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Guile 1/3
"Sounds good to me—anythin' is better than nothin', right? We'll use their rope to tie 'em for now, and see if any of the buggers come to. Could use a lil' rest, anyhow. I'll do my best to look after 'em, but as stated, I'm no Myrna..."Raveen paused, not opening his eyes from the corner where he was concentrating.
"I can understand snippets of their language, but nothing good enough for prolonged communication or complex sentences..."
Raveen does not respond directly, but breathes out slowly.
[spoiler=Referring to spellbook]For a moment, time seemed to stretch for him. Hallucinations not unlike that of sleep-terrors swam in his half-sleeping trance, as all noise seemed to fade as if hidden by a screen--except his breathing.Are you there? Raveen thinks distantly.
It was there. Chaotic as life, mysterious and as dark as the night. It once frightened him to see his shadow--when the rainy summer winds from the Arcadian Ocean carried rainstorms over Nidal's eastern coast and gateway port of Nisroch.
When thunder rolled over in the heavens, as if denouncing the land wrapped by shadow below, lightning struck like divine spears on the cursed land of the Midnight Lord. The lightning cast its momentary light, illuminating the shadow that should not be against Master Nalutari's study wall. Monstrous in form--vaguely raven and yet also human-like, the shadow seemed to be watching for something that did not exist, keeping a non-present eye on a hidden threat, and another fixed on Raveen himself. He was there.
I am here.
And he knew that it was there as well. Not as large as it would be in dawn or dusk, but it was there nonetheless. Words of eldritch power were hidden within it, mental mnemonics and arcane formulae secreted within. It was here that he drew them out, resonating his being to them.
Soon, the haze lifted and other noises came to focus as Raveen staggered to his feet. It did not feel like an hour, but time is but an illusion.
Soon after you are done with your preparations, you hear a shout from Andrzej. He waves you closer, crouching so that he is facing one of the tied-up creepers—it is practically impossible to tell which one. The thing is coughing and mewling weakly in its bizarre tongue, blinking its milky white eyes against the torchlight. Not a particularly difficult message to parse—the creature is clearly confused,scared for its life, and wants to be let go.
Raveen walks up to the Creeper. He keeps his blade in its sheathe, but does not lower his guard.
He then pauses, and begins communicating...
Halfway through, Raveen realized his mistake in translating--he was certain of it. He paused, taking a deep breath.
"I'll need some help, Andrzej. My Dark Folk is rusty." Raveen says. As he tries to organize his thoughts, he notices the dead prisoner. Whispering words of power and wiping his thumb and index over his two eyes, Raveen cast his sight to sense magic, before focusing on the manacles they all wore.
He nods satisfied with his knowledge before turning to the Creeper.
1. I will not kill you unnecessarily. Cooperate.
2. Why did you kill the prisoner/steal his corpse?
3. Who is your master? How many more of you are there?
4. Are we digging near your home? Do you know why we are digging here?
5. What lies under us? (or where does the Adamantine lead)
6. Is there a way from here to the surface?
Whispering words of power and wiping his thumb and index over his two eyes, Raveen cast his sight to sense magic, before focusing on the manacles they all wore.
Raveen walks up to the Creeper. He keeps his blade in its sheathe, but does not lower his guard.
He then pauses, and begins communicating...
Halfway through, Raveen realized his mistake in translating--he was certain of it. He paused, taking a deep breath.
"I'll need some help, Andrzej. My Dark Folk is rusty." Raveen says.
The smuggler shrugs. He does his best to point out any familiar words and gestures, and warn you of any attempts at deception, but seems to have no touchstone for the underground dwellers' strange language. At least he seems to be generally adept at communication and reading people.
You are unsure as to whether or not you were understood or not, but the creature does cease its gibbering and focuses its blank gaze on you.
The creature seems to have trouble understanding your intention, until Andrzej gestures guidingly at the corpse. As comprehension dawns on its face, the creeper looks pointedly to your manacle, and then back at the corpse. You quickly discover signs of the creepers attempting to remove the manacle from the unfortunate prisoner. There are no stab wounds, or anything to indicate the creepers deliberately killed him, but being dragged along the cave floor with multiple broken bones certainly did nothing to facilitate proper convalescence. The creeper does not attempt to further explain their actions. Perhaps it was simple greed...?
The word for "master" in Shadowtongue seems to be close enough to its Dark Folk equivalent—at least it evokes a spirited response. You can feel the creeper's fervour as it babbles on excitedly, using terms related to darkness and shadow, as well as a word that might be at least partially cognate with "father"—or maybe it is "priest"? The latter question does not seem to get through to the creature, who is utterly wrapped up in its own zealousness.
The word "home" seems to catch the creature's attention. Listening to its response, you recognise multiple instances of a word that could be related to "sanctuary" or "shrine," along with other vocabulary related to habitation and worship. Again, terms related to darkness and shadow are sprinkled throughout, with one repeated more than the others— "hiding-place" might be close enough to its true meaning, having to do with both lack of light and safety. It does occur to you that this could mean two things: either it is meant for hiding in, or to hide something that is already there. Of course, it might mean both...
When you finish translating, Andrzej indicates the hole, and cocks his head at the creeper. It nods its head enthusiastically, gibbering something you interpret either as an offer or an attempt at a welcome. Maybe it wants to take you to its home?
"At least they don't seem to hold grudges," muses the smuggler.
This line of questioning seems to result in much the same answers as the previous one, with more mentions of the "hiding-place," as well as other positively inclined expressions for darkness and shadow. The word "adamantine" does not seem to ring any bells, nor does "sky-metal" or any equivalent thereof. As you try to describe its greenish-grey colouration, there seems to be a spark of recognition on the creeper's face. The response is unclear, but you would surmise it is either a denial or a warning: the most frequently repeated word is something akin to "danger" or "monster." Perhaps some sort of a cultural taboo?
The word for "surface" does seem familiar to the creature. It nods upward, pointing with its chin into the vast gloom of the underground ravine. The bat-like squeaks and the flapping of wings still echoes in from above, though you fail to notice any movement. As you follow the creeper's gaze along the wall, you do note it to be climbable, though perhaps not readily so. It does seem like the creeper knows the way, however—at least it seems confident in its gestures.
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Raveen turns from the darkfolk and to his three companions.
"Well, this is a little overwhelming to me," he says slowly. He sits down, resting his head, and then continues.
"First: the manacles," he says, raising the inert piece of iron taken from the two prisoners. "They really are something--they are linked to a master, and it allows the master a degree of awareness to our emotions. Can't lie unless you're really good. Furthermore, the master can compel the wearer of the manacles to do something. Unfortunately, while I can remove it, I cannot lift the curse it bestows upon the wearer. I will need access to the master..."
Raveen recalls the bell, and mentions it as his guess to the 'controlling master hub'.
"I suspect the prisoner was alive, but the manacles possibly froze or paralyzed him when the creepers attempted to remove them. I hesitate, therefore, to tinker with additional specimens unless I know more about them."
"Second: we have what we came for, so we can return for our reward of more gruel, but this darkfolk knows something that interests me: there is a way to the surface from here."
Raveen points up the path the darkfolk directed them, and then follows up quickly before Pike or Andrzej get any ideas (while keeping an eye on Hjarni) with the following: "I do not believe it is wise for us to leave now, however, not at least before we break the manacles' curse. If we do not, we can be compelled to return, and possibly close off this escape route for ourselves in the future...
"Third: Hjarni--you're right. At the root of the adamantine, there is something even the darkfolk are afraid of."
He pauses to notice the dwarf's reaction.
He then turns to Andrzej, and says, "The darkfolk also wants to invite us to his home."
He leaves the words hanging, leaving his opinion ambiguous.
Raveen then turns to the darkfolk, and adds two points:
1. Are we the first people that came from this direction? (or, have you seen other people come from my direction?)
2. Did 'the master' (or father) send you for reconnaissance, or did you try to take the manacles as a gift for him?
Raveen turns from the darkfolk and to his three companions.
"Well, this is a little overwhelming to me," he says slowly. He sits down, resting his head, and then continues.
"First: the manacles," he says, raising the inert piece of iron taken from the two prisoners. "They really are something--they are linked to a master, and it allows the master a degree of awareness to our emotions. Can't lie unless you're really good. Furthermore, the master can compel the wearer of the manacles to do something. Unfortunately, while I can remove it, I cannot lift the curse it bestows upon the wearer. I will need access to the master..."
