The Shaman Speaks – Welled With Tears

It was Calad Brae, but it was not as he remembered it. The hooded figure stood on the balcony above the entrance of the Great Hall, surveying the deceptive tranquility and calm that quieted the streets of the city on this night. Closing his eyes and taking in a deep breath, he remembered only a year ago, when the alleys and avenues would still be teeming with people at this hour – it brought a smile to his face, and for a brief moment all was as it should be. He could see the men gathering at the tavern after a day’s work, others going home to their sweethearts; he could smell the cooking meats from the houses as dinner was prepared, and hear the laughter from a bard’s bawdy song. The cool night air brushed across his face and he left his eyes shut just a bit longer. He knew what he would see when he opened them.

Forcing his gaze once again to the streets below, he saw the cold reality of the situation. The streets were peaceful, yes, but it was not a content peace. It was the peace that occurred just after a battle, leaving you to ponder when the next attack would come. It was the peace that a dying man feels when he realizes that his assailant has run away, only to discover that the knife is still buried deep within his chest. It was the very same peace that he felt only a few days ago while escaping from Red Ribbon, and discovering shortly thereafter that his son had followed him. The streets were nothing more than a facade, a manifestation of a public that was so completely mortified by its leader that not even the tiniest attempts of redemption would be tried. The entire city, this “peace”, was a death knell.

He pulled his cloak a little tighter, only now cognizant of the chillier autumn winds, or perhaps it was the sight of another patrol passing through the alleys below. In their wake followed a massive, six armed creature, standing nearly as tall as the balcony itself. He had seen a few of them before having been sentenced to death, but it was now apparent that their numbers had grown, quelling any chance the people had of rising up. If he were to have any hope of making a difference, it would have to be one person at a time; and at this moment, that person was Loutarin.

Falstrom looked over the balcony at the entrance of the Hall, confirming that Amadius and Ghanadar were still in the agreed upon location. Relieved to see his companions, Falstrom took heart in the nod that Pontius’ father gave him from below. The guards surrounding the two, however, did not sit well with him – but it was the only way they were allowed to seek the Magistrate’s “council”. The three had insisted they meet with Omus in person, but to no avail. One person, and one person only, was allowed. It was decided that Falstrom, holding the most favor (if that could even be said without amusement) would be the one to voice their proposals. Since all three were there not their for themselves, but rather for their sons and nephews, Falstrom knew he spoke for all of them – this would not be as simple as a selfish negotiation.

He thought back quickly to only a day ago, when he spotted Ghanadar and Amadius within the city walls. At first, he thought his eyes were deceiving him, that the magic dwemers and wards of the new Calad Brae had somehow tricked him – but after following them to a secluded area north of the city and eavesdropping on their conversation, he knew he was not mistaken. Their reaction was similar, of course, even going so far as the ranger drawing his bow, forcing Falstrom to throw his hands up in truce. Yet their familiarity over the decades won out, and without speaking a word, they embraced and gave thanks that they were still alive. Amadius, still weak from the healing magic that was working its course through him, suggested they spend the night in the forest, well outside the city limits.

The men told their tales of escaping from Red Ribbon, and then of being hunted by the city Watch for days through the northern forests. Falstrom rejoiced in the fact that his son was still alive, hearing from Ghanadar that the group had traveled to Burrowshead for the Vesper Epulum. It was a bit of comradery to brighten their spirits, for they realized they would need it in the coming weeks. Immediately, Falstrom told them of the information he discovered that could potentially be used as leverage against Omus. It was decided, with the full knowledge that they may be sacrificing their lives, that one final trip to the Great Hall would determine their, and perhaps Alaron’s, fate.

And so, less than a day later, here they were – standing outside the gates of the Great Hall, ready to accept whatever came their way. Falstrom turned around slowly at the sound of approaching footsteps; two armed Watchmen stopped short of the doorway while the man responsible for Calad Brae’s current state strode eerily onto the balcony. The guards closed the doors behind him, leaving the two men standing over the city’s vista. Falstrom looked at his old friend, how he had changed, and tried desperately to choke down the rising contempt he felt from a simple glance. There was an emptiness, and after a bit of thought, he realized it was simply a magnification of what Omus always was – dry, logical, seemingly unfeeling; willing to do anything for the sake of magic. But a year ago, that logic was nothing more than an endearing character trait. Now, it was a reason to hate.

Omus, was not dressed in the typical purple watch garments that Falstrom had remembered him in, but rather a deep blue, now trimmed with yellow and gold; the colors of the Magistrate. He clothes were still simple, nothing more than an expensive robe to the naked eye, but Falstrom could easily assess that was not the case. There was probably enough magic in the robe alone, not to mention the inevitable spell components and items that he undoubtedly carried underneath it, to vanquish over 100 men. It was a thought he took to heart, understanding that he was sorely outmatched against the mage.

