and I began to train my thoughts. Into my trance I descended, quite real, but eyes rolled back for effect.

“Pluton… Illidan Stormrage… Five Heros…”

I suppressed my deepest, secret feelings, for my lord had suspicions. Of all. Of everything. Seers watching the seer. Assassins killing the assassin. Surely amongst his minions there was another like me. Less talented. Fools. I continued my chant:

“The Five… Soul Stone… Curses!”

I relayed to my lord the actions of the five. How they had descended to the core of Pluton, overcoming despair, overcoming the presence of evil, and even initially chasing away the Aspect of Malthal, Reaper of Souls. Now they stood near the very heart of Pluton, atop four small pillars that surrounded the central pillar upon which the Soul Stone rested, embraced in mighty obsidian arms. High above them pointed crystalline spikes, which decorated the ceiling. Below them, nothing but a bottomless abyss.

“Cube of Twin Virtues!”

My pupils were pointed toward the underside of my brow, but I did not need to see the Blood Lord’s reaction, for his mind let out a horrific roar. Pure rage. The emanations of his anger filled the chamber and energized the exarches. Their blades inching a bit closer to me. Murderous anger. Kill the messenger. Kill anything.

I paused my chant so as to let matters cool, in this very, very heated place. Then I began to paint the picture. The sorceress had split herself into four avatars of chaos. One stood beneath the Soul Stone and within her hands she held the Cube of Twin Virtues. It was of two colors. Red for elemental chaos. Blue for the elemental astral sea. I took absolutely wonderful delight in knowing that use of the cube could lead one to go insane. Poor, poor sorceress. Delightful. Wonderful. Marvelous. Madness, my friend. Join with. Still, the cube, held in her hands, was suppressing the Soul Stone’s abyssal chaotic energy. I could feel my lord’s escalating malevolence.

“I will deal a special torment upon this one! Fiery red hair indeed!”, boomed the Blood Lord. He was never wrong about these kinds of things.

My chant continued. The cube and stone fought each other, shooting twisty tendrils of red and blue intertwining in a fiery death grip. The sorceress did what she could to manipulate and guide the cube, while the Soul Stone fought with ruthless will.

Meanwhile the rest of the five did battle with the Aspect of Malthal, Reaper of Souls. The dwarf jumped upon its back and with a mighty blow rendered the Aspect’s hands weak. The mighty scythe did fall from its clutches and the perch, tumbling endlessly into the void below. As I relayed this, my lord let out a terrible shriek that blew past the exarches, their blades and me. Reverberations of his anger echoed throughout.

“There will be a most magnificently heinous demise for that little one!”, boomed the Blood Lord. He was never wrong about these kinds of things.

These pronouncements seemed make my lord somewhat calmer, so I softly supported with, “My lord, yes, yes, most magnificently heinous my lord.”

Exorcised of his steel, the Reaper drew two more scythes from under his cloak. Yet the cleric had already laid down his hallowed ground, protecting his friends. With this news, a hint of anxiety from my master, perchance? The two scythes then came down upon the dwaf, rendering him slowed and grievously wounded, if he were but a normal dwarf. Still he fought on, with the wizard casting a most impressive spell, one in which I had mastered so long ago, when I was still able to turn up a corner of my lips in a suppressed grin. The mirror sphere confused the reaper, causing it to do harm to itself. Then the young wizard’s mind put forth a mighty, icy grasp upon the Aspect. The Blood Lord’s hoof pounded upon the floor. Nothing was subtle.

“That one, that one shall feel my touch of death as I grasp her puny body and pluck out her ribs one by one!”, growled my prince. He was never wrong when it came to execution on the details.

My vision continued and I relayed a blow by blow account of the action. The cleric had been wounded badly, but healed himself. The dwarf grew weaker and weaker, eventually falling unconscious, which was fortunate for me as it allowed the exarches to relax and withdraw their blades from my head just a little bit. Jesters. Fools. Glory to the cursed. The cleric was then dominated. Marvelous. Wonderful. Welcome to a bit of madness, my dear cleric. The anger of my halo of blades decreased. The prince loved the news, stomping his hoof with delight, if that was possible.

I then described how the dominated cleric was made to dutifully walk off the edge – not a hint of concern upon his face for his fate. Falling. Falling. Now unconscious. Sweet dreams not hinting of impending end. Wretched wizard did cast a spell to slow the fall. Wretched wizard is most impressive, casting a magical gate through which the cleric could fall and reappear upon the platform with the measly human ranger waiting with healing elixirs. Curses. Wonderful. Marvelous.

With the cleric now awake and rejoining the fray, the heroes grew stronger in their spirits. And stronger still as the dwarf finger regained his senses, surely like so many times before. The cube and the stone continued their never ending struggle for supremacy. The balance only temporarily lost to one side or the other. Chaos, my prince’s love, was not always to his liking, for this kind of disorder was not the right kind.

Balance too did move from side to side with the heroes and the reaper, for the soul stone’s tendrils did touch the creature and turned its armor to glowing red. The ranger stood flat on his feet. Dominated. Marvelous. My prince must be a little less angry now, but only little, for there is no blood, no pain, no torture just yet. Hope springs eternal. Still, the ranger’s twin arrows did fly straight – straight into his surprised cleric. Fabulous. Marvelous is domination, for you, not me, that is. Share the madness. Mine and yours. Don’t be selfish.

Changing the course of the battle once again, the dwarf’s axe came down upon the reaper so hard that I contend that I could more than see it. I left this part out for my lord. But with word that the wizard was now using the cube to inhibit the soul sone, my prince’s rage was once again nearing deafening roar. One never got used to it. The sorceresses chaos storm removed the red from the reaper’s armor and the ranger became free of the domination. Poor madness. Loyal companion. Gone from the ranger.

To my astonishment the cleric then performed a trick worthy of praise. With a casual motion of his hand, the Aspect of Malthal, Reaper of Souls, was simply dismissed. Gone. Sent. Somewhere. Another plane. Another reality. Anywhere but here. The Blood Lord was displeased…

“This one. This one of the dragon. I shall deliver a special message to their god through them. This one shall yearn for the mercy of death, but it shall never come. They shall know torment everlasting!” He was never one to be wrong on such matters.

While the reaper was gone, the heroes quickly formed around the anticipated return location. The ranger stowed his bow and readied his two swords. The dwarven fighter raised his axe. The cleric braced. The wizard and sorceress plied their magics upon the Cube of Twin Virtues.

Yet still, the soul stone had an answer. A wave of black energy blasted outward from it, destroying the sorceress’ illusory minions and attacking the hero’s minds, weakening them emotionally, inching them closer to madness, to hopelessness and utter despair. Splendid. Delightful. Cloudy thoughts of gloom. Madness, my savior from the truth.

Upon the reaper’s return, the hero’s blows struck with devastation. It’s fate was now all too obvious. It’s existence was now on the verge of finality. Anger. Sadness. Did it ponder, even for an instant, the road not taken? No more shall its scythes reap. No more glory for the new Pluton. No more pride in souls reaped. Never again to reap. True sadness in ending. Marvelous is the end. Lucky is he, not me.

With a final, tremendous burst of energy, the Reaper of Souls, Aspect of Malthal, slashed out with its twin scythes. Energized by the edge of death, upon which their wielder now stood, the blades cut deeply into the dwarf. The dwarf tottered and began to slump. “Join me in death”, the reaper whispered.

The cleric would have none of this. No death on his watch lest it be his foes. With that his own anger leapt forward in a divine reprisal, healing the fighter and basking him in the warm protection of Bahamut. The reaper was at its end. The sorceress’ tempest surge leapt from her ring finger with the mightiest possible blow, enveloping it within the center of the chaotic energies. The cleric’s blow soon followed, rendering the reaper stunned. How could this be happening? It fell backwards off the pillar, scythes slicing only through the air in their last attempt to reap. Falling. Falling…

The ranger then leapt off of the pillar after the reaper. Crazy madness. Glorious. Fabulous. Blades leading, he dived head first and accelerated though force of will in this strange place, the astral plane. Blades plunging into the reaper, the ranger now tangled with the reaper.

“I shall pierce this one’s eyes with my claws and wiggle my fingers around until his brain oozes out. Then I will have him healed and do it again. Over and over again. He shall know my wrath!”, shouted the Blood Lord. He is never wrong on such things and has an uncanny knack for recalling and reviving his original anger.

The fighter recovered, thanks to his cursed cleric, and joined the ranger in the melee. Aided by the controllable gravity of the astral plane, he soon caught up to the falling reaper and ranger. They tumbled downward. Spinning. Whirling. Fighting. Frenzy. The ranger and fighter continued their assault, dealing continued damage upon the doomed reaper. Like a meteor’s unalterable course, they fell toward destiny. The ranger hit. The fighter hit. The wounds bled. The reaper was no more.

On top of the pillars, the wizard and sorceress continued their efforts to control the cube and defeat the soul stone. Micro-cracks began to form on the stone. The two magicians wielding the power of the gods were too much for the soul stone. The cracks grew larger as the wizard’s force of will via the Cube of Twin Virtues was too great for the soul stone to repel. What power! I once yearned for such power. I passed through the void, to the other side. No longer the master. Still the master. I have a secret. Hope.

Clasping the Cube of Twin Virtues, the young sorceress did try to attune. Yet the surrounding maelstrom was too much, perhaps, for she repeatedly failed to gain sufficient mastery. Had she only been under my tutelage. Yes. That would have been marvelous. Wonderful. But it would have ended badly, no doubt. Perhaps the young wizard? No, never. Neither. Never. It would have been splendid. Yes. Ah, what happened then? The sorceress was able to somehow aid the cube as a beam of energy leapt from the cube, through the black soul stone, crushing its black light and striking the ceiling of that innermost chamber of Pluton. The dark red energy of Pluton’s walls did start to recede. Another ending was coming.

With the godly cube raised above her head, the wizard summoned her greatest triumph yet. In a moment, indescribable energy poured forth from the cube and its light disintegrated the soul stone. The cube’s energy filled the chamber, casting its powers upon that inner sanctum of Pluton. The plague upon Pluton was dissipating. In that realm, there was an ending of the sadness, the gloom and despair, the death and madness. I yearn for such an end.

With words of such tidings, the Blood Lord grew still. The chamber was deathly quiet. I continued in a softer voice, for I now saw an old man appear before the heroes. He was dressed plainly, with no adornments except for golden canaries that gently fluttered about him. My prince listened intently and I thought that these may be my last words. Oh how I wish they had been.

The old man had the heroes gather before him and hallowed ground spread all around him. He spoke:

“Heroes, you have defeated the prime evil, the demon lords are now lesser. Ancient power was within the soul stone and its power is now forever weakened. Perhaps this was destiny. In the land from which you came, your foe is commanded by the demon lords. Take heed, but now, for this act of judgement and justice, you shall be rewarded.”

Golden light then enveloped the heroes. Their amulets shined brighter. After a pause, the old man continued:

“Now you already possess the ability to return to your realm.”

The cleric then bowed and motioned to be given an audience. The old man nodded. The cleric asked, “My lord, how may we better serve? How may we use the cube for greater good?” The old man replied, “Ah, you wish to have greater mastery of the cube. True mastery is only possible with the presence of all the gods. Perhaps one day you shall know more.” The cleric bravely continued, “My lord, I have an amulet with two faces – Bahamut and Tiamat. I am of two minds.” The old man stopped him there with a knowing smile, “Young cleric, Tiamat and Bahamut are but one. Perhaps one day you shall know more.” He then motioned for the heroes to gather around and they each touched him on the shoulders.

For a moment I lost the vision, but quickly regained focus on the incredibly powerful event. The old man, the cleric, wizard, sorceress, fighter and ranger were now upon their astral ship. With echoing words, the old man spoke, “Now my heroes, I must depart. Fight for justice. Fight for justice…” The old man visage briefly shimmered to that of a gold dragon and he was gone.

The Blood Lord was still here. He sat in silence. Then came the explosion.

“Names! I want names! They shall all suffer for their deeds against me.”

With that, his rage hit its zenith. Wave upon increasing wave of anger emanated from his essence and like shock waves blasted all within eyesight and perhaps beyond. The entire plane trembled. The exarches were thrown to the ground, and so was I. I crawled to make my escape. I could sense bodies being smashed behind me, indiscriminately targeted in the Blood Lord’s supreme rage. Glorious. Marvelous. Terrible. I exist.

And so too did my secret, for I harbor feelings that I have tried to banish. There is goodness in me. I secretly cheered for the heroes. I cannot explain it nor suppress it. I cannot deny it. I hate it. I fear that one day it will get the better of me. I thought I had murdered these feelings so long ago. I am weak, despite all my powers. I attained greatness and everlasting living death, but this simple thing I cannot conquer. I must go out and kill something now to make myself feel better. Yes, there is one particular exarch that I despise more than the others. He will die. Tonight.

Overture

Oh come, all ye Valers
Irate and despondent
Oh come, ye, oh come ye
To Plu – u – uton
Come and behold him
Aspect of the Reaper
Oh come, let us attack him
Oh come, let us attack him
Oh come, let us attack him
Reaper of Souls

(The five adventurers are in a strange realm, following a passage and experimenting with a magical cube they have carried for some time.)

We Five Beings

We five beings, adventurers are
Bearing arms, we traverse afar
Spheres of evil
Caves of the devil
Following signs of war
Uh-oh
Cube of wonder, cube of sight
Cube of power and of might
Downward leading, still proceeding
Guide us to thy perfect fight

(They come to a cavern with four divergent paths marked by symbols.)

The Four Paths of Pluton

On the first path of Pluton
A symbol turned my head -
A lion on a field of red

On the second path of Pluton
A symbol turned my head -
Two crescent moons
And a lion on a field of red

On the third path of Pluton
A symbol turned my head -
Three colors on a dragon
Two crescent moons
And a lion on a field of red

On the fourth path of Pluton
A symbol turned my head -
Four crossed swords
Three colors on a dragon
Two crescent moons
And a lion on a field of red

(The travelers take the path under the crossed swords, a symbol of the Eladrin. Rift uses the cube to see through the door at the end of the passage.)

Do You See What I See

Said the Eladrin to the Half-elf
Do you see what I see
Through that door, little half-elf
Do you see what I see
A chest, a chest
And a bowl therein
Surrounded by coffins
Surrounded by coffins

(The adventurers enter the room, open the chest, and pick up the bowl. Suddenly the coffins open, spewing fire and skeletons.)

Skeletons Flaming With an Open Fire

Skeletons flaming with an open fire
Sharp claws nipping at your skin
Potent fire blasts being shot by their Lord
And blows directed at your chin
Everybody knows a firefight and some sorcery
Help to make a dangerous fight
Tiny skulls with their eyes all aglow
Will make it hard to survive tonight

(The fight begins immediately.)

Swinging Swords

Slashing through the fight
Through bones and flesh and hair
Anything in sight
He doesn’t really care
Both hands swinging free
Grinning all the way
Oh what fun it is to see
Erik in a melee

Swinging swords, swinging swords,
Swinging all the way
Oh what fun it is to see
Erik swing away
Swinging swords, swinging swords,
Swinging all the way
Oh what fun it is to see
Erik in a melee

(The five flaming skeletons and two floating skulls are nearly too much for the party.)

Good Cleric Z’alden

Good cleric Z’alden looked out
On the field of battle
Where the hurt lay round about
Like some butchered cattle
Brightly shone his mace that night
Healing Rift and Erik
Even healing him himself
And striking hard like Barrick

(The adventurers gain the upper hand.)

Deck the Halls

Deck the halls with bones of fire
Fa la la la la, la la la la
Tis a reason to aim higher
Fa la la la la, la la la la
Take we now our platinum and gold
Fa la la, la la la, la la la
Let’s go on, ere we grow old
Fa la la la la, la la la la

(Victorious, the group continues, but sees a vision.)

Look! A Vision in my Head!

Look! A vision in my head
Golden hall, but dark and dead
Crystal, red and black, in sight
And two beings, in a fight
Arathis and Narul by name
But Narul gets all the blame
“Death is my domain” says he
As he slams his scythe with glee
The soul of Arathis he cleaves
But Narul relents and leaves
Arathis is left alone
Unable to take the soulstone

(The group knows nothing of the soulstone, but is drawn down the corridor to a square room, with four pillars and four walkways leading to the middle, where the soulstone itself rests,)

Tira the Sorceress

Tira the Sorceress
Was anything but dull
With the feat of flight
And a spider’s might
Her bag of tricks was full

Tira the Sorceress
Was a cunning, clever witch
She could open a door
Or call minions four
With a simple nasal twitch

Tira the Sorceress
Knew the stone was guarded some
But she turned aghast
When a deadly blast
Blew her spider to kingdom come

Tira the Sorceress
Was as brave as she could be
When the Reaper appeared
For her life she feared
Just the same as you and me

(The party now faces the Aspect of the Reaper of Souls, whom they had defeated once, but not definitively.)

I’m Dreaming of a Great Victory

I’m dreaming of a great victory
Just like the one we had last time
With some blows from Barrick
And some arrows from Erik
It will surely be sublime

I’m dreaming of a great victory
With every potion I drink
This guy is strong
And the fight lasts long
But we will win, I think

I’m dreaming of a great victory
Though I think we need a plan
I’ve lost my might
I can hardly fight
I hope the others can

I’m dreaming of a great victory
With every ragged, shallow breath
I need to be healed
And then concealed
Cause I think I’m close to death

Verrin the Scum Lord turned away from the stained windowpane. The sun, setting behind him, cast his shadow over the room, dwarfing the figure huddled before him. Torben Eastlander was not one to grovel, but in this case, he thought it best to err on the side of meekness.

“My Lord…” he began.

Verrin scowled at him. “It is ‘Lord Scum’, fool!” Verrin raised his fist as if to strike the wretched scribe.

Torben flinched under the upraised fist. Wringing his hands together, he pleaded, “Oh mighty Lord Scum, lord of all that is villainous and scummy.”

Verrin lowered his fist, looking pleased. “Yes, what is it? Go on!”

The scribe stammered for a moment, then continued. “Lord Verrin, you will recall that I just published my latest volume of stories, The Nameless Horror: Denizens of the Nentir Vale, Volume 4. Did you get my autographed copy?”

Verrin stared around the room, seemingly bored by the conversation. “Yes, yes, I vaguely recall seeing a copy of that tome lying around. Full of lies and rubbish was it not? Don’t know whether I ever got around to opening it.”

Seeing Verrin glance over at the corner of the room, Torben stared. There, sitting on a small table, he could see a dog-eared copy of The Nameless Horror. It was lying open, with a mug of black ale beside it. Torben quickly looked down at his shackled feet. Who was the fool now, he thought to himself? He had the old scumbag wrapped around his finger, even if his hands were tied.

“We could make a deal…” began Torben.

“A deal? Are you in a position to bargain, then?” The Scum Lord scoffed. “How do you think I build this magnificent palace?” Verrin waved his arms around, gesturing at the decaying furniture, the mold-riddled tapestries, the chipped and cracked walls. “By making bargains with common criminals who cannot pay back their overdue loans? I think not!”

Torben suppressed a snicker. “My Lord. You do possess a fine, er, palace, here in the catacombs. But even one as rich as you must admit that getting paid later is better than no pay at all, yes?”

The Lord of Scum stared at the scribe, rubbing his pockmarked face thoughtfully. “What kind of deal did you have in mind?”

“A book deal,” answered Torben. He could see the excitement flare up in Verrin’s eyes, then quickly die down. Torben quickly continued. “You would be the first to read the next volume in the series. A share in the profits. In return, you would erase my debts and remove the bounty from my head.” Torben saw Verrin begin to hesitate. “Just think, you would know before anyone else, what happens to Tira, Z’alden,…”

Before Torben could finish, Verrin jumped in, “…Barrick, Rift, Erik, yes!” Verrin smoothed his stained and tattered cloak, brushing off the remains of a past meal. “Hmmm. An interesting idea. I suppose it might be worth sparing a few moments.”

Verrin snapped his fingers. “Guards, leave us! I have important business to discuss with this wretch.” The four humanoids who had escorted Torben up from the dungeon gave a series of high-pitched hyena laughs and stomped out of the room. Torben shuddered as the foul stench of wet dog slowly subsided. The wooden door creaked shut behind them.

Verrin leaned forward, his eyes boring into his captive, all pretense of boredom gone. “Now Torben, tell me, what have the adventurers been up to?”

“Well, my lord, you will recall from the pages of my unfinished manuscript, we had last left the five friends in the middle of the Astral Sea.”

---

Tira the Sorceress, Z’alden the Cleric, Barrick the dwarven fighter, Rift the wizard, and Erik the worthy ranger. All five found themselves in an astral skiff, floating in the air, surrounded by distant floating mountains and strands of shifting colors. The Astral Sea was a strange place where gravity was in the eye of the beholder, and you could move in any direction just by sheer force of will.

Torben smiled politely at Verrin. “My lord, you would do quite well in the Astral Sea. Why, a half-orc of your intelligence! I’m sure you could make quite a name for yourself.”

Verrin looked pleased, and then, perhaps sensing a false note, scowled “Enough flattery! Continue with the tale!”

The adventurers knew that they needed to get back to the material plane, to save the Nentir Vale from destruction by the Demon mage Illiadin Stormrage. But, since they were here, they decided to do a bit of exploration while trying to find their way home.

Z’alden recalled the vision, where he had spoken in someone else’s voice: “Seek the City of Doors. This is where you will find a path to your own realm. You will equip yourselves here. You will bring justice to the mortal realm. Follow the Veils of Color.”

None of them knew where the City of Doors was located, but they could all see the Veils of Color. In the distance, Erik’s eagle eyes could see a small floating mountain keep. Raising the sails on their astral skiff, they slowly moved forward. Once they had grown closer to the mountain, they could see that the keep was in ruins. Below the keep, they could see that the underside of the mountain was riddled with caves, as if the keep and the mountain had been torn out of the earth, and sent across space to float here in the Astral Sea.

The five brave adventurers beached their skiff near the castle, and leaped to the ground. Tira quickly folded the astral skiff up into a small cube, and after stashing it in a bag of holding, entered the keep along with her companions. Erik suddenly put up a hand in warning, and pointed silently at the ground. The dust lay thick on the floor, apparently undisturbed for ages. But Erik, looking closely, had seen what the others had not – a whole host of creatures had recently been here. Most of the tracks led down to the catacombs below, but at least one pair led up a stone staircase. Quickly, the adventurers raced to the top, swords drawn, daggers ready, axe and staff held high. But the top of the tower was deserted. In fact, there seemed to be no tracks that led back down the stairs.

“Could the fool have jumped off?” exclaimed Tira.

“Perhaps,” said Z’alden, “they simply willed themselves to float away. Just like us in the astral skiff.”

Barrick shrugged. “No matter. No one is here now. Let’s get down below to the dungeons. We are too exposed here, and I feel a draft in my armor.”

The rest of the party agreed, and they quickly made their way back down the stairs and into the catacombs. Coming to a crossroads, Tira could see that one direction led to a hole in the side of the floating mountain. The other direction led to a room. Stopping just before the entrance, Rift knelt down. She could see swirling whirlpools of dust forming intricate patterns. The smoky tendrils of vapor moved as if guided by a conscious entity. Across the room, a doorway beckoned.

Tira stared at the dust. It seemed familiar from her studies of chaos. The words “entropic collapse” rose unbidden in her mind. She knew that to bring any magic into contact with the dust would cause an implosion of the space-time continuum, with perhaps disastrous consequences. “Interesting,” she mused to herself, as she stepped forward into the room. A tremendous blast shook the room, sending a shock wave down the hallway. The adventurers were knocked over like pins in a game of dwarf bowling. Tira stood, transfixed. The castle changed. It was beautiful. The halls were filled with laughing eladrin and smiling elves. The walls were covered with sparkling tapestries and brightly-painted murals. Tira blinked, and the scene faded from her glowing red eyes.

Gripped with a madness in her chaotic soul, Tira lifted her foot to step forward. Rift, Barrick, Z’alden, and Erik shouted “Stop!” as they knocked into each other trying to flee back down the hallway, away from the deranged half-elf sorceress.

Boom! Again, the floor and walls shook. Dust settled down. Tira coughed and shrugged her pretty shoulders. Perhaps she should rethink her strategy of crossing the room.

Barrick and Z’alden shouted at the sorceress. “Tira, stop your shenanigans. Let a warrior show you how to cross a room safely.” Then, as if racing each other, the fighter and the cleric stripped off their armor, lay down their deadly weapons, and strolled across the room. The dust swirled aimlessly about their feet, as they stepped across the doorway on the other side. The dwarf shouted a friendly “helloooo!” and waved back at Tira, Rift, and Erik.

Tira and Erik shrugged, and then quickly stripping off any magic, they joined their comrades. Rift gathered up all of her friends possessions. For a brief mad moment she considered deserting her friends, fleeing with all of their armor and weapons, selling it all, and living a life of luxury. But no, she thought to herself, who was she without her brave companions? She had been nothing before she had joined them – yet another eladrin wizard, wandering the world in search of adventure. Now her life had purpose. Rift smiled, and then, shifting sideways through another dimension, she reappeared instantly beside her good friend Tira. “Boo!” she shouted. Tira jumped as high as a kobold on hot coals. She glared at Rift with her red eyes. Rift smiled back sweetly with her own purple eyes. “Sorry…”

Torben coughed, and spluttered. “My lord, my throat. I cannot continue… Some ale perhaps?”

Verrin stared at the scribe in disbelief, and then, realizing he had no choice, he sighed and fetched his mug of black ale. “Hurry, drink up. I grow impatient to hear the rest of the tale.”

Torben took a long pull from the mug, sighing in satisfaction. Even if Verrin was a foul scum, he certainly knew how to brew a good ale in his grog shops down by the docks. “Now, where was I? Oh yes…”

Coming to a three-way split in the path, the adventurers stopped, perplexed. “Rift! Use the Hand of Fate!” exclaimed Z’alden, cleric of Bahamut.

“Hand of what?” retorted Rift. And then she remembered a long-forgotten ritual. The Hand of Fate would tell you which path was more advantageous, depending upon how you asked the question. Rift quickly prepared the proper reagents, mixing and stirring in the eye of newt and blood of a medusa. “Oh mighty Hand of Fate, we are in search of adventure, and great treasure, and magic, and um….” Here Z’alden nudged the poor wizard. “Oh, and we seek a way home so that we may stop the Demon mage Illiadin Stormrage from destroying all that is good, but we still want to have a lot of adventure on the way.” The cleric glared at Rift as a giant translucent hand filled the hall, clearly pointing down the middle corridor.

“Well,” stated Barrick. “The way forward is clear enough. Let’s go!”

But the way forward was not clear. It was blocked by a wall, covered in a huge tiled mosaic. Each tile had an intricate pattern carved in it. There were dozens of tiles missing from the mosaic, and Erik could see that the floor was covered with hundreds of tiles, all with different patterns. The ranger groaned. He had always hated “puzzle day” back in ranger school. But this puzzle was not as bad as some. Z’alden and Rift quickly started scribbling out ideas, while Tira and Erik offered helpful suggestions and shouted out wild guesses. Barrick, who had injured his shoulder playing “catch the two-handed axe”, went over in a corner to sleep. Soon, his fearsome snores filled the caverns.

Finally, as the last tile was put into place, the wall slide down to reveal a tremendous cavern, filling the entire bottom of the floating mountain. Inside was a large floating ship, much larger than the astral skiff. Erik’s eyes light up as he realizes that the party can claim the ship as their own. Quickly, the five friends rush aboard the “Astral Falcon”. After raising the Githyanki pirate flag, they hoist the astral sail and fly off into the void.

Leaving the floating ruins behind, the adventurers consult the charts and decide to sail towards Pluton, rumored to contain the ruins of a dead god’s realm. To reach Pluton, they sail the Astral Falcon through a swirling vortex of blue color, a gateway from one region of the Astral Sea to a different region. Emerging on the other side, Erik cries out in alarm. A massive structure confronts them, a blue-black crystalline fortress. Landing near the center of the structure, the five are struck by a sense of brooding evil. Rift and Z’alden are almost overcome with a depressing feeling of doom, but continue forward under the goading of their three companions.

Inside the fortress they find massive obsidian statues depicting the angels of death. As they descend further into what must be a palace, the statues lining the corridor seem to grow more real. Rift hears whispers in supernal. Suddenly, a ghostly form drops from the ceiling, whispering “Narul is dead, as is this realm…”, as it drops through the floor and disappears.

Then, the spectral figure reappears, carrying a giant scythe. “You can not go further,” intones the figure. When Tira scoffs and attempts to go around the ghost, it suddenly swings its mighty blade in a giant arc. The scythe, which seemed so insubstantial, cuts like a real blade. Staggering back and clutching his wounded side, Barrick gives a mightly roar and wades into battle, jumping onto the ghostly form and madly swinging his axe. Erik whips out two swords and wielding them ferociously, charges forward. Z’alden calls on his god Bahamut for aid, and manages to weaken his foe. Rift looks over at Tira, who is busy flinging lightning bolts.

But nothing seems to hit the creature. For it is an Aspect of the Reaper of Souls, and mortal weapons do little damage. Finally, after Rift manages to lull the evil creature to sleep, the party begins to gain the upper hand. When the creature awakens, it turns its attention to the ranger, somehow sensing that Erik is the most vulnerable. Blow after blow hits the poor ranger, as he valiantly tries to defend himself. Just as Erik is about to collapse, the cleric, perhaps sensing that it would be unwise to die at the hands of the Reaper of Souls, summons all of his powers of Bahamut and brings the ranger back from the brink of death.

In revenge, the party redoubles their attacks, finally striking the ghost with chaotic blasts, icy hands of doom, and blades of steel. The ghost suddenly stops, intones, “Welcome to the Land of the Dead,” and flies up through the ceiling.

---

Torben stopped. He noticed Verrin looking at him intently, mouth open, waiting for the next scene.

After downing the last of the black ale, Torben shrugged. “My lord, that is as far as I had gotten, when your, um, hyena colleagues snatched me from that fine establishment, the Greasy Goose.”

Verrin sighed, looking at the scribe. “A good tale, I admit it. I’m sure it is all lies and fabrication, but nevertheless, I will agree to your bargain.” Verrin raised a finger and smiled menacingly. “On one condition.”

“And what is that, your villanous-ness?”

“I would like the book to be dedicated to me, as your worthy patron and esteemed benefactor.”

Torben sighed. It was but a small price to pay, to win back his freedom and shake off the last of his debts. “Very well, my Lord. Scum Lord!” he quickly added.

“How could this have happened?” the despondent scrivener thought to himself. After an hour of brutal beating, Torben Eastlander finally knew where he was. Shackled in the dungeon of Verrin the Scum Lord. The one who held those debts he never had quite enough money to repay. “I never should have started betting on tournaments. Never. But, who would have thought that Harrod the Mighty could possibly lose so badly in hand-to-hand combat to Prescott Quickblade? That little elf had only a dagger!”

“And who knew that Verrin would come collecting now? I thought that the Barron was hunting him for some slave trafficking. Most unfortunate the scum wasn’t caught. Even more unfortunate is that I needed only one more story out of those adventurers, and I would have had the funds in full. The Bards Guild has been paying very generously for my imaginative tales of those worthless adventurers. This is all their fault. If I hadn’t become so convinced of the great luck I had run into with their tales, I never would have made those bets in the first place.”