Raveen recalls the bell, and mentions it as his guess to the 'controlling master hub'.
"I suspect the prisoner was alive, but the manacles possibly froze or paralyzed him when the creepers attempted to remove them. I hesitate, therefore, to tinker with additional specimens unless I know more about them."
Andrzej looks at the disabled manacle, rubbing his chin and nodding thoughtfully. "Makes sense. I can spin a tale with the best of 'em, but the guards always seem to be one step ahead—even though most of 'em are dumb as bricks. And the magical compulsion, that I've witnessed first hand..."
The smuggler spits on the floor, as if the thought was especially unappealing. "I don't appreciate anyone messin' with my free will, whether it's by chains or magic. You ask me, it might just be worth the risk to get the manacles open. I can help you. Then, we could—"
Once again, he stops himself short, blowing air through his teeth as he turns to look annoyedly at Hjarni.
"Second: we have what we came for, so we can return for our reward of more gruel, but this darkfolk knows something that interests me: there is a way to the surface from here."
Raveen points up the path the darkfolk directed them, and then follows up quickly before Pike or Andrzej get any ideas (while keeping an eye on Hjarni) with the following: "I do not believe it is wise for us to leave now, however, not at least before we break the manacles' curse. If we do not, we can be compelled to return, and possibly close off this escape route for ourselves in the future...
Pike seems to perk up at the mention of a possible escape route, and is borderline furious at its immediate preclusion. Unable to express her frustration through words, she simply growls and punches the cavern wall.
Mostly ignoring his companion's outburst, Andrzej furrows his brow and crosses his arms defiantly. "Well, I ain't 'bout to leave anyhow, not while everyone else is still in chains. That wouldn't be right."
His words seem to have a quieting effect on the half-orc, who looks away as if she was... ashamed, somehow?
"Third: Hjarni--you're right. At the root of the adamantine, there is something even the darkfolk are afraid of."
He pauses to notice the dwarf's reaction.
The dwarf seems startled by the sudden attention, but nods slowly in recognition of your words. He glances nervously to the hole in the ravine floor, tugging at his tangled beard hard enough to pull free a few strands.
He then turns to Andrzej, and says, "The darkfolk also wants to invite us to his home."
He leaves the words hanging, leaving his opinion ambiguous.
The smuggler thinks for a moment, then shrugs. "We'll, it's not like we're short on time. There's still hours of work left, up above. Can't know for sure if explorin' down there's the best option, but all we've learned so far makes it seem pretty damn important. Besides, maybe these folks can help us. I mean, as often as they keep provin' me wrong, I'd like to keep seein' the good in people—even if they're a bit, uh... scrappy."
Glancing at the tied-up dark folk, he adds a more pragmatic observation: "Worst comes to worst, we've got some hostages to bargain with."
Raveen then turns to the darkfolk, and adds two points...
The creeper does not appear to entirely understand the question, merely pointing to the body, then to you. It then does an odd sideways shrug-nod, the meaning of which is not apparently clear to either you or Andrzej—it seems like the dark folks' non-verbal communication is as alien as their speech.
The word "gift" combined with the already familiar "master" seems to ring a bell, causing the creature to resume its fanatical babbling, and to point more frantically at the manacles. You take this as an affirmation of the dark folks' intention to bring them back as an offering to their leader.
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Raveen observes Pike's reaction and Andrzej's response to the escape route. He then looks up the darkness.
Well, I can't blame them...I have someone here as well.
"I don't appreciate anyone messin' with my free will, whether it's by chains or magic. You ask me, it might just be worth the risk to get the manacles open. I can help you. Then, we could—"
"I might have a solution there..." Raveen muses. "With the free will, that is. Not a full solution, mind--just a layer of protection. Do you know what happens when two such spells mess with one mind and give it different directives?"
"We'll, it's not like we're short on time. There's still hours of work left, up above. Can't know for sure if explorin' down there's the best option, but all we've learned so far makes it seem pretty damn important. Besides, maybe these folks can help us. I mean, as often as they keep provin' me wrong, I'd like to keep seein' the good in people—even if they're a bit, uh... scrappy."
"I don't want Curnow to suspect anything," Raveen says flatly. "But this is a chance we might not get again. On the other hand, we have nothing to offer the darkfolks' master, since we cannot afford to let them have the manacles. I can't also return without getting more herbs for Myrna. I owe enough people already."
Raveen's rubs his thumb and index against one another, deep in thought. He looks deeply agitated from the stress of the choice.
At the corner of his eyes, the shadow shifted. It was moving again, as if relishing being freed from the oppressive sun in his room. It somehow seemed larger than before as well as it hypnotically swayed back and forth.
Raveen then swiftly turns to the creeper. He says nothing, deep in thought.
Can he see it? he thought.
Raveen knew the creeper (in truth, all darkfolk) could see in darkness better than all others (possibly even better than some servants of Zon-Kuthon). Did the darkfolk, who frequently traded with the Nidalese, choose to treat the umbral unmasking as a sign of wickedness or curse as most civilization or an ancient omen as the Nidalese did?
Did he even look that direction? What if he subtly pointed at it?
Could this give me an edge when dealing with the darkfolk? We have little to bargain with, but this could be a start...
"I might have a solution there..." Raveen muses. "With the free will, that is. Not a full solution, mind--just a layer of protection. Do you know what happens when two such spells mess with one mind and give it different directives?"
Andrzej shrugs. "Hm. As far as I know, the one with the most bluster wins. But I ain't no wizard, so I couldn't tell you the specifics. What're you gettin' at? You want to steal one o' the rings? It's been tried, though I don't think anyone knew you could use 'em like that..."
"I don't want Curnow to suspect anything," Raveen says flatly. "But this is a chance we might not get again. On the other hand, we have nothing to offer the darkfolks' master, since we cannot afford to let them have the manacles. I can't also return without getting more herbs for Myrna. I owe enough people already."
The smuggler nods, looking only mildly disappointed.
"Fair enough," he says in response. "But we aren't going to get through this without takin' some risks. If we can figure out what the dark folk want, we could kill two birds with one stone. They're likely to know where to get the good stuff for Myrna, and what places to steer clear of. Right?"
Raveen rubs his thumb and index against one another, deep in thought. He looks deeply agitated from the stress of the choice.
At the corner of his eyes, the shadow shifted. It was moving again, as if relishing being freed from the oppressive sun in his room. It somehow seemed larger than before as well as it hypnotically swayed back and forth.Raveen then swiftly turns to the creeper. He says nothing, deep in thought.
Can he see it? he thought.Raveen looks at the creeper, and tilts his head slightly to his independently-moving shadow, and tries to divine the darkfolk's utterances.
No-one appears to notice the shadow in the flickering torchlight, sending similar shreds of blackness dancing all over the ravine walls. The creeper seems to miss it as well, looking at you confusedly. Clearly, your subtle hints are lost in the translation, with body language proving almost as much an issue as speech. It looks like you are going to have to be more explicit if you want to guide its attention—of course, this would likely alert the others to it as well.
The smuggler nods eagerly, helping Pike untie the creepers—the rope is needed to descend, and they seem to be in no shape to flee. After being carried to the edge by you and the half-orc, they have to be lowered down first, one-by-one. Once again, Pike volunteers to go down first, securing the lower end of the rope and bringing some light down in the darkness for those less equipped for such gloomy conditions.
In the sputtering torchlight, you can now see a small pile of rubble—some forty feet down—amidst an underground lake of some sort. Fed by the water flowing in from above, the rushing streams settle into a blackened pool around the islet. Dragged onto the rocks is a large boat, seemingly woven from strands of pale fungal matter: it looks moist and porous from a distance, but evidently water-proof. It looks sizable enough to carry all of you, though it could get a bit cramped.
"We might want to take our time," says Andrzej. "Don't want to take another fall, right?"
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"We might want to take our time. Don't want to take another fall, right?"
Raveen glances at the smuggler.
Raveen flexes his fingers.
"I can handle myself in a fall now," Raveen said. "We already spent too much time on resting a while ago. I'd like to get to the bottom of this."
Raveen then peers down the rope into the islet. Their angle should allow him to look over most cover.
Once the rope was secured, Raveen cautiously touched it, shook his head, and descended.
