Cyrus leaps forward as Lort turns to address Nigel, the human's blade ready to try and stab the librarian, but the pikes of the men flanking Nigel quickly turn their points towards Cyrus.
Nigel waves off the guards as he speaks slowly and calmly, clearly unmoved by death. "I promise you that I meant you no harm and that the devil you saw was not of the Museum's doing." Nigel assures the group as he patiently looks into Cyrus' eyes.
"Remember, your Society came to us about this issue, as it has before, and we aided you. This is not some conspiracy to kill off some mid-level Pathfinders." Nigel says as he reaches slowly into his messenger bag and produces a book.
"This is something that was brought to my attention last night after you had left and should direct you to where you need to look next." Nigel says, still keeping his eyes locked on Cyrus'.
"The battered journal makes passing reference to “duplicate copies” of all Blakros Museum codices involving magical items registered with Forae Logos, per the Founding Law of Absalom." Nigel says as he hands the book to Lort, moving to explain what that means to the group. "Unaltered copies of the codices detailing the lantern are likely still kept within Forae Logos, which happens to be Absalom’s largest library."
"Now, if you will kindly remove your blade from near my throat, then we can happily move past whatever misfortune may have been wrought down here." remarks Nigel. "The Collection Esoterica is a vast collection of arcane and psychic phenomena and it may have attracted the devil or perhaps you mistakenly activated a summoning focus to bring them forth. I do not know, however you have my word that I am not the cause of your friend's death."
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Amaranti places his large hand on Cyrus' shoulder. "Nigel strange. But he no enemy. Cyrus save blades for real enemies. They are plenty."
"Amaranti not happy. More reading books. But we will go library, and look for copy of book. Should expect devils in library, too?"
Oddest thing is, that on their most boring assigment so far this group has encountered their first casualty. Perhaps they let their guard down in the boredom of it.
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Cyrus stares into Nigel's uncaring eyes. Slowly he backs off, but not before he wipes Ibid's blood from his blade onto the elf's impeccable tunic.
"Happily move past?" he spits at Nigel's feet. "$&#% you."
Cyrus slides his now clean, crackling wakizashi back into its sheath. He pulls the straps on his crossed bandoliers, which hold all manner of potions, oils, and other vials. Tools of an adventurer, each one a lesson learned in a fight that was far more difficult than it should have been. Oils of align weapon, magic weapon, curatives, alchemical weapons all in various shapes and colors, neatly strapped to his chest.
On his side more evidence of extensive work as a pathfinder is seen, as other secondary weapons made from various special materials are strapped or hang from his belt. Cold iron, alchemical silver, mithril chain links of his armor. Straps wraps his wrists and legs, giving him more bounce in his already nimble step. Nearly everything on his body glows with a magical aura like a torch in a darkened room.
The physical evidence of his extensive battle experience displayed across his body, he turns to the woman who carried the magical flames in her hands. "Flaming hands? Magical fire? Really? You all could at least put some effort behind your pitiful mock concern as you show up just in the nick of time, after the fight is over. In what fairy tale world do you think fire would have any effect on a devil? Oooohhh, maybe it'll remind him of his home plane and he'll want to be your friend instead of sticking his glaive in your gut! Brilliant!" Cyrus does nothing to hide his pointed, mocking sarcasm.
Without apology, Cyrus roughly pushes Nigel and the pike wielding guards out of the way to make room for Lort carrying Ibid's body. He sneers at any of them who resist, flashing them a cold look that promises death from an invisible source when they least expect it.
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Lort completes his shopping while the priests restore Ibid. He returns to clap the man on the shoulder. "You look bad, old man... but I've seen you look a lot worse before. About an hour ago, in fact. Great to have you back with us."
The big half-orc lets his mammoth herder take the portable shrine to Kurgess (indistinguishable from a mobile battle arena) back to Absalom's exotic stables. As they meander through the crowded streets toward the library, Lort has a thought, "So, if it is a Founding Law of Absalom that this magic item be recorded in the Forae Logos... won't whoever took so much care to scrub the Blakros's copy know that? I think we should expect resistance... or disappointment."
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Finarin only half listening to Nigel as he drones on about Forae Logos and codices.
"Yes. Leave. Let us leave this place and .... never return. For the memories will be too much for me to bear. Though you claim to have no knowledge of what transpired .... it serves as a wake up call to you to clean up this ... mess. If you possess so much that you cannot control it ... well it is no surprise that you call upon our so called society to clean up your messes.
