"Halak, My naam is Fyrtor Smithson. Ek is ook 'n natuur broer. Ek belowe jou in Sarenrae se lig dat alles wat gesê is, waar is. "
Halak nods to Mel. "Elven tricks again." He spits in anger. "My people not toys or tools. Elves pay some day for this." He grins at Kazador. "Us against those bastards. I tell other orcs what Elves do. Much anger in clans. Form alliance to raid elves, refuse attack humans for them. Other clans, still decide to attack human villages." He spits again. "Stupid tools. We fight them for this place." He considers for a moment then decides "You helped us. This what can do for you. Safe passage through this place. Still more of enemy clan. We fight them for you."
Kazador glanced at Algric with a look that said Don’t open your mouth.
”Acceptable.” He said, firmly and simply.
Quietly Fyrtor whispers a question to the party, "do we stop and rest as we spoke earlier, or do we move forward now, trusting that these orcs will be able to do as they say?"
”The longer we stay the less likely the truce will hold. I think we get done what we need to now.” Kazador muttered back.
"I don't know Halak, and I don't know Kazad Gavr. Mel, do you think it's likely that Halak turns on us in the next eight hours? Kazador, do the weapons we seek have any protections beyond their secrecy? I've cast more spells today than I've ever cast without resting before; I've got nothing left but cantrips. Turion's at his limit too, and our healers are out of healing."
"I still have that wand of healing we got from the second group of orcs we fought, but in general yes, We're at an end of our magic. I have a few spells left but not much. Still, haste is often an ally. If we can trust Halak and get out of here soon, I would be glad to leave hese halls behind."
"If we can trust Halak and get out of here soon, I would be glad to leave these halls behind."
Muse can't argue with that.
Mel says, "I believe Halak will do as he says. We should find a secure place, and still post watches of course, but I believe we can rest. Besides, Halak's clan was already fighting this other clan anyway. They just do what they were already planning to do, and don't have to fight us. It's to their benefit as well."
<Dwarven>"I trust your judgement, Mel. That said, he did say there's more places under control of the enemy clan. Chances are the Vaults are among them. He and his followers are willing to fight them on our behalf, as they are in a state of hostilities anyway. But if we can tip the scales in his favor, that would be desirable. We don't want his group losing against them in a raid when it's out best chance to get where we need to go. So i suggest we rest, then push forward together."
Halak isn't sure whether or not you are done considering amongst yourselves but speaks up anyway. "My men are tired from combat. You look same. Take rest here. Then push on through rest of enemy."
”Aye. Come lads. Let’s catch our breath and then finish what we started.”
Fyrtor nods and moves to find a place to take a comprtable seat and dose.
Mel nods, and turns to follow as Kazador leads them towards a suitable resting place.
Kazador leads the group into a small dwarven home carved into a nearby rock wall. A sturdy stone door set into expertly-carved hinges makes each home a miniature fortress, complete with slits for windows. The interior is contains sturdy wooden furniture that has been overturned by looting orcs.
Mel restores a chair to its upright position and slings her pack down by it, then seats herself. She has to sit cross-legged -- the chair being a tad too low to the ground for her fairly tall frame. But it is at least high-backed.
She leans back and rests her head against the chair back. "Let's get some light going, please? But cover the windows first -- there's no sense giving away our position to anyone who happens by, even if we've got a truce with Halak's tribe."
“Claustrophobic,” Muse notes, upending a table and pushing it against the windows. With a mental command he summons his glowing motes of light.
"Thank you, Captain," Mel says. "What a day. I know it's only been a couple of hours since we got up, but I feel like I've been fighting for months."
She pulls out an empty potion bottle. "That was a potion that let me see in the dark. It cost three hundred gold, which is more than many people make in a whole year. But today I think it was worth every copper. And I wish I'd bought another one. I'm no good at scouting if I can't see -- but carrying a light in here is like an open invitation to get ambushed."
She looks around at the spellcasters in the party. "Can any of you cast a spell like that one after you've had some time to rest? It would be extremely helpful."
“Omit could cast that for you. It’d mean not casting false life . . . ah, she says there’s a third circle version of the spell we could use.”