He muttered to himself, “Such are the ways of fortune. Now my fortune needs to improve quickly. These shackles are starting to hurt again, and I am getting hungry. What would those heroes do?” The quick-witted scrivener smirked, “Guards! Guards! Tell Verrin I can repay him.”
-——————————————————————————————————-
The cleric’s leg began to ache as he followed behind the Ranger along the muddy trail. It was his right leg, the one that the Kengi healers had regenerated. Felt kind of scaley tonight. He always did wonder where that initial bone had come from. And he itched between the point of his ears and his helm. Water had accumulated there as the rain continued to pour. Oh did it itch. Z’alden was not one to complain, but between the ache and the itch, he was beginning to grow weary. Would this rain never cease? It was like a flood! The sort of thing that happens maybe once in a hundred years. Maybe once in a thousand. It was certainly distracting him from the business at hand. Keeping up with the Ranger and the rest of the party.
And it was cold. The rainwater was freezing. Almost like the frigid water in the lair of that flying wyrm, the Ringgael. A Cold Storm Z’alden had just been getting ready to tell the scrivener what had happened next. With this freezing rain he could recall viscerally how his hands had been unable to grip the ice to pull out of the water. Swimming in scalemail is no easy feat. That and the electrified tempest surrounding the Wyrm made it difficult to think straight. It was like being hit upon the head with a mace. Difficult to think of more than one thing at a time. The others who stayed close to the Ringgael were having this problem, too. Tyra wisely got to the far side of the chamber some 100 staff lengths away it seemed, but not before being scorched like so many of his friends by a massive burst of lightning from the beast. Z’alden smiled as remembered his friend’s response to Wyrm.

Rift cast her mighty Hammerfall step, magic rams bashed the Ringgael, moving it closer to Z’alden while the magic opened a tear in space and time and teleported the fighting dwarf on top of the creature! Barrick’s response. He could see the mighty axe shimmer as Barrick dug his boots into the scales of the wyrm and rode it. He slapped his own with the axe and shook of the effects of the dazing field, even as his presence distracted the Ringael. Then, the dwarven axe showed its measure wielded by an expert fighter lathered in the heat of battle. The deadly attacks so knocked the creature with a blow like thunder that it fell from the sky into the icy water with the cleric.

With the wyrm close, the cleric studied its elemental nature, found a weakness, and called upon the sapphire claws of the Great Dragon to form, tear, and then push the Ringael further underwater. The Ringael was rendered stunned by Bahamut’s power and majesty. Ice began to form and encase the beast. The well-timed work of the party had bought them some time to lick their wounds and gather together.

Finally getting out of the water, Z’alden made his way back to the entrance as the did the others, except Tira, who looked for some other way out of the chamber. Z’alden recalled being mystified at how Tira could sense massive amounts of magical energy through what appeared to be massive stone walls.

He did not have long to think. Even encased in ice, the Ringael could still form the tempests of lightning. His metal helmet must have been an easy mark. The wyrm never missed the cleric. Once again, Z’alden was in the frigid water. He had enough presence of mind to call upon Bahamut to heal Erik after the lightning had badly burned the ranger, but close to the wyrm, he could do nothing for himself even as wounds continued to open from the Ringael’s charged tempest field. Erik flung his magical hook and pulled the cleric from the water, but the wyrm had other ideas, sending the tempest to where most of the party had gathered at the entrance. Z’alden was dimly aware that Rift muttered something about the walls of the sides of the entrance being an illusion. Tira formed a dragon spirit on which she flew 20 staff lengths across the chamber. But, then the wyrm’s tempest surround the cleric, and he slipped towards the blackness of death. The healer could not heal himself.

As he trudged along in the mud, Z’alden reflected on that moment. He could only surmise that the liquid coming down his throat as his eyes fluttered back to life and saw the Ranger kneeling close with a vial was a potion. Looking, it was a potion that the cleric had made for the Ranger which Erik had used to save the life of the cleric. One never knows when one’s actions will come back to you. It is best to use those actions wisely. The life you save may be your own.

Z’alden thought about the scrivener and the assailants that they were tracking. Who are these wicked villians that had viciously attacked Torben and made off with him before the adventurers could even mount a response? What powers of evil did they possess? The Ranger’s brief halt brought him back to the moment. A fork in the muddy, slick road and the puddles were proving a challenge even for the calm and careful tracker. A lightning strike evoked a shade of blue on Rift’s cloak as Z’alden waited for the Ranger to decide their direction. The cleric smirked as he wondered if the magical women would follow the Ranger or choose their own path, like they had after finding the illusory wall at the entrance to the Ringael’s chamber. What a mess that decision had caused.

It was all hazy now. The water was addling his brain. He had followed the Ranger down one corridor while Rift, Tira, and Barrick had gone down the opposite corridor. The Ranger moved fast compared to Z’alden and soon he couldn’t be seen. Z’alden quickly realized he couldn’t hear Erik either. Nor could he hear the others. He was alone in the tunnel. The only light radiated from the enchanted glow of ribbons of sapphires and rubies that streaked the walls. Alone, the cleric studied them. The blue energy appeared to have some healing. Still affected by the Feltouched gas from the demons and by the Abyssal, Z’alden said a prayer and, over the course of several minutes, directed the energy to resolve these afflictions. Slowly, the Feltouch cleared from his mind, and some of the most powerful spells that Bahamut grants him came back to his recollection. And, the plague was removed. His wounds healed from the burns of the Ringael and frost of the ice.

It was so quiet. No jokes or shouts of encouragement from the dwarf. No shouts from Rift. Not a sound from Tira. The Ranger had disappeared. All he could do was press on in hopes of finding them. The corridor seemed as though it encircled the Ringael’s layer. At the far end was chamber with a large pedestal in the center and a gold and platinum spherical cage. The cleric was alone in the chamber, though later, he would learn that all of the party were there, but out of phase with one another. Their actions affected the chamber but they could detect the presence of the others. Tira and Rift were phased together until they too became separated. The enchanted ladies had described how their version of the chamber and, more specifically, the cage had a wonderous gem of sapphire and ruby intertwined. Rift would later explain how touching the gem she had acquired pure fiery blue eyes and then further tapped the power of the ruby, turning her eyes a fiery purple. Tira told how she had attuned to the ruby part of the gem and acquired the flaming red that filled her eyes.

Tira subverted the cage, fully attuned to the power in the gem, and took it out. She realized it formed a cube of sapphire and ruby intertwined. Z’alden remembered with some trepidation how the cube he could see in the cage simply vanished before him. There was no one else in the room, yet it was gone.

Then, in some strange moment, the cube appeared on the floor. Z’alden could sense its energy and attuned to it. He could feel Tira’s presence and communicate with her! Some strange writing had appeared. “What is seen cannot be seen”.

Then, putting the cube down, it vanished, moved, vanished, and reappeared rotated to a new side. Z’alden realized that some was trying to communicate with the cube in some form. He grabbed and moved it, releasing and grabbing, tracing out a Z. Then, writing appeared on the Cube. Rift had used magical chalk to mark the cube. Everyone was in the room and could see the Cube. If they could all attune together, they might return to the same phase. Indeed, this worked after some trials but not before the fun had started.

Another flash of lightning brought the cleric back to the road. The ranger had found more tracks, and the party was off again on Eastlander’s trail. The thunder crashed. The cleric could not help but recall the explosions that had followed when Rift had activated the Far Realm star trap on the massive doorw while trying to pick its lock.

Z’alden recalled a crystal sphere flying off the door, racing across the room, and simply vanishing. The cleric could see Barrick and Erik now, and hoped that nothing bad had happened to one of his arcane comrades in another phase. Rift and Tira would later relate what happened in their phase. Rift’s mage hand could catch the spheres. She would toss them to Tira, who held open the bag of holding and tried to catch them, trapping the deadly balls in another dimension. Rift’s tosses were excellent, and Tira was an admirable catcher. Before the cleric’s eyes, the dozen spheres were simply disappearing. He had gotten a satisfying whack of the mace on one, and the fighter and Ranger had taken a few out, also, but it was the Mage Hand Bag Toss that really did the trick. One may recall that the Far Realm star trap will surround a person in the spheres until they explode with deadly results. In some traps, just four are enough for the explosion. Once again, the quick thinking of the wizard and sorceress had saved the day. Just three had ever surrounded the dwarf. Three surrounded Z’alden. Maybe just one more and even the hardy dwarf or the cleric may have been stardust.
With the spheres either demolished or trapped in the bag, Z’alden remembered with some satisfaction that the group had used the cube to return to all the same phase. Then, working together, they had overcome the massive door with Knock spells and thievery and magical manipulation. Oh yes, more star realm spheres had come off, but the Mage Hand Bag Toss, along with Barrick’s axe, and Erik’s arrows had made short work of them (except when Z’alden had been nearly encased in them).

Stepping into a room filled with the grey mist of dreams, they descended a stair inlaid with gold and platinum. At the bottom, in a misty room, the group was ready to leave this low layers and get a move on. With such a thought from the wizard, an archway appears. Other thoughts came to the group. Erik imagined defeating the Demon mage Illiadin Stormrage. A magnificent painting of death appeared. Tira imagined a necklace that matched her glowing eyes. One of great value appeared. Barrick recalled the handy haversack that Rift had previously lost. One appeared.

Even in the flooding water, Z’alden recalled how the archway had beckoned. The party stepped through, expecting to find themselves outside the castle, or maybe on the top level ready to face Illiadin himself. They could not have been more wrong.

As the archway vanished and their vision cleared, they found themselves on a floating island in a world of color. They were in the Astral Sea! A golden box in front of them became an Astral Skiff.

“Oh shards”, thought the cleric. This was a fine pickle. At least it was better than a flood, the damp cleric reflected.

The scribe lay twisted in his tiny cell. The especially large moon cast shadows of the bars upon his face. He chuckled to himself with an admittedly unclear mind. How poetic was this beautiful moon, yet he had no quill with which to put his emotions to parchment. Fear had come and gone, but only in intensity. Yes, he was still alive, but why and for how long?

Torben Eastlander, the scribe of the heroic feats of the the six, could not think of what they would do in his situation. Instead his mind wandered. Memories of old words, written so long ago by others and himself, weaved their way through his mind – a cacophony of ideas that left him confused as one might have just before waking up in a sweat.

A dream this was not. Torben made efforts to recall his prior days and understand his situation better so that he would be ready, ready for something, when it would come. Perchance to escape? To tell a good lie? To persevere through whatever torture may come? He had already told them what he knew of the six and they had read his most recent manuscript, before it was ready. That made him all the more mad.

Still, finding some morsel of satisfaction, he gloated in the fact that the poetry delivered upon his captors was of such poor quality that at least he had inflicted some pain upon them. As he began to feel more faint from the lack of sustenance, his lips began to mumble the words of the most recent addition to his manuscript…

Long ago the mages of the Temple of the Arcane constructed a vast library, something I would have loved to spend a considerable time in. Within its walls lay a treasure of knowledge, not just of arcane magics, but more practical things, such as how to grow food underground. There was poetry too. What a pity none of the five are intellectuals – such a wasted opportunity. None-the-less, Tira and Rift, being of keen memory, were able to absorb some of the letters before the tragic destruction of many great works, and some not so great.

One of the more interesting works relayed to me was by Xathros, the very beholder that the five had slain just over one year ago. It was titled, “The Wisdom of the Beholder”. Even with just a short summary, second-hand at that, I can now guess at this particular beholder’s mindset. For example, this poem was relayed to me:

Maiden in meadow
Beauty soon be immortal
Within me deathless

From my discussion with Rift, who quickly read several portions of the text, it seems that Xathros actually thought he was helping creatures gain immortality by “joining” with him. More poems corroborate this more directly:

Rose tiny flower
Compare thee to a maiden
Petals grace my lips

and this more whimsical one:

Petrify, petrify, death and disintegrate
All the whole day long
Makes me tired

Other chapters were reportedly much more serious, with discussion of the motions of the heavenly orbs (complete with not-so humble comparisons to himself) and what Rift thought were mathematics in a chapter titled “A New Magics”. In some unknown tongue of perplexing scribbles, it detailed something called “wavelets” . Clearly this Xathros was quite mad, but Rift said she still pulled some of those pages from the book to study at a later time.

Tira reported more mundane tomes, such as “How to Grow Corn Underground” and “The Secret Life of Selachii”. Z’alden had a lucky find with “Revealing your Inner Bahamut and Tiamat”, but couldn’t remember much of it because he kept getting drawn to Rift’s excitement with Xathros’ chapter on “A New Magics”. Perhaps he thinks this knowledge will help him divine the intentions of the weather gods. Who knows? Meanwhile, Barrick and Erik kept complaining about the lack of picture books.

As the five studied the literature, they finally came to focus on a very large and very round table in the center of the room. Upon the center lay a fine example of hide armor and some scrolls. They knew it was a trap, but went for it anyway, of course. As Z’alden crept up upon the table and touched the armor, the precious books began to fly off the shelves and swarm into a maelstrom of sharp paper and sturdy bindings. (I must admit, the thought of the adventurers possibly dying by a thousand paper cuts was quite amusing.)

What wizardly power had been imbued upon this incarnation was a surprise to even these experienced warriors. The chaotic swarm hammered them, both physically and mentally, dealing psychic damage. Perhaps it was a just reward for not being more quiet and respectful in the library. Picture books indeed.

The adventures battled the hailstorm of for quite a while. Lightning and fire, steel and sweat beat back the swarm like so many angry birds. As I heard the tale my heart grew torn between the quill and sword. Me, a man of the ink, and them, whom by their presence I knew the victor. With terrible blows by the ranger and the sorceress, pages lay lost and scattered upon the floor. The fighter closed the chapter (sorry) on this battle by a clever trick – trapping the books in his “Shield of the Armadillo”, which encased the final swarm, severing its connection to the power source.

Erik the ranger was happy to have the enhanced armor and Z’alden delighted over a scroll that could cure disease, with a little effort. Yet it was not like the adventurers to rest long, and this time was no exception. Soon they were further on, deeper into the Temple of the Arcane. Coming to a crossroads of sorts, they analyzed the four possible directions. Turning back was not to their liking, nor was digging through rubble and taking time to break arcanely sealed doors. So they decided to move directly forward by breaking down welded shut door.

Before them lay a vast room of deathly cold water. Ice ran the edges of the room – a tempting passage to what lay beyond – a sleeping ringael. What beast would lie in such a frosty nest? Using their collective wisdom and the ranger’s “foe stone”, the adventurers gathered that this beast, though weak in will, had no vulnerabilities and could very likely resist lightening and cold. (I could have told them the last bit.) They also surmised that the beast ws of neutral alignment, capable of serving a master. Using her keen intellect, Rift surmised that the room was built to sustain the beast. Someone had built the room and trapped the ringael in with not only a sealed door but also an invisible barrier.

After a while, a plan formed. Erik would first drink a potion to improve his thievery skill. Next he would be made invisible by Rift, who would then cast an arcane gate through which he could simply step through to arrive next to the beast. Why? Did I tell you about the adventurer’s pathological need for loot? Around the beast’s neck was a necklace, or rather a belt to anyone of human dimensions. The adventurers simple had to have it.

With the utmost stealth, Erik slipped through the dimensional gate to arrive immediately next to the sleeping ringael. Pausing with a soft breath, he studied the belt and it’s buckle. Then his hands un-wove the belt through the buckle, as if it was a serpent silently moving unnoticed through the grass toward its prey. The belt was free. The beast still lay sleeping. Erik calmly moved back through the dimensional gate to his companions.

With the belt in their possession, the five adventurers pondered what to do next. That was too easy. They must attack! Surely an opportunity to coup de grace a sleeping beast was too good to pass up. Tria was the first to attack and her magic struck the ringael hard. Rift’s attack missed. Z’alden then delivered a heavy metal bolt from his crossbow. To no one’s surprise, the ringael awoke.

Revealing its powers, the ringael took flight and the tempest beneath its wings blew Erik and Z’alden into the icy cold water. So too did even the stout dwarf get slid into the waters. Lightning sparked from the ringael, shocking all those who lay too close. While the men of the group floundered in the water, the women took defensive action. Tira used her wicked sorcery to reverse the ringael’s resistances, making it vulnerable to both lightning and cold. Rift cast a resist lightning spell upon herself and sent a mirror sphere before the creature so that its attacks would be visited upon itself as well.

The scribe’s recollection of his text was interrupted as his small, single-person prison started to move. The wood creaked and the bars squirmed against their braces. A large creature was heaving the box off the ground and onto a cart. Dark figures gathered around. Their cloaks sagged on their boney forms. Their sunken faces and hollow eyes lay in the shadows of the hoods. Torben felt fear like he had never imagined possible. It was an unnatural fear as if the figures knew enough about him to magnify his emotions. Then one spoke what he realized was his true name. All went dark.

“Torben! Come join us!” Barrick shouted in his huge dwarf voice. Barrick held aloft a great tankard of ale, foam splashing over the sides and running down his mailed arm.

The others looked up. Tira, Erik, Rift, and Z’alden spied Torben by the bar. The dour scribe appeared to be talking to the barkeep. Erik the Ranger noticed that the man looked nervous and agitated. Erik saw a flash of gold as Torben pushed a coin over to the bartender, who casually lifted it off the sticky bar, bit into it, and then slipped it into his jerkin.

Torben weaved his way through the crowd, fending off a pair of female half-elf rangers who tried to latch onto his arms. A burly half-orc, obviously blasted out of his wits, tried to block Torben’s path and engage him in a drunken jig. Torben stopped and stared blankly at the large half-wit. Dismayed, the half-orc gave up and staggered off after the two rangers.

As Torben approached the table, Erik noticed that he carried neither drink nor food. What did the coin buy? mused Erik.

“Torben,” Barrick roared. “What brings you to the Greasy Goose at this late hour?”

Torben looked around nervously, then sat down in the closest chair with a thump. “My friends,” he began, “It is good to see you. Unlike me, you all seem quite healthy and contented. That is good.”

Barrick stared at the quill-pusher. The dwarf was not too far gone, and even he noticed that Torben did not look well. His clothes were unkempt, his hair was wild, and perhaps had a touch of gray that was not there before. The dwarf shrugged and thought to himself, What is it with these humans? So much drama, and they age so quickly. Bah, no matter!

Loudly, the dwarf bellowed, “Well, enough of your own troubles Torben. Thanks for sharing. But look, have we got a story for you!” At this, Barrick leaned over and gave Rift a slap on the back, causing her glass of Nentir ‘97 to slosh over the sides of her silver chalice. Torben saw Rift turn bright pink in embarrassment. Despite Torben’s own preoccupations and troubles, the scribe grew interested. An Eladrin, embarrassed? Torben grew excited. Perhaps just this once he could get the full tale, without interruptions. If so, he could finally finish the next volume! Perhaps that would keep the jackals at bay!

Tira grinned as she saw Torben quickly pull his chair up to the table. Whipping out quill and paper, Torben brushed his greasy hair out of his face, then turned to the dwarf. “Well, what happened? What did Rift do?”

Startled, the dwarf turned to the scribe, who was staring at him in eager anticipation. “What? You want your story right now? But I’m only on my second glass of ale…”

Tira saw the look of dismay pass over Torben’s face. The half-elf lay her delicate hand on Torben’s arm. “Torben, I will give you your story, assuming that our dear friend Rift doesn’t mind.” Rift waved a hand dismissively. “No, no,” the wizard declared, “go ahead. I have suffered through the indignity already. Yet another retelling won’t harm me.” Rift smiled weakly at Tira.

As Tira began speaking, Torben’s hand began to fly over the paper. “So, there we were. Stuck in the Order of the Arcane temple with a mad archmage. Illidan Stormrage, you recall, was his name. We had just been talking to a dead skeleton…”

Z’alden spoke, “Wait, I must interrupt you.” Tira stopped, an annoyed look crossing her face. Torben looked up, pen poised above the paper. The cleric’s face split into a wide grin. The rest of the party stared at Z’alden, waiting for the inevitable. “Aren’t all skeletons dead?” After a brief moment of silence, everyone except Torben burst out into gales of laughter. Torben stared at the group. Great peals of laughter were coming out of Barrick, flecks of foamy ale spewing across the table. Torben shook his head. They’re all nuts. Why did I ever hitch my wagon to this bunch? Still, it has brought me fame and fortune. And much trouble.

After the gales had subsided, Tira continued. “We had to somehow find the head of a demon, and bring it back to the skeleton. Then he (the skeleton, not the demon head) would give us a key. The Key to the Depths Below he said. Why we wanted a key to even more horrors, I don’t know. But that was our quest. Also, how were we to get a demon head? Ask politely?”

“Anyhoo, we kept wandering through the twisty ruins beneath the temple. Erik kept hearing running water…” Here, the sorceress gave the ranger a playful jab in the ribs. “Water on the brain, more likely.”

“But indeed, we did eventually come to a fountain, which, thinking it was a Fountain of Youth and Beauty, I immediately drank. But no… instead it just gave us some extra luck.”

“Wait, back up a minute.” Here, Torben lifted his quill, a pained look crossing his face, as a drop of ink pooled on his paper. Tira continued, “Completely forgot about the scrying orb. That was in another room, platinum pieces all over the floor. Our illustrious wizard, using her amazing arcane skills….” Rift’s cheeks turned even pinker. “Our wizard used the scrying orb to spy on Illidan. He was talking to some demon guy who had just come out of a big cloud of energy. Oh yeah, and Illidan was holding the sword and staff of Miraak.”

Torben stared blankly. “Oh for Tiamat’s sake, you don’t know Miraak?!” Tira spluttered. Rift muttered, “Miraak, the sorcerer king, ancient archmage of the Order of the Arcane. He used the staff to summon demons to do his bidding.”

Tira continued. “Thanks Rift! So Illidan says to the demon…” Tira lowered her voice and began to intone in her best evil-sorcerer-who-wants-to-rule-the-world voice, ‘Batarath, lead the armies to the eastern front. The Fire Lord is pleased with our progress, blah blah blah." Tira smiled brightly. "I can’t remember if he said anything else. I got bored and wandered off."

“Then, there were some statues that came alive and we had to defeat. You know, the usual stuff.” Here, Tira lifted her glass and gave a brief whistle. The buxom barmaid came over, winked at Tira, and refilled her glass. “Well, not to embarrass anyone, but I just could not understand why Erik insisted on attacking the statues with his bow. And not with an arrow, mind you. A bit ineffective, if you ask me. But after being stunned, dazed, knocked down, and then body slammed, our dear ranger came to his senses and began to actually shoot his arrows.”

“Well, let me tell you, we showed those statues what we were made of. Um, and it isn’t stone, let me tell you!” At this, Tira looked around expectantly. But either no one was paying attention, or perhaps they hadn’t heard her hilarious jest. She shrugged. “Well, with a few well-placed wizardly mirrors, some expert dwarven axe play, whizzing arrows, our cleric’s divine guidance, and…”, putting her hand over her chest, “…my own modest contributions, we managed to pulverize the statues back to the dust they were made from.”

Z’alden piped up, “I blinded one of the statues! Neat trick, eh? Torben, have I ever mentioned how through the divine guidance of the most powerful god, Bahamut, I am able to bring justice and retribution to our enemies?”

Tira smiled sweetly at Z’alden. “I thought Tiamat was sometimes useful to you, no?” At this, Z’alden shuffled uncomfortably in his chair, and buried his head in his near-empty glass of Nentir. Dark mutterings were heard coming from within the confines of the glass.

Torben looked up from his furious scribblings, a dark smudge of ink on his brow. “Well, then what?”

“As I was saying,” Tira continued, “we continued through the dangerous, scary dungeon, menaced on either side by fearsome foes, our feet tired but our hearts glad with promise of treasure.”

Torben stopped writing and looked up, annoyed. “Please leave the creative writing and character motivations to the scribe, thank you very much!”

Tira stopped, chagrined. Rift muttered, “I didn’t know the stone would actually come out…”

Torben stared at the wizard. “What’s that you’re muttering Rift?”

Rift continued, the wine strengthening her resolve to see the story all the way through. “We came to an odd triangular shaped room, with a slightly-tilted floor. There were stones set into the wall, with runes carved on them. Translating the inscriptions, I found that they were runes of Warding and Observation.” As Rift traced out the runes on the scarred table with her dagger, Barrick shivered. The dwarf spoke, “Yep, those are the runes alright. I’d recognize them in my sleep! Boy, that was a close shave, let me tell you. And I’ve never shaved in my life!”

Rift droned on. “I just thought, well, you know, who would put these runes into the wall, without someone wanting to take one, as a souvenir?” The others in the party just stared at the wizard. “Yes, I’ll admit it, I just wanted to take something home with me, to remember the adventure.” She stared back defiantly.

Z’alden spoke first, spluttering, “But they weighed like, well, like, as much as a block of stone!”

The cleric warmed to his subject. “She took the stone right out of the wall. The rest of us weren’t even paying attention. By Tiamat, some of us weren’t even all the way into the room. And then, you know how, the instant you do something, you realize it was perhaps a mistake? Well, in this case, guess what the giveaway was?”

Torben Eastlander peered at the cleric, stating “I cannot begin to fathom what you are talking about.”

Z’alden continued, “I’ll tell you. It was when the walls slammed together, trapping us in a triangle of doom. And then the water started pouring out of all of the blocks in the wall, after they all fell out. Did I mention that the water was pouring? No, not pouring, gushing!”

Z’alden grew more agitated, as Tira suppressed a snigger. “We were trapped, like rats. By the gods, I hate getting wet, almost as much as the dwarf! The room was filling rapidly. We tried everything we could think of. Smashing the stones back into the holes seemed to help a bit, like bailing out a lake with a bucket!”

“Luckily, we did have a sorcerer and a wizard, and a strong warrior, and a perceptive ranger, and of course a cleric to keep everyone alive.” Nodding at Erik, Z’alden continued, “the ranger noticed the secret panel first. It contained the mechanism, at least I think it did. Made my head hurt just looking at all that machinery. Never could understand that stuff.”

“By this point, the room was nearly full. It must have softened the wizard’s brain a bit, because her arcane skills seemed to fail her at the worst possible time. Nevertheless, we managed to help each other and defeat the malicious trap. Our doom had been averted.” Here, Z’alden glared at the wizard, but Rift took no notice, her face buried in her cup. She, too, began to mutter dark oaths into her chalice.

Tira then spoke. “So, that was a close call. But it all ended well, although my hair hasn’t been the same since.” Here, Tira flicked her reddish locks back and smiled prettily at the scribe, who stared at her, a blank look on his face.

Tira shrugged. “Well, you won’t believe what happened next.” Torben very much thought that was quite likely.

“We came to another room, with candles all around the inside. This time, it wasn’t Rift who triggered the trap that caused poison gas to start filling the room.” Tira paused, looking around the table at her companions. “I cannot remember. Who was it that tried to remove a candle?”

At that moment, a loud pounding sounded on the heavy door to the inn. All of the patrons stopped drinking and stared at the oaken door. All except Barrick, who was loudly humming a dwarven love song to himself, his beer swishing back and forth in his mug in time to the tune.

Erik saw the barkeep stride over to the door, nervously fingering the pocket where he had put Torben’s coin. Just as the bartender put his eye up to the peephole, the door burst open. Standing in the shattered door were at least five creatures. Four were huge warriors with hideous hyena faces, their teeth bared, laughing wickedly. Each held a long dirk, the points gleaming in the lamplight. The fifth creature appeared to be human, although a black hood made it difficult to catch but a glimpse of the face inside. Erik the Ranger stared. He swore to the nameless gods that he recognized the figure, but he could not remember how or why.

At that instant, the figure raised a hand and all light was extinguished. A blast of heat followed as screams filled the inn. The air was suddenly filled with blinding motes of dancing lights, which confounded the senses. A loud voice commanded, “Ignore the others. Take him only.” Erik felt the table being flung away from him, even as he leapt up, his swords sliding smoothly from their scabbards. He thought to himself, they will not take me without a fight.

Suddenly, Erik felt a foul creature’s hot fetid breath on the back of his neck. A high-pitched laugh filled his ear. Fighting back the wave of nausea, Erik lashed out, felt his sword grate against bone, as an agonizing roar of pain rang out. Erik swung again madly, but his swords whistled harmlessly through the air. He stopped, fearful of striking friend instead of foe.

The loud voice near the door rang out again. “Do not forget the papers.”

Erik felt a scuffle nearby, but he could neither see nor hear clearly enough to act. A struggle, then a strangled cry and a loud thump as something heavy hit the floor. The rustle of papers, and a dragging sound, as if a heavy bag were being pulled away.

Gradually, the motes of light faded away. Someone lit a lamp, the sudden brightness making everyone blink in confusion. The inn was a shambles. Broken glass and shattered mugs lay on the floor, pools of ale flowing freely. The barkeep lay facedown near the door, unmoving, his arms and legs bent at an unnatural angle.

Erik stared at his sword. Thick dark blood ran down its length. Not human blood. A pool of blood lay at his feet, with a thin trail leading off in the direction of the door.

Next to the overturned table lay one of the hideous creatures, facedown. Erik put a boot to the body and heaved the corpse over. A long dirk protruded from the chest. The ranger’s analytic side took over. A lucky strike, clumsy, done in haste and by an unskilled hand.

Barrick stared blankly. “What happened?” The dwarf looked around. “Where’s that blasted scribe? I was just getting to the good part!”

The others looked around. Torben Eastlander, along with his sheaf of papers, and his bag, was gone. His quill lay on the floor, the ink flowing from the tip, mingling with the streams of ale and blood.