"And mid level. Phaw. To reprimand your ... ignorance is beneath us. Fare thee well Nigel, for one day it will be ... you that has to thwart the otherworldly threats your museum holds. "
Pushing past the raised pole arms of the museum guards, Finarin gives a final glare to Nigel as he walks into the lift.
There is an awkward moment where Finarin is standing there, looking blankly at the controls.
"Bah! Guanri get over here and make this thing work. And Nigel ... you can take the next one. There is no more room on this ... one."
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Gunari takes Finarin's wand from him. "I would be glad to, milord Elf." The sarcasm is dripping out of Gunari when he says that. "You know, if you had taken The Drunken Hero as your patron, this would be cheaper and easier... of course, you don't like beer, so I'd have to load the chalices with your revered 'Chelish Red', so I guess it is ok."
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Just as Cyrus and Ibid exit the lab, a beautiful catfolk waitress rushes out and enfolds the weakened Ibid in a strong hug. "I put down my towel and ran over as soon as I heard!" Sheeba exclaims, running a velvety hand over Ibid's cheek and looking him in the eyes like a caring nurse inspecting a patient, "That experience must have been awful. When you've completed your business for the Society, come back to the taproom and you can have all the drinks you like."
She turns to the ninja and storms over to him. "And you! Cyrus!" she begins, her fangs inches away from his nose, "If you ever come to Absalom again without visiting me, I'm going to have these for breakfast." No one present needs to look down to see what she's cupping.
Suddenly, Sheeba pulls Cyrus close for a tender embrace. "It wasn't your fault," she whispers in his ear, the condensation from her hot breath leaving his lobe feeling cooler, "Don't blame yourself. Come by if you need me to help you feel... better... about it all."
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"Gunari many thanks. Should your drunken god put down his barley and hops for the noble Blauer Arbst ... I might consider. But my Neyths has been ... such a benevolent patron. How could I turn my back after all he .... hasn't done for me?"
Seeing Sheeba finally warms the elf's heart.
"Ah Sheeba. You will have my ... chelish red. You know the one. And it is Lord now. For real. I have you to thank for ... helping me decide upon my honorific. I will make sure he does come to see you ... my fair maiden." Finarin thumbs Cyrus.
Finarin executes the most exquisite, courtly bow the Pathfinders have ever seen.
"One day, when this is all ... finished." Finarin gestures to the whole of the city and the multitude of weapons arrayed on his person, "I shall open my own establishment in this ... city. And you shall run it. Should that be .... agreeable to you. Full control and 75% of the profits. I just need enough for my ... wine and my books. But there is still more to go, a bit ... more to go.
"Give my regards to Dave. I trust he is still ... large?"
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"I... ahh.. Uh... I was going to stop by the tap room, I swear!" Cyrus was quite content simmering in his anger, but the appearance of the sultry she-cat shook his white-knuckled grip on his rage at its core.
His reflexes kick in immediately as she reaches for his jewels, remembering what happened last time with vivid clarity. The first time, he never could tell if it was going to be pain or pleasure.
His face flushes deep red, a condition that seems to be permanent whenever he is in the company of the alluring feline. He reflexively reaches for the earlobe she whispered on, checking to see if it was still missing the large piece. Thankfully, it was still stubby, a physical reminder of their night together.
"I got busy. Society stuff mostly. Well, all of it. You, ah, everything ok?" Cyrus' heart rate picks up, now beginning to make nearby hummingbirds jealous.
Are you ok? Did I really just ask her that?
"Ibid, he's going to be ok. That's what the clerics say. Which is good because..." his eyes glaze over for a moment and his face goes pale. He quickly shakes off the feeling.
He changes the subject quickly, not wanting to dwell on the recent events. "You like my new boots? Boots of Finarin-kind I like to call them. Heh"
That was a stupid joke. Ugh...
"Your boots are nice. I haven't seen those ones before. They suit you."
What is it with me and boots?
The others in the group begin to move off in the direction of the next library in an effort to give Cyrus an excuse to break away from the awkward conversation he is so adept at getting himself into. "I gotta go. I'll stop by, as soon as they let me. Gotta go figure out how to raise someone else from the dead. Or at least why they can't raise him now."
Awkward. Yea, lets talk about raising the dead in front of your best friend that you just killed and had to be raised himself. Cyrus shakes the uncomfortable thought out of his head.