"This what I deserve for these noodle arms," Raveen mutters to himself as he descends.
Once landing on the islet, Raveen drew out his sling, holding position until his friends could descend.
Raveen glances at the smuggler.
Though he is obviously referring to your earlier incident, you see naught but concern drawn across Andzrej's scruffy features. Of course, by now you know better than to take his words at face value...
Raveen flexes his fingers.
"I can handle myself in a fall now," Raveen said. "We already spent too much time on resting a while ago. I'd like to get to the bottom of this."
The smuggler nods appreciatively at your eagerness, though he stops you momentarily before you descend. "Fine by me. But we do 'ave to lower Hjarni before we go down, even if it takes a while. Don't think his old bones could take a fall like that, dwarf or no. I can only save so many people a day, y'know..."
Once that is done, Andrzej is happy to stay up and cover the rear while you climb down.
Soon after your descent, Andrzej slides down after you. His flashy entrance takes its toll, as he has to rush to dip his rope-burned hands in the water for relief. Pike lets out a derisive snort, shaking her head at the Ustalav's antics.
Looking around from the islet, you see that the water spans beyond torchlight in all directions, with only the occasional spire of rock jutting through its darkened surface. The dark folk who you interrogated is sitting down near its unconscious compatriots, pointing alternately at the boat, and out on the lake. It seems to be gesticulating approximately in the same direction you came from.
Raveen gave a small smile, and said to Andrzej, "Might as well get as much fun we can before returning to prison, eh?"
Shaking his hands dry, the smuggler lets out an embarrassed laugh. "Aye, not much opportunity for hijinks up there. Sometimes you just gotta feel it, y'know? Remind yourself you're still alive, that there's stuff to do besides standin' in place and swingin' a pick all day..."
Raveen looks up at the ceiling, observing it for threats, before looking into the water.
The ceiling seems mostly clear of dripstones—as well as any creatures that might take refuge amongst them—save for where the water flows in from, surrounding the hole directly above you. There is some movement in the water beyond the foam of the cascade, the barest suggestion of aquatic life down in the depths of the lake. You see nothing breach the surface, however, leaving it up to your imagination to fill in the blanks on whatever troglobitic organisms might teem below.
Raveen examines the boat, and once sure it is safe and able to carry them, takes his place on it.
Once everyone has boarded, Pike grabs a pair of spindly oars—fashioned from the same fungous material as the boat itself—and starts rowing. While it might have taken two of the creepers to move the boat, one burly half-orc is more than enough to ensure steady locomotion. Moving in the direction indicated by your captive, there is a long while of nothing but dark water as far as the eye can see.
Suddenly, something emerges from the darkness ahead—no, all around you. First, you take them to be pillars of stone, but as the boat inches closer, the reality of it proves much stranger: dozens of curving adamantine spikes, similar to the one above. Some of them are small, only barely piercing the surface of the lake, while others tower over you, puncturing—and possibly helping to support—the ceiling above. One cannot help but to wonder if more spikes lie just below the surface, eager to tear through the porous substance separating you from the waters below...
Hjarni lets out a wheezing sound as his eyes focus on the spikes, pressing himself against the stern with a look of awe—or terror?—drawn across his wizened features.
"That's... a lot," manages Andrzej, astonished. "I didn't think there was this much skymetal to found.. well, anywhere—even in Numeria..."
Pike grunts her assent, eyeing the spikes distrustfully. She has stopped the boat some ways off the nearest one, clearly reluctant to approach.
At this point, the creeper you conversed earlier tries to get your attention, gesticulating frantically towards the bow. From what you can gather, it wants to be placed in the front so it can better guide you through the spikes.
Raveen was quiet for a moment.
"We're looking at a fortune," Raveen said quietly. "You can buy a castle with this."
Andrzej shrugs. "I s'pose so, yeah. Assumin' you can get it outta here, anyway. I don't know much about minin', but I reckon the extraction'd cost you a castle or two, as well—if not more. But where the in the Nine Hells did all this stuff come from? This ain't natural..."
Raveen nods at the creeper, and then hands Andrzej the magical manacles.
"We'll be in a bind if they can see magic, but I'll see if we can offer their master our friendship and some information instead," Raveen said. "Though I do feel we're borrowing from Peter to pay Paul with this course of action..."
The Ustalav takes the manacles, twirling them around his finger. He then throws them up above his head, before finally snatching the out of the air with his other hand, causing them to "disappear" in the process. He shows you his empty hands, wiggling his fingers and smirking.
"You worry too much," he says calmly. "There ain't been no trouble I haven't been able to talk myself out of, my friend. Though, uh... usually there hasn't been such a language barrier. Better that you take the lead on this one, methinks. You seem more home down here in the dark than me...
There is meaningful pause, after which the Ustalav turns his gaze on the lake. "Anyway, no use frettin' about it now. While I'd very much prefer to die on the surface, as a free man, this sure beats gettin' offed by Curnow for some petty offence. Hey, do you think we're the first surface-dwellers to see this place? Pretty exciting, when you think about it..."
Raveen then keeps his eyes on the ceiling. Hearing legends of stalactite-monsters, he kept his sling ready at his side while he knotted the party's rope.
There are few dripstones to be seen, with even fewer signs of life. Unlike in the ravine above, there are no squeaks or flapping wings to indicate the bat-sounding creatures make their nests down here. As you start manoeuvring around the spikes, even the ripples on the water's surface cease, indicating an end to aquatic life as you proceed. Though you cannot quite rationalise the feeling, this apparent peacefulness does nothing to ease your wariness—quite the opposite.
Finally, you arrive. There is no mistaking your destination: emerging from the pregnant tenebrousness of the lake is a massive adamantine construction, soaring some fifty feet up from the water's surface. What is left unsubmerged suggests an overall shape approximating one half of a prolate spheroid. You are reminded of a shipwreck, bisected sideways so that the decks are left open to air—yet, the structure does not seem broken, as such. This does not surprise you: it would take significant effort to damage adamantine, even at far smaller quantities. While the decrepitude of the adamantine components seem unlikely, it appears like there might have been additional portions constructed from less durable materials, which have since disintegrated. But what was this mysterious structure built for?
Whatever its original purpose might have been, the "decks" of the "ship" have now been converted into living spaces. On these open-air platforms, dozens of makeshift dwellings have been erected from a mixture of fungous materials, muck, and rubble. A village of a hundred or so dark folk, you would estimate, living in relatively spacious conditions. Some of the somberly clad residents can be seen going about their business, moving up and down ladders and across rope bridges to nearby spikes, some of which seem to support dwellings as well. Your approach seems to have already caused some disturbance—the faint glow of a single torch is like a beacon in these lightless depths. A group of the rag-clad creatures moves into positions along the waterfront, while others crowd the walkways above. Some of them wield bows, but most seem more like curious bystanders than combatants—children with their mothers, as well as wizened elders leaning on their canes.
As you approach, you can see multiple piers contructed from rubble, each supporting a multitude of different boats, most of them built from similar fungous material as your commandeered craft. Mooring at one of the piers, you find yourself surrounded by dozens of dark folk, standing along the shore and on the mooring itself. It takes you a moment to notice who is in charge: the small humanoid is clothed in tattered rags from head to foot, much like the surrounding creepers. Its garments seem relatively clean, however, as if it were wont to shed its layers as they become too ratty to wear, rather than just piling them on. Only its sinister eyes and dead white hands are visible: the former are black and perpetually narrowed, while a persistent tremour is visible in the latter, constantly twitching and fiddling with the handle of a curved knife at its hip. While it is only marginally larger than its kin, the others seem to give it a wide berth, either due to admiration or fear.
Your guide disembarks, limping a few steps towards the figure. It starts babbling and bowing ingratiatingly, making some placating gestures in your direction, as well as up at the upper tiers of the ramshackle settlement. The other dark folk makes no immediate answer, seeming to enjoy the adulation.
The smuggler leans closer to you in the boat, lowering his voice. "Okay, hear me out: I have no idea what they're sayin', but I've been in that poor bastard's shoes enough times to know what's going on. I think that's the harbourmaster, and he's waiting for his bribe. Or she? I can't really tell, honestly."
Meanwhile, Pike waits in tense silence, never letting go of the oars.