The gigantic monster expands and, if possible, becomes even more terrifying, creating a 60’ thick ring of lightning.
“Inconceivable!” shouts Erik.
Tira moves far away, “Dear God, what is that thing?”
Only Barrick seems unphased, “Evil, pure and simple from the Eighth Dimension!”
The creature, now a Void Lord, blasts out at his foes, dazing everyone but Tira, the only one at a safe distance. Seeing her friends injured, Tira panics for a second, “That’s it, man. Game over, man! Game over!”
Z’alden briefly considers trying to banish the Lord from our plane, stepping forward and saying, “I order you to cease any, and all, supernatural activity and return forthwith to your place of origin, or to the nearest convenient parallel dimension.” But knowing the magic would fail, he simply swings his trusty mace, making contact, but doing little damage.
Rift, knowing that Tira needs to get in closer to use any of her powers, yells, “Just teleport.”
Tira considers, shouting back, “Well, as it turns out, teleporting isn’t a right, it’s a privilege.” But knowing she is needed, she calms her mind, teleports inside the lightning torus, and blasts the Void Lord.
The dreaded Void Lord retaliates, firing off two black balls of magic. One slams into Z’alden, doing massive damage, the other heads toward Rift, but she easily steps to the side. Recovering, Z’alden looks at Rift, wondering how she managed to avoid the blast so easily. Rift shrugs, “Basic strategy: if your enemies know where you are, then don’t be there.”
Barrick lowers his head and charges the enemy, “Ramming speed!”
Then he yells to his friend to create the ‘happy carpet of death’, “Go do that voodoo that you do so well!” Z’alden complies, not because he was asked, but because Z’alden knew he was hurt and hurt badly.
Rift suddenly comes up with a great idea, she uses her Mage Hand spell to carry a mine over and drop it off on the dark evil Lord, “You’re entering a world of pain.” she says as she releases the mine. It explodes, doing massive damage.
Erik switches to his bow and taunts the Lord as he hits with a couple shots, “I’ve known sheep that could outwit you!”
The taunting seems to only infuriate the Void Lord, but he does not strike back at Erik, instead he blasts Z’alden. Z’alden falls to the ground, dead. But thanks to the happy carpet, Z’alden’s eyes flutter and no sooner than dying, Z’alden returned to the land of the living. He takes a big breath and mutters, “The dead know only one thing: it is better to be alive.”
Seeing Z’alden die and return forces Tira to rethink their current strategy, she steps through the barrier and attempts to fire a shot back at the dark beast. The chaos bolt hits the barrier and fizzles away into nothing, “What a pisser.”
Erik looks at Z’alden lying on the ground, “You look like Hell.”
“Yeah, I just got back.” Z’alden replies wryly.
Erik motions to Barrick, using quick hand signals to ask if Barrick will charge as Erik shoots more arrows. As he braces himself for impact Barrick replies, “We can do that. We don’t even have to have a reason.”
Tira suddenly comes up with a great idea, “At my signal, unleash hell.” She rubs the circlet on her head and a red dragon suddenly appears underneath her. Laughing at the Lord, she flies above the dreaded circle of lightning. “Never give up! Never surrender!”
Rift looks over at Z’alden, “Don’t you go dying on me!”
“I’ve been dead once, already. It’s very liberating.” Z’alden replied.
Rift again uses her Mage Hand to drop another mine on the Void Lord, this time parts of its armour break off in the blast. Rift laughs at it, “Ouchtown, population you, bro!”
Tira senses the tide of the battle has shifted, what just moments before seemed like utter doom, now seemed quite winnable, “How many times in battle have we snatched victory from the jaws of defeat?” Tira waves her wand and magically switches places with the Lord, sending it up 40 feet into the air.
With the damaging lightning also up in the air, Barrick uses the brief calm to inspire the rest of the party, “Failure is not an option.”
Feeling energized, Rift asks Tira a question, “What’s the shortest distance between two points?”
“A straight line.” Tira answers with a question in her voice.
“Wrong. The shortest distance between two points is zero.” Rift creates an Arcane Gate between her current location and a spot near the steps of the temple. Stepping through she quickly reaches the massive door. But before she can open it, the previously immobile Plague Demons come to life. One attacks Rift whilst the other uses the gate Rift just created.
Z’alden heals again and stands up, ready for more action. Erik nudges Barrick and whispers, “He’s all bright, and shiny, and new again, just in time for the Dark Lord.” Just as the words leave his mouth the Void Lord falls and teleports near the group, blasting everyone but Rift.
“We seem to be made to suffer. It’s our lot in life.” Z’alden shakes his head as he is injured again. He attacks once, hitting the evil being, then also steps through the gate. Tira quickly follows, with Erik and Barrick right behind her.
Rift thinks briefly about trying to magically unlock the door, but then just reaches forward and tries it. It opens without resistance. Rift is surprised, but only a little, “Sixty percent of the time, it works every time.” she says with a smirk. Even though a wall of fog prevents her from seeing inside, she steps through.
Tira shrugs and steps through after, “Here’s to the fear of being trapped.” She says to no one in particular.
Erik motions to Z’alden, “Very dangerous. You go first.”
Inside the party is stunned to find a chess set in the middle of an empty room, the pieces all being larger than Barrick. Five squares on the adventurers side of the board are empty. Erik gasps, “We have to play our way across the room.”
After resting for a few minutes, the party take up the five spots on the board and wait. The knight on the other side magically moves forward, the game is on. The group plays well and wins the game, but at the cost of losing Erik and Z’alden.
As the game ends, a teleportation circle appears in the center of the room. Tira laughs, “You’ve got to ask yourself one question: “Do I feel lucky?”” She nods at her friends. With no idea where it leads nor where their friends are, the remaining members decide to jump on the circle together. They end up in a room in the East tower, completely ransacked. With nowhere to go, they all settle down and rest for many hours, trying to regain as much power as they can. Rift, awaking first, begins to explore the room, finding a trap door in the floor. Below is a dank musty passage. “Who wants to go down the creepy tunnel inside the tomb first?”
Dropping down into the dusty caves, they ponder whether to explore downward or upward. Barrick kicks the hard rock floor, “Can you dig it?” he asks rhetorically, shaking his head. Upward the party goes
Soon they come across an Eladrin skeleton, wearing a hood, sitting in an old chair, and holding a parchment. Rift casts Speak with Dead. The skeleton begins to speak in a raspy voice, “I’ve just experienced some very unreasonable things.” It speaks as if it does not know how long it has been dead. It goes on to mention one Kaelthas Sunstrider and a key to the depths below. He then asks for the head of a demon, then stops speaking. Rift is happy with the information she gained, “I’m rapidly becoming a big underground success.”
The rest of the party groans at her attempt at humour, but then also fall silent as they ponder their next move, streaks of crimson and crystal slowing moving through Z’alden’s and Erik’s bodies.

Eastlander was on the run. Somewhere behind were dark beasts lead by cruel masters. Somewhere overhead there were sharp eyes that scanned the land below. Whispers were everywhere in the towns and forests. As he staggered forward through the darkness, he stumbled through a stream and slipped on the smooth, mossy river rocks. Like dry leaves, pages from his latest manuscript were cast upon the water and quickly floated downstream over root and rock. Precious words began to mingle together, never to be deciphered. It was a sad thought indeed for Torben Eastlander, for words were his favorite part of himself and to have lost them was a travesty. Yet in this moment the flesh was more important and in greater peril. He collapsed under a fallen tree and quickly began to dream of the words that were lost…

Barrick always had a story to tell that was as tall as he was short. In this one the adventurers had spent a year resting on their laurels, having defeated the mighty eye tyrant, Xathros. Barrick told of a castle that provided a safe haven for the adventurers. Naturally, or quite conveniently, he refused to reveal the location of the castle, but I could gather that it was somewhere near Lake Nen since much of their time in that year had been spent helping the townsfolk of Nenlast and making frequent journeys through the surrounding areas. The giants of the area had been either killed or pushed back further into the wild lands. The men of the North grew in stature, with Hammerfand leading them to many victories over the giants. From this came new heroes.

Stonefand, eldest son of Hammerfand was no longer just “slayer of Grak the Invincible”, for now his palmaries included “Captain of the Giant Brigade”. His tactical sense was not matched by any other in the clans of the men of the North. At his side was the mighty Maelfend, who was the sharp edge of the blade that Stonefand’s hand would guide. His uncharacteristic use of a shield revealed an independent mind and so too did his clashes with his captain. Their competitiveness made them strong, as well did the diminutive Primorean, once directly under the employ of Hammerfand, now a member of the giant brigade. Normally the clerics and wizards are just hired hands, perhaps living to see another day and a pocketful of riches, or to never be written of on any page. Yet this Primorean is different, gaining in skill and influence right along with his masters, and worthy of note on my pages.

Still, these men of the North are pale to the deeds done and skills possessed by the heroes I write of. So let me begin in earnest.

The four seasons came and went upon the six adventurers. The bountiful glory of the spring gave way to the listless days of summer. Then the fall came, bringing a melancholy of reflection. Inaction brought upon a lifeless winter as the heroes basked in the warm subterranean waters that lay beneath their castle.

The adventurers took it upon themselves to share adventurers with Monica, Lars and Rajel. Skirmishes with the Giants were exciting to these three, but grew tedious for the adventurers. Their winter deepened.

As luck would have it a letter arrived one day. Though it told a dire tale for both the Sorcerer Valthrun, protector of Winterhaven, and the Land of the Kengi, it stirred old emotions. And desires. With purpose came action. The adventurers decided to come to the aid of Tira’s old master, Valthrun. When hearing news of his people’s plea, Feslmon changed course and parted company, leaving immediately for Kengistan.

With horses from Nenlast, the five adventurers made good time to Hammerfast where they collected components for magics then set course for Winterhaven along the Trade Road. The journey was uneventful, with Thunderspire no longer casting such a frightful shadow. The townsfolk of Fallcrest greeted the adventurers warmly and seemed to even know them by name. This was a bit disconcerting to the ranger, Erik, who preferred to remain anonymous. Barrick had much less concern and enjoyed round after round from the locals.

The story in Winterhaven was quite different. The meekness of the guards up in the towers was the first clue that something was wrong. They looked pale and weak. The fear that they exuded was palpable. Just as the guards were, so too where the townsfolk, with shuttered windows and unmaintained streets. Even the horses had been severely neglected.

The adventurers quickly made their way to Valthrun’s tower, which lay dark and still. They knocked upon the door and after some moments, and several unbarrings, the door opened. Valthrun implored them to enter quickly and before he spoke more, he closed the door and set the multitude of locks.

“Goblins”, hushed Valthrun. “They stormed through the town one moon ago.”

The adventurers relaxed and smiled. “Goblins?”, they replied, “what of goblins? They are no match for this town. Certainly when it is under your protection. There must have been hundreds.”

“No”, softly replied clearly tired Valthrun. “Let me tell you the full tale.”

With that, Valthrun sat the adventurers down at his large table and told of the goblin’s march through Winterhaven. There were only a score, yet they were not natural. Their demeanor, their presence was somehow different. Their behavior was odd, for they did not ransack the town, only taking what they needed for sustenance. Their purpose must have been higher. Valthrun continued:

“They marched north out of Winterhaven, toward the Temple of the Arcane. That is what worries me most for it is a place where powerful arcane magics are studied. The warlock Illidan Stormrage has left the fold of the good, his obsession with the dark arts having overcome him. Word has it that he has grown more powerful than the masters of the temple. It is also rumored that the temple guardians were corrupted and set upon their masters, killing them all. This was nigh two moons ago. With Illidan in control, surely hordes of demons will have been summoned.”

“I do not understand the presence of goblins, though”, Valthrun puzzled as he shook his head. “Illidan Stormrage despises goblins – goblinoids and giants. This secret you must uncover. You must go to the Temple of the Arcane and put an end to this growing evil, either by capturing or killing Illidan Stormrage. I know that there once was good in his heart. Just as he now does evil, he can be turned back to that good. You must try.”

After a long, heavy pause, Valthrun explained more, “There is a powerful jewel that opened the passage to the demons. It must be destroyed or somehow used to close the passageway to the demon realm.”

With this, the adventurers asked more detailed questions. They clearly had accepted the mission and wanted to plan their assault upon the temple. A central tower stood above all else. One tower lay at each corner of the temple, which was laid out in a square and terraced up to the central tower. Covered bridges connected the four towers to the central tower. All towers and bridges were lofty, spelling certain death for those unable to take flight like a bird or fall like a feather. Information that the temple was surrounded by forests gladdened the adventurers and made them eager to depart. A final plan could be devised on site.

Let me pause to give context to this tale. With Z’alden having filled me in on the technical intricacies of the temple, he shuffled off to his bed chamber. Barrick was passed out. Tira and Rift were still out on the town getting into who knows what kind of mischief. Now my trust would be put upon Erik, which is perhaps appropriate for the next segment of this adventure would see the five adventurers travel overland, north toward the temple, at night. This was a bit preposterous, but I went along with it as best I could.

“I could feel eyes upon me”, stated Erik. I replied, “But wasn’t it dark? Surely you must have had some other senses that gave you that feeling, whether you realized it or not.”

“I could feel eyes upon me”, restated Erik. He continued to tell the tale of how they turned the tables on the spies. Pretending to set camp, they pulled the horses up and talked loudly about how tired they were, masking the unsheathing of their weapons. Rift made the ranger invisible and he set out to circle their perimeter.

Soon enough, the watchers were revealed under the full light of the moon. Hobgoblins, only not normal hobgoblins. Erik told of how he could see their purple eyes glowing in the darkness. The leader of these “fel-touched” creatures let out a monotonic drone of a warning:

Stormrage requires energy. Requires powerful servants.

I began to suppress a snicker. This was all just too pulpy, but Erik looked very serious as if it was all very true, just as he told it. I focused on taking notes.

The battle that ensued began with Erik wreaking massive damage to the hobgoblin leader. The others followed swiftly with devastating attacks of their own. Tira’s magical hurricane quickly dispatched the enemy leader, referred to as the “war caster”. Soon all the hobgoblins would be dead, except for one.

With a solemn look upon his face, Erik described the interrogation as a fateful lesson for the adventurers. At first the hobgoblin spit out propaganda about how Illidan now controls demons and the usual “you will all die!” rhetoric. However, it soon became clear that this was indeed no ordinary goblinoid – it was was a demon inhabiting a hobgoblin body. Erik then described how the hobgoblin disintegrated into a purple mist that somehow infested the adventurers, making their rests less effective. Not all the powers that the adventurers has so freely spent in this battle would be soon recovered.

The adventurers continued on through the night, eventually to arrive at the hills that surrounded the temple. Looking down upon the temple’s base and across at the temple’s top tower, the five could see proof of Valthrun’s words. A green-black sphere, one score of staff lengths wide, hovered over the central tower. Beneath the sphere, at the top of the tower stood a figure with arms stretch out to what was now clearly the passageway to the demon’s realm. Guards stood at stairways that lead to the temple’s massive doors. More troubling still, a large humanoid construct patrolled the temple’s perimeter, shimmering as shifted around the temple’s grounds.

With this passage, Erik pulled out a small stone attached to a chain. He explained how it was a “Foe Stone”, capable of revealing a creature’s weaknesses. I smiled and wondered if he was using it upon me right then and there. He told of this construct, that it was actually an elemental demon, weakest on reflex. I pointed out that large creatures are likely to be slower to move because of their great bulk and that perhaps his “foe stone” just told him what he already knew. Erik gave the stone a second look and put it way.

The tale continued. There were ten guards upon the temple’s steps, each with strange, crystalline swords. They were clearly elves possessed by demons. Clearly. Erik then told of crazy plans to storm the temple, from scaling smooth walls to flying with ropes, constructing catapults and ridiculous pulley systems, all of which would obviously lead to certain death, I thought to myself. This went on and on. My sense that the adventurers were very inventive was confirmed. I grinned as I took notes.

Finally Erik came to the point where the adventurers decided upon a plan, which was to cast a spell of silence upon two of the guards and then do their best to coup de grace them. Not very sporting, but a plan. As in all good story telling, the best laid plans to do not go as planned, for as soon as Rift cast the mighty spell, it fizzled. In frustration she willfully fired forth a magic missile – the bolts of which impacted a yet undetected magical shield that surrounded the temple.

With this latest failed move by the adventurers, the construct took notice and teleported to the seen of the infraction. The construct, now realized to be a “void reaver”, immediately dealt massive damage to Erik and Z’alden. Rifts little dagger did nothing but the brave Barrick leapt upon the giant construct, distracting it and giving his compatriots better reason to hit the monstrosity. The ranger’s arrows pierced the void reaver and the cleric laid down a zone of “healing sun” that buoyed his allies and confounded his foe. Still, the menace of the temple became more apparent as the adventurers realized that all energy, even divine, was suppressed.

The one void reaver continued to do severe damage to the heroes, yet the dwarf continued to ride it and hinder its attacks. Erik’s powerful attack knocked it prone and Tira’s fire attack realized massive damage upon the creature. Confounding the void reaver, Rift’s “mirror sphere” reflected the enemy’s attacks back upon itself. This was matched by the void reaver spinning around, sweeping fists into three of the adventurers and causing a lot of hurt. Still, Rift’s magic had done its work and the void reaver’s armor was nearly done, parts breaking into pieces to reveal a demon that crackled with lightning energy. Tira’s next attack finished off the void reaver’s armor, shattering what remained to fully reveal the demon, which Erik referred to as a “void lord”. With that, Barrick was thrown off and the power lightning zone that surround the void lord became apparent. Fight close in or from afar, for the middle ground was death.

Note: Erik had me writing furiously, just trying to keep up with pace of battle, and then he stopped. “I need to take my leave now, Eastlander”, he said. “What?”, I implored. There was no changing his mind. He had urgency and trouble upon his face. I shrugged and thought about how a cliffhanger would be good for my followers. My manuscripts are gaining in popularity and I even have scribes who copy my works for a share of the sale. I just might become famous and my works may live on beyond me. My dream.

Note: So this is where I sit now. A day has passed and I don’t know where the adventurers have gone. I sit in my room and turn my notes into prose. As I write these very words, there is a scuffle outside and it almost amuses me when I compare it to the true battles that our heroes have faced, even if lesser than was told. I think I even hear one of the dark, broodish aggressors asking for me by name. He has a vicious dog-like beast with him. Interesting. I’ve been writing too much and am in dire need of a relaxing break.

It has been close to a year since the Beholder was slain. Much has happened in that time. Giants have been slain and suppressed, the town has been rebuilt and more traders and merchants are arriving every day, and the Nentir Vale seems to be at peace, but fate has not yet finished with the heroes. A letter arrives, from an old acquaintance, Valthrun. The letter reads:

“Friends, I beg for your assistance in these dark times. My order, one that Tira already knows of, has fallen. I am the last living member of The Order of The Arcane. One of our best students, Illidan Stormrage has been corrupted, by what I do not know. He has destroyed our temple, taken our darkest secrets, and is now raising an army. Please help me, I cannot defeat him. I will be in Winterhaven”
-Valthrun, Master of Magic

Not a day later a second message arrives, although this one is not in the form of a letter, it takes shape in a Kobold messenger from the Kengi. This Kobold rushes to find Felsmon, and when he does, says in quick breaths, “My lord, Giants, many Giants. Your father needs you. Bring your companions. Kendistar mustn’t fall. Fire, more fire, and a rift in the sky. The Firelord has returned.”

Heroes, you must choose a path.

The dwarf awoke, as so often, staring up at a wooden ceiling. He wondered where he was as he listened to the sounds of movement nearby. The back room of a tavern? His nose scanned for the scent of brewing, but found none. Maybe the cellar of a market – somebody was shouting, and he heard what sounded like sacks of grain being tossed around roughly. Or a stable – lots of grunting, wheezing, and clanking going on around him.

The dwarf, who could not remember his own name just yet, licked his lips to see whether he had been drinking the night before. At once his eyes narrowed, adrenaline coursed through his frame, and on instinct he rolled to his right, just avoiding a blast that singed the floor where he had lain. Rolling onto his stomach he sprang to his feet to find himself facing a gruesome floating ball of flesh covered with eyestalks. A Beholder, he knew it to be. It was injured, and it seemed to be surrounded by all manner of other armed creatures.

As the dwarf tried to decide whether to attack or defend the monstrosity, the Beholder was beset by arrows, fire, lightning blasts, and a powerful swing from a massive Dragonborn who seemed familiar. A halfling-sized creature even stabbed at the Beholder’s fierce central eye with a dagger. But the dangerous spheroid, fighting for its life now, sent rays in all directions from its eyestalks. One of its antagonists fell unconscious while another, a woman, ran away screaming in fear.

The dwarf picked a side, more from instinct than analysis. Without serious injury and heavily armored, he tried to distract the Beholder away from the fallen warrior, as did the Dragonborn, but to no avail – another blast from an eyestalk killed the poor wretch. The dwarf, enraged, swung at the round monster but missed. As he shifted around looking for an opening, he spotted a female in the distance, who calmly sent a missilelike spell at the Beholder, ending its life and the battle.

A slap on the back from the Dragonborn surprised him. “All good, Barrick?” Barrick – he knew that name, he was sure of it. “All good, all good.” The female who had killed the Beholder walked up and looked him in the eyes, and called out “Z’alden, can you come, looks like another concussion. Sit down, my friend, sit down.”

---

The dwarf came to, finding himself standing, fully armored, in an embrace with a huge humanoid. Probably another happy drunk. He himself tended towards glumness and archness, but some others grew hug-happy, he well knew. Had it been ale or mead this time? He noticed two women in the background, both pointing at him and his buddy. He became aware of a unique bitterness, and reacted by swinging his helmeted head at what he now knew to be his assailant’s face. He missed, being too short and without any real strength in his legs, but the two women, apparently spellcasters both, each hit the creature with magic blasts, and the brute fell dead at the dwarf’s feet.

He wasn’t sure he recognized the women, but he now knew what side he was on – theirs. The crowd was large and active, but the dwarf had an intuitive grasp of the situation from body language and defensive tactics. The main threats were another humanoid like the one just killed, and a huge Beholder doling out deadly magic from its eyestalks. He watched as a halfling-sized creature attacked the humanoid with a dagger. He thought that would be the death of the pint-sized braveheart, but just then a projectile of some sort threaded the Beholder’s eyestalks and struck the neck of the humanoid, who fell gurgling to his painful death.

Meanwhile an enormous Dragonborn was standing over a fallen human, fending off bites from the Beholder while laying hands on the human in a healing ritual. This was someone worth fighting next to! The dwarf sprang into action, twirling his axe like a baton at the horrid ball of flesh until one of the eyestalks blasted him onto his back, senseless. The dwarf sensed no more.

---

The dwarf came to consciousness facing a very large humanoid whom he did not recognize. He wondered whether they were friends. He – the dwarf – was holding a shield in one hand, and axe in the other, and in his axe hand also an eye at the end of a thin rope. He knew this must be a drinking game, but could not think of the name of the game, or exactly how it went. It appeared that the stranger was holding him by each of its powerful hands, and before he could react he found himself flipped upside-down and smashed onto the wooden floor. The dwarf sensed no more.

---

The dwarf, coming to his senses slowly, could tell he was held by a powerful creature who wished him no good. He saw magic blasts careening overhead as the woman who sent them turned invisible. He saw a great blob of flesh with one big angry eye and several smaller eyes at the ends of appendages, bobbing around chaotically and shooting rays at the many warriors within a few steps. One of these rays struck the dwarf full in the face, and he realized he wanted to defend the great ball of lovely flesh, to find the invisible woman and kill her, or maybe to kill a different woman, who had just been knocked unconscious by another ray, or maybe to kill the giant Dragonborn fighting nearby.

Held fast by an unseen creature and unable to move to do any of this killing, the dwarf had a chance to notice the taste of blood in his mouth. Immediately realizing the danger he was in, his focus returned, and he perceived the blob of flesh for what it was, a horrific and dangerous enemy. Though immobile, he managed to surprise the great round beast, and even cut off one of its many eyestalks, which in falling wrapped itself around his axe handle. Suddenly the gruesome thing disappeared completely. He turned his attention to the strong humanoid holding him, getting in a shot at his knees. But the brute did not buckle, instead lifting the dwarf like a sack of grain and bringing him down hard on his head. The dwarf sensed no more.

---

The dwarf struggled to clear his head. He sensed commotion around him, but what was going on? He watched as a flaming sphere appeared from out of nowhere in the midst of several huge humanoid creatures. What was that all about? It looked like some magic blasts were being shot around the high-ceilinged room. One of the humanoids picked up a smaller being and pile-drove in into the floor. A bar fight getting out of hand? The dwarf tasted not ale, but rather his own blood, and that had the usual effect. Adrenaline flowed, and the dwarf struck out at one of the humanoids, stopped the creature in its tracks, then leapt to his feet. Enraged now, dwarven blood pumping to every muscle and fiber, he spun his axe viciously at the two figures nearest him.

The dwarf noticed a bulbous Beholder nearby, shooting rays from its eyestalks at a motley crew fighting against it. One of this crew, a female, killed a cleric hiding behind the Beholder with a fire blast, but at the same time one of the humanoids killed a smaller creature. A halfling-sized creature shot off one of the Beholder’s eyestalks with a crossbow, but one of the humanoids kicked another woman in the head, knocking her unconscious. And so on.

Suddenly a huge Dragonborn approached the dwarf and yelled “Barrick – amulet?” Crouching defensively, Barrick – if that was indeed his name – readied his shield for the blow that he expected. “Barrick – amulet!” came another shout from the impatient giant. The dwarf realized that no foe would know his name, and tossed over the necklace he was wearing. This seemed to satisfy his apparent ally, who strode confidently towards the Beholder. Whatever the amulet was supposed to do, it apparently did not; the Dragonborn soon flew away, howling in fear, victim of one of the eyestalks’ rays.

While he watched this display, the dwarf was grabbed from behind by one of the humanoids and dragged into a melee. Fully energized by now, he managed to strike his assailant and two others, break free of the grab. He pushed two of them into a nearby fire, and killed the third outright with an axe blow to the neck! Seeing the Beholder attack a prone human, he got in a lick or two, then watched as the Dragonborn, free from his psychic torture, threw everything he had at the many-eyed monstrosity. Watching too much and moving too little, he was hit in the head by one of the humanoids. The dwarf sensed no more.

---

The dwarf felt soothed by the healing touch of a woman, a strange woman. As he looked around, he spotted an enormous Dragonborn breathing fire on a handful of tough-looking humanoid figures. One of these, angered by the attack, jumped at the dwarf and kicked him in the head. The dwarf sensed no more.

---

The campaign had not started well for the dwarf Barrick. After a long planning session, he and Felsmon had had a go at the guards on the castle’s parapets, but Barrick missed his mark, and needed help from his comrades. Happens sometimes, he knew.

His companions were at their best, though. After Rift had magicked the castle’s big doors in half, Felsmon cowed an entire roomful of orcs and goblins (lackeys and minions all) by spreading his wings and bellowing like, well, a dragon. Clever Tira figured out which room would contain the antidote that would give them back their lives, and Z’alden found it there, and doled it out. They together organized the defenses: dead orcs as fake sentries, mines, and so on, with Rift casting locks at the most important points. The group tried to rest before the battle they knew was coming.

Despite their best attempts, they missed a secret door, and through it burst 4 powerful-looking humanoid figures. Barrick just had time to grab his weapons, and to bite down hard on his tongue.

The dwarf had long ago undergone training in BattleRage, and had recently once again taken up the practice of self-mutivation, as it was called. The simple technique of biting his tongue hard enough to draw blood worked for any dwarf, although other creatures had their own techniques. In a dwarf, a tongue wound would heal within an hour, but the taste of blood in the mouth would meanwhile elevate adrenaline, dull pain, focus the mind, heighten the senses, and produce a rage that could be directed at enemies with shocking results. Of course, he had tasted lots of blood besides his own. Many an axe blow had splashed orc blood onto his face, and he had bitten some 50 or 75 foes through the years. But dwarf blood tasted different from any other, bitter, not so salty, unique.

For Barrick, who had been fighting for what seemed like a hundred years, the technique had another advantage. He knew the taste of his own blood better than he knew his own name, and he knew what it meant. In the fog of drunkenness, or during the temporary amnesia after getting his bell rung, or sometimes even in the weakness of having his mind controlled by an enemy, the taste of his own blood produced the sudden realization that his own death was waiting for him, perhaps only seconds away. More times than he could count, this taste had spurred him to quick action, and kept his mortality at bay.

He bit down hard now, as the second Humanoid through the door grabbed him, upended him, and pile-drived him to the ground. The dwarf sensed no more.

---

A towering humanoid over 5 staff lengths high – a burning man – wreaked destruction across the land. Forests were on fire. Villagers screamed in terror. In front of the creature, Nathaniel stood small next to Milandra. He was armed with a mace in each hand like the cleric Z’alden, but his maces would be as ineffectual against it as the Church’s teachings on their meaning. Milandra wielded a staff like the great wizard Rift, but her meager spells would have little effect. The monster moved on until it was over top of them. The ground changed to lava underneath them, and they sank into the scorching molten rock. No one heard their screams.

Nathaniel awoke in a cold sweat. His memory was crystal clear of the nightmare. It was eerily similar to the story of the Heroes in the land of the Kengi, but the village was one that he knew to the south. He really did need to get some real sleep and not spend so much time copying the True Writings. But, he was learning so much! Soon, he would know enough to spread the teachings that he was formulating. And, with Milandra’s help, he was certain that he could go even faster; if nothing else, he would be more careful. He hoped that she would keep helping. He liked her being around. Just thinking about being under the bookcase with her, that close, the young monk flushed. Such thoughts were not acceptable for an Acolyte. He washed quickly and went out to the cluster.

Milandra was walking with the Perigee. The half-elven girl motioned to Nathaniel to join them. “Nathaniel, do you realize that tomorrow is the celebration of the fall of Independence? The Day of Verdenscales! I will bet you, good Perigee, that the monks know a different version of the story of that leads up to Verdenscales. That of the Hill giants and Trolls. I am certain theirs differs from the one that we are taught.”

The Perigee chuckled, “Little Nadirine, the Church’s teachings are one and the same for those under the Zenith and those above the Nadir. What could be different?”

Milandra drew up in front of Nathaniel, almost accusingly. “Zenithyte, tell me, when the Paragons reached the narrow canyon of Fear and Despair, as they took the fast and easy road that would lead to the deception of freedom, as the poison of independent thought coursed through their veins, whose powers were the most important in the great teaching?”

Nathaniel almost could not believe the question. Even with all that he had learned from the True Writings, the parroting response was automatic, “Why the great Paladin Felsmon, of course. He flew up to release those trapped by the net of indecision. His radiance and power reflect the clear cut choice that service brings to all. Followed closely by the mighty dwarf Barrick, whose axe of truth slashed in a rain of steel the Hill Giants and their rocks of impure thought. And, the dwarf’s ring of feather fall upheld the lives of his comrades as the net tumbled open, even as the Church supports us from the pull of evil.”

The Perigee looked horrified. “No, my little Zenithyte. Have you forgotten the Ettin whose heads are the wrong two ways to live? Or the Stone Giant of the false lures of the world? Or the Troll of Cowardice? At the very least, it is clear in this story that the great wall of blades of Truth and Light from the friend Monica formed the barrier to all that tries to strike down the Church. Just as the tales of the Paragons bring new life to us all, so Monica’s actions in their presence are a key point of the story. But, the most important, as it is known, is shared greatness between Rift with the mighty Hammerfall that she caused to fall about those three, lifting up with the power of conviction only to let the evil drop and be ripped to shreds by the power of the blades of Truth and Light, and Tira with the incredible power that the control of Chaos brings to the Church as she took the Jewel of the Virtues focused into a Dazzling Ray and showed us Valor, Justice, and Honor defeating the Hill Giant completely and severely wounding the Stone Giant and the Ettin in three swift rays. The meaning could not be more clear, and the importance more obvious."

The Perigee paused reflectively, “Yes, it is true that the cleric Z’alden uses three of the other virtues: Sacrifice, Compassion, and Spirituality to raise back to the Church the light that is the friend Monica, and,” she emphasized, "his role in defeating the enemy is duly noted in the Teachings, as are the Honour of the baiting strikes of the warrior Barrick that vanquished the Hill Giants of Doubt that remained. Also, there is much to be learned from the Justice of Felsmon’s Shield of Bonderstong absorbing the worst of the great blow from the Stone Giant of the false world. The meaning there is also clear. But, the most important, as it is in so many of the tales – it is the women. Rift’s missile of the raging pink of Honesty slew two of the monsters. Even Rajel, about whom so little is written, it was her arrow, like a Hawk’s Talon, that killed the Ettin of the two most wrong ways to live. It is known.”

Nathaniel could only cough loudly to cover his involuntary response, “Or*sh*t”. But, then he realized that he had not seen the True Writings on this tale or on that great deception by the icon of freedom: the Green Dragon. Did he really know what had happened or what the meaning from this story or any other really was? What was the meaning of Z’alden’s final spell in this tale, crystal blue dragonclaws of light that exploded like a solar flare into the monsters. Did he really bring the Light to the false world, slaying the stone giant?

Maybe the adventurers were simply in the wrong canyon at the wrong time while en route to their real goal of finding the antidote to the poison? Maybe they were in the right canyon, if the story was to be believed. How else, after the other monsters were defeated and the Troll of Cowardice ran away, could they have found a cache of great treasure and weapons unlike anything the Paragons had ever seen before.

Somehow, he was sure, the teachings he had learned, and those of the Nadir that had made Milandra so snarky, had missed the depth of the real experience for the adventurers. Even the True Writings of Torben Eastlander surely missed the emotions that they felt at the time. Why describe fear to a scrivener after the monster is slain? At least, it would be minimized. In his mind’s eye, he could see the party walking with unease into the narrow canyon. He could smell the fear on the Fands and on the cleric, too, as some of their party were swept up in a huge net. The surprise surely even the unflappable Tira felt as the Hill Giants leapt out behind them throwing boulders. The frustration as they were bottled up on both sides when the Stone Giant, Ettin, and Troll appeared at the other end of the canyon. But, Nathaniel was sure that the Teachings had some roots in the Truth. The little band did not despair. They worked together, tightened their grips, marshaled their best resources, and defeated a bit more of the evil that is in the world.