"I would like to... ah... talk to you. Um, yea, it would be nice to feel..." Cyrus finally cracks a smile, "better." His smile takes in nearly his whole face now as he walks backwards to catch up with the others, not taking his eyes off of Sheeba.
Nailed it.
The Forae Logos is a tremendous building, as much a cathedral as it is a library. Beyond its imposing entry arch stands the grand foyer, an immense chamber of tiered balconies decorated with ancient marble statues, creeping ivy, and an overhead skylight decorated with astrological designs.
In spite of the structure’s serene grandeur, a palpable sense of tension hangs in the air. Dozens of heavily armored guards brandishing halberds observe the foyer from the balconies, and few visitors grace this spacious hall, making it feel unwelcomingly empty. “Excuse me!” calls an immaculately groomed man with a thick Kelish accent, dull orange skin, faintly incandescent tattoos along his neck, and golden eyes that seem to flicker like candlelight. Accompanied by two of the Learned Guard, he swiftly moved to intercept the visitors.
“I am Second Archivist Qilaus Sandaril of Forae Logos. I regret to inform you that we are in a state of heightened security at present and can only admit visitors on a case-by-case basis for the foreseeable future.”
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Cyrus is stoic, but still seething. His brief encounter with Sheeba helped to calm him a bit, even his keel so to speak, but the long walk over and the reminder of the haggard Ibid next to him set the coals of his anger alight again.
He puffs out his chest as the foppish Kelishite cuts them off. "We are from the Pathfinder Society on a mission of extreme importance and sensitivity, not to mention the utmost urgency. This is a letter of writ indicating that we operate under the direct order of the Decemvirate. I suggest you think long and hard about the consequences of not letting us in to complete our business."
He isn't Nigel, I don't need to spit on him. He isn't Nigel I don't need to spit on him
With a deep breath and a subconscious reach for his partially missing earlobe, Cyrus settles down, for a moment at least.
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Exiting a dusty museum, only to enter a dusty library. Not a promising thought, but at least there's a chance to be getting some outside air while walking to Forae Logos. So Amaranti takes it slow and easy. Also, this is a good opportunity for the Garundi to tend his wounds. He walks with his wand of Infernal Healing in hand, and repeatedly uses it's devilish magic to close his wounds.
Arriving to the library, Amaranti raises his hand in greeting to the Archivist Sandaril.
"Why security? What happened? Something attack library, like museum?"
Sheeba just smiles at Finarin's offer. Something tells the elf that she would indeed run his establishment. First, though, he'd have to acquire it.
"Farrre the well, Flea," Sheeba purrs, seeming to have regained the rolling tip of her tongue after the emotional exchange, "I'll see morrre of you laterrr. Much morrre..." She winks and waves goodbye as the companions depart. When she notices Cyrus walking backwards as he leaves, she rolls her eyes in exasperation and walks away.
Cyrus is sure that she puts an extra sway on her lithe hips as she does so, framing her walk perfectly with her gently swishing tail.
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"Second Archivist Qilaus Sandaril, I believe that we have a definite case for entry. While I am not at liberty at the moment to explain all of the details of what we are investigating, but please understand that it is of the utmost importance to the Pathfinder Society and the Blakros family. As my friend has shown you, we have a writ from the Decemverite themselves, which may be of certain importance to you. We would like to maintain our friendly relationship with the Forae Logos, so I am sure you will understand and allow us to enter."
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Watching the lithe catwoman saunter off, Finarin enjoys the display long past the appropriate time.
"Ah, I shall never tire of that ... sway. Cyrus, you are lucky beyond your reckoning, and I am still flabbergasted that you could ... handle her."
"So more mid-level bureaucracy I see. Lort, calm yourself. Let us at least .... attempt to play nice.
"Well met Second Archivist Qiluas Sandaril of Forae Legos. I am Lord Finarin Moonstep ... of Kyonin and the Pathfinder Society. As befits my station ... we request entrance and full cooperation of .... Forae Legos. If you refuse then I would like to speak with .... well the First Archivist."
Finarin's firm tone allows for no nonsense from library employees.
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Watching the lithe catwoman saunter off, Finarin enjoys the display long past the appropriate time.
"Ah, I shall never tire of that ... sway. Cyrus, you are lucky beyond your reckoning, and I am still flabbergasted that you could ... handle her."
Cyrus puts his hand on his friend's shoulder as the two watch the retreating show. "Honestly? I can't. But I figure if we keep practicing..." He smirks as they begin to walk away, leaving the innuendo to hang in the air.