"Well, I do have one way I could grant you darkvision for an extended period of time, but it would require me to give up on of my highest power spells, one of the fourth circle of power I believe is how the Captain would describe it. I can take the essence of a spell called phantom hunt and turn it into something akin to a potion. If you were to drink it, it would grant you a great deal of improved senses as well as make you run incredibly swiftly, but it comes with a catch. In addition to requiring one of my most powerful spells the effect would end immdiately if you we to engage in any sort of fighting, whether you attacked or were attacked.
It may well be worth the cost, but if there is another way I would prefer to do that. Though, I'm glad you asked. It reminds me that I should take a moment and distil some of my remaining spells into concoctions."
With that Fyrtor takes out his pearl of power and an assorment of herbs and ingredients and begins to work to combining them into flasks. Still he is obviously paying attention to the discussion around him.
"Under other circumstances, I might take you up on that, Fyrtor," Mel says. "But ... it's pretty likely that we're going to be doing more fighting, and I also need to be able to see in order to shoot. So I think the regular version would serve better in this case. Thank you, though."
She turns to Brolin. "So, this is your cleric ... err, friend?" she says. "I've already spoken with ... Omit, I believe your wizard spirit is named? If you don't mind, I'd like to speak with this one as well. As I said before, I am ... cautious about accepting magic from unknown sources."
His eyes still on his work Fyrtor nods. "As I said, the drawbacks make it an imperfect solution. Though, if you, or anyone else for that matter, can think of other spells that or potions that I should make just let me know."
Glancing up at Brolin, Fyrtor says, "If you don't mind I'd like to listen in on this chat with the cleric spirit or memory or whatever it is. I still would like to speak with my father, though this probably isn't the time, and learning more about this whole...thing will make me more comfortable with it." He pauses near the end, searching for the right words as he waves his hands and finishing.
"It'd be Omit who'd cast communal darkvision, Savvy can't use that spell. But you and Savvy should probably have words while things are, by comparison, calm - in case there's an emergency and we need to heal you."
"Yes, that seems like a good idea," Mel agrees. "Last time we did this, you just told me to start asking questions. So, I guess make yourself comfortable and we'll get started."
She waits while Brolin takes a seat.
"So, Savvy. What is it that ties you here? Was it your choice to remain?"
As the others spoke, Kazador and Algric set about securing the building. Covering up the windows and checking for any possible exits or entrances. The two made efforts to avoid each other, neither wishing to start an awkward conversation. When the two were done Algric took a spot by a window, while Kazador sat in a chair next to Mel. He half-listened to the conversation about how the others were going to manage to see in the dark. It was a problem that he wished the orcs had.
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"For the record," Savvy begins, "I resent being interrogated by any elf so naive as the good Melira Elanariel. Were it not for her, we'd have the Concordat ship at our disposal at this very moment. Those unfortunate few who find their morals absolute always toe the line betwixt asset and liability - and gifted a healer and archer as she might be, I'm quite of the conviction our mission would be easier without her."
"I disagree. Strongly. Can you just answer the question?" "Sorry, give us a moment," the captain says aloud. "And show some semblance of courtesy; it won't kill you."
"Very well," says Savvy in a tone of longsuffering, "we might as well get this over with. It was a conscious decision to remain on the material plane, though one taken without a proper understanding or respect for the ramifications of doing so. I wouldn't recommend it to another. It was as a mortal cleric that I studied the River of Souls and the outer planes. Unwilling to have my memories ripped from me and scattered to the nine corners of the Prime Material, I sought to unshackle myself from my soul entirely. I knew that some memories managed to persist after their souls abandoned them, and what others managed by accident or coincidence, I sought to replicate by diligence and study. Regret was the common theme shared by those memory fragments least fragmented, and so I did things that I regretted. The haunts and spirits I spoke to had unmet goals and unfinished business, so I chose ambitious goals for myself, that I had no hope of completing in my lifetime, and enchanted myself so I could not see this, and could not choose not to pursue them. And those who persisted always had strong ties to a person, or a place or an object. Those tied to a person rarely outlived them, and those tied to an object were less able to affect the world, so I chose to tie myself to a place. That alone among my preparations failed."
Reluctant to speak as the spirit was at first, Savvy's warming up to her oratory. It's been a long time since she's gotten to brag. Muse quotes her word for word.