His little reverie was broken when the Perigee said, “Come Milandra, I would talk to the Apogee about this. These Zenithytes need better instruction. And, this one will need to be watched” Milandra shrugged her shoulders as they passed by Nathaniel.

Nathaniel’s duties kept him from returning to the Stacks that night. He was simply too tired. Luckily, his dreams were untroubled. When he awoke, his first thought was to find Milandra, and see if they could make a plan to return to the True Writings soon. He rushed out to the cluster.

As he had hoped, Milandra and some of the other Nadirines were out, too. They were doing the morning exercises. To his surprise, they were starting the celebration of Verdenscales, the fall of Independence. But, that was in two days. No wait, he had lost track of time. Today was the celebration. “Wings of the dragon, extend,” the Perigee called out as the girls spread their arms wide. “Axes of the dwarf defeat the evils of independence,” she boomed, and the Nadirines swung imaginary weapons at the dragon in front of them. “Ride the dragon like the great dwarf, making Independence pay the price for its deception.”

The girls took a deep stance and sliced into the air.

Somehow Nathaniel was fairly certain that was not what the dwarf had looked like on the back of the green dragon. Barrick must have been huge for one thing. “Dwarf” was the Church’s metaphor for judging the greatness of a man by his deeds and not his veneer of flesh. The brave and valiant warrior was all that Eastlanders should emulate in service to the Church. But, there were no real dwarves. The living Barrick was probably a staff and a half high! Actually, Nathaniel had never seen anyone that tall, but Barrick’s prowess made it seem to be so. To ride a dragon, the less than a staff high that the Teachings described just couldn’t be right.

Even as Milandra and her fellow Nadirites went through the exercises of the deception that marked the start of the day, Nathaniel wondered at the version of the story he might find in the True Writings. He thought back to its start and tried to strip away the layers of interpretation. How would he tell the Teaching as a story? In the Church’s version, Verdenscales symbols the Folly of Independence. When the adventurers accept his alliance and offer of flight to quickly reach the castle where the antidote is kept, the Dragon’s duplicity is revealed as he tries to dislodge them once in flight and let them die falling to the ground. The soft sand of the Church itself and the wings of Justice that support the Paladin save most of the Paragons, while the mighty dwarf rides the Folly and extracts a heavy price from its deceit, even as the Church extracts the price from all who purse the falsehood of independence.

How would he relate the point in the story where Z’alden uses the Crossbow of Heavy Truth to knock the dragon out of the sky and place it onto the sand of the Church, where the true ways of the Paragons can injure it enough until Independence itself flees, and the five and their friends are truly free together.

While many parts of the Church’s version did not make sense, Z’alden’s crossbow in this story was the least convincing. The cleric’s Crossbow of Heavy Truth is almost never mentioned in any of the Teachings, and rarely does it impact the outcome of a story. Nathaniel remembered falling asleep during Master Windebagg’s interpretation of the importance of the gigantic bolt launched from the cleric’s crossbow: Truthiness bringing down Freedom. More likely, Barrick had taken a swipe at the tail of the wyrm and that had caused the dragon to fall from the sky. Then, the adventurers had engaged it with great valor until the Beast had fled.

Nathaniel had to know what Torben Eastlander had really written about this tale. Late that night, he snuck back into the Library. He found two guards asleep! That was a real help. After lighting a small candle, he used the special key Master Renithar had given him, pulled out the volume, and placed it on the table.

“Aha!” Milandra jumped out at him. How had he not noticed her? “I knew you would be here to find out what we are really celebrating on Verdenscales Day. Why do we eat sandy bread for one thing? I want to know, too.”

Trying to keep calm, Nathaniel, half out of skin, glared at the half-elf. “I could have tipped over the ink I jumped so much! Or, the guards could have heard. What were you thinking?”

“Find your armor and be calm. The guards are asleep. Convenient isn’t it?” Milandra smirked at him. Nathaniel didn’t have time to ponder that enigmatic smirk. He opened the tome and moved quickly to the start of the interview on Verdenscales. He dipped his quill to copy.

At the beach, the party had found the Green Dragon Verdenscales waiting from them. Felsmon, no fear in that Paladin, especially since the Dragon is probably half the size they say, parleyed with the Beast.

In a surprising twist, Tira related to me how she got Verdenscales to agree to draw a card from the Deck of Many Things. I have played cards many times and know never to draw from a woman’s deck. It is always stacked. Verdenscales knew the same. He let Tira draw, saw her crummy card of “Balance” (more on what the sorceress says the card “made” her do to ruin a good man – ha!), and waited until the Deck simply vanished. Verdenscales agreed to an alliance against Xathros the Beholder (Trust a dragon after he has already tricked you in a card draw. Yes, these adventurers are that stupid) in which he would fly them back to the castle to search for the antidote to the poison.

Barrick, Z’alden, Rift, and Tira mounted up while Felsmon flew beside. (The wings on the dragonborn are true. I have seen them).

A few hundred feet in the air, according to Barrick, who has an issue with distances I note, Verdenscales inverted over and over trying to shake them off. According to Tira, she used her magical rod to hang safely in the air. More likely, the fall wasn’t that far. Barrick simply held on (again note that the size of the dragon must be much smaller than Felsmon’s impression if the dwarf could actually ride a dragon). Z’alden fell and sprained an ankle (this is the part that makes the most sense). Rift’s spell of feather fall let her float safely to the ground (the evidence of a small distance from ground to dragon becomes clearer all the time. The cleric has told me before that he has a bad leg, everyone else fell safely. Makes more sense. Why do they always have to dress up the story with these imaginary actions?).

Then, an epic battle began. Most of this I am want to believe, especially after my fifth pint, but what does it matter? I am the scrivener telling their drivel. I will not comment, but simply relay what the adventurers told me.

As they read more, Nathaniel gaped at Milandra – this is where the Church had taken so many liberties, imparting meaning and symbols to a real life and death struggle. The only part that Nathaniel refused to believe was the use of the cleric’s crossbow. It was simply too pat. Maybe the monk who had last transcribed the True Writings was favoriting Z’alden, trying to give him an action that made a real difference? And, oh how the Church had run with that addition.

The cleric looked at me and had silver fire in his eyes. He took a deep draught of Nentir ’97 and spoke, “This was second time we had agreed to work with evil to further our ends. Spitting out the sand from the fall, I realized that how far I had fallen. It would not happen again. Even as the dragon strafed fire and poison on our friends, even as he used his magicks to try to strike fear in our hearts, we taught him the price of his Folly and showed him the stuff of which Truth is made. Rift’s cold blast coated Verdenscales wings, making him able to move little more than two staff lengths in six heartbeats. With Barrick still on his back, the Dragon was distracted so much that he could not even bite.”

“Oh, Verdenscales would rue the day he tried to deceive us. My mighty friend Felsmon placed radiant shackles of light to bring Justice to the Dragon. Each time the dragon harmed us, the shackles tightening, exacting a toll on the villainous wyrm.

Milandra looked up at Nathaniel. “Does that really say that Felsmon used Justice on the symbol of Independence? Could the Teachings be right?” Nathaniel shook his head. Maybe not everything was wrong in the Teachings, but something was certainly wrong when they were relayed to the student in the Chamber of Understanding. They copied on.

Tira had a magical rod that allowed her to be suspended in the air and attack Verdenscales. With two massive bolts of fire, I could smell roast Dragon from the ground. I cheered loudly! And, then, I took aim with a Searing Light, teaching the creature that failure to follow the light means that you cannot see. Indeed, now the Dragon was blind. Still, he clawed into Barrick with such ferocity that he shook off my good friend dwarf. Worry not, he floated safely to the ground with his ring of feather fall. (I cannot resist here – yet another safe landing. The distance was simply not what their small minds recall, and they must invent magical ways to describe a fall into the soft, supporting sand that saved them).

I must tell you the joy I felt as the Paladin swooped onto the Dragon with the Blood of Welling up in his valiant veins, he smote the creature mightily. Rift used a magical jewel to cast three separate magical missiles of pink force at the Wyrm. Inspired, I pulled out my crossbow of Heavy Metal. Truth be told, I am not very good with this weapon, despite my father’s teachings. He would have been proud that day. I took aim at the flying beast, said a prayer to the Great Dragon of whom this Green Wyrm is vile replica, and a massive bolt took flight, penetrating its wing, and bringing it down hard upon the earth! A grounded dragon makes for an easy picking, and my friends did not disappoint.

What I did not expect was that the massive tail of the Wyrm would be such a formidable weapon itself. Lashing out, the little Halfling, Monica, Rajel, Rift, Colefen, Tira, Felmson, and I were all hit by it. My exultation was dampened by this set-back. But, I should not have despaired even a moment. Even as the dragon bit into me deeply and injected an evil poision, Barrick and his new Dragonslayer axe roared into action. Each storke took a heavy toll on the Foolish Wyrm.

Not finished yet, Verdenscales returned to the air and made us remember he was not some little drake. His strafing attacks of breath took a toll on us, but were nothing compared to the flying radiant charge of Felsmon. A black ichor flowed freely from the beneath green scales. Enraged, his breath took a price from Felsmon and Stewie, but the Dragon had no match for power that surround him them. Magical mirrors from Rift’s mighty spell confounded the Wyrm. The craven fled in terror, yelling back at us, “You have made an enemy for life.”
We took the boats, and Rift conjured up a gale to get us back to the Wizard’s Isle as quickly as possible. Even as we tried to rest

Nathaniel looked up at Milandra, “What was that?”

The pale, thin Apogee stood before them. His widow’s peak was raised from his eyes in a look of triumph. “Renithar is not the only one who knows a few tricks. Seize them!” Two of the Apogee’s personal retinue leveled spears at the youngsters. “The Chamber of Understanding will be just the place for both of you to return to the Teachings and forget about your folly into things that do not concern you.”

Renithar stared at the half-burnt tome in his hands. Among the scorched pages of several books, he had found the section in Z’alden’s journal that paralleled the very part of the True Writings that Nathaniel had been copying just yesterday. It was only in the last few weeks that he had gotten the courage to open these books – possession of them would be punishable with more than a trip to the Chamber of Understanding. He shuddered at the thought.

The aging monk could only wonder at the other treasures that had been lost when the Church had burned down his ancestral home. As a young child, he had marveled as his grandmother would show him scrolls and items collected by her ancestor the cleric Zenithar al Denithar. She showed him maces with runes that she said could destroy the living dead. Symbols of the Dragon god that could call down fire from the sky. Such power seemed at odds with her description of a kind hearted cleric of Bahamut that she had always called her “uncle” Z’alden. In these troubled times, Bahamut was no longer a god to be worshipped, but an image to be Understood and Z’alden a figure to be interpreted by the Church of the Eastlander.

But, the people had known the power of the place that the real cleric had raised up and used as a home to tend to the poor, find justice for the downtrodded, to serve those that needed hope, and seek vengeance for those that man’s justice had forgotten. When some started to venerate the small keep where Z’alden Silverflame had last been seen ages ago, the Zenith had let it go. That was, until a few starting having visions of the Silverflame while near the keep. The Marshalls of Introspection had solved most of the problems, but they could not quash the tales that said that a young man had brought forth an image of silvery dragon’s head with a shimmering silver and purple light around it. A sick man had been healed at the sight.

The bright red and orange flames that destroyed the structure were in stark contrast to that tale. Those flames took with them many of the wondrous items that his grandmother had hidden from the Church brethren as their power had grown. Renithar sadly shook his head and turned his attention back to the tome:

As I rock on this boat, driven by the wizard’s winds, I must surrender my innate desire for introspection. The poison courses through our veins, and I must search my recollections for any clue as to a means to combat it. Another day I will wrestle with the decisions we have made to help the Beholder, Xathros, and the actions we took that allowed him to gain the key to the Underdark.

Here it was in ashen text – a key tenet of the Church: we must only listen to the Church and not reflect inwardly. Thought is the poison of independence. Maybe the Zenith’s teachings had it right? He read on

Days ago it was now that we awoke to feelings of bruising and battering. We had been to a party, and the Wack a Thuns were us. An unruly mob of orcs stood in front of us. We were strung up on a wall, chained with magical links that suppressed our powers. Our possessions were gone. We were somewhere in the castle tower. An iris like pattern on the floor caught my attention but I had not the freedom to investigate it.

The surrending of freedom – there was another tenet of the Church! Did the True Writings also contain these crucial teachings? He must look at Nathaniel’s copy. Renithar continued through the page:

Compounding the helplessness of the situation, the very folk we had come to rescue were not 20 staff lengths away along with others of the barbarian tribe.

The list of names was obscured by scorching.

Also, Monica and Lars, our friends from the small village were trapped here, too. And, our comrade Prescott was also a prisoner. He was surrounded by masked bounty hunters as they kicked him and pummeled him. Just as he seemed ready to go the gods, an evil cleric would step in and heal him. I did not realize until then how even healing could be made to serve evil.

Our slight banter with the guards resulted in little information and more beatings. The only thing my wife could learn with her charms was that a being named “Xathros” would decide our fate.

His wife! What is this. The cleric was not married in the Church’s version. Then, Renithar thought back to his teachings on the Old Common that Z’alden was using here. What he read as “my wife” was an endearing term for a close female friend and not necessarily telling of a marital status. Still, the idea was intriguing. He continued

In who knows how many hours, a blob of putrid living eyes descended from the tower above. Xathros was a Beholder. The Beholder ordered the vile cleric to heal Prescott and Norfand and ordered the two to fight. I could not resist my feelings of pride when both flung down their weapons refusing this charade of a battle. For their courage, Prescott was dragged off to be “fed to the sea.” Felsmon is chosen as the next to fight Norfand. The dragonborn means no disrespect to Norfand when he declares the barbarian an unworthy opponent. For his insolence, a ray of pain strikes at Felsmon from one of Xathros’ eye stalks. Felsmon takes the hint, grapples with Norfand and renders him unconscious in a matter of seconds, drawing a cry of delight from the bloodthirsty orcs circled round. We still chained could barely see but could not resist the spectacle.

During the fight, like solving a puzzle, I had managed to work a hand free. I consecrated the ground around me to restore us, but for my trouble an eyebeam from Xathros rendered me unconscious. I could not sustain the consecration.

Later, my wife would tell me of Felsmon’s valiant aerial combat, dragonbreath searing the orcs and Xathros, but even for the great Paladin, outnumbered and out powered by the Beholder, the result was predictable. Soon, he was shackled again. As I was awakened by healing from the vile cleric, I heard the Beholder laugh a booming laugh that rattled the bones. “You will serve me well”, the ball of eyes intoned. Never have I felt so helpless. It was as though the gods were punishing us for our hubris of having so successfully defeated each of the foes we found below the castle. Could the powers have found us too powerful and given us over to the hands of our enemies? No, this was a test that we must pass but at a price whose debt I may never cover.

His mind drifted from the difficult Old Common back to the days after the destruction of Z’alden’s keep. That had seemed as helpless as this story his ancestor was relating. With the keep gone and the other hallowed places also destroyed, the people had nowhere to turn but to the Church’s wisdom that sprang from the tales of the great adventurers from the Vale. But, no sick were ever healed at a Surrender of Independence. Still, hope remained for the monk. Luckily, the small black ring has grandmother had pressed into his hand was of little note to the Understanding Marshals that the Zenith had sent to make sure that nothing was left of the keep. His grandmother had hurt him she pressed it into his hand so hard even as she pressed him into service as a monk of the Church. She had wanted his attention. “Watch, learn, and listen. Find what is true quietly, and wait for the time when powers and courage like that of our ancestor and his friends are needed once again.”

It had taken fiften years after his time in the Halls of Understanding to remember those words. Even now, the scars from his days in the Chamber still hurt. He wondered if the adventurers had similar scars from the beatings they endured. Maybe it was this very scene that inspired the Chamber, as it was here that the Church’s story said the Paragons learned obedience. Renithar read on:

The one item of note I hold to is the surprising realization that Craete, Elena’s uncle, was somehow among the lowly guards. Was he a friend or another foe? Perhaps he will find a way to aid us. Suspended as we were, the evil cleric taunted us even as he explained the horrible situation we faced. “Xathros has no arms. We will go to the man who makes arms. You will help us or die a painful death.”

The evil cleric related with glee how we had been poisoned and that only by helping Xathros obtain a key from this armorer would we be given the antidote. I was in a horrible position torn between goodness and loyalty. I could not serve an evil being, but I could not let evil win and see my friends die when there is so much for us to do in this world filled with pain and injustice. I would use the means of helping Xathros to the end of seeing my friends freed. This was justified. We had 4 days to live.

So, there it was, in Z’alden’s own hand. Many of the rationalizations of the Church had a similar structure. Few involved real life and death.

The next few pages were scorched almost beyond recognition. Something was readable about longboats and chains, “returned our weapons”, “The Beholder stayed behind”, “slow march of two days chained to a pole”, “ big foot prints”, “giant’s camp”, “reached a volcano”, “ just the Fands and their wizard, Monica, Lars, Rajel, and us”.

Then a part that the flames had not consumed:

The evil cleric spoke with us as evening fell, “Tomorrow you will go into battle for Xathros. You must bring him the key. No key, no antidote. We will restore your armor and weapons.” We should have turned on the cleric and his companions then, but driven by the helplessness of the situation, we rested or tried to. The Slaad embryos inside of us, part of the Chaos Phage, tried to get out. Tira, Barrick, and I fought them off and vomited up the remains. Felsmon was not so lucky, but his constitution is so strong that he suffered no ill effects. The next morning, before leaving, the evil cleric repeated the instructions and added in one small new bit, “If you find the key, Xathros will give you good weapons. Xathros will not harm you.”

We crossed the volcano’s plain and made our way to the hut of the armorer. Walking off of a cleared path resulted in explosions. Some people are very paranoid about visitors. Felsmon flew up and over to the cottage while Werkofend walked safely and knocked on the door. A Flesh golem was their greeter. With danger at the door, we attacked. Bahamut be praised, and the searing light blinded the golem. Tira’s bright bolts of chaos made the construct of flesh begin to fall apart. Felsmon’s waraxe glowed with the light of the Dragon and smote the creature. Our attention distracted, the stone giant that crouched behind the hut was able to engage and prepare to hurt our wizard. An arcane gate from Rift moved her out of harm’s way and onto a nearby bridge overhanging the lava pool behind the hut. The Fands could not seem to take a good step or swing. Explosions rocked us as they continued to leave the path and find every mine. Mechanical iron men they also awakened. These constructs entered the fray causing massive damage to our friends and Fand comrades. These were not all of our foes. An Eladrin man with a longsword came out of the hut. Clad in little but leather armor, he engaged the Paladin. It is not often a blade touches our valiant dragonborn. But, this one did with such effect that Felsmon’s arms went cold. For the remainder of the battle, his strength was at half its usual potency.

In the course of spells and powers, swords and axes, Tira had the most amazing use of a spell. I have seen her use the Chaos Storm many times, but on this occasion, the Storm battered the stone giant and carried him over the lava pool, where he sunk into oblivion. Unfortunately, her Hurricane that could have tried the same trick on the mechanical was ineffectual against the immovable constructs. The tide was clearly ours after many heartbeats, though Monica and a few Fands had fallen. I consecrated the ground around our friend cleric, and she was soon restored by the dragon. The power of Barrick shifted the battlefield in our favor. One point I must recall, the armorer had a magic amulet shaped as Beholder. It was flung into the lava, but Felsmon flew to recover it. Even now, it may have an important part to play in what becomes of this tale. But, a bright blur that moved in and out of the hut would have more effect in the short term.

With the battle going against him, the Eladrin Elbad surrendered but mocked us for serving Xathros. The truth of his words stung. He went to get the key Xathros sought, only to find it gone from its chest. Somehow, the blur was a being that had stolen the key even as we distracted the Armorer. Xathros had triumphed and tricked us in the process. Elbad implored us to make sure that Xathros was never able to use the key. “You must defeat Xathros”. He explained that the Key opens the iris in the Tower floor. It would send the Tower to the Underdark, allowing great evil to be released. He gave us well-meant gifts. To me, a pair of gloves that would strengthen my faith and allow my healing powers to be more effective. The others he gave gifts also.

Renithar paused. He reflected on the gift his grandmother had given him, the small black ring. It had taken him another twenty years after the keep’s destruction and his time in the Hall of Understanding to wonder whether the obsidian ring might be more than an heirloom. He marveled at the foolishness of the Church whose mantle he wore. The adventurers had had real powers. This was not simply a story to give instruction on the life of the Riftness. The ring was proof. His recent dreams of a great walking flame rising from the South meant that such powers might be needed soon. They continued to haunt even his waking.

The monk was nearly certain that the time was coming that his grandmother had foretold. He could now remember almost everything that she had taught him. Reading the journal of his ancestor helped to clear away the teachings of the Church. And, the arrival of the inquisitive Nathaniel and Milandra he took as a sign from the old gods that he would need to drop his farce and begin to train them and others to stand against the forces of real evil that would soon threaten this land.

He looked around his small cell. The Apogee had not even blanched when he had asked to be moved from the Masters Hall to the Librarian’s quarters near the True Writings. His grandmother had taught him how to get people to cooperate, how to make friends and influence people. A good smile she called it. He could only hope that the Apogee did not realize his true motives – to be close to Nathaniel and Milandra as they began to learn the real Truth for themselves, and to find the powers that he hoped the gods had given to them.

His ruminations were interrupted by the sound of angry voices that culminated in the Zenith booming out a “Who’s there” not 10 staff lengths from his cell door. Taking off the obsidian ring and tossing it into the air, an inky disk of nothingness his full height appeared next to the monk. He placed the tome in the disk, waved his hand, and the ring returned to his finger. He would have to study further his ancestor’s beloved journal another time.

He opened his door, grabbed his staff, and quietly went down the small corridor that separated the Quarters from the Stacks. Renithar could easily see the Zenith and his entourage close to the very table where Nathaniel was conducting his illicit copying of the True texts of the Eastlander.

Masters Windebagg and Stoufful looked ashen. And, Nathaniel and Milandra? Nowhere to be seen, when they had been working here not long ago. This was not good.

“Your Zenith,” the monk called out, “and Mother Nadir. Good man Apogee. My fellow Masters. May the Wisdom be with you all,” he intoned the greeting that reminded all of the wisdom of the writings that the Church espoused. “I see you have found my little mess, my apologies. Since coming to the work at the Library as the Apogee directed me, I find I am at a loss without an Acolyte to serve. Of course, in this sacred area, one cannot have young monks, but these old hands have a harder and harder time with the locks and the quills. You will pardon my lack of cleanliness as my work continues?” The slightest twinkle glowed in his eyes.

From their hiding spot, Nathaniel Yewprick could actually see the side of the face of the Zenith. Even as Renithar spoke, the Zenith immediately relaxed, as though a friend had come to greet him with a few kind words. It was an amazing change, almost a magical change he started to think, but that was silly, magic does not really exist. Magic is the symbol for the forces of the Church. He really had been reading too many of these stories of the Paragons.

The Zenith asked with little more than idle curiosity, “These bits of parchment and locks left undone – that is you?” Renithar nodded saying, “These are not the clues you are looking for, “ and the Zenith continued, “These are not the clues we are looking for.” His eyes looked a little glassy from Nathaniel’s vantage point.

Renithar looked at the others assembled. Nathaniel was sure that he saw the faintest twinkling around Renithar’s mouth, “My wisdoms all, the hour is late, and the people will need your teaching in the morning. Let us retire to the Masters Hall, toast the greatness of the Zenith and the Nadir, open the great Book, and hear Master Windebagg recount the tale of the poison gases and the great chains that bound the heroes as they were held captive by the monster of eyes, Xathros.”

Windebagg perked up immediately at this suggestion, coloring returning to his face. He was an expert on the meaning of Xathros. “Yes, yes, well, glasses from my personal wine cellar of Nentir ’97 would be just the thing as we find the depth in that tale. Felsmon’s role is particularly important, but Barrick’s is not to be slighted, either. And the cards held by the sorceress, why did she not draw while they were in the chains? Oh, such items to consider as we find our guidance. And, the meaning of the Beholder is not just in the eye of the beholder! But the pile of ash that was the Norfand, Yes, yes, let us raise a glass and recount the tale, indeed. We must make the introspection that saves the people from the poison of introspection.”

Renithar intoned, “Your Zenith, shouldn’t we be off to hear the Master’s teaching?” The Zenith nodded dumbly, “we should be off to hear the Master’s teaching.”

The Apogee could only just keep from gaping with mouth open. The Zenith had been furious just seconds before. And, they had come knowing full well that these two Masters were failing in their duties. He was sure that he would have not one but two Masters in the Chamber for days! And, now, nothing but a glass of Nentir ’97. It was not the same. But, he said nothing. He was a bit chagrined. He could not remember exactly why he had assigned Renithar to his cell in the Library or what the old monk was supposed to be doing. He was sure the reason would come back to him. Yes, it would. The Apogee is the High Point of Reason.

As the little party moved off, Nathaniel gently let out a breath of air and looked up to see Renithar looking back at him. The old monk winked and then turned, putting his arm around the Nadir. Nathaniel heard him say quietly, “You should come with me deeper into the stacks of the True Writings some time. We could find Wisdom there." The Nadir tittered as they walked away.

After the silence had lasted long enough to consitute real safety, Nathaniel stared at Milandra, “How did Master Renithar make that all work out? Quills be broken, but I thought we were goners!” The red-headed half-elf only smiled slyly, “Well, it couldn’t have been magic. Everyone knows that is only a symbol of the stories, right?” “Right,” replied the young monk. The beguiling half-elf continued, “At the moment, we’d better return to our cells before we are missed. Tomorrow, I’ll show you how to make sure you don’t screw up so badly again. There is a lot to be done, and we don’t have time for any more of your mistakes.”

The steps back to his Acolyte’s cell passed without Nathaniel even realizing he had completed them.

Nathaniel Yewprick groaned as his door burst inward. He opened an eye and stared at his mentor, Master Renithar. Renithar glowered down at him, his beady eyes barely visible over his hooked beak.

“Nathaniel. Nathaniel! Pay attention!”

Nathaniel mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like “Barrick…sleep…” and then rolled over.

The blast of freezing ice water finally brought him to his senses. Renithar stood over the bed, still holding the dripping jug.

“Nathaniel, you fool! What have you been doing? Your sneaking into the library has been discovered.”

Nathaniel sat bolt upright. “W-h-h-h-a-a-a-t?” he stammered. “Do they know it’s me?”

“No, thank the Torben!” Renithar exclaimed. “And it’s a good thing too. Otherwise, both you and I would be in the Chamber of Understanding before we could say ’Tira’s undergarments’!” As he said this last statement, Renithar winked.

Nathaniel breathed a sigh of relief. Things could not be so bad if Renithar could still make jokes. And Nathaniel knew that Renithar understood. No true believer would utter such blasphemies about Tira, shining light of chaotic beauty, defeater of the Cosmic Spiders and the dreaded Trolls of Idleness and Sloth.

Renithar nodded. “Yes, Nathaniel. I too have read the ancient texts. They are interesting, are they not?” He did not wait for an answer from Nathaniel, who sat dripping and shivering in his frigid monk’s cell.

Renithar continued. “I used the thieves’ tools, just like you. Did you know that they belonged to Rift? Don’t look so shocked. We have many of the so-called relics in the undercroft, below the Chamber of Understanding. Felsmon’s axe, Z’alden’s dragon claw of prayer, even Barrick’s horned helm.”

Horned helm? Nathaniel knew of the other relics, but he had never heard of this helm. Perhaps it came later in the story. Clearly, there was much that he needed to learn.

“Come, come, Nathaniel. You must be more careful. It would not do to get caught. The Chamber of Understanding is not…pleasant.” Nathaniel saw Renithar rub both of his wrists in that odd way of his.

Renithar hauled Nathaniel to his feet. “Come, we have much work to do for tonight’s high feast. The Zenith is preparing for the arrival of the Nadir and her consort of Torben’s Nuns. Masters Windebagg and Stoufful are expecting you to help weed the garden, peel the tubers, and pickle the ankheg.”

By Z’alden’s flame, Nathaniel had forgotten all about the Nadir. And the Nuns. He shifted nervously, and flushed, thinking of them in their leather habits, symbolic of the virtues of Rift and Tira – compassion, humility, and spirituality. With his new knowledge, Nathaniel was no longer so sure of the virtues.

Renithar layed a hand on Nathaniel’s shoulder. “Nathaniel, do not forget. After the feast, the Zenith and the Nadir will be in council with the Masters and the High Nuns. The guards will all be around the council chamber.” As he said the word “all”, Renithar gave a slight squeeze with his hand, and a small nod of his head.

Nathaniel’s heart leapt. With everyone busy, the library would be left unattended. The Writings would be unguarded. He, alone, knew their secrets. And tonight, undisturbed, he would finally discover the Truth.

Nathaniel and Renithar swept out of the dismal room, leaving behind a cluttered mess of books, scrolls, dust, and rat droppings.

---

Nathaniel crept silently down the aisle of the library, an unlit candle in one hand, his parchment and pens in the other. He was getting closer. One more turn, past the Forbidden Catalog of Cards, beyond the Desk of Reference Despair.

But what was this? Up ahead, where there should be only the blackness of the stacks, a light shone dimly. Dismayed, Nathaniel moved forward. As he approached, he could see a small candle on the table. Near the candle were parchment, an ink pot with red ink, and a book. His book! Well, technically, not his. But the Book of Torben Eastlander. The chair, however, was empty.

Where was the monk that dared to infiltrate his library? He alone had the right to read the original writings. Not some upstart son-of-a-carrion crawler. Nathaniel crept closer, using all of his stealth, acquired from the writings and honed in his many library visits.

He thought to himself, “Ahhh, I am getting better at this. Not a mouse could hear me. I move like the wind. As quiet as Erik, stealthy as Prescott, and as courageous as Felsmon.” Nathaniel mused to himself, and then added with a quiet chuckle. “But, like Barrick, I could use a drink of the old Nentir.”

“You’re not as stealthy as Erik, you know.”

Nathaniel jumped as the voice came out of the darkness, almost by his elbow. He turned quickly, and saw a pair of green eyes glowing eerily out of the darkness.

“Wh-o-o-o’s there?” he stammered. He gathered his courage, the third Principle, and drew himself up to his full height (a shade over a staff length). “Who dares to disturb the holy sanctuary of the Library of the Zenith?”

“Who, indeed?” said a bemused voice, as its owner stepped into the light.

Nathaniel stepped back, shocked. Before him stood a Nun, dressed in a green leather habit, which perfectly matched her green eyes. Nathaniel could not help but notice how well the nun’s habit fit. Clearly, whoever had patterned the habit after Rift and Tira’s outfits had done their job a little too well. Nathaniel pushed these distracting thoughts out of his head.

Then Nathaniel noticed her hair. Flaming red, with a small circlet of silver, symbolic of Rift’s circle of protection. Small, pointy ears peaked out of the mass of hair. A half-elf! Nathaniel stared, open mouthed, as the nun waited, amusement twinkling in her captivating eyes.

By the Zenith, what was wrong with him? Was he not a monk of the Zenith, with eternal vows to protect the Flame of Z’alden and the Quill of Torben, at the sacrifice of his individuality, introspection, and independence?

“What are you doing here?” he hissed. “And what are you doing with the forbidden text of Torben Eastlander?” He stopped short, remembering that he was not even supposed to know of its existence.

“Ah, so it is you,” she exclaimed. “I thought so. Give me your thumb.” Without waiting for an answer, she grabbed his hand. She flipped several pages back in the Book, to the page where he had left off, just as the great cubes of the formless void were about to swallow the eight virtuous paragons.