Nailed it.
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There was a red hue that hung like a partition, a blurred, scarlet shape woven behind the buildings and always laying beneath the brilliant and subdued blue of the sky.
His first memory...
Then he was told, what was most important in life was learning, but what mattered more, was managing to make this learning special and meaningful to himself. Like knowing that nearly all castles were constructed so that the stairs, sitting just inside the protective walls, always wound upward and clockwise. Always the same, up and clockwise. Why? Because it was not too long ago that nearly everyone was forced to wield a sword right-handed, even if you were born favoring your left hand, you forced to learn to wield it as a righty. Then, if you ever stormed a castle, somehow managed to scale the ramparts, and aimed to descend the stairs on the other side, you would find a solid wall resting just to your right and that you were unable to swing your sword freely. But those lucky defenders, also all trained to use their right hands, could rise up the stairs where nothing was on their right except a beautiful open space through which to swing. Oxley had always known so much, he thought as a child, though he still believed it to be true.
But as he thought Oxley and castles, the sea rolled and swelled beyond the ship's railing, and above there was faint glow of red. A churning swirl of color dancing behind the blackened storm-clouds overhead. A spear of flame pierced the clouds and collided with the sea, engulfing the teenager in a cataclysm of steam as the vessel went up in flames. Skin on fire and alight with living flame, the boy hit the water which quenched his melting flesh.
Unable to swim to the surface, he floated for a moment then rose up through the waves as a lifeless, unmoving fish. A wave washed over his face at the surface and his back could barely make out the feel of wet sand supporting him. A family of three looked down upon him, and said they could help though there was a hint of mischief behind their eyes. As the warm blankets slid up to his neck, covering and comforting him, he turned and could see a red face lined with small horns, countless scrolls draped across its shoulders, and a knowing smile on its face.
There were talk of three and a price.
A smile that only a boy oblivious to his doomed fate could have. Yes, the old man thought, resting a hand on Darius' shoulder. I will use a wish so the boy might live. But the devil already knew he was trying to buy his way back into the good graces of favorable gods. And the devil laughed at him, but took his second payment all the same.
On the beach again, the boy laughed and played. He was better now, healed and lively. Darius knelt with the boy in the surf, writing a string of words with his finger in the sand as a wave briefly receded. It was so strange, Darius said it was the most important thing he would ever give his son. But the water has already washed the words away... And he is too young to even remember them... Darius only smiled and said that he hoped that were true.
Cyrus was growing quickly and becoming a brazen thief. With any luck he could get Cyrus to follow his own path, to be confirmed as a pathfinder. It was the only way to teach the boy about a mission of the gravest importance, without allowing Cyrus to know he would be spending his life in preparation and training. If he were lucky, Cyrus would never know what happened or that there ever had been a secret mission, but, god's forbid, if he did find out what happened to his father, he would be well prepared and knowledgeable enough to maybe, just maybe, see his father again.
It would require help, Cyrus could never do it alone. And he, himself, could not help the boy forever, he was an old man already. Or, he had been an old man. He wouldn't be around forever. He might already be gone. But perhaps the nimble, ever practiced and death-dealing strike of the elf, Finarin, could be persuaded to help. And Gunari, a man to never know fear but that was keenly aware of the fact that all problems could be fixed simply with a sip of the right beverage. Or Lort, the mighty and powerful, brave and deadly, but nearly brimming with such power that he risked hurting even himself every strike. And Amaranti, stalwart and sturdy, not so much a quiet man or even a man of few words, but a man that said precisely the what needed to be said without getting lost in the dribble of useless speech, and one that could impale an oak with a single blow. Amaranti had a worm too...
But friends had been lost.
Miro would be remembered. No one would ever forget the halfling. His honeyed words and cheerful manner were missed, even if no one would admit it. The only person the old man had ever known to be able to talk his way out of every situation. His stories were legend, and his was the very voice of legend.
But perhaps none of it mattered. The old man could only help train and guide the youth. Then it was his time to move on. He wished the boy luck, and was sorry he could not be there help any longer. He wasn't sure how he knew that he could no longer help, but something within him knew it to be true.
If Cyrus ever found out the truth about his father, there would be hell to pay.
The red-faced thing was smiling at him once more.