Unlike most other dark folk, slayers are infamous for fully embracing their evil impulses. Their pleasures extend more to murder and pain than to theft or mayhem favoured by their less sinister kin. They are famously obsessed with magical trinkets, coveting them above all else: it is said their tremours are stilled only when fondling a newfound magic item. Sadly, their obsessive need to fiddle and tinker often leaves their pretties broken or depleted.
Normally, the strange and mysterious dark stalkers are the undisputed leaders of dark folk society. However, in the absence of a stalker, a slayer might take its place. Certainly, the power dynamic here seems somewhat atypical for the cave-dwellers—as much as an outsider can understand the machinations of such alien beings.
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Andrzej shrugs. "I s'pose so, yeah. Assumin' you can get it outta here, anyway. I don't know much about minin', but I reckon the extraction'd cost you a castle or two, as well—if not more. But where the in the Nine Hells did all this stuff come from? This ain't natural..."Raveen was quiet for a moment.
"We're looking at a fortune," Raveen said quietly. "You can buy a castle with this."
"If Hjarni's suspicions are correct, this is only the beginning..." the rogue muses.
"You worry too much," he says calmly. "There ain't been no trouble I haven't been able to talk myself out of, my friend. Though, uh... usually there hasn't been such a language barrier. Better that you take the lead on this one, methinks. You seem more home down here in the dark than me...
There is meaningful pause, after which the Ustalav turns his gaze on the lake. "Anyway, no use frettin' about it now. While I'd very much prefer to die on the surface, as a free man, this sure beats gettin' offed by Curnow for some petty offence. Hey, do you think we're the first surface-dwellers to see this place? Pretty exciting, when you think about it..."
"Darkfolk are elusive indeed," Raveen says, quiet up to now. "Almost everything known of them is suspect, esoteric. Who knows what magics they employ or how their society is structured. This will be something Pathfinders can make a life's worth with."
There are few dripstones to be seen, with even fewer signs of life. Unlike in the ravine above, there are no squeaks or flapping wings to indicate the bat-sounding creatures make their nests down here. As you start manoeuvring around the spikes, even the ripples on the water's surface cease, indicating an end to aquatic life as you proceed. Though you cannot quite rationalise the feeling, this apparent peacefulness does nothing to ease your wariness—quite the opposite.
The silence of the night. The stillness in the dark... This is not an unfamiliar feeling to any who spent time in the shadow-shrouded land of Nidal. Does your power manifest here as well, Prince of Pain?
As the alien sight meets Raveen's eyes, he stills. The adamantine spikes were nothing to this. Something that could be roughly described as a ship of adamantine sat moored (or run aground) in the waters.
The rogue was quiet, casting his eyes as far as they could see in the fire-light. His hands sat away from his dagger, and he wrapped his knotted rope at his belt. His countenance became one of smoothed features--a face like a mask, the emotionless visage the people of Nidal wore on their daily routine under the sight of their lord.
Your guide disembarks, limping a few steps towards the figure. It starts babbling and bowing ingratiatingly, making some placating gestures in your direction, as well as up at the upper tiers of the ramshackle settlement. The other dark folk makes no immediate answer, seeming to enjoy the adulation.
"Okay, hear me out: I have no idea what they're sayin', but I've been in that poor bastard's shoes enough times to know what's going on. I think that's the harbourmaster, and he's waiting for his bribe. Or she? I can't really tell, honestly."
"She," Raveen returns quietly, studying the figure. "I've heard of these folk--they're called slayers. They employ dark magic."
Conscious of the threat that at least one dark folk here might know Common, Raveen switches to Varisian.
"Andrzej, they love to tinker with magic items; it may want one as a bribe. Do you have anything that qualifies? Other than the manacles, of course. We could also just wait to see what happens."
Conscious of the threat that at least one dark folk here might know Common, Raveen switches to Varisian.
"Andrzej, they love to tinker with magic items; it may want one as a bribe. Do you have anything that qualifies? Other than the manacles, of course. We could also just wait to see what happens."
Andrzej sighs, opening his coat and fiddling with the side seam to reveal a hidden pocket. From this pocket he produces a smooth elm-wood wand, covered in a thin foil of some soft, easily malleable metal—most likely lead. This he peels off with utmost care, handing both to you separately.
"Just the one," he says wistfully. "I'd been hopin' to use it later, but s'pose it won't matter if we die here. Keep the foil, at least. Might be good for hidin' other things, if we need to bring them topside. Cost me an arm and a leg to get that smuggled in, almost literally..."
While talking, Raveen also looked upon the ship and its residents, keeping an eye out for the master--the Dark Stalker.
There do not appear to be any taller specimens amongst the crowd of dark folk, consisting mostly of creepers. You do spot a few others that might be slayers, forming a disproportionate amount of the armed populace. Perhaps the leader is up where your guide is pointing? The buildings on the upper levels are constructed more finely—or at least less crudely—and the conditions seem less cramped overall, suggesting that housing is divided by caste.
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"Just the one. I'd been hopin' to use it later, but s'pose it won't matter if we die here. Keep the foil, at least. Might be good for hidin' other things, if we need to bring them topside. Cost me an arm and a leg to get that smuggled in, almost literally..."
Raveen nodded. He turns to observe the creeper's exchange.
Raveen then assessed the ship. The caste system was only to be expected with Dark Folk, but there was something that seemed off.
Raveen nodded. He turns to observe the creeper's exchange.
Raveen then assessed the ship. The caste system was only to be expected with Dark Folk, but there was something that seemed off.
Once the slayer finally dismisses the creeper and turns its attention on you, it quickly becomes apparent that she is not letting you through without a bribe. Maybe your guide's praises convinced her of your affluence, or perhaps she can sense the magic in your possession, but the harbourmaster does not seem to be interested in haggling. Andrzej does his best to help, but even with his expertise in such situations, your opponent might as well be carved from stone.
Once you produce the grease, however, the wheels start moving at a dizzying velocity. Satisfied with her new toy, the slayer jabbers a series of commands, which send the nearby creepers scrambling over each other to comply. The crowd begins to disperse, taking with them the wounded prisoners, but even as they do, a group of half a dozen armed creepers led by another slayer congregate on the pier around you. You and your companions are more-or-less dragged from the boat, though none of the lesser dark folk dare to lay a finger on Pike, who bares her tusks at any who dare approach. None of you are disarmed, though the group is being watched closely, both by the armed creepers, as well as the ones with crossbows trained on you from above. The harbourmaster and the other slayer converse for a moment, and then you are led away by the latter, towards one of the ramps leading onto the upper decks.
The makeshift town is both oddly familiar and dizzyingly bizarre, its haphazard construction reflecting the disorderly nature of its habitants, while still mirroring the lives of surface folk. You walk across a bazaar of sorts, mostly filled with plunder and scavenged junk being peddled and purchased by the dark folk, but also some outsiders: you spot a fetchling running a brightly lit stall of some kind – seemingly the only illumination in the entire settlement, save for your torch – as well as a pair of gnome-like creatures selling colourful mushrooms out of a cart. The middle of the market is occupied by a creature much like the other dark folk, but clad in a ragged motley of sorts. It seems to be cavorting around a headless statue, juggling an assortment of knives while gibbering animatedly at a crowd of creepers, who look mesmerised by the display. As you ascend, you start seeing more dwellings, with little to nothing resembling businesses or public services. The creatures seem to cohabit with no concession to privacy, with nothing to indicate which of them are at leisure, and which ones are currently invested in a task. All of them make way for your strange band, however, whispering amongst themselves as you pass.
As you reach the upper levels, habitation does indeed improve in quality, though for some reason there seems to be a steep decline in inhabitants as well. Nearly all of the buildings on the uppermost level seem to be empty, with only the occasional shadow in a window suggesting that someone lives here – and yet, there are no signs of decrepitude. You cannot help but to wonder if the near slum-like conditions below might not be allayed by upwards migration. At the back, near the adamantine wall, the noise of the settlement below quiets even further, until all you can hear are the footsteps of you and your escorts.
Finally, the slayer calls for a halt, indicating a building that, to you, looks just like any other. The dark folk seem hesitant to approach, however, pointing at the structure with apparent nervousness and backing away. Even the slayer looks intimidated, its dark eyes darting to the shuttered windows of the two-story house, which looks both completely abandoned and strangely immaculate at the same time. Once they are out of earshot, Andrzej lets out a long breath.