"Having cheated death, and freed from the self-imposed mental shackles binding me to my impossible goals, and, though this took longer than the others, having found someone with whom I can communicate, I am free to acquire wealth and influence over my long, long life. Captain Muse is something of an expert on memory ghosts and how long they take to decay, and he thinks I'll last several thousand years at the least. Time enough for me to become a power greater than any nation - time enough, perhaps to find a cure for my condition; if it's a solvable puzzle Omit will puzzle it out, given an epoch."
Whilst he repeats after Savvy, Muse will turn his anytool into a chalkboard and begin absentmindedly scribbling on it. Suppose we trust Halak's tribe - what happens? Muse doesn't want to have to watch his back and front.
"I ... see," Mel says. "I believe you were a cleric of some sort, yes? What deity did you follow? Or perhaps I should say, what deity do you follow, since you're ... not entirely gone?"
“The Master of the First Vault.”
“Abadar.”
"You say that you seek to become a power greater than any nation. What will you do with this power, once you achieve it? What are the goals you pursue?"
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“Cynical psychic echo that I am, I don’t trust idealists with the power to rule. All too often their absolutest morals conflict with one another’s, or what’s worse, with reality. And there’s no compromising with them. Rest safe knowing that when I attain power, it won’t be with an eye towards foisting my beliefs or values on anyone else.”
Somewhat miffed about Savvy’s assertion that idealists don’t compromise, I compromise. I never not compromise, even when it’d be easier not to, the Captain points out, “You’ve said what you won’t do. But that wasn’t the question.”
Savvy tries to explain why world domination is an end in and of itself. “I seek utter freedom from compulsion; those without power are at the mercy of those with it and only a great fool trusts someone who isn’t themself. I want the freedom that is destroying those who’d dare force my hand with utmost convenience from the safety of my writing desk, instead of hunting down pirates and orcs in person. The freedom that comes from nine hundred years of wealth compounding. I sampled this freedom while alive, in dilute form, and I acquired a taste for it. As to what I will do, when I can do anything, as to what goals I will pursue? Whatever I want at the time. That’s the entire point.”
Muse repeats this to Mel.
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Mel's eyebrows rise further and further up as she listens to this declaration.
"Well. All right then. Let me see if I've got everything straight." She ticks off on her fingers.
"First, you were so terrified of death that you spent your entire life pursuing deliberately unattainable goals in the hopes of incurring so much regret that your spirit would be incapable of moving on, thus cheating the law of death."
"Second, just so you wouldn't regret your pursuit of regret, you used magic to blind yourself to your own plan, thus living almost an entire lifetime in a state thwarted ambition born of self-deceit."
"Third, having succeeded in your plan, you view Captain Brolin as convenient proxy for pursuing your own ends."
"Fourth, your ultimate goal is world domination because you seek utter freedom from compulsion. You believe that you cannot trust anyone but yourself; and if you ever attain the power you seek, you have no plan to use it for anything beyond what seems like a good idea at the time."
"Finally, you claim to be a cleric of Abadar, Master of the First Vault, a well-known deity who values justice, truth, and law above all else, and who expects his followers not merely to honor the law both in spirit and by the letter, but to actively seek out and destroy agents of chaos in the world."
She lets her hand fall.
"Brolin," she says. "You know she's quite mad, don't you? And if she's a cleric of Abadar, I'll eat my scarf."
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“Well put!” Muse opines, still miffed about the “idealists can’t be compromised with” thing. “Barney as a box of crickets. Happens to older ghosts, sometimes, they fray at the edges. It’s worth noting, though, that none of this is news to me. I’m not a unwitting proxy unknowingly working to put a ghost in control of thousands of people’s lives. Savvy’s pretty alright when you get to know her; acerbic and amoral and a little opportunistic, but pretty alright. One of the first mobile spirits I found, in fact, and no small part of the reason for my commercial success, as it is. If I thought she was a dangerous destabilizing force, I’d be less cavalier. She’s been crafting a point by point rebuttal, so I’ll let her get on that.”