Smiling and grinning with anticipation, its horns and scrolls called up a feeling like sickness, except the old man didn't feel the sensation of a body to even justify the feeling. Welcome, old man. the creature spoke gently to him. beckoning him to follow. I have a friend that would like to see you again. The smiling red face moved from his sight and what started as a blurry shape began to take the form of a person. If he could breathe at that moment, he would have gasped, but the rise and fall of his chest had stopped some time ago, that is, if he had ever had a chest. And so he looked ahead, not with eyes, but with a sense of something approaching and he accepted his fate, preparing to greet an old friend.
A peel of thunder and rush of light overwhelmed his senses, and the forming figure was gone, replaced by countless shades gathered all around. He squinted and tried to look upon them, but could not make out anything except their smiles falling upon him. Tears formed in his eyes as he could feel the inward rush of air as his lungs filled. He coughed a few times and rolled over, he wanted to say so much to them, but could not find the words. There was much to say, but there would be time for that later. He knew they had more time together.
Time was important. Together... this was important.
He would appreciate them. He had left them and in so doing never felt more alone. But now he was back, and possibly for the first time it felt like being home. This was precisely where he wanted to be.
In response to Amaranti's questions, the Second Archivist quickly responds. "“An unknown party broke into a sealed records wing several days ago. An altercation of some nature occurred, whereby dangerous magic was unleashed. We have contained this effect but have yet to discover the nature of the intrusion or undo the damage."
The Second Archivist looks at Lort with a disapproving stare. "No need to be so rough. Your smaller friend has presented all of the legal documentation that I need to allow people into the wing." he remarks as he takes the writ from Cyrus.
Qilaus Sandaril slips on a leather glove lined with metal mesh to handle it. “That is a compelling legal document. I am not one to deny the Decemvirate their will, of course." he says examining the parchment. "I will return shortly, once I confer with my superiors."
A few minutes pass before the Second Archivist returns, paperless. “This is not an ideal situation, mind you, but you have permission to enter. I must profess we are at a loss as to what the infiltrators were attempting to accomplish there. Perhaps you might be able to discover their reason for entering Forae Logos and what caused their altercation.”
Second Archivist Sandaril escorts you to the library’s sealed section with a quartet of the Learned Guard. He uses a wand of knock to open the entrance and warns you that the area beyond is not only under the effects of a dimensional lock spell, but also whatever unknown fallout that still persist from the battle days earlier.
Second Archivist Sandaril dismisses the ward sealing the wing with a wave of a wand. After sparks cease dancing across the doors, two of the Learned Guard move to pull them open to reveal a ten-foot-wide hallway littered with scorched books and drifting motes of multicolored light. Where the hallway turns, shifting hues of iridescent light drift like oil slicks in the air, accompanied by strange, disembodied noises of distant laughter and whimpering agony.
"We will shut the door behind you. Knock thrice to be let out." Qilaus states as the looming library lays before you beyond the door.
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"I'll take that writ back as well. One way or another, we aren't leaving here without it." Cyrus gives the man a stern look, that leaves no argument.
Cyrus' hair on the back of his neck stands up as they enter the hallway. His magical wakizashi is in his right hand while his eyes scan the floor, walls and ceiling in the room for anything that might present a threat.
In his mind, he takes a few seconds every so often to bring up different memories with his friends, attempting to mentally ward off another intrusion and remind his subconcious who he is, and why he belongs with these men.
"I would say someone should cast detect magic, but I'm not sure how much that would help in here."
"Ah yes, the writ. Sorry, it escaped my mind." he remarks as he pulls it from a scroll tube hanging from his waist.
Cyrus peers into the library wing beyond the door. "This hallway connects the sealed wing to the Forae Logos proper." remarks Qilaus as Cyrus looks on. At the end of the hall there is a foyer filled with a shifting haze of multicolored lights and phantasmal sounds that change in hue and tone at random intervals.
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Lort plays with a package in his hand. Huh. I guess I made an impression on the elf. Maybe he's more into working out than I suspected. I must remember to go back there and offer my services as his personal trainer when this is all over.
"I think we have some idea of what they were trying to accomplish," Lort notes, completely ignoring the offense taken at his promise of physical violence. The half-orc, who was raised on the streets of Absalom, knows better than to show weakness by apologizing after making a threat.
"You will have to wait until we have investigated before we will reveal more, however," Lort looks down at the official, "Unless you have more to tell us?"