Nathaniel noticed with horror that there was a black thumbprint on the page, clearly visible. Twisting his hand around, the half-elf compared the thumb print on the page with his own thumb, still covered in faded black ink.

“Well, Acolyte, caught black-thumbed, I would say. What do you have to say for yourself?”

Nathaniel shrank, visibly deflating. He whispered, “I was copying Torben Eastlander’s writings. The teachings, they’re…”

“All wrong?” she said, finishing his sentence. “Yes, I know. I came to the same conclusion, a few months ago.”

A few months ago? How had she gotten access to the sacred writings? Nathaniel thought back to his childhood. Years of starvation as an orphan. Then, he found the Church of Torben, and his life had been transformed. He had tried to believe all of the teachings, fervently praying to the mystical Eastlander, practicing the three principles and the eight virtues. Renouncing individuality, introspection, and independence. But doubt had crept in, fueled by the horrors he had seen as a child, rumors of the sins of his father, tales of adventure and exotic lands told to him by his grandfather, long gone now. Then, with Master Renithar’s help, he had discovered the true writings of Torben Eastlander. He thought that he had been alone in his doubt. But, perhaps there were others. Perhaps, with their help, he could set things right, undo the misdeeds of his forefathers.

As if sensing his thoughts, the half-elf stuck out her hand. “The name is Milandra Fillwell. And you are?” She gazed at him with those green eyes.

Nathaniel made up his mind. “Yewprick, Nathaniel Yewprick. Assistant Acolyte under Master Renithar.”

Milandra raised one eyebrow at the name. “Well, Nathaniel Yewprick, very pleased to meet you. However, I think if we intend to finish copying this tome, we had better get cracking.” She gestured to the table. “Pull up a chair. It looks as if I’m a little ahead of you, although our library was missing Volume I, so perhaps you can fill in the missing parchment for me.” She tipped her head and smiled shyly, and Nathaniel was lost.

“Y-e-e-s-s-s-s,” he stammered, and then growing confident. “Yes! Let’s do it.” He eagerly pulled a chair over to the table, fumbling a bit as he lit his candle from hers, and then pulled out his earlier scribblings. “The last event to occur, the Paragons had…”

Milandra put a hand on his arm, and Nathaniel felt a jolt of electricity shoot up his body. “Nathaniel, let’s not fool ourselves any longer. They are not Paragons. They are adventurers. Pure and simple.”

Nathaniel grinned, both at his own foolishness and at the half-elf nun with the red hair. “Right! Well, the adventurers had just encountered two huge cubes of gelatinous muck, with strange shifting cordate material.”

Nathaniel looked down at Torben’s tome, reading the forgotten words:

(Here do I, your poor humble scribe, Torben Eastlander, continue the tale. As related to me by Z’alden, blast his addled brains): Tira charged forward, trying to outrun the cubes.

Nathanial’s thoughts drifted. Hmmm, didn’t Tira have flaming red hair, just like Milandra? Tira was beautiful for sure, but dangerous. Milandra, was she dangerous? Nathaniel looked up from his musings to find Milandra staring at him.

“Sorry,” he exclaimed weakly.

(Bah, what posh is this about running cubes. More like s-lo-w clerics…) Just as Tira ran past a large rock, suddenly large tentacles lashed out, catching her off guard, and grabbing her slim waist. Tira twisted, folding space with her chaotic mind. (Why do I have to put up with this rubbish? I will have to ask Barrick to confirm this tale of twisting space, if I can get his head out of the mug.)

Nathaniel and Milandra sat back, shocked. Why did Torben have such irreverence towards the adventurers. They had been taught that every word was truth, to be taken as the Zenith and the Nadir’s word. “Let’s continue,” said Nathaniel.

Z’alden continues (an entire bottle of Nentir ‘97 wouldn’t shut this cleric up). So then, Rift, summoning her magical reserves, conjures up a wall of flaming aether, torching both the dreaded Roper and one of the Cubic life forms. (At this point, Barrick reared his ugly head from below the table, and began to bellow). There I was, the only dwarf in the party. Who else was going to climb the mighty giant? I runs alongside the fire (blast that Rift), and leaps on the beast’s back. Using my boundless endurance (as the lady dwarves will attest), I hacked and hewed into the beast, choping off ropy limbs left and…

At this point, a large pool of ink lay dried and smeared across the tome. Clearly Torben had been tipping back the Nentir with his companions. Milandra and Nathaniel eagerly flipped to the next page, grinning to each other.

…the wizard had befuddled the party, that much was sure. Felsmon, seeing the flames, and recalling his own torment at Rift’s hands, beat a hasty retreat back into the tunnel, and right into the gelatinous pseudopods of the other cube. But his courage held, backed by his bosum companions Norfand and little Stewart, Felsmon’s new best friend. In one room, Tira, Rift, Barrick, and Z’alden fought against the malevolent roper. In the passage, Felsmon, Norfand, and Stewie battled the cube.

Z’alden used his munificence to call down the wrath of Bahamut upon his foe. The roper writhed in agony as both the divine and arcane flames flared around him. Barrick too felt the heat of Rift’s flames, but shrugged it off, the smell of burnt dwarf beard brought back so many memories of battles past. Meanwhile, as Felsmon grunts, “Cube. Swallowed me. It had an acid spray, but that was nothing compared to my axe. Whacked it good, I did.” The cube however, did more than spray acid, In its cold alien logic, it knew it had to devour its foes, take their essence. First, it swallowed Felsmon. Then Norfand and Stewart, the halfling’s eyes growing wide in fear. They continued to fight on, from within. Stewie pointed – what was that, thought Felsmon? “The evil brain, in the middle!” Felsmon began to aim more carefully, leaping back and forth like a caged dragon, his axe whirling.

Rift, meanwhile, continued to confuse her foes and her friends, immobilizing both the roper and the poor dwarf, still on top. Tira, laughing, shot out bolts of lightning from her fingertips. When this wasn’t enough fun, chains of fire then erupted from her outstretched arms, her fiery red hair reflecting the fire of her spell. She laughed more as she saw Rift, from across the room, being engulfed by a cube. The wizard struggled, then went limp, apparently defeated. (Here, Rift burst into the tavern, shouting.) “Limp, no way! I had the situation fully under control. First I caused a terrible burst of fire within the cube, directing it at the brain. Then I, like, teleported that nasty cube directly into the flames of justice!” (I swear, Rift is looking more attractive these days – I’ve got to lay off the Green Dragon beer.)

---

Nathaniel and Milandra both heard the clunk of the lock at the same time. Their eyes met, as fear spread across both of their faces. The lock turned, and then the door to the library slowly creaked open. Nathaniel extinguished both candles with his fingertips, suppressing the pain. At the same time, Milandra flipped the book shut, and with a smooth fluid motion, replaced it within the cage on the shelf. A confusing babble of voices echoed down the library corridor. With a shock, Nathaniel recognized one of the voices as the Zenith. In the growing lantern light, he saw from Milandra’s fearful expression that the female voice must belong to the Nadir. Quickly gathering up their parchments and quills, Milandra and Nathaniel melted into the shadows at the back of the aisle of forbidden books. Nathaniel noticed with dismay that the aisle was a dead end.

Nathaniel could tell that several of the Masters were leading the party along. He recognized the voices of both Windebagg and Ofit Stoufful. Windebagg was puffing along, bellowing “…and our security is top notch, I say, top notch. Never had a breach, eh Ofit?” A single gruff grunt was the only response. The pool of light had reached the aisle where the two trespassers stood. Nathaniel knew there was no hope of evading capture. But in a flash, he knew he had a duty to protect the fragile young half-elf standing beside him. Not a single doubt crossed his mind, it was indeed up to him. As the Acolyte of the pair, he knew the most about the layout of the library. He alone could save them. He tensed his muscles for a sudden charge. He would grab Milandra and burst free of their would-be captors. He would move so quickly, they would not even recognize him…

As this last thought crossed his mind, he suddenly found himself pulled down and backwards. Milandra grabbed him, and quick as lightning, pulled him down, squeezing both of them onto the lowest shelf, which was free of books. They lay, side-by-side, on the shelves of this aisle and the next-one over. In the flickering lamplight, Nathaniel saw Milandra put a long delicate finger to her lips, motioning him to silence. Nathaniel lay there, too shocked to protest. His plan…she had thwarted it. Confound it, was he a man or a chapel mouse?

Nathaniel thought back to the last page they had been copying…

Apparently, as any schoolchild could have told them, once the adventurers realized they should target the brains of the six-sided creatures, the battle was quickly won. Barrick, Z’alden, and Tira finished off the roper, the stench of burning tentacles still in their nostrils as they raced to help their friends. Z’alden quickly blinded a cube, the searing light finding its way to the creature’s dark heart. The other cube was brought to justice (note to self – before publication I must remove the gratuitous use of the word “justice”, otherwise some well-meaning soul will think there is some divine will at work, and make my tome into some sort of religion). Barrick, taking his sword, charged the cube, running right through it and crashing straight into Felsmon and Norfand, both still inside.

(At this point, Tira finally joined our group, saying goodbye to the good-looking guardsman at the bar). “We found a dead elf!” she exclaimed. “With jewels of arcane focus!” (Out of the corner of my eye I saw Felsmon roll his own eyes.) “Big deal. Just some lumpy stones. Tell T.E. about the stinky frogs.” Tira glared at Felsmon. (I gather that there were indeed terrible frog-like creatures. “Slaads,” they called them. Whatever.) Tira continued, “There we were, striding boldly through the caverns, ready for anything, except frogs. I don’t hate frogs, not as much as snakes, but I don’t like them either.” Apparently the slaads had leapt out of the water, just after we descended a waterfall at least 100 staff lengths high (I don’t believe this part, and neither should the gentle reader). The slaads were creatures of chaos, and sensing a worthy opponent, they concentrated their malevolence on Tira the sorceress. There were three huge green slaads, and one smaller red one, apparently the runt of the litter. They inflicted terrible damage on Tira, Felsmon, Z’alden, and Barrick, implanting chaos phages within them. Somehow Rift escaped this fate. Tira suggested that Rift smelled too bad at this point, and no one would get near her who valued their senses.

The party tried over and over to strike the foul amphibians, but none of them could connect. Finally, Barrick was able to draw them to him with his battle prowess, and the paragons’ hits began to tell. Z’alden’s god smiled down on him with tooth, claw, and radiant flames. But the slaad could teleport, and they quickly evaded Z’s attacks. Apparently, Rift was able to kill one of them with a ray of frost (cloud of stench perhaps?). Tira gave the runt a taste of its own medicine, striking it down with a bolt of chaos. Finally, Felsmon and Barrick gave the combined dragonborn-dwarf yell, and the remaining two slaad fled to the safety of their dark lake.

As the dust and cobwebs tickled his nose, Nathanial thought about that last mysterious sentence of Torben’s.

The adventurers came into a small room. No one was there, but it had evidence of recent habitation, including a secret peephole into the slaad chamber. Suddenly, a green gas hissed into the room. Z’alden stared, shocked, as one by one, the party dropped into unconsciousness. His last thoughts before he drifted off, were, “by the golden dragon, we should not have searched the room so thoroughly…”

Nathaniel’s nose itched even more. Milandra, facing him, saw his distress. She reached over to him, and rather than brushing away the cobwebs as he expected, she instead grabbed onto his nose, holding tight. After a moment, the spasm subsided, and she released his aching proboscis.

The voices at the end of the aisle grew clearer as the light filled the aisle. A deep voice rang out. The Zenith himself!

“Masters Windebagg and Stoufful, you have indeed been most diligent in your guarding of the library. So diligent in fact, that you deserve a reward. Perhaps a month in the Chamber of Understanding might be in order?”

Nathaniel heard a sharp intake of breath, and a wheezing gasp.

“But, my lord, I do not understand. We have been most…”

The deep voice rang out. “You have been most lax. Several times the guards have been called out for disturbances in the library. We have found bits of parchment and drops of ink in the forbidden areas.”

At this, Nathaniel saw Milandra glare at him. Nathaniel tried to look contrite, but the nearness of the half-elf in her green leather was most distracting, and his expression instead took on a look of extreme constipation.

The voice continued. “And look, the cage containing the true words of Torben Eastlander, left unguarded and not even locked. Tsk, tsk tsk. How will we maintain peaceful order in our society, if young monks begin to suspect the truth? What say you, Nadir, do you have such problems in the Convent?” A fierce debate started to rage, with the Masters talking loudly and the Nuns responding shrilly, each one protesting their innocence more strongly than the other.

Without warning, a sneeze exploded out of Nathaniel, raising a small cloud of dust and debris. The voices, which had been arguing vehemently, grew chillingly silent.

“Who’s there?” boomed the commanding voice of the Zenith.

Nathaniel held his breath, and jumped. The water in the aqueduct was cold, “Tarrasque’s Tail!” the young monk muttered as the cold bit in. Nathaniel kicked with his legs to keep his head above water, his arms over his head, holding the oilskin package as high and dry as he could. As he bobbed into the dark tunnel several thoughts crowded his mind, all at once. “Am I going too far? Have I become careless? Has my curiosity with Eastlander, and the truth, become an obsession? If I die tonight will all my efforts be lost? Could Barrick really drink as much as the stories claim?”

He had heard the guard’s dogs barking just as the last bit of light faded away. He floated along with the current, always holding his hands over his head. He risked a lot making the copies he held aloft. He thought he had been as careful as he could. He had waited patiently as that overweight Master Windebagg and his beanpole lackey went through their rounds. He had shuttered his lantern, yielding only the slight bit of light necessary to copy from the holy manuscripts. He wrote so quickly that he barely knew what he was copying. For now it was simply word after word; he would read the sentences later. He had made no more sound than the quiet scratching of quill on parchment. Yet somehow they had known that someone was there.

He had first heard the dogs’ collars jingling, followed by a gruff “He must be in here!” Even knowing his body was in grave peril, he carefully replaced the Eastlander tome and took the time to seal his copies in the oilskin wrappings. But then he ran with a ferocity his legs had not felt since pilfering old man Mena’s bottle of port on a dare so many years ago.

Knowing he could not escape through the main entrance to the library, he headed toward the back. There, just as he remembered was the small vented opening to the water supply for the buildings down the hillside. If they knew his identity the running would be for naught, but it was the only chance he had. Better the cold dark water than a trip to the Chamber of Understanding. Nathaniel held his breath, and jumped.

It was not long before he saw dim moonlight ahead. Less than a minute later Nathaniel was hauling himself onto the shore of the far bank and moving quickly into the forest beyond. By the time he had circled back to the rear entrance of the abbey his tunic had stopped dripping and he was able to make his way back to his meager room without being seen. He quickly changed and spent the rest of the night lying awake, wondering if or when he would be rousted and taken away. But the night passed without commotion and no one so much as looked at him during the morning’s repast.

During the meal he vowed to himself to stay away from the Eastlander writings, at least for a little while, until he was sure no one would be searching for the intruder. Maybe this was a sign, a sign from Heaven that this was the time to pursue his own writing, a true recantment of Eastlander and the iconic characters. The more he thought about it, the more he convinced himself. It was time to emulate the strength of the heroes, not just copy them.

The excitement made his heart beat almost as fast as the fear had the night before. The day’s chores seemed to take much more time than usual, but finally he was back in his room, with no expectations, and could finally start writing. He knew he would begin with a clear description of the eight virtues. The church touted the virtues, and Master Ofit frequently chastised young Yewprick for failing to adhere to them all, but despite Master van Laangweend’s supposed expertise, the reasons behind them were always somewhat vague. Everyone knew they were based on the three primary principles: Truth, Love and Courage. What child did not remember the rhyme often said during the weekly scripture lessons: “When your heart does stray, while on bended knee, remember your church, and its TLC.”

Nathaniel decided to use the Eastlander writings, and the heroes within, to give clear examples of the eight virtues. But as the church never provided details, and he had encountered none so far in his readings, he knew he would have to use their actions directly. He decided to use his most recent copying, Eastlander’s “Wizard’s Island”, for the examples; surely the characters embodied all the virtues in every undertaking. No longer believing the tales to be pure allegory, the monk decided to share his interpretation of the renowned scrivener. He pulled out the most recently hidden treasure and some blank parchment and began taking notes:

The eight virtues of the church: Honesty, Compassion, Valor, Justice, Honour, Sacrifice, Humility and Spirituality. He started through Eastlander’s lengthy missive, ascribing virtues to the actions in no particular order, but as they made sense:

Honesty: composed of Truth: Through his discoveries whilst reading, Nathaniel had discovered that the church was hardly honest in their description of the Eastlander characters. But then again, Eastlander himself hardly seemed to believe the tales the characters told. So what was the real truth? Eastlander had written, “When Felsmon told me about following a flying ship toward the island I snorted, but let him continue. But when he said they were able to keep up with the airborne pirate ship in a little square sailed dingy, I could only assume he had been sneaking some of Barrick’s ale.” What really happened there? Was there really a flying pirate ship? Nathaniel had always considered the church’s use of the flying evil city of Black Wind to be an allegory to the fact that Hell can exist anywhere, at any time, and that one’s heart must always be prepared for an attack.

Reading on: “Then my good dragonborn friend tells me that suddenly a huge shadow passed under the tiny boat, followed by an explosion of tentacles. A kraken! I have never heard of anyone surviving a kraken attack before, so I sat up straight, slid my mug to the side and really paid attention. But when Felsmon went on with how he alone flew out to meet the beast over open water, I again reclined in my chair. I was taking a long draught when he said something about Rift creating a giant mirrored ball around the beast that reflected all damage. Ha! A ball that large could not float in water, let alone air, and even if magic held it aloft, how would the party be able to see through it to know what to attack?”

Nathaniel caught his breath. Here is the origin of the church’s core of Honesty: the Monster in the Mirror. All his life the young man had been taught that the Monster in the Mirror was a way of seeing your inner self, the portion of one’s soul that was lesser than the almighty. Never did the monk stop to consider that Eastlander was actually referring to a real monster in a real mirror. Shaken, Nathaniel had to pause for a few minutes before his curiosity of the monster’s defeat overwhelmed his disgust at the church’s blatant twisting of Eastlander’s tale.

“At this point Rift sat down and interrupted saying how she threw a fish in the kraken beak. What rubbish, everyone knows fish do not have beaks. And then the lady wizard brags about how she blasted the beast with fire. Felsmon laughed; I thought he was going to contradict her, but instead he added that not only did Rift blast the kraken but Felsmon as well, almost burning his wings through. I stopped their jovial banter and asked just how they got the kraken to release the little boat. I did not ask why the thing just didn’t drag everyone under, as I did not want to point out the obvious hole in this particular story. To give them credit they both said ‘Tira’ at the same time. I guess Tira had a particularly strong blast of fire that scared the kraken off the boat.”

Nathaniel smiled when he read this. Of all the companions Tira seemed to get the least direct praise, or rarely was reported to make the final blow. He had a soft spot for what he thought of as the kitten in the pack of lions.

Continuing his reading of the Eastlander scrolls, or his copy of, Nathaniel realized that the theme of the story had shifted from the virtue of Honesty to that of Spirituality.

Spirituality: composed of all three principles, Truth, Love and Courage: Of the exalted heroes, good Z’alden was obviously the most spiritual, honouring not one, but two of the gods that were claimed to exist at that time. Eastlander was interviewing the mighty cleric now: “Z’alden told me that the kraken was not defeated, but enraged and came back directly under the boat, grabbing it on both sides as well as dragging both Z’alden and Felsmon under water. Ah now this is starting to sound like something I can sell. But instead of regaling me with swords and wand blasts, Z’alden reported that one of the crew stabbed at the creature’s beak (again with the beak), right through the bottom of the boat. What was this, comic relief? Do these characters think I will write a comedy with their ramblings? Anyway, Z’alden goes on to report that he escaped, and then called on his god. He created a zone as bright as the sun, and then with another prayer his god simply made the sea beast disappear and the party rowed away. My head was starting to hurt, why didn’t his god just save them before? My days as a scribe are doomed, no one will ever believe this dribble and my time spent writing this will only be used as paper to clean up drunken drool.”

Nathaniel nodded to himself. Whilst Torbin might not have understood, the young monk himself knew the power that a god can provide to one that believes. This would be an excellent way to show spirituality via Z’alden’s actions. He moved on to the next virtue…

Compassion: composed of Love: This one could be tough; how many of the group showed compassion? Tira seemed to care little about anything but fun and her appearance. Barrick once killed a restrained prisoner. And Z’alden even killed an unarmed merchant in the middle of a crowded pub.

Searching through Eastlander’s writings, Nathaniel found a passage he could use: “As Z’alden was telling me about their little boat crashing onto the rocks and being thrown onto the sand, I could visibly see him tensing, his hands starting to ball into fists. I first assumed he had been hurt in the wreck, but then Z’alden grunted, ‘Orcs. There were three of them. Orcs. Easy targets, all three. Orcs.’ I waited for the cleric to continue, this could be good, knowing that Z’alden never left an orc alive. He continued, ‘I had my chance, but my friend’s words affected me. Three orcs. I watched them walk away. Let them live.’ He exhaled and looked back up at me.” Knowing that orcs had gravely wounded Z’alden’s soul, and that he chose to let these go free, was a better example of compassion than Nathaniel could have hoped for.

Humility: now this one is strange Nathaniel mused. The absence of all three principles was pride. But the church always taught the opposite of pride, humility. Nathaniel was not sure how the church made the switch, but he knew he had to maintain the virtues known to all. He was not sure if any one of the adventurers ever displayed humility, but he had not thought of them as full of compassion either. Not that the party needed to be, gods, and even heroes, were to be feared and revered. The monk read on, looking for any sign of humility in any action.

They found a castle, against a cliff, muddy moat but no water. Hmm, so far nothing helpful. A black knight stood stolid on the drawbridge. Interesting, but hardly humble. Wait, what was this? Felsmon spread his wings and flew upward to explore the castle from above. Suddenly 4 gargoyles launched from the parapets and flew to block the dragonborn’s way. Instead of the usual brash behaviour of challenging any creature in a fight to the death, Felsmon quietly lowered his head and flew submissively back to the ground? Nathaniel had to reread the last few lines to ensure his sleepy eyes were not playing tricks on him. No, sure enough, in Eastlander’s own words was the first real example of humility the group had demonstrated in anything the monk had read so far.

These last two touches of human spirit in the revered adventures almost brought a tear to young Yewprick’s eye. Surely this was almost as good as proof that they were real characters, not fictional devices made up to tell stories to the peoples. But as Eastlander seemed to frequently doubt his own writings, could one monk really believe otherwise?

Nathaniel had too much to think about to stop now. Besides he had to find out how the party vanquished the black knight, the symbol of evil used in countless stories. Fighting such a creature could only be the embodiment of one virtue: Valor: being composed solely of Courage. Returning to his former foolhardiness, Felsmon challenged the knight to one on one combat. Nathaniel’s heartbeat increased as he read about Felsmon charging the knight in mid air, feet first even, and throwing his shield, trying to knock the fiend into the mud below. Time after time Felsmon flew, and time after time, he missed. Some of the other party tried to help with spells, but also, to no avail. Could this knight be unbeatable? Was this something that the party could not surpass? But if Eastlander was recording this, then the party must have survived. “It was then that Barrick staggered up and pushed Felsmon off his seat, ‘I knew it was time for me to act! I charged as only a dwarf could do, low quick and solid as an owl bear. I hit him so hard he exploded!’ And with that Barrick slumped over on the table. Felsmon easily pushed the drunken dwarf off the chair and onto the floor and sat back down, unperturbed by the actions of his friend. I looked at Felsmon quizzically waiting for either confirmation or denial. ‘He did not so much as explode, as just left, vanished, disappeared. No idea where he went, but he did not return.’ A black knight that does not fight back? Whatever kind of story will this be?” Nathaniel shook his head; Torbin was constantly missing the real value of what the heroes did. Could he not see that Barrick’s rushing toward the black knight took valor beyond courage, especially after seeing how his companions were unable to inflict damage?

The young monk was starting to wonder about this particular adventure. So far they had encountered one kraken, three orcs, four gargoyles and one black knight, and yet not a single one of the enemies had been killed. Perchance the adventurers were getting soft, maybe getting old. Wise and old certainly has its place in the church, but to sell the word to the masses the stories had to keep the attention of the people. He wondered.

As he wondered he read more. “Tira then came over to talk with me, nice girl, but not the sharpest sword in the rack. I asked her what happened next and she told me they heard laughing. I almost laughed myself at this. This was surely turning into a comedy, I imagined myself as Torbin the Jester, but bade her speak. ‘As soon as the black knight disappeared, this large troll climbed out of a cave in the moat and moved to attack us chanting ’Fe Fi Fo Fanning, tis your death, I am planning.’ Before I could so much as flick my dagger the beast slugged me, and hard. We fought back and soon had the beastie bleeding heavily. Norfand dealt a particularly nasty blow.”

At this Nathaniel halted. Norfand? Had Norfand been mentioned before? Maybe this monk was the one not so young anymore. He could worry about that later, if he remembered to. He turned back to Eastlander’s page and what Tira was saying. “‘I thought this would be an easy victory, but suddenly another troll appeared, this one larger and definitely female, probably Fanning’s (that’s what we decided to call it, not that we were thinking of adopting it or anything, but we had to give it a name). Oh sorry, where was I? Oh yes, I think the new troll was Fanning’s mother. Anyway, it, or she, appeared, jumped up and smashed into Rift. I decided to try a new spell I had just mastered, or thought I had mastered. I got hurt in the process.’”

Aha! Nathaniel made a mental note. Tira hurt herself during an attack. This is precisely what was needed to show the virtue of Sacrifice: which was composed of Love and Courage: He wrote down the essential points of the strike. Tira made two attacks, one on each troll. Both attacks collapsed inward on the sorceress, but Tira did not falter. She stood through the pain and directed the attacks through her body and back out. One blast was strong enough to kill the troll she called Fanning whilst the other dazed the mother. But because of it all, Tira herself was left mentally spent, with barely enough energy to make one small movement. Truly a noble act of sacrifice, and the first kill of this chapter as well!

From here, a seventh virtue, Justice, became evident as the heroes banded together to deal their brand of justice against the unprovoked troll attacks. Tira set the mother on fire and pushed it back with lightning. Barrick slammed her off the edge, knocking her into the pit. Z’alden blinded her. One after another they all worked together to force the large troll back into a corner. Nathaniel could tell by Eastlander’s tone that the scribe was excited by this latest set of actions. “Oh ho, the damage these folks dealt! Oh what I would have done to witness it. And the ending sounds magnificent. Tira claims, and now I must say I believe her, at least in this, that she quickly did a double teleport whilst igniting the mud beneath the troll at the same time. Two teleports back-to-back, amazing. And a few seconds later Tira again fires off more lightning, killing the flaming bleeding troll hag! Wow, I think I need a drink.”

Nathaniel could not help but to smile. Rarely the focal point, here Tira was flitting and blasting like he had never read before, and getting in both killing blows as well!

Only one virtue remained with no notes written beside it: Honour: composed of Truth and Courage. Finally the entire party was acting and fighting with honour, but for the new scriptures he knew he had to select one character for each parable. As he read more, he wondered if Tira could continue her current streak.

“I returned to the table to find Rift sitting there, her companions nowhere to be seen. Maybe it was the light, maybe it was my last drink, but I could swear that Rift looked more charismatic than I remembered, maybe even magically enhanced. But I was hired to write, so I wrote as Rift described what happened next.”

“‘We found the troll cave and entered. The tunnels were filled with wet spider webs. Not wanting to try to burn them (I wonder where Erik is now) Tira brought forth her magical stone spider to do the cleaning. As we passed into a larger cavern I cast a small light to help us. This must have startled the creatures that lived there as four large hairy spiders dropped from the ceiling. I quickly released a fire bomb singing their hair, or is it fur? Felsmon let loose a nice blast and Z’alden stunned one of the larger ones. Tira tried a blast, and whilst it did kill the three smallest spiders it also blasted poor Barrick, Norfand and little Stewie. As Z’alden healed Norfand I put a mirror sphere on the last spider. But even with my wonderful charm, the spider still managed to get off a poison blast. One last blast from, who was it, Tira I think, defeated the final spider and we had the caves to ourselves.’”

Nathaniel was stunned; Tira had killed both trolls and all four spiders. After the crushing realization that Prescott was not the saviour, Nathaniel was not sure if a single saviour was needed at all. Maybe he had someone else he could use. But more than one chapter from Eastlander was needed.

Nathaniel now had something next to all eight of the virtues. It was a good start, but every additional example would help. He realized he only had a little more to read of the writings he had copied this time. A few more minutes would not hurt.

The party continued deeper into the tunnels, but finding nothing exceptional. Suddenly they stopped, something was there, albeit very hard to discern. A slurping sound made it obvious, they had almost walked into a tunnel-filling clear gelatinous monster! At least the cubes were slow, the party turned around but no! Another gelatinous blob blocked both escape routes; they were trapped! Nathaniel could barely keep his hands from shaking as he turned the parchment over, needing to know the next move. He almost screamed out loud as his eyes only encountered blank parchment. This must be as much as he had copied before he heard the dogs. Nathaniel knew now that there was nothing that could keep him from going back into the library to find out what happened to the characters he was beginning to think of as friends.

A bird chirped outside Nathaniel’s window. Startled by the unexpected sound of nature, Yewprick rubbed his eyes. Could dawn be nearing? Nathaniel stretched and put away his writing, time enough later to expand the words, add the eloquence needed to convince the masses that the writings were divine. Today’s chores would be hard enough as is, with the little amount of sleep he would get. Wondering if he should share his new works with the only Master he considered a friend, the half-elf Master Renithar, Nathaniel sidled under his woolen blanket, hoping to get but a few minutes of rest before the bell tolled for the rising of the new day. He quickly dropped into a deep sleep, dreaming of a sword that spilled not blood, but ink, when it made a cut.

Nathaniel wept.

He had been patient, he had been clever, he had been persistent. As the sun came and went many, many times, Nathaniel had stealthily but faithfully copied Eastlander’s original writings, and had finally learned to keep quiet about what he found there, to save his poor back from the lash.

What he had found were stories that seemed not to be imaginative allegories, but rather honest if overblown recountings of actual occurrences. They were more believable than the later, altered versions, because the characters and their relationships stayed relatively constant throughout Eastlander’s original opus. In the church’s versions, these characters – Z’alden, Felsmon, Barrick, Erik, Tira, and others – while iconic in their appearance and many of their abilities, often changed their beliefs, their philosophies, even their style of language, from story to story.

Nathaniel had come to realize the extent of the license taken by the church’s scholars. Sometimes he barely recognized a tale in its original form. Sometimes he did not recognize it at all, because it had been left out of the Zenith’s books altogether. Sometimes he could find no source in Eastlander for a tale from the Zenith books; in those, he had noticed, the characters as written by church hacks were particularly untrue to themselves.

Finally, this night, Nathaniel had reached the point in the original stories that he had looked forward to since he had begun this long work. The story that formed the basis of his faith, and the faith of all his colleagues, the story that formed the very basis of society as he knew it – the return of the Savior, the one true Savior of all peoples.

Having read and copied up to the very location in Eastlander where the Savior reappears, Nathaniel had resolved that he would read through the ensuing pages, just this once without copying as he read, so that the original description of the Savior’s heroism would bathe him in truth and comfort as the sun’s rays bathe a newborn in the fields. His faith had suffered mightily as he discovered how the church had stretched the stories’ content to further their own religious initiatives. Still, deep in his heart of hearts, Nathaniel knew that the greatest truth, as told to him on his father’s knee, of the existence of their Savior, would shine through Eastlander’s prose and rejuvenate his faith.