"This feels like a trap," he muses. "Logically, they'd killed us down at the pier if they wanted us dead. Still, this ghost town is givin' me the chills... and that doesn't exactly look like the palace of a king, does it?"
Hjarni, for his part, appears to have given up on breathing altogether, staring silently down at the adamantine beneath his feet as if hypnotised. You are unsure if he even realises where you are. Pike looks about ready to run off at the slightest provocation, her posture reminding you of a cornered wolf, its hackles raised.
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The makeshift town is both oddly familiar and dizzyingly bizarre, its haphazard construction reflecting the disorderly nature of its habitants, while still mirroring the lives of surface folk. You walk across a bazaar of sorts, mostly filled with plunder and scavenged junk being peddled and purchased by the dark folk, but also some outsiders: you spot a fetchling running a brightly lit stall of some kind – seemingly the only illumination in the entire settlement, save for your torch – as well as a pair of gnome-like creatures selling colourful mushrooms out of a cart. The middle of the market is occupied by a creature much like the other dark folk, but clad in a ragged motley of sorts. It seems to be cavorting around a headless statue, juggling an assortment of knives while gibbering animatedly at a crowd of creepers, who look mesmerised by the display. As you ascend, you start seeing more dwellings, with little to nothing resembling businesses or public services. The creatures seem to cohabit with no concession to privacy, with nothing to indicate which of them are at leisure, and which ones are currently invested in a task. All of them make way for your strange band, however, whispering amongst themselves as you pass.
"I wonder if this is how the Taldan exploration armies felt like with ancient Sarkora," Raveen mused quietly.
As you reach the upper levels, habitation does indeed improve in quality, though for some reason there seems to be a steep decline in inhabitants as well. Nearly all of the buildings on the uppermost level seem to be empty, with only the occasional shadow in a window suggesting that someone lives here – and yet, there are no signs of decrepitude. You cannot help but to wonder if the near slum-like conditions below might not be allayed by upwards migration. At the back, near the adamantine wall, the noise of the settlement below quiets even further, until all you can hear are the footsteps of you and your escorts.
Raveen looks behind him to the lively, yet dark settlement. It was strange, but he couldn't help feeling a strange sense of moroseness. Things were strangely and bizarrely familiar.
Nidal? he thinks.Finally, the slayer calls for a halt, indicating a building that, to you, looks just like any other. The dark folk seem hesitant to approach, however, pointing at the structure with apparent nervousness and backing away. Even the slayer looks intimidated, its dark eyes darting to the shuttered windows of the two-story house, which looks both completely abandoned and strangely immaculate at the same time. Once they are out of earshot, Andrzej lets out a long breath.
"This feels like a trap. Logically, they'd killed us down at the pier if they wanted us dead. Still, this ghost town is givin' me the chills... and that doesn't exactly look like the palace of a king, does it?"
Hjarni, for his part, appears to have given up on breathing altogether, staring silently down at the adamantine beneath his feet as if hypnotised. You are unsure if he even realises where you are. Pike looks about ready to run off at the slightest provocation, her posture reminding you of a cornered wolf, its hackles raised.
Raveen says nothing at first, but closes his eyes, and releases a held breath.
Despite closed eyes, he senses the duality of light and darkness play around him--Pike's flickering torch against the overwhelming darkness of the cave--the clammy wetness against their hot breaths and warm blood--the bright red of fire against the dull dark Adamantine surrounding them--the nervousness and fear in the living intruders, and cold confidence of the residents of the dark city.Raveen knew that his shadow danced in wicked joy, as if finding its home in between the contradictions.
He opened his eyes, focusing on the home.
Raveen says nothing at first, but closes his eyes, and releases a held breath.
Despite closed eyes, he senses the duality of light and darkness play around him--Pike's flickering torch against the overwhelming darkness of the cave--the clammy wetness against their hot breaths and warm blood--the bright red of fire against the dull dark Adamantine surrounding them--the nervousness and fear in the living intruders, and cold confidence of the residents of the dark city.
Raveen knew that his shadow danced in wicked joy, as if finding its home in between the contradictions.
He opened his eyes, focusing on the home.
Even with your eyes closed, you can feel your shadow. Like a phantom limb, you sense it poking and prodding its way across the building's façade—and a façade it is, hollow and lifeless. Yet, something dwells within, enveloped in the husk of a place where the living used to dwell.
As you open your eyes, you see your shadow like never before: stretched over the edifice like some twisted giant, talons outstretched towards the windows, as if to pry them open. Clear as day, it has contorted it misshapen form around itself to stare back at you, its beaked head cocked to the side.
Pike snarls and raises her torch, but Andrzej motions for her to stay still.
"Somethin' up?" he asks calmly, eyeing the spectacle with an even gaze.
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Eyes fixed on the eyeless shadowy raven, Raveen recalled an ancient prayer of Shelyn, spoken in the winter solstice in Nidal. The fires were lit on the longest night of the year.
"--guide us away from the dark paths thy blood has followed.
In this holy solstice, in the dead of winter, fire burns throughout the night,
fire amidst frost, life amidst death, love amidst--"
He blinked, looking up, and around the house.
"Somethin' up?" he asks calmly, eyeing the spectacle with an even gaze.
"You can say so..." Raveen answered with a voice just as calm. He looked down to the shadowy bazaar, and then back, looking over the rest. He cracked a small smile. "You look like you've seen a ghost. Is this your first time in a site of mysterious eldritch power?"
"Gramps, would you like to sit this one out? You can wait for us at the markets below. I saw gnomes selling mushrooms."
He added the last part with an encouraging nod down.
At least, I think they were gnomes...
"You can say so..." Raveen answered with a voice just as calm. He looked down to the shadowy bazaar, and then back, looking over the rest. He cracked a small smile. "You look like you've seen a ghost. Is this your first time in a site of mysterious eldritch power?"
Andrzej looks at you for a moment, and then shrugs. "Nothin' quite like this, but you seem to have it under control..."
Pike, however, seems less than satisfied with your answer. She pushes past the smuggler, getting right up in your face—or rather, forcing you to crane your neck to look up at hers. The half-orc's lips curl into a grimace, and a deep growl resonates within her broad chest.
The Ustalav chuckles, shaking his head and crossing his arms. "Welp, that's the look I get when she knows I'm full of crap. Better come clean, friend..."
Raveen's smile fades, but he looks to the house, and says, "You got me; I don't regularly negotiate with beings with this kind of power. At any case, you were right a moment ago; if they wanted us dead, they could have done it--regardless of how well we handled the creepers. I know something else as well--I have my experiences with beings of power: they value information. We have some regarding the prison, and they have information regarding these 'bones of the earth', or whatever the Razmirans are excavating for. We need them, Andrzej."
Andzrej listens to you, nodding along as you lay out your thoughts. He makes no objections.
Pike starts pacing, casting nervous glances at the house—and your shadow.
Raveen looks at Hjarni, and turns to him. He reaches to pat the old dwarf's shoulder.
"Gramps, would you like to sit this one out? You can wait for us at the markets below. I saw gnomes selling mushrooms."
He added the last part with an encouraging nod down.
Hjarni stares for a moment, before finally seeming to understand your meaning. He nods weakly, swallowing hard in lieu of a verbal answer.
"Not a bad idea," adds Andrzej. "Pike, why don't ya look after 'im? Don't want the man wanderin' off by 'imself..."
There is a quick one-sided argument, with Pike grunting her dissent for a while, before finally throwing up her hands and storming off with Hjarni in tow.
As the two start making their way back, the smuggler lowers his voice and says to you, "Don't get me wrong, I love that stubborn ox like she's my own blood, but 'er people are superstitious as all hell. There's a good chance any negotiations break down as soon as she sees anythin' weird..."
He takes a moment to smooth his coat and spit in his hand, slicking back his hair as best as he is able. "Before we go in, there's somethin' I need to talk to you 'bout. Now that we have a few moment without Hjarni, that is. I think we're on the same page, but it won't hurt to check, right? So... what's the plan? And I don't just mean this mysterious eldritch power we're about to have a chat with, but the whole damn thing."
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"Not a bad idea. Pike, why don't ya look after 'im? Don't want the man wanderin' off by 'imself..."
There is a quick one-sided argument, with Pike grunting her dissent for a while, before finally throwing up her hands and storming off with Hjarni in tow.