Assuming he does not, Lort will accompany his companions down the hallway and towards the foyer. As a precaution, he draws his greatsword. The cold adamantine weapon in his hands calms him down somewhat and he internally regrets threatening Qilaus. The man was just trying to do his job. And I was just trying to do mine, he rationalizes at last, grins and continues on.
Lort casts detect magic and analyzes the auras in the room beyond.
"Well, you haven't told me why you are here, so I can't possibly tell you anything. Why are you here again? Also, are you sure that you need to go into the sealed wing for what you are looking for?" Qilaus asks you before you move inside.
Lort sees Illusion magic ahead where the lights and sounds are emanating.
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"Ah yes Fr ... Second Archivist. Wonder what the ... First Archivist is doing." Finarin not to subtly complains to Amaranti.
"We are here to .... check out a book. Not ones with lots of pictures ... as you might assume based upon my companions." Finarin casts a sideway glance at Gunari and Lort. "But a record, or codices, of some items delivered to the Blakros Museum. We are looking specifically for a range of years between .... 4,660 and 4,670."
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"Anyone else think that it isn't a coincidence that someone broke in here to steal or destroy records after what we found at Blakros?" Cyrus follows up after Finarin's comment to the second archivist.
Cyrus' eyes glaze over and take on a darkish hue to them. Suddenly the hidden things in the darkest corners become clear, even if they lack color. He takes to whatever shadows he can find and slinks down the hall, peeking around the corner into the Foyer, hoping to get a look at whatever might be in there before it sees him.
Just before walking down the hall, Cyrus pulls out his fresh new scroll and tries to read the words off of the parchment in just the right way.
"Well, then you should have said so. That's not even in the Sealed Wing, that type of book would be over in the Archives." Qilaus states. "Archival codices are located on the ground floor, records retention, stack six. You are permitted to research it yourself, or I can send someone to retrieve a copy of the desired indices for you.”
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"Why that is most ... generous of you to have someone .... fetch it for us. But we prefer to do our ... own work. As you can see we came quite ... prepared to lift heavy objects and turn pages." Addressing his companions once more, "Shall we retrieve this codices, and then assist the .... Second Archivist out? It seems the ... right thing to do."
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"Let's have a look at what went down in the Sealed Wing first," notes Lort, "I'm certain they'll be related.
"Hmm, illusion magic that way," he says, no doubt surprising everyone. If he doesn't even remember he's a cleric, they probably forget too!
"Your plan sounds about right," Lort says to Finarin, "But I do wish you'd spit it out a bit quicker sometimes. Man, listening to you talk reminds me of Aram Zey's lectures sometimes - post mortem! Ha!"
Lort looks around, a little beleaguered, "What? Too soon?"
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"So, yeah... if someone broke in recently, maybe having some expert... adventurers... would be helpful. We've dealt with all sorts of craziness. Like the time that we were doing an archaeological expedition, and found a troop of ghouls feasting on an undead monstrosity. Or better yet, when we went into the Hao Jin Tapestry to find a piece of the Sky Key... man, that was a trip, wasn't?" He fails to notice Finarin glaring at him, at least until Lort clamps a meaty hand down on his armored shoulder hard enough to notice.
"<Ahem>. As I was saying, we've done this sort of thing before."
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The old man stands wearily behind the others, watching down the hall and listening with interest at the exchange with the second archivist. The lines on his face appear deeper set now, as if the act of dying had aged him further, or perhaps instead it was the cosmically powerful force of having ones soul pulled through the ether from the far, vastly unknowable reaches of the Great Beyond that now weathered his features.
Standing in silence, he adjusts his hat uneasily, and fidgets as if nervous. Ibid, though not usually stoic and cool, was at least semi-collected at most time, but now he seemed positively without confidence. Looking to each of his companions his eyes seem to plead for some unknown and unspoken request.
He sighed and furrowed his brow.
At last, Ibid taps Lort gently on the shoulder and tries to muster a smile but fails in the act, managing only to look upon the half-orc with tired, weary eyes. The old man then nods in the direction of the hallway, his motion seeming to state, "If you lead, I will follow..."
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"Amaranti happy if archivist get book." the Garundi says, annoyed by his companions' eagerness for some book-fetching. "Best look for intruders, first."
Amaranti follows the others, but this time he wants to be a bit more prepared than last time. So once they enter the sealed wing, he takes a moment to cast some spells.