And so Nathaniel turned the page and began to read. Eastlander was interviewing the dragonborn paladin Felsmon, who was demonstrating how he had put his shoulder, next to Barrick’s, against a partially-open door while Tira and Erik looked through. The huge Felsmon was able to peer over the top of the door.

“‘Demon. Very ugly. Very dead now. Old friend Prescott with sword. Nearly dead, too.’”

So it was all true! He had always known it, of course he had always known it! Prescott The Magnificent had returned to save the band of Valers, as he would save all believers in the later life! Nathaniel’s heart pounded, fairly bursting with pride, hope, and joy. Overcome with relief, Nathaniel wept.

---

When he could continue, Nathaniel read on. The cleric Z’alden had healed Prescott’s wounds, said Felsmon. That was news – why would the church version leave that out? Prescott had been wounded in his previous appearance in the stories, and no reader would expect him to be invincible. Nevermind, Nathaniel thought, now the group would meet the enchanted weapons, Prescott would part them through his force of will, then would tame a pair of swords for Erik, and a shield for Barrick.

“’Z’alden enters room. Swords fly from wall, attack Z’alden. Tira too fast for swords. Tira reaches Prescott in next room. Barrick too slow, new swords hit Barrick. I, Felsmon, enter. Puny swords dare to attack, I crush swords. I crush Z’alden’s swords. Barrick in trouble, I crush Barrrick’s swords, too. I crush all pitiful swords, but night falls on me.’ The massive dragonborn became quiet. I waited, sipping my wine. Eventually I realized that, since he had just been blinded in the story, he had no more to tell. He might have clued me in, but “Felsmon” has always been a synonym for “reticence”.

I was in luck that day, because Erik stopped by looking for Barrick (who was not to be found), and I was able to drag him into the interview. You never knew with Erik what you would get, but today was “unbelievable” day. ‘So I send a couple arrows at some swords, they clang off – unbelievable! – and when I jump into the room, these two swords came flying at me, but they slow down and just, sort of, gently turn around and, well, present themselves to me – I can’t believe it! – so I just, I don’t know why, but I drop my swords and grab the new ones, and they feel good, and then my old swords attack me – incredible! – and I fight them off with my new ones. Barrick gets a new shield the same way! Hard to believe, but there it is!’"

Nathaniel noticed there was no word yet about Prescott’s having tamed the swords and shield. This did not bother him too much. The Valers were accustomed, in these stories, to magical happenings which they could not at first explain. Doubtless they would figure out soon enough who had tamed the swords.

“’Poor Felsmon here, he makes a fine regent with a crown stuck hard on his head and a scepter, but blinded! Imagine that! I grab the scepter from him and touch the gold end of it to his crown, and it loosens, and he can see again. Unfathomable! He takes the crown off, puts it on again, it gets stuck again! Who would believe it! So I touch the silver end of the scepter to the crown – big mistake! It sends a strike like lightning to his head, I think it’ll kill him, but he survives. Inconceivable!’

The dragonborn began to speak again, now that he was no longer blind in the story. ‘Not so easy to kill. I fight more swords. Boring, never ending, leave swords behind.’"

Nathaniel read warily, weighing each utterance for some sign that Prescott the Magnificent had become Prescott the Savior. Eastlander was quoting Erik again.

“‘Of course, better minds figure out what to do with that amazing scepter. Z’alden touches it to the throne, and the throne sinks, opening a passageway down to a huge door – all made of mithral! Incredible! Tira tries a couple keys, gets a couple small shots of lightning for her trouble. Imagine that! Somebody notices the scepter would fit there – might have been Prescott, he’s a good one to have around – and the doors fly open! Who would have believed it!’”

Nathaniel was pleased to see the Savior’s role becoming more significant in the story, though he noticed how offhanded were Erik’s comments, as if the Magnificent One were still no more than just another adventurer.

“I ordered more wine, trying to decide between interviewing Mr. Reticent or Mr. Incredible. But while I was inking my quill, another of the band arrived. Tira swept into the room like a queen, and we all sat a little straighter on our stools. Soon she had picked up where the others had left off. ‘Of course I remember that room: burnished silver ceiling, a stone sarcophagus reminiscent of the ones at Abn-El-Adrid but with a heavier lid, a tall stone urn in front, which we would come to know well, wooden chests on either side, with both drawers and doors, cast bronze handles in the shape of …’. I stopped her there – Tira could describe a scene nearly as long as Barrick could drink ale – and asked her what happened next. ‘Well, the crown and scepter had disappeared, which we took to be a good sign – we were getting somewhere, it seemed. But Barrick tripped over his own feet and fell against one of the statues in the corner, which somehow signaled the urn to produce two huge elementals. Prescott was quicker than any of us, as so often.’”

Ah, thought Nathaniel, now the true Prescott would come to the fore.

“‘But Prescott’s blow had little effect. That cursed urn was prone to spitting out more elementals, so some of us fought them off, while others tried to smash the urn itself, with only partial success. Z’alden did the most damage to these monstrosities. I tried some arcana-related attacks, accomplishing little. This battle lasted for some minutes, it seemed, until finally Prescott noticed a switch at the bottom of the urn, and threw it. The fire went out in the urn, and all 5 remaining elementals disappeared. Our old friend had done us a solid that day.’”

Threw a switch? Any person could throw a switch. Nathaniel had always believed that Prescott the Magnificent had held a dozen elementals in his gaze, overcome their wills with his own, and cast them back to the fire from whence they had come. Well, perhaps that was just an exaggeration on the part of the church. Prescott had, after all, been the one to find the switch, despite the presence of Z’alden, Tira, and Erik, all of whom were excellent in such matters. Nathaniel could forgive the license taken by the church hacks, he supposed – but inside, he was feeling more and more defensive.

“‘Before touching anything else, we dragged the four statues out of the room, lest they come to life and attack us. Good thing we did, because the sarcophagus was empty, but under one of the statues I found a handle, cast bronze, with an oval cross-section like the one on Erik’s old swords, the ones with the scalloped guards and the pommel like a …’ What happened next, Tira, I asked. ‘Oh, OK – The handle opened another passageway down. Prescott and Erik led the way, and somehow discovered a secret door down there. I tried the bronze key, and not for the first or last time that day was punished for using the wrong key. But the golden key worked; the wall descended, revealing a chamber, about 4 staff lengths by 4 by 6 high. The floor held an intricately carved and painted depiction of a gate, with a motif derived from oak tree branches in the bottom row of bars and a similar motif derived however from …’ This time I did not need to cut her off, because a great crash came from the kitchen, followed by the smashing open of the kitchen doors, as Barrick stumbled out, a leg of boar in one hand and a tankard of ale in the other. ‘Ah, there you are, lads, what lies are we telling today?’ Clearly already drunk at noon – or maybe still drunk – the wide dwarf took a seat near Felsmon, burped long and loud, and knawed at the fleshy appendage in his hand.”

Nathaniel knew that the rest of the story was all Prescott, all the time. Or rather, he hoped so.

“Erik picked up the tale. ‘So Z’alden uses a gem we have for seeing, and finds a keyhole under the floor, which is only made of brittle plaster, and which I smash as if I were Felsmon. Imagine that! Tira tries the golden key again, which worked last time, but not this time – she gets zapped again! That’s four times within minutes, how is she still standing, none of us can believe it!’ Tira nodded and shrugged. But then the dwarf dropped the ragged bone from his mouth and spat, ‘I know this part! She puts the other key in, and the floor starts to rise! I jump off quick as a dwarfwife from a wedding bed, and everyone else gets smashed to the ceiling! Lucky for them, I can climb like a tree elf, that’s all I’ll say.’ Barrick chomped down on the shank again.”

Barrick the only one to sense the danger of hell’s floor, the floor that demanded a choice between heaven and hell, squeezing out the middle? Barrick the one to save the others? Barrick the Savior? Nathaniel’s stomach suddenly turned sour.

“Smiling, Erik pointed out that he had freed himself from the trap even before Barrick had climbed up, but agreed that ‘Yes, you did unbelievably well, old friend – here, have some more ale! Well, we pull out Z’alden, then Prescott. Tira slides out incredibly easy. Barrick is tired by now – believe it or don’t! – so Prescott and I pull out Felsmon, who is so stuck that we don’t imagine he will ever come out, but he does.’”

Page after page of Prescott the Savior being described as just another member of a band of adventurers, no better or worse than the others. Was this story really the basis of his faith? Was this really the basis of his society? Was the act of putting down Acererak the only truly magnificent thing Prescott accomplished? Was he even the one to … Nathaniel felt a swirling in his head, his hearing fading out, his sight blurry, but he continued to read.

“Tira chimed in next. ‘If Z’alden were here, he would tell you I only survived because I fell on top of him when the others “saved” me. Six staff lengths they dropped me, barely conscious! Anyway, when we had all recovered, and healed, thanks as always to Z’alden, we saw yet another door under the raised floor. This one was made of 12 carved panels ’ – she looked at me – ‘… er, well, Barrick opened it, and we entered a small chamber with a small jade sarcophagus, the letter “A” in red, surrounded by symbols which, um, I guess I will not describe. Anyway, we had found Acererak, and we were going to have a go at him, come what may. Prescott had found some special gloves on the floor, made of – never mind – and he put them on before we had a chance to check them out, but they seemed to work, and he opened the sarcophagus, and a skull rose out. The skull was glowing red, and its eyes would bore right into you if you looked at it, right into your brain.’"

So Prescott would at least finish off the evil one with his new “Hands of God”. Nathaniel tok what comfort he could from this.

“Before Tira could say any more, Felsmon rose to his feet, and stretched to his full height. ‘Evil skull, devil skull, puny skull. Erik shoots skull, Prescott hits skull, Z’alden curses skull, Barrick misses skull, Tira lightnings skull, all fail, but I, Felsmon, ’ – his voice rises to a roar – ‘I, Felsmon, smash skull like eggshell! Evil one gone! May evil soul writhe in torment, evil line die out, all evil he made crumble to sand, evil name forgotten at last!!!’ A roar from the others followed this speech, and was still echoing when the outside door burst open, showing a ragged, panting Z’alden framed by the noon light: ’She’s here!’ he shouted, racing out again. The others followed in seconds, Barrick leaving his tankard half-full, a sure sign that I would hear no more that day.”

Nathaniel wept.

---

Some weeks after his moment of clarity, his own personal enlightenment, Nathaniel wondered why he shouldn’t write his own book. He could write the truth, as revealed to him in Eastlander’s tales. How we were all in this life together, with no help on the way, no Savior around the next corner. We had a shared mission, we all had our own abilities and weaknesses, we all had a part to play, and we all had our turn to be heroic or to have fun, hopefully many turns. Whatever power controlled this world, if any, played no favorites, but somehow managed to keep things interesting.

But if he, Nathaniel, would do the telling, would anyone do the listening?

The young monk stepped back into the shadows as he heard the approach of two people. Masters, by the sound of their drakescale sandals. Nathaniel’s heart still raced every time he approached the forbidden section of the library, but this interruption by the unexpected late-night strollers had come as a heart-pounding shock. He clutched his satchel of ink and parchment like a protective parent. He hoped he could be as stealthy as Erik the Ranger and blend into the shadows. He pressed back into the recesses between two columns. As their lantern light flickered, Master Windebagg and Master Ofit passed within two dwarfs of young Yewprick. The rotund monk and his stout companion stopped not a staff length away. Nathaniel dared not even breathe. Luckily, the pair did not turn their heads as they began to speak.

“What do you make of the disturbances reported in the Forbidden Section?” Ofit asked his fleshy companion. Windebagg cleared his throat, as though beginning an oratory to a child, “My dear Stoufful, that little weasel of a librarian would think that mouse droppings were a sign of a rodent conspiracy to invade his beloved drakeskin racks. He reported some nonsense. Now, we are on ‘patrol’ for phantoms. Our little stroll is a waste of time. I will humor the Zenith only because I wish to avoid a trip to the Chamber of Understanding.” Ofit lowered the lantern as he nodded appreciatively. Not all who went in for Understanding returned with their limbs intact. “Well, let us finish our little jaunt for tonight, report to his Greatness’s secretary, and let van Laangweend and the others have their turns. Thank the Axe, the new guards will be here in a week’s time, and then we can cease these useless meanderings.”

The two walked off, and Nathaniel exhaled as quietly as possible. Dagger’s Edge! Guards in a week! Patrols by the Masters! How could he have been so careless as to leave traces of his work where the rat-nosed custodian of the scrolls could detect him? He was so far in skills from his heroes, and now he would have to figure out how to unobtrusively access subsequent volumes of Eastlander’s True Writings after tonight.

Based on their footfalls, Nathaniel reasoned that the half-hearted patrol would not return this way. He chuckled. It may be the furthest that Master Windebagg had walked in a year. Based on their pace, which was slow, even if they did come back, he had at least two hours.

The monk’s fingers trembled as he pulled out the small case of tools that the half-elven Master Renithar had given him. At first, he couldn’t believe that this Master was somehow helping him, but the aid had been true. Master Renithar had given him several lessons in how to use the tools to pick the locks that secured the copies of Eastlander’s True Writings. Good thing that the Church didn’t use magic like Tira! The half-elf had been kind in his teaching, a trait the other Masters never showed. Distracted by that mystery, he almost dropped the tools. Idiot! Tira would have had this lock opened ages ago. He steadied himself, took a breath like the Master had instructed, and the lock opened easily. He quickly extracted the drakeskin parchment, shut the cabinet, and moved to the most isolated table. His small candle barely illuminated the writing. His tears of joy did not help.

In front of Nathaniel was Torben Eastlander’s original journal continuing the interview with the cleric Z’alden Silverflame about the Tomb of Horrors. Nathaniel had reached the description of a strange room with three vats and twisted, constructed bodies. Each vat could easily hold two dwarfs, maybe three. Those ostensibly magical vats, Nathaniel had been taught, represented the three horrors of life without the Church: individuality, introspection, and independence. As all knew from Z’alden’s sermon, the third vat was indeed the most evil. Independence oozed forth to destroy the heroes as Tira poked her arm into it! The woman’s pursuit of independence was the most damaging to society, as this story told and the Church reinforced often, but all were subject to the rule of the Zenith in the Church of Eastlander.

Nathaniel saw, even in the first few lines of the journal, that the meaning of this peculiar part of the tale might be different from the common teachings. He hastily began to copy as he read Eastlander’s notes.

My time yesterday with the Ranger left me with bigger metaphors than a man who has just seen a wood nymph step out of the lake. I needed to see just how much the normally taciturn Ranger had been trying to assuage his feelings about running from his friends to protect them from a ‘dangerous’ crown. I note with some irony that, by his own admission, this is the same circlet that later the cleric would wear and would, according to the half-elf Z’alden, increase the ability to wound the enemies of Bahamut. Ha! I think I have seen the Ranger’s true colors here and they are a shade of the daisy. Try as I might with Z’alden later that evening, I could not drag out of him that Erik had the courage of a hatchling. No, all the cleric of Bahamut wanted to discuss was his feeling of helplessness as ooze burst forth from vats. Scratch that – only one vat held the oozes, the others had strange properties, including acid that did not burn the skin of the sorceress as she stuck her arm in to retrieve half a golden key. Acid that did not burn her.

“Really?” I grilled the cleric about this, but he was firm. “Tira could resist the acid.”
I checked my notes. “Yesterday, the Ranger said she could resist poison.” Nodding earnestly, Z’alden said, “Oh yes, thank the Dragon that her resistances change each day. It was great providence that she could withstand that acid, else we might never have found that important half of the key.” Convenient, I muttered to myself, but the cleric failed to notice. This one doesn’t seem to understand sarcasm.

The lack of a believable quality in the details leads me to be even more certain that these five are trying to get themselves sung about by bards with incredulous tales, but I will not be duped. Still, the last volume sold well, and I am but a poor scrivener, and the cleric had offered to pay for the meal as an act of charity. I neglected to mention my profits to date from the previous volume. I continued the interview.

“I must remind you that most of my comrades were battered and bruised after the battle with the skeletal demon of Acererak. I was confident that Bahamut would answer my prayers for healing, and that we could still face any foe. Oh, but I would pay for my hubris!” The cleric started a small sermon here, the numbing details I have omitted. He failed to notice when I put down my quill and took a swill of the liquid that passes for wine in this inn. It is not Nentir ’97 I can assure you. I resumed my notes when he ended his homily and resumed his story.

Nathaniel’s quill dropped. The famous homily of Z’alden before the battle with the evil of Independence was well-known to even the most junior monks. Eastlander hadn’t even recorded the Sermon on the Ooze? Someone from the Church had just made-it-up? What else of the stories had they simply invented? The monk pressed on, confident that Master Windebagg would never make it back this way again. He picked up his quill.

The cleric himself took a deep draught of the swill (he clearly does not notice the difference), and began to describe the events. “Having found a peculiarly shaped key in the second vat, Tira went to the bubbling green liquid of the third. Instead of placing her arm in it, she used an earthenware jug to start scooping out the contents. Just as she was extracting the jug, a bubble turned into an oozy, green tentacle that reached out and tightly grabbed the sorceress. The burning acid from the tentacle’s surface left a horrible smell in the room but did her little harm thanks to her magical resistances that day. The whack itself, though, was enough to knock her a bit silly. It took even the hearty sorceress a few heartbeats before shaking that off. Then, another tentacle came out of the vat and attacked Erik. His swords flashed snik, snak and sliced some of the mucus arm into pieces. Unfortunately, this had little effect. A whole blob of oozing creature, tentacles of a putrid green acid flailing dangerously, poured out of the vat and another began to bubble up.”

The cleric took another sip. He really has no taste buds. “Tira would have none of this. Her dagger whirled and cascading bolts of iridescent lights enveloped the mound of monstrous muck. The creature shuddered and some bits fell to the ground. Still it persisted onwards. Barrick thought to test his axe on the living pile. A mighty heave and the ooze seemed less directed. Black streaks lined its surface, as though the acid covering it was weaker. It seemed as if in those places we could wound it more easily. And, its tentacles were split making it harder for the mucus to attack us. It was a mighty blow!”

“By the Great Dragon, but these wicked things had done enough to our liberty, I presumed. Oh what folly I had. Still, my prayer was answered and a great glow of burning white light sizzled the two oozes, further darkening those blackened areas that Barrick had made. I took a deep breath and called again on the Dragon. His Great Face formed in front of me, and sacred flames of his icy breath made one ooze shudder. Then, directing the righteous light, I made the first one continue to burn with an ongoing golden radiance. Sensing that victory was at hand, the mighty dragonborn Paladin swung his swarthy greataxe into the ooze – tearing it in half! He let out a might roar, only to have it answered with an explosion of acid from the muck flying in all directions. It coated all five of us. We could not avoid it. The acid immediately got under the skin. It affected the mind. I could think of nothing. I had no sense of time. I could not move. Woe it was, because I could still see. For several heartbeats, as a third ooze lurched out of the vat like the goop from a child’s nose, the vile scum flailed their acidic tentacles on the helpless five of us. With wide eyes, I watched as Barrick shook off the effects and split another ooze in half. More acid burst forth! The Ranger, who moments ago was a shining light of swift action and superhuman ability fell to the floor. My friend was dying, and all I could do was watch, helpless under the effect of the mind-numbing acid. It was an evil trip. Even so, we could not fail to note a golden glint from the bottom of the vat. But, the look was only an instant, as the rest of my companions also were burned by the acid or bludgeoned by the tentacles.”

The cleric leaned onto the table to steady himself. Even I, the doubtful scrivener, could not help but see the terror in the half-elf’s eyes as he re-lived the scene. Here was a healer who had been unable to get to a comrade just staff lengths away. Regardless of my feelings about the veracity of the tale, something had happened in the room that had left Z’alden humbled. He was convinced that he had the power to help the Ranger but could not use it. I was moved. Then, the half-elf steeled his grey eyes as he related what happened next.

Nathaniel could not believe this. The evil of the third vat, Independence, that the Church so vilified as robbing one of true freedom had actually been mounds of living muck that froze a person helpless in place with their acid burst? Yes, the ooze from the vat took away liberty, just as the cleric had said. But, the true theft was by the Church in its deception. What was more evil? These creatures set by some wicked power to keep watch over a key, or the twisted tales that the Church of Eastlander had pulled from Eastlander’s stories of real heroes? Yewprick dipped his quill and continued to copy, even as his mind raced with the repercussions.

The cleric leaned in close to me like one making a confession, “The mighty sorceress was not as helpless as I. She shook off the acid’s effects, launched another of her never-ending store of powerful chaos bolts at the ooze, and then had the presence of mind to take out a healing potion and maneuver to the Ranger’s aid, pouring the magical draught down the throat of the dying man. He coughed once and opened his eyes, weak but alive. While I took some delight that I had made the draught days earlier, I longed to aid him further but was still in the clutches of the acid. I could do nothing but make a trip to the altar of hope and prayer. The great Paladin had overcome the effects, and thank the Dragon, called on Bahamut to come to the aid of Barrick. I could almost see the form of the Dragon envelop my dwarven friend as the son of stone shook off the acid’s numbing effects.“

“Having come to but still very weak (my potion was not very strong healing), the Ranger decided a strategic reposition was in order and moved with great speed back into the corridor. Unfortunately, the original mound of mucus gave chase. It was like the swift flow of a child’s vomit in the back of a carriage. I have never seen something so disgusting move so fast to its destination. Our brave General Barrick would not have this vomitous mass again take down our friend. He took a depth breath, gave a battle cry to get past the bruises and batterings, and charged the thing but to no avail. Its quivering volume was too swift for the dwarven axe that time. Still, in his bravery, the great dwarf had given the sentient muck more to think about it, and that would be the key to victory.”

“Dragon’s tail, but I had finally shaken off the acid’s effect. Calling upon Bahamut’s grace, silver and purple flames of healing restored me and then flew from my hands to mend Tira’s wounds. Felsmon also restored himself by the Dragon’s power, and then opening his draconic mouth, let lightning fly at the mounds of muck. The crackling energy sizzled and burned into the ooze closest to him. The muck melted into the floor. If you have ever seen the ooze below a scab, then you have seen in small what we saw at large, as the creature died away. But, in one final, evil twist, it exploded in acid, covering the Paladin and numbing his mind. Thank the Scales, Tira, I, and the rest were out of range of this burst.”

“From the corridor, the Ranger longed for the fight. Knowing himself to be most vulnerable in a weakened state, he took his prized swords and flung them as though they were light as daggers – one, two – at the ooze that blocked the corridor’s entrance to the room. One bounced off the door jamb, but the other, oh its sharp blade was well placed. The muck was rent in half, and it exploded in acid! Barrick was covered, burning until his mind again went numb.”

“Though only one ooze remained, the outcome was unclear. The mound was fresh. It had few black marks and looked as green as the moment it came out of the vat like the thick stuff of a sick child’s nose, while we five were weary and bleeding. But, did we give in?” The cleric looked around the room. The Inn patrons had pulled their chairs in close while he had recited the tale to me. “Did we give in?” He lifted his voice, and slammed his mug on the table. “No!”

The crowd roared with approval! Note to self: learn oratory some time. It can have a powerful effect. With his audience enraptured, this was no longer an interview but a telling. The cleric knew what he was doing when he simply told the tale without moralizing. I was as drawn in as the patrons. Was he slipping in some lesson that we were taking even as we followed his story? The cleric broke my revery as his voice rose, “Did we despair? NO! From our stores of power, we sent that evil pile of putresence back to its maker. Tira teleported, leaving a poison cloud behind. You might not think that poison could hurt a creature of acid, but by the Claw, it does. Spells and axes flew at the thing, even as it lashed its tentacles out at me.”

“The dwarf had had enough. Telling the monstrosity where it could put its slimy self, Barrick wielded his Axe and wrenched the mound into two. Acid again sprayed in all directions, but Barrick was ready and ducked behind his shield. Tira was not so fortunate but in a few heartbeats, she had shaken off the worst of it. I called my comrades close. Bowing my head, calling on Dragon’s wings, and my body glowed like the sun as it comes just above the horizon on a cold day. The golden warming rays covered my comrades and mended their wounds and my own. In a few brief moments, we were fully restored.”

Nathaniel realized that he had been holding his breath as he had copied the last few lines. It did not seem as though he was recording some ancient history. It was though this had all taken place just a few weeks ago. He pictured the half-elf surveying the bar crowd as he finished up the story line. And then, Nathaniel began to strengthen his resolve. The True Writings would see the light of day and no longer be confined to the holdings of a few scholars while the Church mangled the stories and conscripted more soldiers of the Zenith to maintain its control over the people. Nathaniel would bring the light of truth to the people just as Z’alden’s light burst forth healing his friends. He waved his quill. Some ink dripped. Before that, the monk realized, he had to finish his copy. He dipped his quill, turned the page, and continued.

Oh, yes, he knew what was supposed to happen next. After the struggle with the ooze, then comes the terrible rest that left the heroes without their full strength. After that, the crossing of the yawning chasm that signified the depth of despair of a society without the Church. The great Paladin, with his dragon wings flies across it like the society in the wide arms of the Zenith himself. Only the independent woman Tira fails to cross, teaching us that all should submit to the Church and not use the unreliable rope of self-determination lest it break, and we fall into the pit of massive spikes of chaos itself.

Nathaniel was puzzled. Nothing about this was on the next parchment. Had the Masters just invented this, too? Or was some part of the book missing? What about the part of the story where Barrick and Felsmon charge a door that is icy cold, shattering it, and the adventurers enter a ruined room with rotting tapestries. The puny chest in the room is filled with nothing but copper. The ruined tapestries on the wall are covered with scenes of evil, toothed fish. Master van Laangweend loved this story for its implications on the futility of life without the Church. Only the crack of truth in the wall leads onwards, but the Paladin loses faith and fumbles through its narrow way, bringing down the rotting tapestry of desolation and causing the fish of despair to overcome him. The inquisitiveness of Tira, tapping the tapestry, teaches us what individual investigations lead to, a blast of the cold of separation from the Church that brings nothing but ruin.

Instead of these parts of the story, all Nathaniel could find was a short section of the interview describing the well-known trap of the monstrous elephant statue that rolled this way and that trampling the heroes. Elephant day was a favorite with the children. Everyone understood this to be a simplistic story of the capricious destructiveness of a society without the guiding force of the Church. Even as the Ranger had landed on the back of the gigantic statue to steer, so did the Church direct society to keep it from trampling all into oblivion. Every year, children received pink candy rolls to celebrate the triumph of the Church over its enemies.

After having seen nothing of the spiked chasm or the rotting tapestry room, just as Nathaniel suspected, there was no real mention of the elephant statue and its horrendous rolling pins of doom in Eastlander’s journal. There were pages upon pages of the importance of this elephant and the rolls in the Book of Eastlander. Nathaniel would find one reference to the pink candy. In the journal, there was this small side note:

The cleric gave me an incredible description of a massive elephantine statue on rollers after several sets of beautiful doors were opened. These were the “false” from the cryptic poem. The cleric still suffers from some delusions after a trip to the southern reaches of the continent or something like that. Statues do not roll forward, then backwards, then forwards, then backwards, then backwards, crushing the bones of those who happen to be too slow or dim-witted to move out of the way. Paladins do not fly over demonic elephant statues. I will note that, at one point, from underneath the table the dwarf Barrick awakened from his stupor and shouted to me, “Scrivener, it was the pink cart from hell!” I snorted knowing the reliability of the dwarf’s descriptions. Sensing my complete lack of interest, Z’alden skipped past this part of the tale, and the crowd ordered drinks.

The monk laughed. The Masters had turned a molehill of a few lines into a mountain of a credo. Quickly past this small section, Nathaniel continued to transcribe. The “true” door had been found as a hidden one only revealed after many inspections. He scribbled through the incredible description of a massive magic iron door with three slots. At Felsmon’s suggestion, only upon risking their prized magic blades by placing them in the slots did Erik and Tira open the huge door that barred their way. So many lessons had been taught on that act, and the dragonborn’s guidance to pursue it! But, his lessons did little to prepare him for the cleric’s description of the many-columned hall into which the five entered.

“We entered a cavernous room filled columns and pillars. The ceiling alone was 30 feet above us. On the western wall that spanned perhaps 30 staff lengths or more, three doors were spaced along it. Above the nearest and furthest doors, well up on the wall, demonic green faces with black mouths like the one we had seen in the beginning of the tomb. On the eastern wall, an ebony dais featured a solid silver throne covered in silvered skulls. Sitting on the throne was a golden crown and a golden sceptre inlaid with silver. The throne had an inlaid of gold that matched the crown and sceptre. What strange imagery was this mean to represent? I cannot say. All I know is that the dragonborn was a like a child who had been listening to a schoolmaster drone for hours upon the subjects of Muqabalah and jabr and now had found a room full of the most wonderful toys. He nearly flew from one spot to another while the rest of watched like deer frozen in place. I don’t know if it was fatigue from the encounter with the deadly elephant statue or something else. If only one of us had had the good sense to stop the romp before it ended badly.” He looked wistful for moment, and the continued.

“First, Felsmon investigated the throne. He picked up the crown and placed it on his head. He said that he could see the room more clearly now, but it was never clear what this really meant. Around a crater in the northeastern corner were several dead, burned skeletal figures ringed around an orange gem. Felsmon picked up the gem. I studied it but could really tell nothing. Tira and Erik discerned it was a wishing gem with one wish. Tira could tell that the scepter was magical and that it was tied to the crown and the throne.” The cleric smirked, “Even with my meager training, I figured out that much.”

Sidenote to self: maybe Z’alden does understand sarcasm. I have to keep on my toes with this one.

“There was something about those demonic wide mouths that the Paladin could not resist despite his previous experience. He was like a tongue touching a painful tooth. Felsmon flew up to the furthest mouth and stuck the scepter into it. Instantly, he realized his mistake, but it was too late. The scepter was being sucked in and so was he. In a heartbeat, our impetuous Paladin had disappeared.”

Nathaniel turned the page, and then he froze. He had been wrong. Masters Ofit and Windebagg were coming back. Nathaniel could not believe the geezer was still breathing after such exertion. He had a few moments to hide, or he would surely be discovered. He hastily put his night’s work in the satchel, returned the Eastlander scroll to its place, and hid under the table, just like Tira had in the fight in Goodright’s house at the start of the Horror book. Even as he loved emulating the heroes, how the young monk longed to get to back to the writing. Just yesterday, Master Windebagg had extolled upon this very part: the fate that befell the young Paladin Felsmon after he had been dragged inexorably into the obsidian mouth of an emerald demonic face in the mysterious columned hall. Nathaniel no longer believed the words that the entire class had chanted as the rule of the allegory: the demon face and its black mouth represent the darkness of the soul of man that we must all avoid without a thorough examination lest we be sucked into its maw. The Paladin’s flight up to the black mouth represented the high-flying thinking that only led to destruction. Indeed, the dragonborn had vanished into the darkness leaving the party alone in the large chamber.

Nathaniel shuddered as he remembered what happened next, at least according to the Church’s version. He shuddered even more at the thought of a trip to the Chamber of Understanding if the Masters caught him here. He waited with held breath. The two Masters passed by, grumbling about the stupidity of their little constitutional. Nathaniel exhaled as quietly as possible. He followed behind them at a distance and returned to his cell, putting his completed pages in their safe hiding spot behind the third stone. Now, just how was he going to back to the True Writings with these patrols?

It was a dark and stormy night, but that mattered to our gaggle of confused adventurers about as much as violence upsets a drow warrior. Not a bit. See, the five were in real deep. We ain’t just talk’n deep in the tomb, but in trouble. Big trouble. This time trouble’s name was Acererak and he meant business, the kind of business that ends up with someone pushing up daisies or snorkeling face down in a bog without a snorkel.