“You want to kill me right now, don’t you?” Omus asked, breaking the silence and startling Falstrom from his quiet thought. “Even now, you are imagining yourself running me through with your rapier, or perhaps hurling me off the balcony to my death. Yes?” Falstrom didn’t answer, still trying to determine what the motive of this line of questioning was.

The mage continued, “A quick dagger across the throat, watching the blood spill, taking my life with it. You cannot stop thinking of the son you may lose because of my actions, or the friends I have taken from you. Dear Amadius, dying of a sickening disease, Ghanadar forced into hiding, and you, sent to your death.” The words were beginning to have the desired affect on Falstrom, and he could feel the rage boiling up, but he tried to calm to himself – these were nothing more than words. “And our fair city, what it once was in no more, because of me. Ah, you would most definitely take great pleasure in killing me, and you think of the happier years to overcome your rising temper. The years when your wife was still alive, when…”

“STOP!” came the angry order. Falstrom, visibly shaking and in a defensive stance looked at the mage with fiery eyes, “I will not have any more talk of death! And I assure you, your magic will be of no help to you if you speak of my wife and son again!” He took a breath, bringing a semblance of calm back into his voice, lowering his tone. “And yes, Omus, I too care about my family. Enough to die for them, and kill for them if need be. But my wife is gone, Loutarin is not. Do you hear me? My wife is dead, Omus. She is beyond our reach.”

Falstrom hoped the grim parallel would be made obvious to the wizard, and by the expression on his face, it had. The fighter continued, “There are many people beyond our reach.” His voice was calm, almost comforting. “Our lives eventually become memories, and our mettle as men is measured on how we preserve those.”

The tall, robed Magistrate walked over to the edge of the balcony, looking down to the city streets where Amadius and Ghanadar stood with the guards. For the first time, Falstrom saw him hang his head in what seemed to be…….submission? He lifted his head and grabbed the stone railing, now looking up into the sky before gesturing the other man over to him. Falstom stood beside Omus, and for a few moments they stood in silence, both of the staring out over the city, the moonlight etching out their profiles against the blanketed night. “I know why you came here, Falstrom.” There was another long pause and he let the wizard continue, “My mind is clouded, and I think often of the days when I called you friend. They are some of my most fond thoughts.”

Falstrom, taken aback by this sudden change in demeanor was on guard, nevertheless he remained silent. “You have been betrayed by me. I have betrayed you, Falstrom. I have betrayed you in the same fashion as I have betrayed my friends below.” Omus said, motioning towards the two on the ground. “Fate has forsaken me, however, and I am forced to take these actions.”

“Fate has nothing to do with it, Omus. You traded power for your family – perhaps you didn’t know it, but your better judgement failed you. You knew deep down that the deal you were making was rotten. Omus, look at me.” The men turned their eyes from the city to each other. “You have forsaken yourself, and now you are taking your friends with you. We were your family, and you meant to destroy us, just like the past….” He let the sentence hang, insinuating the unholy deal Omus had made with Mask. There was more silence and the potent accusation languished in the air – Falstrom knew that this was the time to act.

“We head north, Omus, and we ask your pardon. You know that you can refuse us, but that will only serve to weigh heavier on your already burdened mind. I no longer call you my friend, but I do not wish to call you my enemy either. I also ask that you set our sons and their companions free from your scrutiny, for they were sent on this assignment against their own will.” He stopped, trying to gauge how Omus would receive him. Finally, the mage replied, “Our paths will cross again, and I fear they will not be on such amicable terms.” Falstrom nodded, “Perhaps.” It was a simple reply with much ambiguity, but for some reason both mean seemed to find comfort in it. That one word held the silent deal that had just transpired, and a gentleman’s agreement that death would be at the other’s hand.

Omus looked directly at Falstrom and spoke, “I have done terrible things, but I have come too far. All I can do is ask for your forgiveness. You must not ask anything more from me.” He took a deep breath and continued, “There will be a caravan waiting to take you wherever you wish, and you shall not be bothered by my men.”

“And our sons?” spoke Falstrom.

“They will not be harmed.” came the reply. “But know this, my path has been chosen for me, and I will use whatever means I have to complete it.” The statement’s meaning did not go unnoticed.

Falstrom, seemingly pleased (or at least pacified) by the mage’s admission of guilt, nodded his goodbye and began to walk towards the door to the streets below. Before reaching the rear of the balcony, however, he felt the strong grasp on his shoulder, silently asking him to stop. It was Omus, holding his hand out to Falstrom.

“Please take this and deliver it to Amadius. Let he and Pontius know that while I may have betrayed them, their mother’s memory was protected.” Falstrom didn’t look at what he was given, but vowed to give the item to Amadius. “If you see Pontius, let him know that I would like to deliver a personal apology to he and his companions.” Falstrom again nodded and replied, “I can’t imagine they will accept that invitation, perhaps it is better we all go our separate ways.” It seemed to be a good enough answer for the mage, but before they parted, Omus spoke a final goodbye. “If you can ever come to call me ‘friend’ again, all of this,” he said, gesturing to the city and the Great Hall, “means nothing. The past is all I have, and that is why I must return to it. I look forward to seeing you before I have caused all of this pain.”