“Eat your scarf then, elf,” Muse matches her tone and cadence, “My actions are consistent, from a perspective outside self righteousness and moral impetus. My only regret in my life’s pursuit of such is that I failed to haunt the veritable fortress I’d prepared to inhabit until long after the city around it turned to dust, living on instead in this coin. Life is short - for us humans at least. And mine shorter than most. I wasn’t forty when I realized my natural life was drawing to it’s close - at forty you lived at your parents’ expense! You can wax moral about my ‘fear of death’ five centuries hence, when your fingers can’t grip your bowstring and your vision has preceded you to the courts of the gods. Fear and wisdom both come with age. Perhaps they’re indistinguishable.”
“You call my adherence to Abadar’s teachings into question and suggest that the Judge of the Gods would disapprove of besting Death. But “all things die” is neither law nor Law. Axiomites do not die unless killed, nor will the petitioner that discarded me. In the Book of Numbers Abadar writes no structures against elves, wights, or dragons, long lived beings all - and if the rules to the game we play are written such that a careful reading shows the path to join a longer lived class of being, it would be a faithful Abadaran who finds it.”
“You call my respect for Abadar’s advice and wisdom into question in suggesting I lived a life of thwarted ambition and self-deceit. But this is not the case. My path to immortality only began when I realized the urgency of the endeavor; I lived perhaps a decade grasping for the unattainable. And it was not a path I undertook lightly.”
“You call my character into question and suggest I see Captain Muse as nothing more than a convenient proxy. But the captain himself will tell you that we both benefit from the arrangement. Is that not the very definition of friendship?”
“You call my commitment to Abadar into question by suggesting that Abadarans must be constantly seeking out agents of chaos and destroying them. This is not only untrue but a patently absurd avenue of attack, and I’m disappointed in you.”
“My successful search for justice is the only reason we can talk here today. I find honesty so important that we are having this frank conversation. And I have only thrice knowingly broken a moral law, each time before I was nineteen years of age. I am a cleric of Abadar, and I’d like to see you eat your scarf.”
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You find yourself walking through the abandoned halls of Kazad Gravr, rubble, orc bodies, and the bones of some of your people strewn aobut. Walking next to you is a dwarven blacksmith. You both observe the wreckage in silence for a while until the blacksmith speaks up. "You have fought well. Your biggest obstacles now are the Trials of Torag and the traitorous elves. Rest well with Torag's blessing." Then you wake in the home that you have all taken refuge in.
"Certainly, some creatures live longer than others. But every mortal creature dies. It is disingenuous to suggest that petitioners do not die; every petitioner was once a mortal, and has already died. Similarly, axiomites, and other outsiders of different moral and ethical persuasions, arise from petitioners. They have achieved immortality by dying. As you would have as well, had you not stunted the growth and development of your own soul the way you did."
"As for the rest, your faith and your personal goals are entirely at odds with one another. Societies establish laws dictating how people should behave, and assigning penalties for failure to comply. Law is compulsion, by definition. In order to achieve your goal of achieving 'utter freedom from compulsion', you would have to make yourself above the law ... and above Law. I cannot think of anything more antithetical to Abadar's teachings."
"You may believe your power comes from Abadar. But I do not. I don't know where it comes from; and therefore I distrust it."
She shifts her focus from Savvy to Brolin. "I think I'm satisfied. I want nothing to do with whatever power Savvy serves -- if, indeed, she serves anything but herself."
"Your loss."
"Your prerogative."
The chalk moves spontaneously across Brolin's board, writing out "weal" in shaky script.
Fyrtor watches Brolin closely after he has stopperd three of his flasks and puts his ingredients away. A thoughtful look on his face he speaks, "Captain, Savvy says she worships Abadar, whether or not that is really true I'm not sure. I have to agree with Mel, I don't much care for her...philosophy either way. But what conserns me more than Savvy is you. Could one of these spirits seize control of you? We have been companions for a few days now and I consider you a friend, but if you were... not entirely yourself, I'm not sure what would happen."
After a pause he continues, "Out of curiosity, who is it that you worship?"
Túrion watches what Brolin was doing with interest. Madness? A curse? A gift? It did not really matter, but it was remarkable all the same. Hopefully, the man could gain some answers from Gael despite the Druids demise - for now, they had a task before them, but Túrion definitely wanted to learn more about the mans mission, eventually.