As the two start making their way back, the smuggler lowers his voice and says to you, "Don't get me wrong, I love that stubborn ox like she's my own blood, but 'er people are superstitious as all hell."
Raveen nods, eyes following the two. He recalls the events of Westcrown, and admits with a heavy sigh, "I guess I'll never learn my lesson."
"There's a good chance any negotiations break down as soon as she sees anythin' weird...Before we go in, there's somethin' I need to talk to you 'bout. Now that we have a few moment without Hjarni, that is. I think we're on the same page, but it won't hurt to check, right? So... what's the plan? And I don't just mean this mysterious eldritch power we're about to have a chat with, but the whole damn thing."
"Whole damn thing? You mean the escape plan?" Raveen asks, eyes turning to the house. "It's not set in stone yet, but my best plan so far is to mess with these."
He taps the manacle around his ankle.
"It's sort of theoretical at this stage," he explains. "The plan revolves around the control mechanism for the guards' rings and our manacles--it goes three ways. The rings compel and provide awareness of us; the manacles control us at the behest of the ring-bearers; and the bell incapacitates us when rung. I'm planning to fundamentally change the rules of the game: if I get the chance to study the big bell up top, I can possibly get the guards' rings to work as manacles and the manacles to work as rings. You can imagine what happens.
"Yes, Andrzej, a single ring of the bell will incapacitate down all the guards in the prison--well, at least the ones who wear a ring, so the white-clad ones and higher, so Curnow and his fellows will be out of the picture. If we're lucky, the Warden and those black-robed duo beside him micro-manage, so they will also eat the serving we give to the underlings."
Raveen then tuts in frustration, "I'm not as proficient with the arcane as I would wish, so I'll be dabbling beyond my scope. I'll need access to the tower, and some time to study it...if I could get the equipment the guards took from me, it would help my chances even more."
Yes, my master's unliving talking head is now equipment, Raveen thinks with a mental sigh, imagining her reaction to the literal objectification.
He then pauses, and says, "So, you can tell that any information regarding the Razmirans' intentions is useful to my plan. If I know what they want, I could possibly use this to gain access to the bell, gain the Warden's trust, or circumvent their protections and overwhelm the manacles' power by using something down here. If we're lucky, we might even get beyond what we expect from this coming encounter."
"Now you know the plan," Raveen finishes, after describing what he did. "Of course, the best case scenario is that whatever we learn here is critical to the Warden's plan--we get a little something extra to earn their trust but not jeopardize our chances, we leverage our newfound respect into securing access to the bell. Once we have an escape plan, we trigger the switch. Using it, we can use our manacles to command the ring-bearing guards to help us in our escape and hinder whoever is not wearing the rings. If nothing else works, we order each guard to fight the other and we escape during the confusion."
"It's sort of theoretical at this stage," he explains. "The plan revolves around the control mechanism for the guards' rings and our manacles--it goes three ways...
[...]
"Yes, Andrzej, a single ring of the bell will incapacitate down all the guards in the prison--well, at least the ones who wear a ring, so the white-clad ones and higher, so Curnow and his fellows will be out of the picture. If we're lucky, the Warden and those black-robed duo beside him micro-manage, so they will also eat the serving we give to the underlings."
Andrzej nods along as you explain your plan, looking more and more impressed with your deductions. "That's... that's ingenious! Of course, I'd already thought 'bout using their rings against 'em, but nothin' quite this... ambitious. Yeah, goin' straight to the source—they'll never see it comin'!"
Raveen then tuts in frustration, "I'm not as proficient with the arcane as I would wish, so I'll be dabbling beyond my scope. I'll need access to the tower, and some time to study it...if I could get the equipment the guards took from me, it would help my chances even more."
"That should be doable," muses the smuggler. "Gettin' your stuff back, I mean. Keyes can help with that, I'm sure... unless it's somethin' real dangerous, in which case we might 'ave to hop through a few more hoops. He'll also want somethin' in trade for the service, that greedy bastard."
"Now you know the plan," Raveen finishes, after describing what he did. "Of course, the best case scenario is that whatever we learn here is critical to the Warden's plan--we get a little something extra to earn their trust but not jeopardize our chances, we leverage our newfound respect into securing access to the bell. Once we have an escape plan, we trigger the switch. Using it, we can use our manacles to command the ring-bearing guards to help us in our escape and hinder whoever is not wearing the rings. If nothing else works, we order each guard to fight the other and we escape during the confusion."
Andrzej is quick to pick up on the method, looking closely at his own manacle as he memorises the patterns of magical etchings on its surface.
"Sounds like a plan," he says in response. "I knew you had the right stuff! An eye for talent, that's my blessing. Desna willin', these negotiations go down without a hitch, and we come out of this with somethin' to peddle to the warden. I'll let you take the lead on this one, seein' as you're the one with the f*cked up shadow—but I'll keep an eye out for trouble, don't you worry..."
"After you," he says with a theatrical bow towards the door.
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Andrzej nods along as you explain your plan, looking more and more impressed with your deductions. "That's... that's ingenious! Of course, I'd already thought 'bout using their rings against 'em, but nothin' quite this... ambitious. Yeah, goin' straight to the source—they'll never see it comin'!""It's sort of theoretical at this stage," he explains. "The plan revolves around the control mechanism for the guards' rings and our manacles--it goes three ways...
[...]
"Yes, Andrzej, a single ring of the bell will incapacitate down all the guards in the prison--well, at least the ones who wear a ring, so the white-clad ones and higher, so Curnow and his fellows will be out of the picture. If we're lucky, the Warden and those black-robed duo beside him micro-manage, so they will also eat the serving we give to the underlings."
Raveen nods, and says, "Of course, we'll need a lot of preparation to pull this off, but we can take things one step at a time. Who knows how this'll end?"
"That should be doable," muses the smuggler. "Gettin' your stuff back, I mean. Keyes can help with that, I'm sure... unless it's somethin' real dangerous, in which case we might 'ave to hop through a few more hoops. He'll also want somethin' in trade for the service, that greedy bastard."
"Would the gold we just retrieved suffice? I need to pay off the debt from Svetozar as well..."
"Sounds like a plan. I knew you had the right stuff! An eye for talent, that's my blessing. Desna willin', these negotiations go down without a hitch, and we come out of this with somethin' to peddle to the warden. I'll let you take the lead on this one, seein' as you're the one with the f*cked up shadow—but I'll keep an eye out for trouble, don't you worry...After you."
A f*cked-up shadow, huh? I guess that's one way to describe you, isn't it? Raveen thinks, observing the raven, before taking a deep breath, and venturing in. His countenance resolved into a serene mask, with his dagger hanging nearby in a self-asserted walk towards the house.
Time to don another mask.
Your shadow scatters as you approach the house, torchlight casting it into dozens of directions at once. As if to greet you, the door swings open—not forcefully, rather appearing to have been caught in a breeze. Of course, there is no wind down in the depths, precluding such innocuousness.
Beyond the threshold roils a darkness so deep, it appears as if you were staring into a void. The light from Andrzej's torch does not even begin to illuminate the interior, instead seeming to dim against the sable absoluteness of it—a hungering eagerness to eradicate radiance.
Though it is impossible to sense any movement in the utterly impermeable, you can feel a beckoning from the blackness.
"Uh," sounds Andrzej. "That's... really creepy. You think we'll be okay walkin' through that?"
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Your shadow scatters as you approach the house, torchlight casting it into dozens of directions at once. As if to greet you, the door swings open—not forcefully, rather appearing to have been caught in a breeze. Of course, there is no wind down in the depths, precluding such innocuousness.
Beyond the threshold roils a darkness so deep, it appears as if you were staring into a void. The light from Andrzej's torch does not even begin to illuminate the interior, instead seeming to dim against the sable absoluteness of it—a hungering eagerness to eradicate radiance.
Though it is impossible to sense any movement in the utterly impermeable, you can feel a beckoning from the blackness.
"Uh," sounds Andrzej. "That's... really creepy. You think we'll be okay walkin' through that?"
"Not blindly," Raveen returns quietly. He reaches towards the darkness, trying to sense how the power collected.
"I can't--I'll follow the raven."
"Not blindly," Raveen returns quietly. He reaches towards the darkness, trying to sense how the power collected.