Falstrom walked out of the Great Hall, strangely touched by the mage’s words. He was a tortured soul, and perhaps he deserved it; but it would not be the last time they saw each other, that was definite. Omus would take them all, or they would take him. Death was inevitable. And as he walked out onto the street, into view of Amdius and Ghanadar, he couldn’t help but shake a vision that would forever be etched into his memory: Omus saying goodbye to him, his eyes welled with tears.

The Shaman Speaks – Suicide Kings

The door to the small tavern opened as a patron walked in, taking a seat at the freshly washed bar. The air was thick with the smell of ale and wine, undoubtedly ingrained into the building’s very structure after years of spills and the occasional brawl; yet the pleasant aromas of cooking meat, eggs and bread countered the acrid odors, telling the patrons that morning had arrived and another day was to be prepared for. The young man who had just entered was followed by the cooler breeze of autumn, sending shivers through some of the men at the bar. The summer months grew old, and now that the leaves were turning, many of Burrowshead’s natives made preparations for the harvest and all of the festivities that came with it.

The northern city was known for it’s timber; in fact, many would argue that it would not exist if not for the crucial export that it supplied to the rest of the Isles. Calad Brae was too stubborn to cut any of their resources down, explaining that it was a defensible position to leave the large forests surrounding the metropolis. Arathax and the northern cities were constantly fighting the winter months for access to proper trade routes, and convincing the southern druidic regions to use wood as a trade item was like asking a tavern owner to give you a bottle for free. So the lumber yards grew, and in a few short decades, Burrowshead was able to name their price on all of the building materials being shipped throughout Alaron.

Cutting the trees had it’s advantages as well. Rich farmland was easy to come by after sections of the forests had been removed; it was cheap and given in great quantity to the city’s residents, leaving them with an ample supply of crops every year which they were also able to sell in surplus. No one was ever left hungry, and the dinner tables were always full. While Burrowshead did not have the pristine nature of it’s trade partner Calad Brae, or the magical wonder of southern Feymore, or even the seaside beauty of smaller villages such as Codfin, it had much to be thankful for.

It was for this reason that the harvest drew upon many of Alaron’s nobles and commoners alike for its annual Vesper Epulum, or “Evening Feast” in reference to the waning sunlight during that time of year. It was a tradition, to be sure, but it had blossomed into so much more as the years had passed. While it started out as nothing more than a farmer’s market for vendors to peddle their wares and engage in friendly conversation after the summer toils, the arrival of nobility and those who sought to make a good bit of coin seized the opportunity to commercialize the experience. It was not a difficult decision for the magistrate of Burrowshead to make – the more people in attendance, the more copper, silver and gold coins would flow inevitably into his pockets. Before long, entertainers had been hired, shows were arranged, a separate market for wares was built (almost as an afterthought) and the idea of excess became one to embrace. What was once a celebration of thanks, was now a decadent and stimulating theatre of money and overindulgence. Every year, the acts became more outrageous, the food more succulent and the competition more fierce. The “Evening Feast” had grown into a well from which the city could support itself for months on the profit, and it soon demanded the attention it was due.

As the years wore on, the timber that had built the city into it’s being, now gave way to the rich farmlands that the residents cared for. Over time, a new timber supplier arrived in the form of a small village known as Ogden. While Burrowshead focused on the crop and the lavish profits from their wares and festivities, it’s sister town began building identical lumber yards, profiting from the sales and following the exact same path as the northern city had over a hundred years ago.

The attention that Burrowshead received, however, was not always desirable. During the advent of is newly acquired wealth, the underbelly of the city began to grow, bringing with it brigands, thieves and the political entanglements that every other larger city dealt with. Crime in the city to this day is sometimes uncontrollable, and the offices of authority are usually not a lot to be trusted, but not for the reasons that one might think. While one might feel the need to clutch onto their coin purses while walking down the street, many of them have nothing to fear. It is not the small pile of coins that one holds that attracts the deviants in this city, rather the large mounds of treasure that come in and around it on a daily basis. The thieves of Burrowshead are unlike any others, which many would attribute to the high volume of Mask clerics in the area, for they are organized and calculated. Typically, a thief steals your coins. In Burrowshead, you hand your coins to the thief freely, knowing full well that they are a payment for protection.

Despite the obvious dealings and undermining that now seemed to be a staple of the city’s daily life, the festival reminded everyone involved what it meant to be a member of the prosperous community. Indeed, the air itself carried with it the expectations for five days of celebration and merriment; and not at the bottom of anyone’s list by any means, a bit of coin.