For now, he instead approached Kazador and Algric:"The tunnels are remarkably built. I expected no less, but I do wonder - how did you ensure air circulation? And possible more important, you repeatedly stated that everybody here died in the attack - But from the general layout you prsented and the fact the Orcs do open battle rather than one group starving the other out suggests that there's more than one exit. Certainly well hidden, but did the Orcs know about all of them? Could it be that some of your kind escaped?"
Túrion looks over at Mel, who was pondering the answers of Brolins 'friend':"Just the day before my ship departed, some Concordat refugees arrived in Avinoax. Man looked so thin I wondered if he was starved. Woman with him seemed fine though - anyway - it's...unusual, but I suppose nowadays more people realize what is happening in the Imperial Elven Nation. Anyway, thinking back on those guys, I wondered if there's no chance some of yours could have made it out...or sealed themselves in the vaults or another save place. They would probably not have braved the badlands, but if there's even a chance some of your clanmates might have holed up in some watchtower, or hidden storage room - we should probably make a detour and check. And Mel...this may be personal, but do you have people you care about left behind in the Concordat? If so, we wouldn't want any of our enemies learning your identity - I've heared stories. Just trust me on that."
Kazador sat in his chair, half listening to the conversation. He was glad for the enchantments on his armor. Not only did his plate look like simple leather, it was as comfortable as regular clothing. He suppressed a yawn. The day was young but his sleep the night before had been restless, and the current day had been extremely stressful. Before he knew it his eyes had closed...
Kazador walked through the abandoned halls of Kazad Gravr, rubble, orc bodies, and the bones of some of his people was strewn about. In his dream he noticed how the orc bodies were fresh while his people’s were old and rotted. Where once this had been his home, a bastion of order in an uncivilized land, it was now a tomb. No, not a tomb. A battlefield. Just another place for the orcs to fight over. It was why they were so strong. It was why they had fought champions whom would have been well known heroes in human lands. The orcs culled their weak through incecessant warfare. And this was a choice prize indeed.
He glanced over to his right and saw a dwarven blacksmith. He felt like he knew the dwarf, as if though the blacksmith had always been there. They both observe PC the wreckage in silence for a while until the blacksmith spoke up. "You have fought well. Your biggest obstacles now are the Trials of Torag and the traitorous elves. Rest well with Torag's blessing." Kazador raised an eyebrow. He was about the speak when...
“The tunnels are remarkably built. I expected no less, but I do wonder...”
He woke up to the sound of Turion talking. How long had he been asleep? He felt refreshed, but the elf was acting like he hadn’t noticed him sleeping. “...but did the Orcs know about all of them? Could it be that some of your kind escaped?"
Kazador glanced at Algric, who was still glaring out a window. He replied:
”For the air circulation, I’m nay a mason. But there are air ducts that bring in fresh air. Without them we’d suffocate down here. But they are cunningly made and are nay big enough for even a kobold to make their way down. There are also many hidden entrances and exits. Sally ports and escape tunnels. I had thought myself the only survivor, but I was wrong. Algric lives. If he does others may too. The lack of bodies everywhere means either the orcs moved them, or they escaped. I fear that my people may have just made a last stand in the center, and the inner defenses became a charnel house. The orcs would nay have spared the women and children sheltering there.”
He rubbed his forehead to soothe an ache he hadn’t realized he had. ”I’ve nay hope left in me. Hope hurts. So too does anger, and regret. Algric may know more.”
Mel nods at Túrion. "My parents, Ariala and Liru Elenariel. My early mentor, Varen. And my dissertation supervisor, Professor Galedir Limben of Lywelas university."
"I sent a note to my parents warning them of the danger -- carefully hidden, I should add. I wrote two notes. One was a chatty letter about life in Brookside dated before the assault. The other was the real message. I hired a mage in Helm -- a discreet one, who came on the recommendation of their intelligence services -- to disguise the real note as the false one. The false letter contained a tell that my parents would immediately recognize as a lie, structured to bring to mind the command word I chose that reveals the real letter. It would not be obvious to anyone but my parents, or Varen. I also paid the mage for an aura spell to prevent the letter from showing any magical signature of tampering, for at least twelve days. I hope that was long enough to get it past border security."