Your probe seems to be swallowed into the whole without a reaction—like a drop in the ocean.
Upon a closer inspection, this is no ordinary darkness: it is pure shadowstuff, the metaphysical substance which forms the Shadow Plane. Everything in that twilit sphere of existence is a twisted reflection of the Material Plane, drained of colour. Normally, the Shadow Plane exists in a state of perpetual dusk, for without light there is no shadow. Here, something has distilled the shadows into true darkness, forming a kind of protective penumbra around whatever is inside.
"Don't panic, I think we can bypass this obstacle," he says. He then cracks a crooked smile, and says, "Grab my hand. I'll guide you through this darkness."
Andrzej squints at the darkness. "How's it you can see? I can't make out a damn thing in there..."
"I can't--I'll follow the raven."
The smuggler shakes his head incredulously. "Wait, how's that not going in blind? Ugh, nevermind..."
You lock hands and cross the threshold. The first step is like diving into a pool of cold water. You shiver, and instinctively hold your breath until your lungs burn, only to find yourself breathing in without issue. Though the air is dry and stifling, moving feels like wading through water: there is a chilling physicality to the darkness around you—it clings to you like strands of seaweed, at points forcing you to rip yourself free of its grasping tendrils as you stumble blindly through the blackness.
Suddenly, you find your hand yanked free of Andrzej's, as if the he had been dragged away by some outside force. You manage to grab his wrist, but feel a powerful pull in the other direction. There are no sounds of struggle—indeed, your own vocalisations of surprise are muted entirely, no matter hard you shout.
As you fight to hold on to your companion, you feel something wrapping itself around your ankle...
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You lock hands and cross the threshold. The first step is like diving into a pool of cold water. You shiver, and instinctively hold your breath until your lungs burn, only to find yourself breathing in without issue. Though the air is dry and stifling, moving feels like wading through water: there is a chilling physicality to the darkness around you—it clings to you like strands of seaweed, at points forcing you to rip yourself free of its grasping tendrils as you stumble blindly through the blackness.
Suddenly, you find your hand yanked free of Andrzej's, as if the he had been dragged away by some outside force. You manage to grab his wrist, but feel a powerful pull in the other direction. There are no sounds of struggle—indeed, your own vocalisations of surprise are muted entirely, no matter hard you shout.
As you fight to hold on to your companion, you feel something wrapping itself around your ankle...
The oppressive silence felt both relaxing and nerve-wrecking to the young wizardly rogue--a prologue to an alien presence that was both mind-breakingly unfamiliar and recognizable.
All speech here were silent.
Once he felt his companion be dragged away, his grasp tightened, and before he could stab his dagger into the ground to hold them both against the force, he felt the thing wrapping around his ankle. Instinctively, his impulse was to stab the tendril or hand--before a thought flashes into his head.
The soft tongue that sounded like a subtle intake of breath, the language sounded like words spoken backwards, he spoke out in Shadowtongue.
"I am Raveen Liquean, last student of Nalutari Blackthorne of Nidal!" he voices into the silence. "I have come to speak to the master of the Dark Folk!"
Raveen reached out for his shadow--seeking its aid to guide him and Andrzej through the penumbrae.
Shadows cannot exist without light, and what surrounds you is an utter lack of luminance. Just as it exulted in the flickering torchlight outside, feeling the presence of something familiar and powerful, your shadow now cowers and grovels in the presence of that which can unmake it.
Raveen knew he did not understand Dark Folk, but he knew something else--the esoteric tongue of ceremony and ritual of Nidal, the tongue spoken even in the alien Shadow Realm.
The soft tongue that sounded like a subtle intake of breath, the language sounded like words spoken backwards, he spoke out in Shadowtongue."I am Raveen Liquean, last student of Nalutari Blackthorne of Nidal!" he voices into the silence. "I have come to speak to the master of the Dark Folk!"
There is no sound, but you do receive a response of sorts. Whether the entity inhabiting this place hears you or intuits your meaning in some other manner, you feel another beckoning. Not quite a voice, but rather a series of impressions and urgings, you feel the need to allow yourself to be separated as if it were your own: it—whatever it is—wants you to let go, to leave your friend and come to it alone. Beyond that, there are no explanations or guarantees, only a craving curiosity.
There is a moment of anticipation. You feel the pressure around your ankle loosen, and the force pulling on Andrzej ceases—though it does not let him go. You feel the smuggler trying to squirm his way free, but he clearly is not capable of extricating himself from whatever is holding him. He is still alive, at the very least.
As soon as you let go, the beckoning grows even stronger. You are unsure as to how long you wander in utter darkness, but it is long enough for you to lose all sense of time. Though your legs hurt from the effort, you feel neither hunger or thirst. Certainly, the house could not have been this spacious...
Suddenly and without warning, you emerge into a large hall. While not visibly lit by any one source, it is nonetheless not veiled in the blackness you experienced before, rather existing in perpetual dimness. Everything seems drained of colour save for yourself, painted in drab shades of black and grey.
Though it is familiar, it takes you a moment to recognise the building: it is an almost perfect copy of the hideout of the Children of Twilight in Westcrown, a ruined shrine to the dead god Aroden. However, the structure seems to be in an utter state of decrepitude—as if it has never been chosen as the headquarters for a plucky band of revolutionaries, but left to the elements: the roof is gone, jagged rafters opening to a yawning chasm of blackness above you; ash rains down to cover the shattered pews; a rent runs through the altar and the down the nave, dropping down into a ravine down below. Everything seems distorted, in some ways eerily similar to what you remember, but in others presenting a twisted caricature of that once hallowed place. This is most apparent in the artwork, which seems to have taken on a mocking cast: frescoes which depicted the Last Azlanti's vision for humanity instead make him look like a blind fool, and slave to failed prophecy.
From the corner of your eye, you cannot help but to see yourself in his stead...
Near the altar, you see the unmistakable hawk-nosed profile of Naberius, looking just as you remember him, though similarly washed out as his surroundings. The black-and-grey diabolist appears to be inspecting a bust that is in dire need of straightening, idly cradling a cup in his hand.
"Raveen," he says evenly, without turning to face you. "I have been expecting your arrival. Come, we have much to discuss..."
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Though it is familiar, it takes you a moment to recognise the building: it is an almost perfect copy of the hideout of the Children of Twilight in Westcrown, a ruined shrine to the dead god Aroden. However, the structure seems to be in an utter state of decrepitude—as if it has never been chosen as the headquarters for a plucky band of revolutionaries, but left to the elements: the roof is gone, jagged rafters opening to a yawning chasm of blackness above you; ash rains down to cover the shattered pews; a rent runs through the altar and the down the nave, dropping down into a ravine down below. Everything seems distorted, in some ways eerily similar to what you remember, but in others presenting a twisted caricature of that once hallowed place.
What nightmare have I awakened? Raveen thinks, steps slowing, but not stopping as he observed his surroundings. There was no planning table on which he drew the plot to rescue Arael. There were no improvised posters. The contrast between his memory and where he stood made place seemed even more alien and unfamiliar than anything he could recognize.
This is most apparent in the artwork, which seems to have taken on a mocking cast: frescoes which depicted the Last Azlanti's vision for humanity instead make him look like a blind fool, and slave to failed prophecy.
From the corner of your eye, you cannot help but to see yourself in his stead...
Raveen's steps pause for half a moment, eyes passing over art that can only be described as broken. Nalutari's words seemed thousands of years old.
"The most tragic thing about you, Little Crow, is that you do not realize your potential," she had said, unusually serious. "Your eyes do not see what conspires around you yet--it's as if you yourself are living an illusion. You cannot rest until you realize the truth--until you raise the veil and See. You cannot call a place a home; you cannot lower your mask; you cannot let down your guard; and you must wander life as a transient aimless beast until you find it. Until that cup of yours is filled, you will not rest."
Pursuing an elusive and nonsensical concept as 'My potential' and never resting, he thinks. He stops. Truly, what have I been doing all this time?
It was then that he saw something further down the familiar hall that banished the thought from his mind.
Near the altar, you see the unmistakable hawk-nosed profile of Naberius, looking just as you remember him, though similarly washed out as his surroundings. The black-and-grey diabolist appears to be inspecting a bust that is in dire need of straightening, idly cradling a cup in his hand.
"Raveen," he says evenly, without turning to face you. "I have been expecting your arrival. Come, we have much to discuss..."