Hammers resounded as the stands, stages and booths were erected, colorful streamers were being put into place, and the city’s council worked side-by-side with hired magi and performers to make the experience the only one on the island that could top last year’s festival. Even now, the streets were busy with onlookers hoping to glance at what wonders may be unveiled this year, as close by the vendors and salesmen prepared their areas for what was sure to be a large group of prospective buyers. Luckily, the western winds had calmed, bringing with them not the cold rains of the coming winter, but the soft cool breezes that told one these final days were to be cherished. In a few short months, the northern snows would be upon them, and the trade routes would be shut down. One last surge of gold into the city would be enough to ensure that the winter went by comfortably, with the women and children in front of glowing hearths and the men enjoying warm brandy and reminiscing with older tales.

One particular tavern, located conveniently in the middle of the entire construction spectacle, was Armand’s. It was a small place, one of the founding gathering places in the community, and as such, retained it’s coveted location in the town square. Bigger structures stood on either side of the tavern, seemingly crushing it with their size, but the tiny inn held fast. It was if the builders had squeezed it into the small alley that the larger buildings created, giving one the illusion the very walls bowed from the inside, and that any given moment the place would be reduced to a pile of wood, stone and dust. To a large extent, that was true. The building was old, but it was built strong, and despite what people may have thought, Armand’s actually received a bit of reinforcement from the larger structures, allowing the weight of the years to lean on younger, stronger stone.

Inside, excitement was in the air.

The young man who had just walked in took a seat at the bar, inhaling the pleasant aromas coming from the kitchen, taking in the rather lively atmosphere for the tavern this time of day. It was early morning, and while a typical breakfast would be had sitting next to someone nursing the after effects of too much apple brandy, all of the patrons today were wide-eyed and energetic (or at the very least hiding their afflictions well). It was a scene not lost on the eyes of two men playing cards at a small table in front of the tavern, enjoying the excellent view of the coming festivities. One of them, draped in rich silks and leathers and gazing out the large front window of the tavern, ran his fingers through a thin black moustache as he brought a cup of hot tea to his lips. Across from him sat a stout, bald man, dressed in equally impressive clothing and looking through dark-tinted circular glasses puffed on a thick cigar.

Turning his eyes away from the windows and looking down at the hand of cards he was dealt, the thin man put his tea on a tiny plate to his side and surveyed his options. He gave a nonchalant sigh and raised an eyebrow, apparently sizing up the fat man sitting across from him, trying to gauge what he might be holding. It was a game he enjoyed playing, even though he knew seconds after the deal what his opponent was holding. Instead, he folded his cards and pushed them towards the middle of the table. “You have quite the poker face.”

The larger man chuckled deeply, a coarse grating sound as a the smoke from his last puff trickled out of his mouth. “It’s one of the many advantages of undeath. You should really try it sometime.” Again, he laughed, amused by his own dry and self-perceived witty humor. The man across from his rolled his eyes and then turned them back out the window as another hand was dealt. He had met the fat man over six months ago, and not by chance, either. It was, for lack of a better term, a partnership that was forged in having a common enemy.

Taking another sip of his drink, the man with the black moustache smiled and leaned back in his chair. “Your friend Marzul was rather displeased to hear of my arrival. I would have expected a bargaining chip of some sort, a resistance that was worthy of your once-strong alliance with him. ” Sighing, he looked at his fingernails and then again out the window. “It made me realize how much I absolutely abhor you rotted, filthy excuses for corpses.” He waited to see if his words would have intended effect on his target, but instead he received a perfectly composed response. “I must admit that I’m surprised to hear your harsh words. Especially considering that I have overcome your brother Demogorgon once, sent your sister’s heart hurtling toward the Sword Coast and left your poor sibling Lathander with thoughts of suicide.” Now it was the larger man’s turn to smile, “Don’t make the mistake of underestimating me. We’re in a position to bargain, and that is what I intend to do.”

Mask stroked his chin and cocked his head. A thin smile purposely betrayed his glee in making this partnership. This fat man who sat in front of him, the one who called himself the Pale Commander, was in for such a brutal and torturous future that even the powers of undeath could not save him. But that would be later. For now, he had to admit that an alliance with him would prove extremely useful. Now that Sorrow’s Memory hung closely by his side, it was time to exhume past rivalries and seek out those who stole it from him many months ago. At this moment, it was time to bargain.

The pale Commander took another puff of his cigar and looked over the tint of his glasses across the table. “My minions have remained in the town of Cherrywood, but the Harpers have been alerted to my plan. I can only assume that it was that fool of a magistrate named Omus who led them to me. “

“Omus will be dealt with, I can assure you.” Mask replied, which drew a hearty laugh from the Commander. “Of course, dealt with. The man has only succeeded in a military coup of the island’s most powerful city. I must say that I give credit where it is due, and I am of the strong opinion that our wizardly friend has carved a nice battleground for himself.”