Though his glad rags were now in tatters, the Acererak cat could still lay down some flash. Lightening man, lightening just like from the sky, would shoot from that cat’s boney fingers. Rosco’d Z’alden right in the noodle and connected with the big lug Felsmon on the map, knocking him on his keister. It was the scene that made the five feel like a bunch of bronze piece losers, and that ain’t much to brag about. Heck, their reputation was on the line and they were screwing it up and screwing it up meant never getting a chance to brag. Yeah, you don’t need to read between the lines to understand.

So, this doll, Tira, decided she had enough of this boney goon. She’s a smart one with a rack nice enough to write home about. Plain as an owlbear’s beak, the cat wore this lid like a crown, that seemed to glow and benefit him, kinda like milk benefits a kitten, only the kitten was one mean cat. Real mean. So instead of stick’n a shiv into her mark, she thought better of the situation and ran up to the tower of bones and tried to knock the lid off to the deck. Does an elf need a hammer? Sometimes, but normally no, and this was just like that. Acererak’s top lid just went askew, like a ship leans away from a strong wind but stays on tack. Mad cat laid down some bolts out of the blue, except it was from the darkened room. Tira and Z’alden felt the sizzle.

Now, the other busters weren’t being lazy dopes. They’d been trying to do their worst to the mean cat but mostly missing their mark. The local croaker, Z’alden, patched up the ranger boy, Erik, good enough for him to feel like a new man. But this Erik, see, he got pretty good powers of perception and had eyeballed the pretty dame trying to knock off the mean cat’s lid. So he thought he’d give it a crack instead of throwing wood. Quick as a rat through a kitchen, Erik ran up toward the mean cat Acererak with the lid and continued running part way up the wall, just like one of those circus performers that Channy Jack brings through villages every year. The room was all upsides down to Erik as he snatched the crown and landed back upright on his two dogs. That merchandise was hot, so he thought he’d better ditch it before it got too heavy. Down the hallway, away from the room, Erik unloaded it in a pit. That felt good, like unloading a bunch of broads who’d got your number and was nag’n ya all the way to the coffin.

Now Acererak wasn’t reduced to a patsy and so even without his crown he could dish out a powerful punch that’d send you back to yesterday. Still, the short man, Barrick, had an ace up his gauntlet and he would play that card. Let it rain, they say. Rain steel. All over you. The trick would wear down those numb in the head enough to get close and the boney fat cat must have been feeling pretty numb. Erik’s blades made the bloodless, boney body bleed, despite it not having any blood. No matter. Acererak could still cast out zones of obscuring darkness and the crown in the pit emanated a crazy psychic energy wave, like broads sometimes do when they aren’t paid heed and your trousers are around your ankles as you’re hopping out the doorway.

The red-headed dame’s chaotic bolts combined with the wearing and tearing from the short man and ranger boy had taken their toll. And the bell did toll for Acererak and he was fix’n to die, which ain’t no small feat for someone who’s already dead. So he died and turned to dust. You know, Acererak to ashes. Then, doing what all dungeon sleuths do, the five grabbed what scratch was around. Bunch of potions and scrolls ain’t a bad haul for what just went down. Potions to heal, a scroll to remove an afflictions and a scroll to raise the dead would surely come in handy with this bunch that got the same chances to live as a halfling jester invited to entertain Orcus on the Day of the Dead. And then they got greedy. See, the couch the bones had been resting on was made of pure gold and the dungeon punks wanted it like a umber hulk doesn’t want a bath. Yes, as the golden couch was moved the roof came crashing down. The five escaped by the skin of their teeth, with the clever Tira snatching old Acererak’s crown on the one way out. She could tell that it made one stronger in will and attack just as the wheat juice could.

But there was a mystery here. Just who was this Acererak cat? Who’d he work for? What was his business in all this mess and just what was so important that it was worth re-dying for? There were questions that needed answers and answers that needed questions.

Outside of the boney cat’s pad, the gang of five searched for clues. Things hadn’t been so simple, like the good old days of hack and slash, back when a man could give a creature The Broderick just for looking like a bad guy. The ranger boy Erik found a secret door, see, but it was locked real good, like a priestess of Bahamut on the Day of the Dragon. Stymied, the gang wandered the tomb’s halls and paid a visit back to the room of the vanishing revelers. For their troubles, all they got was more trouble: a tilting floor that pitched them toward lava, molten rock, stuff that’d melt the smile right off of a happy, half-drunk, giddy halfling. Yeah, real bad, but the flying dragonborn Felsmon and the short man saved the day, pulling the ranger boy to safety.

Now things got really strange. Does an old troll tiptoe through a patch of tulips hand-in-hand with a halfling? Back in the sanctuary room, they had this terrible feeling that something horrible was happening. So they tried to leave, but presto, everyone traded sexes. Suddenly the dame Tira wasn’t no dame any more. The cleric, Z’adlen had these enormous bazooms that could put a strain on a man’s back. Ranger boy had gams that went on forever, but the dragon born and short man were sights not to behold. So they all went berserk and started hitting on each other, but not the kind of hitting that involves compliments to the opposite sex. Finally they all snapped out of their murderous rages. Thinking they were smart, they tried exiting the chamber again through the same doorway that had provided such interesting effects.

Tira, looking like a Nancy, went first and disappeared into the inky blackness. The others called out but she was gone, just like her knockers. The men, or women, in the group tried not to think about what else was gone, so they followed Tira right into that inky blackness. They found themselves together, outside in the shrubs by the tomb’s entrance. Yet more was missing – not just body parts, but also all clothing and weapons! Dames were gents and gents were dames and all was there to see. Things were looking pretty bad, real bad, except for the ranger boy, priest and sorceress. The rest were just wrong, like a troll with lipstick. Pointed sticks would be shivs as they reentered the tomb.

A heinous crime had been committed here and the gang staggered their way through the tomb, feeling as though they had tasted the foul waters of cheap, knock-off Death’s Head moonshine produced by the backwater stills of the criminally insane cast outs from the lowest drow caste. It was bad, real bad. Back to the ugly stone face. Back to the gargoyle. Yes, no trace of their weapons nor former selves. They they wised up, see, and went to a new chamber. With naked flesh scraping against stone cold stone, they dropped down ten feet into a room that was off a long, narrow corridor. Even the tension in the air was naked. Chests of gold, silver and oak rested on the floor of the empty chamber. Erik played peeper and started the box job on the oak chest to spy for traps and it was Jake, so Felsmon opened it. Wrong choice. A twelve foot, scimitar wielding skeleton rose from the chest. It was of little solace that it was naked too, for it had no shame and their humor in the situation was impossible to make out across their bony jaw.

Erik’s pointy sticks and the other’s innate magic did their work to beat back the skeleton’s advances. Tira’s tempest surge and the dragonborn’s lightening breath set the skeleton staggering like a booze hound. The giant slayer short man played chin music on the tall skeleton and finally Z’alden’s sapphire claws of Bahamut finished it off. Yet the snag of this rumble cost the five adventurers a pretty penny and two unopened chests remained. Feeling lucky, the five tried the silver box. There were no skeletons in this box, only darts that flew out in all directions, sticking into bare keisters and worse, much worse. There was one clear thing to do to not be filled with daylight, and that was to bangtails out of Dodge, but not before snatching a little crystal box from within the silver chest.

Escaping with their lives, but not their dignity, the adventurers regrouped out in the hallway. The little crystal box had five red gems in it. What clue were they being given in this mystery? With heads as dense as chopping blocks, the five tried to find their armor, weapons and former selves. Reentering the sanctuary chamber they tried once more to transform themselves back by walking back into the inky black doorway, only to find them selves outside the tomb once again, but without even the pointy sticks. This made about as much sense as a dwarf with ballerina shoes. However, they had been thankfully switched back to their original gender. Tira’s long, flowing red hair flowed and Erik’s long, silky legs were once again strong, muscular and hairy. All this was plain to see since they were all still as naked as a beggar’s bowl. Does two plus two equal five? Sometimes, so the five reentered the tomb once again against all sensible hope.

The gang quickly returned to that cat Acererak’s pad, that was now a little worse for wear after being ransacked and having a collapsed roof. Yet there was new booty, or was it old booty? All their armor, weapons, magical items and other possessions lay in a neat pile. A little too neat? The five re-equipped and found a golden chest that had been buried under the pile. Opening it, Felsmon found the crystal chest from the skeleton room. He also found vipers that encouraged a quick exit from Acererak’s pad. The little crystal box had five red gems in it. What clue were they being given in this mystery?

Remembering the stone gargoyle with the crushing palms, the gang ankled their way back to him and placed the gems into his greedy, grasping palms. As before, the gargoyles sat with three outstretched arms ready receive gems, with a fourth arm on the floor. After placing three gems in the hands of the of the attached arms, the gargoyle spoke, “Sacrifice was not in vain. Look to the fourth to find your gain.” That’s what snoopers call a clue and the five had their noodles working right, so they put a fourth gem into the hand of the arm that lay on the floor. The hand closed. The hand opened. In the palm lay some a fine piece of ice. Its color, cut and clarity made it a treasure to behold. It’s oval shape intrigued the dragonborn who, normally just a palooka, saw its oval shape as resembling an eye.

The gang returned to the secret door, the one as tight as a fat, giant earworm in the skull of a hapless halfling. Looking through the ice, the adventurers could see the truth of the runes that told of the door being locked by a powerful magic. If magic was the disease then more disease was the cure. The sorceress and priest knew what to do – the scroll of “remove affliction” could possibly be used to make that door more chippy. So that’s just what Z’alden did to return the unlock the door. Pausing to reflect, the gang left the door closed.

Things had been going well for this wild bunch. Maybe too well. They had been hitting on all eight, turning lemons into lemonade, generally been bad-ass trouble boys and girls. But just who was the big boss? The head honcho. The top dog. The top pillow. The big kahuna. Just who was the big cheese and was he behind this door?

Nathaniel Yewprick stared at the manuscript. The young monk had been working with Torben Eastlander’s writings for well over a year now, but the more he read, the more confused he became. His master, Stoufful Ofit, was the acknowledged world expert on Eastlander’s work, but the young Yewprick was finding that Ofit’s interpretation of the opus didn’t match his experience with the text. The other masters’ teachings were just as incongruent.

This particular collection of writings, “Horror in a Tomb”, continued Eastlander’s allegorical interpretation of man’s inner turmoil, according to Ofit. His master had intoned with all seriousness,”The writing is clearly an allegory. Notice how, at the start of this tale, the characters sleep on top of a tomb-like mound, among smaller mounds that together are shaped like a skull. They wait for evidence of the evil in the Tomb and find nothing. Here, Eastlander is warning us against the futility of too much self-examination. We may not find the evil within us if we only look inside our skull. We must look at our actions.” Then, the old man became very excited. “Notice how the only way that the adventurers realize that the smaller mounds form a skull is when the dragonborn Paladin flies above the tomb mound. Here, Eastlander is telling us to soar on our thoughts so that we can perceive the truth of what is around us and within us.”

The young monk had bitten his tongue at that one. As crazy as it seemed to him, Nathaniel was coming to a different interpretation. He was starting to believe that the characters of Eastlander might have been real people who had related their adventures to the scrivener. But, the young monk knew he was on shaky ground with this heretical thinking. The entire Church of the Eastlander was founded on the moral guidance that Master Ofit and the others believed was in the tales. The young convert was starting to have doubts. Doubts that ended up with lashes whenever he voiced them too loudly to Master Ofit or any of the other masters.

Still, Nathaniel could not resist the pull of the raw tales. He preferred them to the sermonized versions that the masters gave. Even though it was forbidden, he would work late in the library and wait until all others had left. Then, alone in the musty rooms, he would go to the locked original texts, pick the lock (“just like the sorceress Tira”!), and take down a volume. Tonight, he cracked open the first book of the “Horror in a Tomb”. Of all of Eastlander’s writings, this story was the most perplexing to the young monk. Eastlander had given no clear reason why the Valers had gone into the Tomb in the first place. Certainly, Eastlander mentioned the cleric’s overwhelming desire to destroy undead. But, was that in the original story or had the writing been changed to reflect the Church’s understanding that “undead” was Eastlander’s metaphor for peasant uprisings that must be suppressed. Nathaniel knew that even these manuscripts were not really the originals but copies generated by the church. Had they been true copies? Or, had they been edited like the heavily-altered stories dispersed to the masses? Perhaps. In this tale, Nathaniel believed that the sorceress would not have been convinced to risk life and limb with such scant motivation as suppressing peasants. Or, even of destroying undead, presuming they were real. Nathaniel winced at the memory of the biting lashes had received when he voiced that opinion.

Of course, Tira was a bit of an issue anyway, having been a Warlock in earlier stories. Maybe Eastlander was less certain of Tira? The Church’s interpretation was that Tira represented the unbridled passion that must be directed by those in command. The teaching was a bit sketchy about who was in command of the sorceress. Was some male power directing her? For her motivation to enter, the Church claimed that the half-elven sorceress sought the deeper understanding of one’s self that comes from looking inward. “I don’t believe that for a minute,” thought the young monk. Tira was after adventure not introspection. Maybe she did buy the cleric’s argument that they should seek some famous sarcophagus inside to deliver to the King Kaius who was making war on the Nentir Vale and the Kengi. The cleric had argued such a delivery might be the ruse needed to approach this evil King. Maybe she went in for the sheer thrill of it. Oh, the lashing he would get for that thought! Still, it was preferable to Master Ofit’s interpretation of her motivations.

The interpretations of the other Valers were equally confusing, but Nathaniel put those thoughts away as he continued to go through the writing. Though quite illegal, he was copying this original text. He was becoming convinced that when he was done, he might need to leave the monastery. Quickly. And, he was not going without the stories.

As he copied the introductory part with the party was standing in front of a huge mound, the monk could almost hear the bats returning for the night into the leftmost of three vine-covered entrances before them. He imagined himself as the taciturn Ranger carefully pulling back the blackened vines on the rightmost to reveal a rubble-strewn and impassable entrance. He could feel his eyes consider the vines themselves, destroyed by the aura of death that surrounded the Tomb. The Ranger had told Eastlander of his anger at the destruction of nature. Nathaniel sniggered. Master Ofit loved those vines. He would extol for hours about how the failure to consider one’s place and follow the Church led to death like the vines trying to cover the tomb had withered away. The agile and daring Ranger was always Master Ofit’s favorite. Nathaniel was convinced Ofit knew nothing of the true Ranger Erik.

The monk concentrated harder to move along with his copying. He quickly found his mind drifting to picture the archway of the middle entrance that confronted the group with a ruby-red A at its apex. Despite Master Ofit’s insistence, Nathaniel was positive that A signified nothing more than the name of the Tomb dweller Acererak. The brightly colored tiles in the hall beyond might have some meaning, but the red path that meandered through them was probably not the “road of one’s life with pitfalls and difficulties” that Master van Laangweend thought it represented. The beautiful artwork on the walls depicting orcs and goblins living together with human and elves was probably not the message of doom that Master Ofit related if one did not adhere to the Church tenets.

Turning aside from his ruminations, and returning to Easterlander’s text, the young monk marveled at the Ranger’s perception to see a riddle faintly inscribed in dwarven runes in the red path:
Acererak congratulates you on your powers of observation. So make of this whatever you wish. For you will be mine in the end no matter what!
Go back to the tormentor or through the arch and the second great hall you’ll discover. Shun green if you can, but night’s good color is for those of great valor. If shades of red stand for blood the wise will not need sacrifice aught but a loop of magical metal – you’re well along your march.
Two pits along the way will be found to lead to a fortuitous fall, so check the wall. These keys and those are most important of all, and beware of trembling hands and what will maul. If you find the false, you find the true and into the columned hall you’ll come, and there the throne that’s key and keyed.
The iron men of visage grim do more than meets the viewer’s eye. You’ve left and left and found my Tomb and now your soul will die.

Nathaniel was not sure what to make of the riddle. Perhaps five score theologians had poured over it. Their attempts at meaning put him to sleep. The young monk was more interested in the portal at the end of the wide corridor than he was in the many pits full of poisoned spikes that the adventurers uncovered. He believed that the roping together of the group to avoid further falls probably was as obvious as what the church said. The solidity of the dwarf Barrick, continually saving the scouting Ranger and the others, probably did, too. And, the huge green demonic face at the end of the corridor, with a black mouth that absorbed all light, could be the darkness of the soul of man that we must all avoid without a thorough examination lest we be sucked into its maw. But, the dragonborn Paladin Felsmon sticking his head into a misty archway and being teleported into a small room whose floor dropped away the moment he arrived made for compelling reading by a master storyteller, and not a parable about following the dictums of the Church. Felsmon had flown when the floor disappeared and then had fascinating explorations that had led him back to the party while they had gone through the archway and been teleported to another location. Not much allegory there, despite the masters’ best efforts.

Nathaniel tried to copy diligently. He couldn’t help but see the storyline itself in his mind’s eye. Separated from the Paladin, the cleric Z’alden, the dwarven fighter Barrick, the Ranger Erik, and the sorceress Tira had found themselves in front of a large gargoyle with four arms. One of the arms had broken off. Placing items in the hands only saw the items crushed.

Unable to discern the meaning of this gargoyle and with the amazing return of Felsmon, who had maneuvered down a series of small tunnels to rejoin them, the group found a crawl space and maneuvered through it, passing through a golden field of light into a huge hallway stretching off into the distance. The walls of this room were covered with humanoids holding variously-colored spheres. Touching yellow and blue spheres had no effect, while touching the orange sphere had caused a spear to come shooting out of the wall at the sorceress. Felsmon had touched a silver sphere and found an opening that he pushed against and fell into a secret room. There he found a secret door, and with the rest of the party following, they followed a route that Eastlander described as “tunnels and doors.”

Master van Laangweend had written extensive treatises on how the adventurers each took turns finding the secret door needed to advance as we must all share the burden of discovery, how each secret door slid a different direction showing the variations that life’s discoveries might take but no door could be held open (Nathaniel guessed that the force bolt that had seared the dwarf might have been a stretch of Eastlander’s imagination but then Eastlander always portrayed the adventurers having the enhanced imagination) showing how the way is not meant to be one of regret , how the twists in the corridor mirrored life’s uncertain journey, how…enough! Nathaniel shook his head in disgust. Yes, the more he thought about it, the more the masters were ruining a good story and nothing more. It was this, the real tales of Eastlander, or as close as he could get to them, that he would copy and sneak out of the monastery for the public to read. They must know the truth.

He turned to the next part of the story:

I was never really sure what to make of the cleric as he related to me what happened next.
“Felsmon had broken through a door, and we were confronted by a room strewn with rubble. Niches in the walls held evil-looking statues. Broken statue arms littered the floor. On a tall pedestal in a far corner was a huge gargoyle with large, bat-like wings. Felsmon flew up to look the gargoyle in the eye. We heard a piercing shriek and living armed claws launched from the gargoyle at our beloved paladin. A battle was on! And, I looking at the creature, realized that it was demon-made, of the same elemental construction as those horrid beasts. By the Dragon, but I did rejoice, as since my time battling ice demons in Kengistan, the Great One has given me powers that can be wielded against such as these the same as if they were the vile undead. But, my prayers would have to wait, as my comrades are much faster to arms than I. Tira launched a fire attack at the monster, but its only effect was to blast her and slam her against a door. Such is the life of a chaos sorceress. General Barrick had more luck, throwing his axe into the air at the flying monster and wounding it with great success. The ranger’s steady eye was true, hitting the gargoyle where it most vulnerable and exacting a terrific price for each magical arrow that flew from his enchanted bow. “ Z’alden took a breath and a sip of Nentir ’97.

“Still, it was not enough. The monstrosity, still airborne you understand, had to deal with our flying paladin. Little did the former statue realize that Felsmon is a flying fortress. There is little on this plane that can penetrate the armor and hide of this warrior. The gargoyle learned this the hard way when, unfazed and unhurt, the Paladin returned his attack with a massive swipe of his waraxe. You might not know that a statue come to life can reason, but it was clear that he realized the futility of continuing to battle one nearly invulnerable, so the gargoyle swooped down to claw our valiant ranger and found meat beneath the leather. Our taciturn ranger made not the slightest sound at this affront to his skin. Felsmon gave chase and himself swooped to further engage the gargoyle. Oh, what a beautiful sound his axe made as chunks of the gargoyle began to fall off. The tide was turning our way.”

“A small intake of breath from Tira and one word of ‘Claws’ and ‘Floor’ was all the warning we had as the fallen statue arms came to life and ripped and tore at us on the ground, slowing those that they could grab. Tira and Barrick both were mired in this muck of marble. The mighty dwarf refused to succumb to this and lunged into the air, you would have said that the fighter could fly, as swinging his axe while in the air he soundly struck this statue-come-flying monster. Unbelievably, the monster flew back to his pedestal and the cracks began to join together. The monstrosity was healing! Such a vile use of a blessed power could not be permitted. Calling upon the mightiest powers of Bahamut, dragonclaws of sapphire light exploded from me and assailed the statue. As I had prayed, the gargoyle was stunned, and my companions and I took our play from this momentary advantage.”

“Felsmon, noticing that the creature wore a necklace, flew up to the pedestal and took the jewelry. Tira found another corridor and a door that opened into a wall of light plaster. Punching through, she found the initial corridor we had entered. Eastlander, you remember, the first hallway with the blood red path and the poison spike traps that Erik and Tira had so cleverly negotiated while roped to Barrick? This door was the other side of the painted door we had passed. What a twisted and warped place this tomb was.”

The cleric took another sip of his wine. I took some of mine and made a few notes to remind myself not to be drawn in. Remember, Torben, tombs of this complexity come from the imagination of adventurers who have spent too many days away from civilization.

The half-elf cleared his throat and continued. “The gargoyle’s stunned condition only lasts for a few heartbeats. Another shriek and we were again under attack. Barrick had gone down a separate corridor and had to rejoin the fight while four claws on the end of powerful arms accompanied by that awful shriek were raining down on the Paladin. To no avail, of course. In return, the dragonborn’s axe raked the gargoyle with a nearly perfect series of blows that extracted a heavy price. Then, the mighty lightning came from his mouth. By the Claw, but this attack had no effect on the statue. Tira would have no more of this. Her powerful bolt of multi-colored chaos magic assaulted the mind of this monster, and in a split second, the gargoyle’s head and then entire body exploded! Victory was ours. For the dwarf’s good work of returning to the battle, he received little more than an attack from the animated arms on the floor.”

“The ranger had found another hallway, one free of these horrible arms. We made our way down it, and then paused to look at the necklace. It was made of 10 beautiful rubies, like those in the bag I found. Sensing one of the gems might have some magic, we looked at it further. A small piece of parchment was enchanted inside. Extracting it, we found another riddle-poem:”

Look low and high for gold
To hear a tale untold.
The archway at the end,
and on your way you’ll wend.

“What meaning these verses might have we could not discern.”

Nathaniel lifted his pen. In all the teachings of the masters, nothing had ever been made of these verses. Maybe in their haste to interpret Eastlander, some of the writings had been overlooked. Maybe he was truly reading and copying the original writings. The young monk dipped his quill and continued to copy, even as his pulse quickened at thought of being so close to the true story.

I, Torben Eastlander, could only marvel at the half-elf’s tale, but I wondered where it was leading. Throughout the evening, he described to me more mysterious rooms, including one with colored circles. The black circle had an interesting story in which the dragonborn had found that the circle was actually a portal to a passage. Exploring, the group found a room six staff lengths square with three strange symbols on the floor. It must have been the cleric himself who investigated this room, as he could not remember the symbols in any detail. After hearing these incredible stories, it is clear to me that the priest has the memory of a sand pile.

A red circle got the group further thanks to the sharp-eyed ranger. A winding, descending corridor led to a dead end according to Z’alden and Felsmon, but Erik could spy not only a secret door, but also a catch to release it. A second catch, caught be the eagle-eyed sorceress was needed to complete the opening. One does wonder at the elaborate nature of the tales this group devises. Still, they are amusing. What was even more enchanting is the room that they entered.

A vast, pitch-black room, which, once illuminated, showed frescoes of beautiful humanoids covered with holy symbols of Bahamut, Pelor, and other good deities. From his reverent description, it was clear upon his entry that here, in this tomb of horrors, Z’alden had found a shrine of hope, a bastion of sanctity. The half-elf’s eyes turned fiery as he relayed what happened next. To his horror, the group realized that the humanoids were distorted, their flesh rotting. They became images of skeletons. This was no good shrine, but one that was evil, sick and twisted. The warped nature became clearer as the rows of pews in front of the group were investigated. Tira lifted one of the benches freeing a noxious cloud of rotting gas that filled the room. Luckily, these benches did conceal some good – several thousand in gold, according to the cleric. As if such stories could be believed. But, these fanciful musings were nothing compared to what he said followed.

The altar area, glowing blue, drew him onward. Stepping onto the dais along with the ranger, the blue glow changed to a yellow aura of “pure evil” as he called it, always seeing things in such distinct terms is this zealous cleric. Upon reaching the altar, lightning exploded in all directions, burning the party. At Z’alden’s touch, purple flames exploded all in all directions, further searing the party members. The cleric smirked as he related how Tira told him not to touch the altar. The altar itself dissolved. But, Z’alden was far more perturbed by the color of those undivine flames that had injured his friends. They so mocked the very warmth of purple-flamed healing that the Great Dragon grants through him. Whatever his original reason for going into this Tomb, the cleric was now incensed. This perversion could not stand. The forces and powers that assembled this Tomb must be destroyed.

A portal in the room that seemed to interest the dragonborn was not investigated. I still cannot believe that anything in this place was not investigated by the paladin sticking his noggin into it, but that is how the cleric told the story to me, and what am I but a poor scrivener. Instead, a small opening, the size of a coin, or a ring, in the far wall drew the party’s attention. Finding that a coin in the slot did nothing, and recalling the strange riddle of the dwarven runes about loops of metal, Z’alden put his Cherished Ring into the slot. The wall dropped away to reveal a passageway with descending stairs.

Could I imagine a staircase that this group would not descend? No, probably not. Over the paladin’s objection that the portal needed his head through it, the party went down. Three poison-spiked pits recalled the “two pits” somehow – the cleric is not good with mathematics, and checking the wall on the last, Erik found a secret door. Is there a door that is a secret to this perceptive human? Obviously, these doors are not so hard to find, I think. The others are probably just blind to anything that isn’t a hulking brute with a warclub. Regardless, after a quick investigation of some singing and happy laughter on the previous level (truly I am not making this up, merely relating the cleric’s tale) that ceased when the paladin smashed through an iron door barring the way to the party, all the adventurers descended into the pit and went through the secret door.

A fog obscured the way, and perhaps for the first time, a sense of fear filled the dragonborn. He turned to run before the solid dwarf grasped him and helped him to shake off the evil magic that pervaded his senses. As the cleric said, “It was Barrick that understood the fear infecting us all came from breathing the fog. He bravely rushed across the room without taking a breath, opened the far door causing the fog to dissipate along with our unnatural fear. By the Dragon, but that is what bravery is! Confronted by the fog of fear, you put one foot in front of the other and not behind.”

Even as his quill dripped, Nathaniel was fairly certain that last quote of the cleric must have been an insertion of the Church. Well, maybe. Or, maybe the cleric really did make small sermons at every opportunity. Nathaniel heard rustling from down the corridor and saw a cloud of dust. He could almost feel the fog of fear coming for him! But, he had not completed this section. What was the point of taking such risks if he was not to finish? No one was supposed to be here at this time of night, anyway. They would get in as much trouble as he would. He pressed on.

The cleric continued, his eyes beaming as he told the next few parts of the tale to me. He drained his glass. “We pressed on towards a faint glow up ahead. Lying on the ground was a mace. I have not beheld its equal. Adorned with holy symbols to all that persevere in the fight against the vile undead, this was a weapon of radiant power about which I could only have dreamed. Thank the Dragon, but here was a weapon to focus my prayers to call upon his Claws, his Teeth, his great Power! And, would we need it.”

Nathaniel turned the page. He dipped his quill to continue. The masters had never mentioned this part of the story. He hurriedly began to read. A sudden noise made his head turn, spilling his ink. There before him was one of the masters! The one he knew the least, the half-elf who kept to himself mostly. Nathaniel started to stammer. The master held one figure to his lips, and said, “Be at peace. I, too, know how captivating the True Writings can be. But, you have other places you should be. It is time to go.” And then, he winked.

Felsmon awakes; it is quiet and dark. But pausing, he wonders, is that noise above, like creaking wood? And why does his head feel like Barrick looks most mornings? Moving to rub his head Felsmon’s arm stops mid-reach, halted by a sturdy length of chain. Sitting up as his eyes adjust to the gloom, he sees that the party is all there, sleeping more closely than ever before. Tugging the chain quickly shows that everyone is chained together, and to the walls. Felsmon’s brief exploration wakes the rest of the group, one by one, each adventurer waking with the same puzzled pained expression.

It does not take the group long to realize they are on a ship, the wooden cell and the rocking motion easily giving it away. Seeing no guards within sight on the other side of the lone-gated wall, they waste no time healing themselves. Tira begins picking the locks of their chains, her own dropping off like she was restrained with silk ties. But before she can undo the rest of the locks a guard appears, striding toward the cell. The guard buys the group’s attempt at feigning unconsciousness and enters the cell. Erik quickly grabs the guard with his legs in a scissor hold and flips the guard down on his back. Before the guard can even get out a shout, Z’alden moves in and easily kills the restrained lackey.

Free from bondage the party begins to search their surroundings. Obviously in the cargo hold of a ship, they find Erik’s pouch of holding, then the rest of their supplies, minus the coin. Erik finds a small secret door in the hull. Wary of being suddenly flooded, a vote of hands decides to open the door. Instead of water, light pours in through the hatch. Peering out they discover they are above land instead of water, and more surprising that they are 200 staff lengths above.

Heading up the ladder, Erik listens, then Barrick peeks above. Other than boots, nothing can be easily discerned on the top deck. Barging upward they find that their prison is not the only air ship around, there is a second ship, on fire, tied to theirs. It does not take long to figure out the situation. The party is trapped on a flying pirate ship, currently in the process of attacking a flying merchant ship. Most of the pirates, living and nonliving, were on the other ship, moving to transfer stolen items back.

Taking quick action, Felsmon runs along the rail line, cutting the grappling ropes as the rest of the party begins the attack of the pirate captors. Felsmon cuts the last grappling rope and the ships begin to lurch independently. Seeing the pirate captain left on the flaming merchant ship the party smiles, their odds of winning the battle improved. But the joy is short lived at best; the captain pulls out a grappling hook with a short piece of rope and throws it over. Magically the rope lengthens and the pirate is able to swing easily back to his ship, the ship on which the adventurers are fighting.

Seeing pirate skeletons trying to return and join the fray, Tira creates a swirl of space, forcing a couple skeletons out over open space, where they fell to their doom, skull jaws silently moving in protest. Erik uses the diversion to teleport aft, grabbing the steering bar. Straining, Erik is able to crash the pirate ship into the merchant ship, killing two pirates in the process. Erik smiles at his ingenuity, but the joy is short lived as the fire from the dying merchant ship jumps and sets the pirate ship aflame.

Despite the slowing magical aura surrounding the pirates, Z’alden wades in closer and attacks, killing two more villainous pirates. Turning to check out his comrades, Z’alden is disheartened to see Barrick attacking Felsmon. Recognizing the domination Z’alden moves to help his friend.

Tira kills the only pirate directly attacking her and tries to head aft to help Erik. But from seemingly out of nowhere, an elemental tentacle lashes out and knocks Tira over. Before Z’alden can render aid, Barrick turns and attacks the hand that would heal him. Expecting it, Z’alden nimbly sidesteps Barrick’s swing; taps Barrick on the shoulder and the glaze dissipates from Barrick’s eyes.