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"The conspiracy theory part of my brain seems to be going in overdrive. What if this attack was just a diversion so no one would notice someone stealing the codice? If we do go in here first - then we should take the second archivist's suggestion, and have him retrieve it for us. We will deal with your problem here. Go and see if you have been tricked and robbed."
Cyrus makes his way down the hall, peering around the corner to the foyer when he gets there, hoping nothing is peering back.
(24 @ 17, 22 @ 17, 18 @ 21)
"I will have the book ready for you when you finish with whatever has occurred in the Sealed Wing." says Qilaus quite happy to let you handle the magical devastation in the wing.
The group moves in and Qilaus closes the door. As it closes, runes on the door illuminate and flash, likely signalling that the lock has been reactivated.
The group moves forward and looks around the corner and spies a set closed double doors. Finarin decides to follow his standard operating procedure and casts Detect Magic. The various auras of magic thread through the room but an overwhelming illusion aura persists in the area.
Amaranti goes through the buffs Mage Armor, Protection from Evil, and Extended Bull's Strength on Kaisharga, as well as Protection from Evil on himself. He attempts to cast Extended Communal Resist Energy but the magic distorts as he casts it and Amaranti cannot control it. The magic zooms into the floor and the entire sealed wing shakes violently.
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Lort somehow manages to keep his footing. "Well, if that is going to happen," he asserts, "Time to fly!"
The cleric of Kurgess prays to his patron for the most versatile of the movements possible and then takes off into the air and opens the doors to the strange room of illusions, ready to not believe anything strange that he sees.
Lort opens doors in a way that presupposes they are already open, flinging the door open wide with his shoulders. He sometimes encounters resistance, but it rarely stops him...
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The old man stretches out his arms to steady himself as the floor beneath his feet lurches, threatening to throw him to the ground.
Somehow his legs manage to stay beneath him, and he feels the urge to cry out in shock at the situation, perhaps even let various, unsavory expletives fly, but cannot find his inner voice in order to say a single word. There is some force within himself holding back both his words and emotions, as if only the essential part of his life and being were returned to him, but the disparate parts that made him who he was were longer in returning. As if he were a slightly different person, now, at this moment, but as time passed, more and more of Ibid would return to himself.
Eventually he would be whole again.
As the floor still shakes violently, he draws his longbow and looks on as the half-orc floats along and tries to force the door open.
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The Varisian wobbles a bit, which in and of itself is not usual, and then just as the quake seems to pass a particularly violent spasm hits, and the warpriest is thrown to the ground. He then casts air step so that he can walk over the disturbance.
He then stands up, draws Cayden's Churchkey, and activates his sacred armor (for +1AC)
"whoa! How'd that happen?"
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Cyrus holds a hand out as he creeps down the hallway, aiding his vision from the black and white of darkvision to the dazzling colors of the normal spectrum. He scans with his magically enhanced sight, looking for invisible things that want to kill them.
Suddenly the ground heaves violently. Normally uncannily aware of his surroundings, Cyrus is unable to handle the buck and swell. He moves his left foot forward to keep his center of gravity above his feet, but finds there is no floor where he expected to place his foot. Over balanced and with no recovery option left, he smacks his hip and shoulder hard on the rising floorboards.
With a quick kick , flip and spin, the agile ninjas is back on his feet with a scowl on his face.
The next time the ground bucks beneath him, however, he is prepared.
-Posted with Wayfinder
Perception:
Lort casts Fly and hovers off the ground as he moves towards the door and flings it open with ease, nearly ripping the doors from their hinges as Gunari also aids himself with magic, but the rumbling of the floor stops as quickly as it started, the stolen magic quelled for the time being, it seems.
As Lort thrusts open the door, the group can see that the floating lights and intermittent sounds do not extend into the next room and seem contained to this room, but it seems the area has its own set of magical problems.
The room beyond appears to be the library proper. Once a repository for dangerous magical books, the library now resembles a battlefield. Tables are overturned and books litter the floor. Some of these tomes float listlessly in the air as if they weighed nothing, their pages slowly turning by unseen hands. Others lie in smoldering heaps on the floor, arcing with sporadic gouts of electricity or flame. Haunting music fills the library, a mixture of Taldan nursery rhymes and lilting, arrhythmic tunes plucked on invisible strings. A ghostly fog inhibits an alcove to the south.
Finarin takes the time to cast Detect Magic again and still sees arcs of various auras permeating the room. Some seem to erupt and disappear whilst others lazily float through the library. Taking the time to parse through all of the effects might be more time consuming that desired.