Mask continued, squinting just enough to let his partner know that he was becoming annoyed. “His goals are skewed. He will make a mistake.” He wondered if he should let the Commander in on the information about Omus. Did he know how the current magistrate gained his power? Was he aware of his relationship to the Acropolis? No, he couldn’t have. For now, Mask decided it was best to keep that information to himself.

“And if he enters the Acropolis before us?” came the reply. “Or more importantly, what if he obtains the other two shards from his loyals?” Mask shook his head and raised the cup to his lips again, “If you are referring to the adventurers who hurry to their deaths, they are anything but loyal to him. They are running through the catacombs of Red Ribbon as we speak, if they are not dead yet, they will be soon.”

“They are not dead,” spoke the Commander with a grin. “They carry the skulls.”

“Ah yes. I must say that Marzul was quite disheartened when I got my hands on that. It’s amazing how something so beautiful can hold something so vile.” He let the statement linger just a moment longer, enough to let the gravity of it sink into the Commander’s thoughts. Marzul was dead. It was a show of power that they both knew could be easily duplicated; right now, it was all a matter of who had the most to offer, who was holding the best hand. Looking at his cards, the Commander laughed at the irony of it.

Breaking away into a sudden moment of levity, Mask brightened his expression in mock interest, “Will you be performing at the festival?”

“Of course. There are so many people to entertain. It will be nice to bring my show to those who haven’t seen it yet.” The response was laden so heavy with the sound of a deviant pleasure that anyone who might have heard it would have been filled with the greatest unease. “This whole experience will be one for the ages. And you?”

Mask replied, “I won’t be performing myself, but some of my students will be in attendance.”

“No hints?” the Commander asked.

“Mum’s the word.” was the only reply, delivered with a smile that held sarcasm, mockery and delight all wrapped up into one. Once more, the fat man glanced at his cards, enjoying the three kings and pair of aces that looked back at him. It was going to be a fantastic partnership, but in the end, another god would fall under his hand. It was a thought that brought excitement to him, the thought of death, and the red glowing eyes through his tinted glasses flared like embers in a chill night wind. It was expression that Mask did not let slip by.

“It may seem like we are helping each other. As though we both have something to gain, something to lose. And it may even seem like you have the upper hand. But tread lightly…” Mask put down his cards, smiling deviously with a pair of aces. To the Commander, it was perfect. He roared inside with laughter, making note to savor the feeling as he spread his full house down on the small table, aces over kings. As his laughter died down, he looked Mask in the eye, bearing his gleaming red stare into the eyes of a god. A god who was still grinning that stupid smile.

Looking once more at the cards on the table, the Commander noticed that his full house was no longer, but it was instead three kings, and ace and a jack. Where had the other ace gone?

“It only seems that way.” came the reply from across the table. Mask stood up and spread out his cards on the table, now consisting of three aces. Ruffling his thick coat, he put his hand on the Pale Commander’s shoulder. “When you have no more cards to play, you are of no more use to me.” He walked out of the tavern, leaving the fat man to sit there, finish his cigar and contemplate if he had stepped into something that he couldn’t control.

The Shaman Speaks – The Wheel of Time (Pt. 2)

Ander steeled his gaze upon the inside of the entryway to Falstrom’s home, the rest of his companions doing the same. “Open the door, Namakin.” he growled, “Tempus rides with us this night.”

Loutarin, crouching near the door’s frame, tensed as the mage’s unseen servant spell slowly turned the knob of the entrance. He knew he would have to be quick with his attacks, being extremely cautious of stepping in Pontius’ line of fire – a quick duck and slice maneuver should do the trick; at least it would be enough to send whatever was coming through the door back on its heels. If that didn’t do it, the fireball would. If the fireball didn’t, an arrow to the chest would do just fine. And if, by some ill-fated chance, Pontius’ arrow did not find its mark, there was no arguing with Ander’s hammer. There were plenty of contingencies, a safe amount, but the elf had long ago learned never to trust the odds – especially when they seemed in his favor. Whatever was bold enough to come through that door announced did so for a reason.

Outside, Namakin’s familiar followed orders and perched on the fence post, hidden perfectly in the moonlit shadows. The small pseudo dragon had flown silently out the window at the first indication that something lurked outside, blending in with the dark foliage to become almost completely invisible. Now it sat content on the wooden fence, watching what seemed to be the form of another gnome standing outside of the door. The hooded creature held something to its chest, looking behind every few seconds, as if it was being chased. Namakin’s familiar sniffed the air, detecting nothing evil within the immediate area, and from what it could see there was no movement aside from the twitching form in front of the door. He knew that Namakin and the others were holed up in the kitchen of the house, poised to attack whatever was behind the door, and he sent an accurate description of what was standing outside.