The battle rages back and forth as the fire rages along the port decking. Felsmon grabs the captain only to be bitten in return. The pirate controller is knocked overboard, but invokes a spell and flies easily back on deck. Suddenly the elemental that was ensorcelled into the ship breaks free and attacks the controller. The tide of the battle is turned! Erik gives up trying to control the burning sinking ship and, from behind, delivers a fatal blow to the pirate Captain. The original helmsman is all that is left of the pirates, but he went overboard and flew away before the party could give him a proper fate.

Falling rapidly, the party has a quick choice to make. Felsmon attempts to control the ship, but could only slow its descent a little. Z’alden decides to remain aboard, trying to bring the ship into a controlled tumble, hoping some parts of the magical ship might survive for salvage. The rest of the party dives over the edge of the ship, trusting that Barrick’s new, but untested featherfall enchantment will prove true.

Everyone survives, including Z’alden, but the elemental escapes the bonds that bound it to the ship. Not taking sides, the elemental goes after the party. Barrick somehow manages to jump on and ride a creature made of air, and it was enough. A few well-placed attacks and the elemental perished.

Wondering if they could finally rest, the group surveys the area and the burning wreckage, all sure that if anyone was close, the sight of a flaming falling ship could not be missed. Sure enough, almost immediately, across a nearby lake, boats could be see being launched and heading in their direction. Dusting ash and debris off, yet another decision must be made, hide or confront whomever it is that approaches.

Letter of Marque from King Kaius ir’Wynarn III

To: Captain Ree ir’Wynarn
Commander of the Airship Black Wind

Greetings,

Whereas His Sacred Majesty Kaius III, of Karrnoch, Defender of the Faith, Etc. Hath an Open and Declared War against the Nentir Vale and the Kengi, their Vassals and Subjects. And Forasmuch as you have made Application unto Me for Licence to Arm, Furnish and Equip the said Airship in Warlike manner, against His Majesties said Enemies, I do accordingly Impower and Commisionate you the said Ree ir’Wynarn, to be Captain or Commander of the said Airship Black Wind, Burthen Eighty Tuns or thereabouts: Hereby Authorizing you in and with the said Airship and Company to her belonging, to War, Fight, Take, Kill, Suppress and Destroy, any Pirates, Privateers, or other Subjects and Vassals of the Nentir Vale, or the Kengi, the Declared Enemies of the Crown of Karrnoch; Their Ships, Vessels and Goods, to take and make Prize of.

With this letter I do hereby Request all Lords and Commanders in Chief, of any of His Majesties Territories, to permit him the said Captain or Commander with his said Vessel, Men, and the Prizes that he may have taken, freely and quietly to pass and repass, without giving or suffering him to receive any Trouble or Hindrance, but on the contrary all Succour and Assistance needful. This Commission is to continue in Force for the Space of Six Moons next ensuing (if the War so long last) and not afterwards. Given under my Hand and Seal at Arms at Karrn the Thirteenth Day of the Dragon: The Seventh Year of His said Majesties Reign, 998 YK.

By His Excellencies Command,

Kaius III

Letter from King Kaius ir’Wynarn III to Captain Ree ir’Wynarn

Captain Ree ir’Wynarn
Airship Black Wind

Greetings Cousin,

I trust this missive finds you in excellent health and spirits. I have received your reports on the war against the Nentir and the Kengi. All seems well on those fronts.

Continue your raids as you see fit. Spare only the port of Fallcrest. You know the reasons. I write today with several requests. First, my collection of ancient sarcophagi seems sadly lacking. I have heard tell of a most exquisite specimen in the Tomb near the village of Nenlast. You will know of the one I speak. It is rumored to be made of obsidian, with a jade cover. Any other sarcophagi you find would be appreciated. The usual reward, with no questions asked.

Next, my nephew has been stirring up trouble again. Apparently the chains that bind one’s relatives are never strong enough. I hear that Dreadhold is lovely this time of year. Perhaps you could pay my dear nephew a visit, and reaffirm our concern for his well being.

Finally, do try to acquire another group of heroes. You know how I like to experiment, and that last batch did not age well at all. Most disappointing. You might try Fallcrest, as we have not heard from our contact there in quite a while.

I will expect you or your agents back at the Court no latter than two moons from now. Be punctual, as you know how I hate waiting for presents.

Given under my Hand etc. etc. the Seventh Day of the Rogue, 998 YK.


The plot so far…

At the end of our last adventure, we found our brave companions fighting for their lives after crashing a not-so-friendly masquerade ball. Without weapons and armor, Z’alden, Felsmon, Barrick, Tira, and Rift managed to defeat the evil thief Craith and his minions. But in the end, Elena Goodright, one of the instigators, made good her escape on a foul winged beast. The brave wizard Rift followed her on a white pegasus, and her current whereabouts and health are unknown.

Poor Mr. Goodright, Elena’s father, and the owner of the mansion, had been turned into an undead monster by Craith, and locked in his own cellar. With their new friend Lorelei, the adventurers, rejoined by Erik, managed to destroy Goodright’s unholy carcass. Knowing that time was of the essence, they found a shaman willing to perform the risky ritual for raising the dead. The experiment was a success, and Mr. Goodright now sleeps peacefully in his upstairs bedroom.

Now, after a long evening, the adventurers contemplate the events, and reflect over their next course of action…

Barrick’ turn. He got up, walked past the dead body starting to stink, tapped Felsmon on the shoulder, or anyway as high as he could easily reach, and took his turn standing watch over the street. No activity. Nothing would disturb the body this night, they would see to that – and that would be the end of it. He thought back to the evening that spawned this cursed vigil …

As so often, Barrick had been out of his element, trusting his more magical and, frankly, intelligent companions to understand this latest cowpie of a mission. Why should they ride in a carriage with this witch-woman Lorelei to a party, all having swallowed an unrecognition potion? Why should they give up their weapons at the entrance to the soiree? Why should they stay, when they were not greeted with a tankard of ale, or even mead, at the door?

Taking a seat next to an elderly human woman bedecked with jewels, the tough old dwarf stared at the stage. Could have sworn he saw a Beholder up there for a second, but now it was just a calm-looking man announcing a collection for an orphanage, and a young lass whose face he couldn’t see, passing around a metal pot shaped like a hat. He quickly grabbed the last five of the open-faced sandwiches from the table’s platter, while his neighbors stared at him slack-jawed.

Barrick’s companions (Rift, Felsmon, Tira, and Z’alden) were spread around the room, except for Erik, who had remained at the carriage. The music from the corner of the hall wasn’t half bad, but the several jesters attempting to entertain the guests were the worst he had ever seen. No smiles on their faces, no juggling, no pratfalls, no dancing, just a creepy, leering mime act, like they were trapped in a box, or trying to pull on a rope. Awful.

His ears were starting to burn, though. The chatter around him sounded familiar, something about a Mr. Goodright who had died at the hands of some scruffy adventurers – sounded not unlike some trouble they had had once in these parts, though they hadn’t killed anyone by that name, so far as he knew. He had the sneaking suspicion that the potion was wearing off – people were starting to talk behind their hands while looking his way, and at the huge, unforgettable figure of his dragonborn pal, Felsmon, nearby.

Just as Barrick was looking for more sandwiches, the entertainment kicked up a notch. The jesters had apparently just been doing avant-garde comedy, and they now all straightened up and pulled daggers out of their waistbands. Their leader, a convincingly mean-looking brute, announced that his name was Finnegan, and this was a holdup! Wonderful, a real piece of comic performance art. The jesters even grabbed a hostage or two, who looked truly scared! Barrick slapped his thighs with both hands and rocked with laughter.

At that, the nearest jester strode up and stabbed Barrick in the side.

The dwarf had shed his armor at the door, and he felt the blade cut into his belly fat. Did this idiot not know how to use a breakaway knife? Where do they find these guys? But the cruel look on the jester’s face, and Finnegan’s barking of orders, soon cleared his mind. It was on!

Barrick became enraged quicker than he could drain a glass. Finding himself without his usual weapons, he abruptly stopped laughing and, in one practiced motion, stood and swung his chair (about two hammers’ weight, he guessed) atop the knife-wielding jester’s head. His beefy assailant took most of the blow on his shoulders, and did not crumple.

Rift was, as usual, a few steps ahead of the dwarf, having cast a sleep spell on three of the jesters. She now proceeded to tie the hands of one of them – apparently she had spent some time on a ranch in her youth. Tira, thinking to press her unrecognition advantage for a few seconds more, tried a chaos bolt under the table, but it glanced harmlessly off the table leg. She then transported next to the lass who had taken up the collection. This was in fact their old “friend” Elena, who looked relieved to find that there were reinforcements among the guests, and even stabbed one of the sleeping jesters.

Elsewhere the fight proceeded in deadly earnest. Finnegan killed a musician who was trying to escape, as did another jester. One stabbed a peaceful hostage in the neck, but Z’alden, recently returned to the group, healed the guest, and cast a spell so powerful, it reached everyone in the room, doing serious damage to the three sleeping jesters. Felsmon, the largest figure present, struck a nearby jester, then took to the air – yes, he can fly – heading for one of the many suits of armor lining the hall. He janked its axe down onto yet another jester, whose hostage fell in a faint to the floor.

Barrick pulled a dagger from his usual hiding place – his beard, always close at hand and as impervious to quick searching as a Roc’s nest – and stabbed at his foe. This gave him an opening to retreat to a nearby suit of armor, where he grabbed a flail. He missed his trusty axe, but he swung the flail in a continuous circle around his stout frame, as he had been taught decades before. Jester, guests, and companions alike shied away from this dangerous dervish.

The fight might have ended in a few more seconds, the jesters no match for the experienced adventurers, but for Elena and the calm Master of Ceremonies, who turned out to be her uncle. They gave up any remaining pretense of dismay at the holdup, which it was now clear they had planned, and took to fighting alongside the jesters. Meanwhile the guests finally came to their senses and began to flee, scattering randomly towards the exits, which were barred.

It was Felsmon who killed the first foe, coldly murdering the last sleeping jester. In his glee, though, he misfired with his dragon’s breath, and the other two, now awake and free of Rift’s restraints, lit into him in response. Suddenly nothing was going well. Elena’s uncle could deal horrific damage, but was himself hard to hit. Tira attempted to toss him with a hurricane spell, to no avail, though the spell did push Elena out of the way. Finnegan, the leader of the jesters, acted every bit the part of a desperate killer.

Rift, having retreated to a corner, tried not once but twice with an icy-grasp spell, gave up, and set to trying to open the doors so the guests could escape the increasingly murderous situation. Barrick was by now surrounded by jesters, keeping their distance, looking for an opening. Felsmon was hurt badly, and Tira was bloodied.

Luckily Z’alden was once again in the house, and began to work his healing magic. Felsmon found solace in the Z-man’s Consecrated Ground, though the jesters found only pain there. Barrick, who had done so well with battle motivation in recent battles, tried again now, but his rage got the better of him, and he made a hash of the attempt: “I, General Barrick, command you all to fight better!” His companions, grinning or laughing outright, felt better anyway.

The 5 began to rally. Tira and Rift pulled off a pair of beautifully meshing spells. Fire from Rift was placed over ice from Tira, so that Elena’s uncle and some jesters, including their leader Finnegan, repeatedly slipped on the ice and fell into the fire. They only escaped by crawling.

And now the big guns came out; a tempest bomb from Tira, a blast from Rift, a revived Felsmon doing his usual bloodthirsty thing, and Barrick still whirling, with Z’alden watching everyone’s back, his healing spells at the ready. The jesters all took damage from fire, from ice, from Z’alden’s spells, from Barrick’s flail, from Felsmon’s blade. And … they lost their nerve. One tried to flee, but only fled this world.

Just then the doors burst open, scattering the guests, and the witch-woman Lorelei surveyed the scene from the doorway: the frightened guests, the broken, blood-spattered furniture, the dead bodies, the cowering jesters, and the 5 proud warriors. Erik, at her side, said, “S’up, guys”.

Lorelei called out to Craith to call off the fight, but as she watched, Tira took the opportunity to kill the jester leader Finnegan, Elena attacked Rift, Barrick attacked a jester, and Z’alden cast a spell on Craith, banishing him for a few seconds to an astral plane. Felsmon and the others prepared to ambush Craith upon his return.

Elena finally had her fill of the battle, and raced out of the room, leaping atop a winged creature she had left at the ready. A young lass, but not a foolish one. Rift barely hesitated, giving chase on a Pegasus belonging to Lorelei. Swooping and gliding, the duo of dangerous damsels vanished in seconds. Rift was gone!

With Elena out of the scene, Lorelei, the most powerful being in the room, commanded all to cease their fighting. Something in her voice made the command stick – probably a spell or three. Craith now became penitent, and promised to pay reparations: Dwarven chainmail for Barrick, a mace for Z’alden, and several wonderful potions, including a Potion of Unholy Life.

This last gift exposed a problem,in that Craith had carried out experiments with the recipe, and now that all doors were open and the fight ended, a faint moaning could be heard from the basement. Investigating, the group found a figure, chained in a corner, who looked like Mr. Goodright, only grey, sunken, and tattered.

Z’alden knew one thing, if he knew anything: The only good zombie is a dead zombie. He tried immediately to end Goodright’s godforsaken existence, but the battle ultimately required the might of all present (except Tira, exploring, and Barrick, drinking) to put down the monster.

Back upstairs, Craith also offered to pay for the reincarnation of the numerous dead, including Mr Goodright. Felsmon and Barrick looked at each other, then at the dead Finnegan, may his bones crumble to dust. Burned, slashed, bloodied, and broken, Finnegan looked to their eyes like someone who should not be reincarnated. While the hall was being cleared, they stealthily carried his body to an empty lot, where they would keep vigil, that night and more if necessary. Nothing would disturb the body, they would see to that – and that would be the end of it.

Z’alden had to smile as he stepped out of the Kengi shrine to Bahamut. A young dragonborn tugged at his leg. Dragons teeth but that itched. The cleric shook his head to pay attention. “Please Brother Zenithar, tell us the story of the Rift, again!” A small crowd of other youngsters nodded vigorously, “Yes, yes!” The Half-Elf just grinned. These youths had seen the ravages that the Fire Elemental army had wrought upon the warriors of the dragonborn Kengi. Thousands had perished before Z’alden’s friends had vanquished the primordial force that compelled the elementals forward. Z’alden shuddered at the memory of the behemoth Ryolith. 6 staff lengths of molten lava rising into the sky. A stomp of the monster’s feet could open cracks of lava-filled ground below one’s own. His new scale armor had been singed when he had fallen into one of Riolith’s staff-deep crevices.

He suppressed the shudder and turned to the leader of the young group. “Now, Laren-Tioth, surely your father has told you this story ten times already.”

“Yes, but want to hear it from you! My father was fighting the elementals with Ilkhan Felsmon and General Barrick." All fell silent at mention of the great dwarf. Laren-Tioth was too riled about to think about mourning, "But, he wasn’t there to face the snakeman or the evil fire elf, much less the mass of lava Ryolith!” All the dragonborn children hissed at that name. The Kengi had come to understand what danger the molten monster represented. The massive scar in the land, a chasm of unknown depths, 10 staff lengths across and an hours walk long, still smoldering days after the battle. The scar served as a reminder of just how close the Kengi had come to the brink.

The Cleric sat down, his leg itching. The Kengi healers had miraculously restored Z’alden’s severed limb. He still couldn’t believe how they had managed to obtain the necessary component, a half-elven leg bone, but he was lucky that they had. The leg had healed well and was actually much stronger then before. But, oh, how it itched. The skin was surprisingly hard, too. The healers assured him that the itch would stop eventually, but Z’alden couldn’t help noticing the worried looks they would give each other after answering his questions. Still, this was not the time to reflect. Just scratch and talk, the children were waiting.

The little circle of dragonborn surrounded the cleric. Each child held one or two small swords, and some waved them as though in battle while they waited quietly for him to start speaking. One burst out, “Take that Staghelm! I am the daring Ranger Erik and slash you with my twin swords.” Laren-Tioth growled, “No, shellhead, Erik slew Staghelm with his magical Moonbow. He slashed Ryolith. Brother Zenithar, would you tell Dandiflan that he’s telling it wrong?”

Again, Z’alden couldn’t help but smile at these youngsters. Brother Zenithar, yes that is the formal name he hardly ever uses. The stiff dragonborn clerics and warriors always call him by his proper name. Not even his mother calls him Zenithar, preferring her nickname for Zenithar al Denithar, her little Z’alden. Oh, if his elven father Denithar could see him now! With the safe return of his friends from their quest to seek out and understand the Dark Cloud in the south, and now the defeat of Ryolith, he had all that he could possibly need – good food, friends, and many young ears eager to hear him recount the recent battles. Well, almost everything. He had already mourned long and hard. Now, it was time to turn to tomorrow, and maybe he could work in a little sermon or two.

The cleric’s voice was practiced at story telling, a key skill for a preacher. And, how he loved to preach for the causes of the great Dragon – Hope, Justice, and Law. “Yes, good Kengi children, the story you shall have. First, there are the dragonfriends, Felsmon your noble Ilkhan.” The children cheered at the naming of their dragonborn hero. “Next, the great dwarven figher General Barrick who freed your great Dragon Aurumendor from the Yuan-ti and then came to Kengistan himself and led so many Kengi to victory despite the apparent hopelessness of the battle – the enemy was two to one against them!” The children and a few kobolds who had gathered bowed quietly at the memory of the fallen warlord fighter, the dwarf who commanded dragonborn. Z’alden heard sniffles. “Next is the quiet warrior of swift blade and sure arrow, Erik the Ranger.” The youngster with the two swords waved them in the air as everyone cheered. “And, the Sorceress exemplar Tira Duskmoon,” Z’alden made the very beginnings of his healing light illuminate his hands with a purple fire,” whose many colored chaos shredded the minds and bodies of the Kengi enemies.” The children jumped to their feet and slapped swords. They waved their swords like Tira’s powerful magic dagger, slaying unseen foes. It took several minutes before they quieted. Z’alden waited patiently. “Finally, the Eladrin wizard Rift whose magic rooted our foes to the place, rendering them fodder for my friends’ greatest powers!” Clawed hands extended as a gaggle of wizards surrounded the cleric, “You will bow to my powers!” the children shouted in one melodramatic voice.

Z’alden couldn’t help but wish that his dwarven friend was here to hear his re-telling of the tale. Barrick, General Barrick the Kengi called him, had gone into battle with Felsmon, leading thousands of dragonborn warriors. At the front line of the Kengi army massed against thousands of Fire Elementals, Z’alden’s two friends had held the elementals rooted in place while the cleric and the others were teleported behind enemy lines to break the power of the Fire Generals who controlled the elementals. If only he could have been there to save Barrick.

The children settled down and the cleric began to weave the tale.
“The Rift of Fire formed in the sky and on the ground. Just as in the dreams the Great Dragon had granted me. My friends and I would not stand idly by as thousands of Fire Elementals poured into the homeland of Clan Kengi. Your Tarkhan called to us and we answered!” The dragonborn children cheered wildly! A Kengi cleric brought Z’alden a tankard of ale, and a few other brothers stood by smiling as the half-elf continued.

“The Kengi mages penetrated the magic shield that guarded one of the Elemental’s Generals: Fenderal Staghelm, an elf turned by some primordial force into a fire elemental himself but with cunning and power, armed with twin swords full of evil to spread chaos and destruction across the Earth. This is just what I was called to stop, my little ones. This is the evil that I was given my powers to fight. We are all called to stand against evil in all its forms – this is just one of the most tangible.” He lost the youngsters at that point; too much sermon. Back to story.

“Using a magical potion, my friends and I disguised ourselves as Fire Elementals, and the mages teleported us into General Staghelm’s presence. The elf was surprised and paid the price. I called on Bahamut’s justice to send this elemental sprite back to the chaos that spawned him! By Dragon’s Claw, By Dragon’s Might, Prince of Darkness now beware, today you feel the Dragon’s Light! Claw daggers of blue light erupted from my fingers in answer to my prayer. The sapphire claws tore into Staghelm, ravaging his body, and more importantly his mind – leaving him stunned in place before he could even swing one of his twin swords against us. Tira the Sorceress beguiled his mind with a dazzling ray and stole one of his burning hot swords out of Staghelm’s hands. Then, Rift the wizard created a giant icy hand, a spell learned from the master wizard Bigsby! The Hand of Ice grasped the fire elf. Flames shot out of the icy fingers as the spell squeezed the fallen son of air. Rift grabbed our foe’s other sword. I called upon Bahamut and divine light washed over my friends, empowering them with the Dragon’s ferocity, even as the light seared the evil Staghelm. Then, with his own twin swords flashing as though some huge Wolf’s jaw had opened and closed on our foe, Erik slashed and tore into the flaming elf. It was as though slashes from a mouth full of razor sharp teeth engulfed our foe. The battle was in our favor and Staghelm was reeling. But, always remember, the battle isn’t over until the enemy is felled. Staghelm was far from defeated.”

The children’s eyes went wide as the cleric sipped his ale for effect. The gathered kobolds rocked on their heels. “Extending his hand, the flaming black sword of the elf flew from the wizard back to Staghelm, and the silver sword from the Sorceress. In a few short strokes, the powerful figher had penetrated the defenses of the Ranger with a quick backhand slash and a punch to the head. Erik was on fire and reeling, unable to think straight. Dragon’s claws! but I evened the tide by sending brilliant blue light into the eyes of that elf, blinding him. Violent winds erupted from Tira as a tempest battered our foe. The elf lashed out at me, and even my dragonborn scale armor couldn’t stop those sharp weapons. Emboldened, the elf looked to close on me for a kill. Little did he realize that my friend the Ranger’s staff had turned into a radiant Moonbow. Dazzling arrows flew at our foe, a volley of biting shafts wounding the elemental general. Tira’s lightning scored the elf further even as the great Hand of Bigsby’s magic squeezed him. Lightning and arrows rained down on the elf, but he wasn’t finished, slicing his swords into me and into our wizard. But, our flaming foe hadn’t reckoned on the Ranger’s arrows striking true, through his helm, and into his burning brain, felling the elf with a powerful enchanted arrow.”

Laren-Tioth stuck his forked tongue out at Dendiflan, “See, I told you the amazing Erik slew Staghelm with the Moonbow.” Dendiflan stomped his foot.

“But, good children, Staghelm wasn’t quite finished, yet. Even as he perished, he uttered a curse. The flaming elf shouted, as sizzling blood poured from his lips, ‘You shall fall before Ryolith’". The dragonborn children hushed at that name.

“We did not realize just what a curse that was. A name I had heard in the visions the Dragon had granted to me, giving us warning of our foes.”

“There was no time to ponder, as the mages returned us from behind the lines of the Fire Elementals before those monsters could realize we were there and as vulnerable as a plucked chicken. We barely had time to breathe, as the mages teleported us to the area of the other Fire General, the flaming man-serpent called Executus – a Yuan-ti turned into an elemental by the same great primordial power that had transformed Staghelm. Staghelm’s superior in every way. This was no foe to sneer at. Underestimate your foes and come home dead, General Barrick always told me, Respect them and have a tankard the next day.” The children nodded at the wisdom of the great fallen dwarf. Z’alden found it hard to speak for a moment as he remembered his friend. He took a deep draught from his own tankard and thanked the Dragon for it. He looked around. A crowd of Kengi had gathered. Most had tankards, many large, just the way Barrick would have wanted it. They raised theirs to the cleric. He continued.

“The shields protecting the huge man-snake were more powerful than those of Staghelms. The mages did their best but we were not as close nor as well placed. I was more than 10 staff lengths away and found myself with a fire elemental in my face rather than the flaming scales of Executus that I longed to extinguish. My children, those scales have haunted my dreams for the past moontide and here they were, so close but barred by an elemental. Such creatures are not to be ignored. Tira and Rift each had one in front of them as well. Singed we were but more annoyed than harmed. The Sorceress sent a wave of thunder all around, sending the elemental back to the chaos that spawned it. The wizard had no such patience, she sent a vortex of wind around Executus, battering him and tossing him into the air, leaving him dazed and wounded. Erik was not about to let such an opportunity pass. Quickly, arrows of light flew from the enchanted bow, ripping into the flaming scales. Dragon’s claws but I was not going to let these evil creatures bar my way to victory. Silver flames erupted from me in all directions, destroying the elemental in front of me and reaching all the way to Executus. Oh, that former Yuan-ti began to wish he’d never left his shell as the Dragon’s power froze him to the spot even as the wizard’s whirlwind bound him in the air!”

“But, the wizard’s power is not infinite, and as he arrived back on terra firma, waves of flames erupted from the snake, burning Tira, Rift, and Erik. The Ranger was on fire. Then, in an instant, the leather armor protecting Erik glowed and the fire was out. The Ranger’s eyes went like steel, arrows flew, destroying more fire elementals that Executus had summoned. If the Ranger was steel, the magic of the wizard was like titanium. The Eladrin called upon great powers, icy cold and warmth enveloped Executus. The snakeman’s eyes grew heavy. At first, he was simply moving slowing. We punished him for this weakness with spells and arrows, blinding light that seared his eyes. But, he had not yet seen the power that my friends could wield, nor would he, as he dropped unconscious from the wizard’s magical might.”

“Two perfect arrows flew from the Ranger’s bow. Never have I seen shots that were more perfectly placed to extract a price from an enemy. Two more flew, equally well placed. From the flaming snake, something akin to flaming pus flowed freely from each penetrating shaft. By the claw, this creature would fall! Bahamut’s brilliance erupted as white radiance engulfed the flaming Yuan-ti. What little breath the Ranger had left in him, by the Great Dragon, this Executus was no more!”

Cheers erupted from the crowd of Kengi and kobolds that had surrounded the circle of dragonborn children and clerics. Tankards chimed together like victory bells. Heads nodded and mugs foamed. The half-elf took a deep draught, even as he gathered as thoughts, “But, what about Ryolith?” young Larn-Tioth asked. Everyone hissed again at the name of the molten giant. Z’alden’s eyes narrowed as thought of the monstrosity, the exarch and general of the primordial Ragnaross.

Deep below the surface, not far from where the cleric spoke, a dwarf marveled at the filigree ring on his finger. Magic. I think it might have its uses. Told Felsmon I just might need this when Erik found it in that Devil’s muck. His beard singed, his armor blackened, the tough dwarf stowed his shield and axe. He looked to his left and right. Hundreds upon hundreds of Kengi dragonborn and kobolds lay dead around him. Most unrecognizable from the impact. He looked up and far in the distance; he could just see the faint outline of light. How many miles above? Who knew. But no flaming little cookies and their overgrown campfire were keeping this dwarf down. He pulled out his climbing rope, swung the climbing hook, and started to ascend. Barrick was getting out of this hole, no matter how long it took.

As the crowd quieted from the mention of the molten monster, Z’alden nodded, “Yes Laren-Tioth, the Exarch of Ragnaross put a sour end to our victory. Even as Executus fell, the elementals were strengthened by the arrival of the living Lava mound. The mages got us closer to our foe this time. A little too close. I was next to the giant. A full 5 staff lengths across, he was, in a crater that his heat was generating. We were all too close to the flaming arms and molten body. And we knew it. Strategic repositioning was in order. Little did this Exarch know that an Arch of Magic was coming his way, courtesy of the mighty Eladrin. Even as Tira flew on a dragon’s vestige, the Ranger was surrounded by lava as Ryolith melted the ground under him. What sort of monster was this that even the very ground became our enemy? Flaming cracks extended further, dropping me into another pit of fire. Rift also fell into the cracks but she would not despair."

“Calling upon that amazing Icy Hand of Master Bigsby, she tried to grab the giant. Even when times seem dark, and the enemy more than you bear, stand fast and have faith! By the Claw, I let that molten muddle know that I was a cleric of Bahamut! Silver flames engulfed his own fire, and Ryolith knew the pain of the light of the Great Dragon. The monster was rooted to the spot and his brightness dimmed by the Bahamut’s radiance. In that moment, the Eladrin saw her chance. Her powerful enchantment surround our foe, and he became slow and then, unconscious! The Ranger knew he had not a moment to lose. His brilliant arrows attacked the most vulnerable parts that had become exposed as the monster lagged under the magical lulling of the wizard’s sleeping spell. With 6 arrows in just heartbeats, Ryolith was much less than he had once been. He knew the bite of the Ranger’s volleys! Then, Tira battered the flaming hulk with wind – a tempest to extinguish the flames and send the creature back to his primordial master. Indeed, his flames were dimmed greatly. As I called on the Great Dragon, brilliant radiance from Bahamut stole more of the living flames from the mighty hulking lava mass. Ryolith’s flames were going out!”

“Then, the hulking mass awoke.” The crowd drew in its breath, even as Z’alden continued.

“100 of the Fire Elementals on the front lines of the battle with the Kengi vanished and as one, their flames poured into the molten monster, restoring him. He waved his hand and the ground under Rift turned into lava, searing the wizard. Ryolith moved closer to us to engage in melee with his great arms of flaming lava. The Ranger would have none of it. Arrows flew and huge chunks of lava could no longer bind to the mass. Thunder shattered more off of Ryolith’s flame as the magic of the Sorceress would not be denied. Even so, the beast stomped his feet and huge flaming cracks erupted in the earth, swallowing me. Tira answered with lightning that burst upon the monster. His flames were again dimming. Hope swelled within me. By the Wing, I called forth the image of the Great Dragon and silver flames poured forth over Ryolith. The monster was teetering even as the filled ground burned the wizard and myself. We were winning! But, never rest when the enemy is still above ground,”

“Or you’ll be the one below!” A dwarven voice growled. There from the edge of the crowd, a soot-covered dwarf stood. Z’alden jumped to his feet. “Barrick, by the Wings, you’re alive!”

“Aye, and thirsty.” The dwarf found himself with four of the largest tankards of dragonborn ale, two for each hand. The crowd cheered wildly at the return of the mighty dwarf. “Now finish the tale. I want to know just how that scratch in the ground formed.”

Z’alden just shook his head in wonder and thanked the Dragon for all that he had. “Thousands of the elementals in front of your troops vanished and Ryolith restored himself further.”
The cleric found it hard to speak. He was too full of emotion at the return of his friend, but the crowd called for more.

“Rift’s Icy Hand had just grabbed Ryolith but, newly restored, he escaped. He charged at Erik, but with a deft maneuver, our Ranger was too quick for the hulking creature. Little did Ryolith realize what lay in store for him in return for his trouble. In a blink, the Ranger was no longer holding his moonbow, but instead, his twin blades were in his hands, and he began to carve the beast as though it was soft dirt. Lava chunks fell in all directions. Tira, seeing a weakness in the creature, directed a thunderblast from her dagger straight into his chest. The thunder reverberated and Ryolith’s right arm flew off! The wizard summoned a magical gate to get closer to the beast, and twin arcs of magical missiles tore away at the outer shell of the creature. His lava shell began to fall away revealing an inner core of an iron skeleton that teetered.”

“It roared and shouted, you will never defeat the son of Ragnaross!” All eyes in the crowd went wide. “The earth shook and a wave of fire and a great wind blast flew from the front lines back across the iron skeleton into the rift in the sky. It was as though a raging storm of heat blew to the Rift, sucking up the fire elementals and the remains of Ryolith. Then we heard a massive explosion. Thousands of Kengi fell into a monstrous chasm that formed where the Fire Elementals had once stood. You, Barrick, were at the front of the line and also fell. Dragon’s Teeth, but it is good to see you!”

The dwarf accepted the embrace of his friend. A few seconds before another draught would be alright. “Does anyone have a meal for a hungry dwarf?” Kobolds appeared from all directions bringing food for the hero. Others ran to tell the adventurers of the return of their friend.