"In any case, the whole gambit rests on mother, father, or Varen speaking aloud the correct command word and thus discovering the real message. I was afraid that if I sent an undisguised message it would be intercepted and they would wind up in prison. I hope it worked."
"As for Professor Limben, well, he's been in bad odor with the higher-ups for centuries, mostly because he staunchly opposed the last invasion of Avinoax. He can take care of himself. If I know him, he's probably got at least two escape plans ready to go at all times."
"Interesting, then. I think I overheard the womans name in conversation, and it was Ariala. Different last name, albeit that could be purposeful. Maybe not just a coincidence? Brown hair, a bit short? The man tall and wiry with an angular face?" Túrion waits for Mels reaction - if indeed they were the same people, this would certainly come as good news to her. If not...well - he had been rather busy himself, preparing the journey, and only took passing notice of the outsiders, not having had time to talk to them.
“Could one of these spirits seize control of you?”
“It could happen, yeah,” Muse says in a tone implying he’s not particularly worried. “It has happened before. Back when I was a kid, mostly, I’m a lot more careful now. But even in a worst case scenario, someone takes over and runs amok, eventually they pass out and I wake up back in control. Which reminds me to ask, do any of you know how to do a proper chokehold? Air chokes do their magic too slowly, they can cause brain damage - you need to restrict the flow of blood . . . Tiyeri could show you how, but she’s not here . . . ah! Mel’s enchanted bow. See, everything’s under control. Probably won’t come up anyway, and most of the ghosts are pretty courteous about the whole thing when it does.”
After a pause he continues, "Out of curiosity, who is it that you worship?"
“I’m not particularly devout, but I was raised Abadaran. If I had to pick a deity to emulate, though, I’d admit to holding Cayden Callien’s iconoclastic approach in high regard, but that could be because I don’t see him as a god so much as an admirable human being. On the whole there’s no one faith or dogma I follow, besides faith in people and the desire to do good in the world. I’ll find my own path.”
“In any case, the whole gambit rests on mother, father, or Varen speaking aloud the correct command word and thus discovering the real message. I was afraid that if I sent an undisguised message it would be intercepted and they would wind up in prison. I hope it worked."
Concern is apparent on Muse’s face. “When we get back to the capital, we’ll buy or commission a scroll of sending, Omit can get it to work. Let’s take no chances, and get your family out safely.”
Mel's face breaks into a smile at Túrion's words. "That's them, yes!" Mel says. "Mom is short, with brown hair, and green eyes. Dad is a bit tall, and tremendously thin. And you say you saw them in Avinoax? That's wonderful news!" She presses both hands to her chest. "You really have no idea what a weight off my heart that is. Thank you, Túrion. How long ago was it that you saw them?"
Fyrtor nods to Brolin's response apparently deep in thought. He seems ditracted, but seems to snap back when Mel vet's excited about Cher family.
Mel speaks quietly with Túrion for a bit, fishing details about his brief encounter with her parents. She is still gladdened by what he tells her, even though the entire thing was little more than a passing glance.
Túrion thought back, then explained to Mel:"As mentioned, it was just before my own departure - it was a few days to the port where Gael swapped over to the Concordant ship, a day or so to learn where it was headed, and a bit over a week of pursuit before we met on the River. All in all, I would say 2 or 3 weeks past."
Túrion smiles at Mel, her happiness infective:"I am glad this news has brought you joy - had I known, I would have taken a greater interest in them, but at the time, I had my own worries and not much of a mind to care about the problems of others. But, if you mean to send a letter to them, that should be unproblematic. They are refugees, but Avinoax does not take risks with Concordant spies. They will be detained in the village they arrived in for the foreseeable future and only allowed free movement, especially further inland after several months have passed. They will be treated well, no worries, but past events have shown there is a need to be cautious. In this case, it could likely work in your favor."
"That sounds fine," Mel says. "I'm glad they got out, and the temporary quarantine makes sense. Thank goodness Mom is a jeweler -- gems are small, easy to transport, and valuable, so they were probably able to bring a reasonable amount of funds with them. Dad, on the other hand, is a locksmith ..."
She speaks about her parents for a brief while. Then she shakes her head, as if to cut off that line of thought for the moment.
She leans back. "Why don't you tell us a bit about yourself, Túrion? Here we've been fighting for our lives side by side, but we only met yesterday."