Inside, the wizard received word from the tiny dragon and held his hand up to the rest of the party in silence. “It’s a gnome, no others with it.” he whispered. “Be on the ready, but hold your attacks.” No one doubted the small mage, it was almost as if his special deductive powers no longer had the surprising effect that they used to. Now they just simply trusted him and asked no questions. Despite that, everyone collectively raised their weapons with full intensions of fighting at the first sign of aggressiveness.

The creature has left something at the doorstep. He is running away. came the telepathic description. Immediately, Namakin ordered the unseen servant to hold off, leaving the door open just slightly enough for someone to look out and observe. Loutarin held his hand out towards the others, a gesture that mirrored Namakin’s decision to keep the door closed slightly. The elf heard only the very distant pattering of footsteps heading away from the farm into the tall crops – there would be no catching whoever it was, and it was madness to try and chase them into the crop fields. It was an ambush waiting to happen. Looking down, a small leather-bound book had been placed in front of the door, along with a cylindrical casing, also made of leather. Loutarin knew better than to think books were harmless – he had seen more than once the effects of a warded tome. He pushed the door open, letting the moonlight contrast with the few candles that were lit inside. Crouching near the items he said, “Whoever left it ran into the fields. Anything I should worry about?” He was referencing the “gift” left at their doorstep, and when Namakin saw no magical energy coming from them, he nodded his consent. Loutarin picked up the book and the casing, carrying them inside before closing the door and bolting it – a futile attempt, he knew. He could only compare it to a child feeling that a paper thin blanket would be suitable protection from the monsters under the bed.

Pontius lit the remaining candles in the great room, bathing the area in a soft orange glow with shadows that danced in the calm breeze. The group gathered around the center of the floor where Loutarin opened the casing and extracted a rolled-up parchment. He opened it and read the first few lines to himself. After a few moments he lowered it and looked at his friends, “It’s from Ghanadar.” There was a collective sigh of relief, and the elf began to read the message that had been delivered to them in the dark of night:

Friends,I will not trivialize this message with any sort of greeting or cordiality, there is not time. Please know that I am aware of your predicament and have made arrangements to meet with you in the forests north of Calad Brae. I cannot say the name of the messenger who delivered this, but know that he is a trusted source. I’m sure you are wondering how I received word of your arrival, or how I know what you have been through. I promise a full explanation when we meet again, but for now, just thank the gods that you have friends such as Nyd and Egeus on your side.The world is not as you have left it. Things have changed, many of them for the worse. I have read of the past that you know, and I wish I could have lived it – it seemed like such a wonderful vision. You have seen our great city the way she should have been seen, lawful and peaceful. Now you must prepare for a different Calad Brae, one that is deceitful and poisonous.

Namakin, a year ago you had come to me and warned me of a imminent danger that you could not detail. I was visited that same day by a friend of our dear Locklin Bree, a bard who called himself Egeus. I will tell you more when we meet, but he gave me this tome, a record of your travels with him. He said he was writing “the greatest adventure ever told” and everything contained herein was true. I didn’t believe him, of course, but Nyd was able to convince me. I lived a year of my life watching things evolve, while at the same time reading how they had already played out. You four alone have shaped the future.

Loutarin stopped reading and the adventurers looked at each other in silent acknowledgment – the tome delivered with the casing was indeed Egeus’ journal. It was proof enough that the message was authentic. “Egeus has been known to be careless with his items, and he does have a habit of getting caught,” remarked Pontius, voicing what everyone in the group was thinking. After a moment Ander replied, “This is all we have. We must hope this has not come from the enemy’s hands.” They were forced to believe the cleric’s words, and Loutarin continued:

I will tell you what I know: It started almost eleven moons ago, just after I talked to Namakin. A large explosion was heard at the archeological site where we had been searching for Jaxon Goldbrigg’s breastplate. During an investigation of the explosion, Talgrow Venorus was murdered, and the royal mage Omus was put in command until ceremonies could commence to name the next magistrate. That, however, never happened. Omus claimed the title for himself, killing any who opposed him. Amadius, Pontius’ father, was head of the opposition, and was imprisoned to be hanged the following day. Myself and Falstrom wasted no time, and were able to use our clout to free him before the sunrise.I have been on the run ever since. Falstrom agreed to take the punishment, as it was the honorable thing to do. Honor the city’s laws, he said, but I will never undertsand his logic. He was sent to the seaside dungeons near Red Ribbon, he may be dead for all I know. Myself, I have lived in secrecy since, and have only now made the decision to leave the city in search of Amadius. I will be heading north, and you must find me.After reading Egeus’ tome, it is clear the this man called the ‘Puppet Master’ had been the focus of your hunt. it seems that without this figure to distract the armies in the North, Omus had been able to execute plans of his own. I know in my heart that if we can find the heart of these plans, we will again have the upper hand.

You must not bring suspicion upon yourself – fate most certainly has a sense of humor, for Omus has allowed you to stay within the city limits. He has even used you to show that he is kind and generous, even to the sons of traitors. It was a sickening display that I was saddened to have watched publicly. That, my friends, is the public side of the mage, do not find yourself in a dark alley with his minions, for I am sure he would kill you when given the chance.

My letter cannot stress enough – DO NOT make yourselves available to any member of the Church of Lathander! Riots have broken out in multiple cities within the faction. Again, I will explain when we meet. Travel to the Thistled Den on St. Waldof’s Way. The gnome who had delivered this will be waiting for you. Amadius and I await you. Make haste, and trust no one!

Ghanadar
Quiet fell over the great room.  The city that once held them to its breast, now began sinking its claws into their flesh.  Without a word, the hunt for Ghanadar began.

The Shaman Speaks – The Wheel of Time (Pt. 1)

No one moved. The typical summer breeze of Calad Brae that moved through Falstrom’s homestead now began to carry the stench of death. The inside of the house had been rearranged by the group since they arrived, moving all of the beds and cots into the great room, ensuring that any attack would find them together and ready. Namakin, Loutarin, Pontius, Ander and Galibard had all traveled back to Calad Brae, just a day after returning to what would be a different future. They had needed to regroup, to decide what to do with their new found riches, and come to an agreement on what should be done about the Iron Acropolis.

They had decided to spend the night at Falstom’s farm, which they soon found abandoned, but in good condition. Loutarin was the first to take watch, and the rest of the group followed suit, getting the much-needed rest that they all needed. Namakin had did what he could to secure the area magically from any intruders. It was a tense night at the very least, but the adventurers had managed to doze off, despite the looming threat of the unknown. The city was a different place – they could feel it. Something was in the air, and while the Watch roamed the street in their typical fashion, and smell of politics was thick and heavy.

So the group had made their camp in the most familiar spot they knew, and to the sound of crickets and other insects of the night, they drifted off to sleep. Peace, however, like so many other things they had confronted, did not last long enough to savor. Along with the other sounds of the night, Pontius’ keen hearing allowed him only a state of half-sleep, the rest of him keeping a watchful “eye” on his surroundings. It was not the sound of the breeze, Namakin’s soft snoring, or even Ander’s subconscious recital of prayer. No, it was the dripping. Pontius’ eyes fluttered open, after coming to the conclusion that no sleep would be had while the incessant water kept drip, drip, dripping in the next room. Raising to his feet as quietly as possible, he moved, hand on his bow instinctively, into the next room where the sound came from. He rounded the corner, and found it much easier to open his eyes as he saw the source of the annoyance. Tripping backward, his outstretched arm was caught, causing him to reel around, reaching for the hilt of his sword. “Pontius, it’s me!” came the reply. Loutarin steadied his friend. “Sorry. I saw you get up. None of use are moving around this place alone.” The ranger picked up his bow, his eyes quickly turning back to the scene at hand. “Go wake the others,” he whispered.

The group, awakened from their sleep, stood with Pontius and Louratin, staring at the wall of Falstrom’s kitchen. Galibard’s lifeless form was hanging from the wall, shirtless and arms outstretched. It was obvious from the stains on his pants that he had recently soiled himself, perhaps adding to the incessant dripping that woke Pontius. It was mostly blood, however. A dark pool of it has collected under Galibard’s corpse, staining the floor and already attracting the vermin that fed on the deceased. The grim scene was unfolded fully before everyone, almost as if every detail was meant to be absorbed, every moment of pain to be empathized. The fighter’s face was still contorted in a silent scream, with eyes that were now milky orbs that had long rolled back into their sockets.

Ander was the first to take a step forward, feeling some guilt as the man had chosen to follow the group because of him. There was the sick slurping sound of flesh sticking to the wall as he lightly touched the corpse with the butt of his war hammer – he winced in disgust and then turned away, rage beginning to take hold. He could feel that Tempus’ spirit was in him, stronger in fact than Lathander in the past. He wasn’t sure if he should feel acceptance or shame. “He is mocking us.” finally came his response. The rest of the group looked at him, expecting some sort of explanation. “His back, the skin has been flayed. He is now the fey he hated.”

Looking closer, it was apparent that the skin had been cut into flaps on Galibard’s back, a twisted imitation of the gossamer wings of the southern fey. “Let’s get him down. We are not waiting until dawn. This place is no longer safe.” Namakin’s words were sensible, and no one argued with the small, knowledgeable gnome. The gruesome task of taking their friend’s body off the large spikes that were driven into his back was not easy. Even more disturbing to everyone was the fact that no one heard the large metal points being pounded through the wall. Pontius took hold of Galibard’s right arm and got a look at the horrific torture that had been unleashed on the back of the friend. In addition to the skin being peeled from the bone, three large colored pieces of glass had been hammered into the flesh underneath.

“Look at this,” the ranger pointed out to the group. Loutarin, touched the pieces of jagged glass softly and chuckled a morbid realization. “Three shards.”

Knock, knock. There was no time to take it in, as the group swung around towards the front entrance, weapons ready. Again, a soft knock, knock. The small gnome moved quietly towards the center of the room, a small orange glow between his palms being the only evidence of the devastation he would unleash. Pontius, standing twice as tall behind the wizard, already a deadly arrowhead centered on the door. Loutarin nodded his affirmation as he took his place by the door’s side, ready to slice whatever came through to pieces. The holy man, anger coursing through his veins at the death of his friend, wrapped two hands around the Chaos Hammer, taking an offensive stance.

“Open the door, Namakin.” he growled, “Tempus rides with us this night.”

TO BE CONTINUED….

The Shaman Speaks – Ghanadar’s Flight

As the invisibility spell wore off, Ghanadar’s plain gray robe reflected the moonlight, but hopefully not enough to allow his pursuers a glimpse of his hiding spot. The small gnome had just made it into the forests north of Alaron before the guards that were chasing him lost their way. It wasn’t the first time he had owed his life to the tall trees. His spells had also concealed his position many times when his small feet could not run any further. The flight from the city was fast-paced and dangerous, and if just one of the Watchmen were able to get their hands on him, the end would be shortly after.

Ghanadar breathed heavily and mumbled a few arcane words, conjuring up a few goodberries and some water to quench his aching throat. Leaning against the tree, the sounds of the Watch slowly faded away. He was left only with the sound of crickets, squirrels and the moist night air of the deep forest. For the better part of two days, he had been on the run, and now found himself well within the forest’s boundaries. He could only hope that the men chasing him did not have a ranger with them, able to track his steps despite the many spells he had cast to conceal his movement.

Over one year ago, the gnome had met his nephew under strange circumstances, but he could not have foreseen what would come of it. Since that fateful day, he had gone on with his life as normal, researching his craft and serving the city Watch with loyalty. It was only a short six months after that he had been accused of conspiring with a traitor, a crime punishable by a lifetime in the seaside dungeons of the western coast. Despite his arguments and logical rebuttals, the die had been cast – he was a criminal against the capital city. His flight had begun.

Attempting to traverse the city in hiding proved useful, and for another three months he was able to gather information about the political and economical changes that were taking place in his beloved home. It was apparent that Calad Brae was becoming a different animal, and the magic flowed more than ever out of the city. He had spent most of his time hiding in the Royal Peaceyards among the graves and tombstones. Whatever was happening still respected the sacred and quiet bonds of eternal rest. Guards were slim in the middle of the night, and luckily the winter months has passed before all of this had taken place – the gods of warmth it seemed, were on his side. Ghanadar knew the laws of action & reaction, and a change for the better on this scale could not have come without great sacrifice. But who’s? It was not a question to be answered soon, and it was only a matter of time before the city’s magical defenses became so overpowering that a simple disguise self spell did not do the trick anymore. Even the Peaceyards fell victim to the “betterment” of the city. One night, he awoke to the sounds of clinking swords, and gruff voices in his direction. They knew he was here…

It had been three days since his run from the city, the voices he heard in the Peaceyards only now fading away – but they would return. He knew that, somehow. He breathed another sigh of relief and cast locate object, hoping to find the small medallion he had given to his friend, the traitor, just over six months ago. Ghanadar knew he was near, or at least that was what he believed, based on their last conversation. The spell hummed quietly in his head and he closed his eyes, receiving a outlined image of his surroundings. Nothing. He would have to keep walking and casting, trusting his intuition that he was on the right path. Ghanadar continued north.

Another day passed and the gnome woke up from his slumber on the woodland floor, covered in the makeshift hiding spot of leaves and twigs. He had slept through the entire day, finding now that it was twilight, with dusk fast approaching. Researching his spells immediately, he again began his casting and heading north; it was only an hour before night had set. Scanning his closed eyes across the nighttime landscape, it appeared. The small medallion he had given his friend, glowed brightly even through the earth that covered it. The small gift would produce two small meals a day, water and warmth – enough to keep someone alive during the kinder months.

Ghanadar approached carefully, noticing that a small hole had been dug in the ground, a very faint light of fire reflecting upwards. Were he not looking right at it, it would have been lost. Approaching, he heard the string of a hunter’s bow becoming taut, and the shadow of an arrow tip pointing upwards. “Show yourself.” whispered the voice from inside. It was a raspy-edged tone, one that did not betray the hardships he had gone through to escape. Ghanadar moved to the entrance, hands raised, until he saw the scarred face of his friend. The man was disheveled, in sore need of a bath, with scars on his arms and face that would rival even the most prestigious battle wounds. A stubbled beard covered his face, and his legs wobbled, giving away the weakness that lie there. The man lowered his bow and dragged a bad leg, revealing a small hole, enough to hold a fire, cot and some weapons. He looked at the gnome, and smiled his bittersweet hello. Ghanadar clasped a hand on his shoulder, returning the welcome.

“Amadius, my friend. How times have changed.”