Raveen stops a few feet behind the diabolist. It felt like ten years, although it could not have been two seasons. The man's profile was similarly cast in perpetual dimness, and Raveen spoke at it. The scholar who taught him the tongue of devils, one who looked just as lost as Raveen felt--a kindred spirit.
"Are you the haunted Conjurer, a Power in disguise, or a Memory brought to life?" he finds himself asking.
Naberius—or the thing which looks like Naberius—grants you sideways glance, filled to the brim with his usual condescending superiority.
"Of course I am not actually here," snides the diabolist. "I certainly hope you realise that much, or my faith in you was sorely misplaced, indeed! Personally, I conjecture that I am either long deceased, presently withering away in a Hellknight prison somewhere, or well on my way to an inglorious exile in Sargava. While I would certainly hope for the latter, I am not one to fool myself with such baseless optimism..."
He lifts the cup to his lips, but seems to think better of it, turning back to regard the bust: it is even more crooked than its real-world counterpart, leaned over the edge of its pedestal like a suicidal man standing on the edge of a bridge. The facial features are worn out, leaving only the vaguest suggestion of a skull-like visage.
"But I digress," muses Naberius. "As you have so poetically externalised, this is likely to be an expertly crafted illusion, no doubt created by a entity capable of probing your subconscious for imagery. Whether I am an autonomous figment or a glamer being worn by said entity is largely irrelevant."
The diabolist looks at his monochromatic hand, inspecting it with the detached mien of an academic. "But what does it hope to gain by imitating me, I wonder...?"
Judging from his lecturing tone, the closing question is not merely rhetorical: the self-described illusion is testing you, just as the real Naberius was wont to do. Other than his lack of colour, you are having difficulty finding any faults in this representation of your erstwhile friend, even knowing it to be false.
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Naberius—or the thing which looks like Naberius—grants you sideways glance, filled to the brim with his usual condescending superiority.
"Of course I am not actually here," snides the diabolist. "I certainly hope you realise that much, or my faith in you was sorely misplaced, indeed! Personally, I conjecture that I am either long deceased, presently withering away in a Hellknight prison somewhere, or well on my way to an inglorious exile in Sargava. While I would certainly hope for the latter, I am not one to fool myself with such baseless optimism..."
Raveen lowers his eyes in acknowledgement. A cloak of regret seemed to settle on his shoulders, weighing him down, although it did not appear on his face.
"I hoped that you had managed to escape to Absalom as I planned. I am finding, however, that my plans aren't going so well these days," he says neutrally, before giving a little head-tilt towards his manacles."But I digress," muses Naberius. "As you have so poetically externalised, this is likely to be an expertly crafted illusion, no doubt created by a entity capable of probing your subconscious for imagery. Whether I am an autonomous figment or a glamer being worn by said entity is largely irrelevant."
The diabolist looks at his monochromatic hand, inspecting it with the detached mien of an academic. "But what does it hope to gain by imitating me, I wonder...?"
Raveen didn't answer, but approached the conjurer, standing before the bust.
"You're wrong--It is relevant. I appreciate your presence," he said, reaching to the bust. "Even if it is unreal, a proof of my failure, or another manifestation of my 'potential'."
He straightened the bust as he did so long ago. He wiped his hand over the cracks in the face, pouring Shadowstuff in to fill them and restore it to its old glory. He caused the power to flow out, shadow lengthening. His gray eyes glimmered as he used his power.
"If you're present, I wish to speak to you," Raveen says in Shadowtongue, looking on the bust. "You will have to try harder to lower my guard, Great One."
"You asked once if we squandered Aroden's legacy by trusting so much on gods for guidance," Raveen says to Naberius. "But I now find both of us as tiny presences under greater powers. Yet, we must still live, Shadow Naberius."
Raveen molds the bust's features with his power over shadow until it stands straight, and is restored, as he did once before. In the True stronghold, the bust seemed to always find a way to lean again, but in this Shadow World, he pinned it firmly, cementing something in a world where nothing is cemented.
"You asked once if we squandered Aroden's legacy by trusting so much on gods for guidance," Raveen says to Naberius. "But I now find both of us as tiny presences under greater powers. Yet, we must still live, Shadow Naberius."
Naberius scoffs, a sound that used to come to him as naturally as breathing. "As dramatic as ever, I see..."
"We are often compelled by forces outside our control," he adds sagely. "Mortal conception of free will is largely premeditated on ignorance of planar forces, which nevertheless affect every soul in existence. That much is apparent to any well-studied practitioner of conjuration, whether they choose to submit to the truth or not. Diabolism, especially, is based on understanding your position within that unseen hierarchy, and the exploitation of any perceivable advantage it may afford, all the while minimising possible risks to your own person. The eternal question is, how much we gain from the bargain—and is it worth the cost. That is why you have come, is it not? To bargain with forces you scarcely comprehend, hoping against hope to gain more than you lose..."
His tone shifts, becoming a hiss of admonishment. "What arrogance! Have you anything to barter away? Anything at all to show for your past efforts? Look around and see what you have wrought: failed heroics and wasted time! Beasts of shadow still stalk the alleys of Westcrown, and you have nothing."
As he speaks, the repaired bust visibly distorts, its matter dissolving into shadow, only to resolve back into its formerly decrepit state.
Then, it falls and shatters.
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Raveen molds the bust's features with his power over shadow until it stands straight, and is restored, as he did once before. In the True stronghold, the bust seemed to always find a way to lean again, but in this Shadow World, he pinned it firmly, cementing something in a world where nothing is cemented.
"You asked once if we squandered Aroden's legacy by trusting so much on gods for guidance," Raveen says to Naberius. "But I now find both of us as tiny presences under greater powers. Yet, we must still live, Shadow Naberius."Naberius scoffs, a sound that used to come to him as naturally as breathing. "As dramatic as ever, I see..."
"We are often compelled by forces outside our control," he adds sagely. "Mortal conception of free will is largely premeditated on ignorance of planar forces, which nevertheless affect every soul in existence. That much is apparent to any well-studied practitioner of conjuration, whether they choose to submit to the truth or not. Diabolism, especially, is based on understanding your position within that unseen hierarchy, and the exploitation of any perceivable advantage it may afford, all the while minimising possible risks to your own person. The eternal question is, how much we gain from the bargain—and is it worth the cost. That is why you have come, is it not? To bargain with forces you scarcely comprehend, hoping against hope to gain more than you lose..."
His tone shifts, becoming a hiss of admonishment. "What arrogance! Have you anything to barter away? Anything at all to show for your past efforts? Look around and see what you have wrought: failed heroics and wasted time! Beasts of shadow still stalk the alleys of Westcrown, and you have nothing."
As he speaks, the repaired bust visibly distorts, its matter dissolving into shadow, only to resolve back into its formerly decrepit state.
Then, it falls and shatters.
"Yet, we must still live," Raveen answers, observing the shattered pieces of the bust. He then turns to Naberius. "What do you mean by still?"
That means that this is either a part of the conjurer's spirit (and he is dead), or a disguise.
A great power would also know if the curse is still active.
So it is likely this is a disguise, and I am speaking to the Master of the Dark Folk.
Your shadow is unusually passive: well-behaved, even. Ever so often it reaches out to touch something, but it mostly keeps itself contained to the area behind you—away from Naberius, even though there is no single source of light to constrain where it can extend itself. You would expect it to exult in the tenebral energies of this place, yet it seems almost... obsequious, like a hapless pauper tracking mud over the king's carpets.
The alcove formerly claimed by Arael as his command room is wide open, its door having fallen off its hinges. There are no strewn papers detailing future plans, or maps marking the location of the next strike, or even any furniture—it looks more like an empty crypt than anything...
Not quite empty, after all! Squinting your eyes, you just make out a small bump on the floor of the alcove, covered in a layer of ash.
"Yet, we must still live," Raveen answers, observing the shattered pieces of the bust. He then turns to Naberius. "What do you mean by still?"
"Getting caught on semantics, are we?" scoffs the diabolist. "Still: an expression indicating a period of time up to and including the present. Or do you seriously propose that assortment of naïve, self-delusional imbeciles could have lifted the curse without our assistance? Do not make me laugh, Raveen."
"You abandoned them," he hisses, as if daring you to deny it. "How do you reckon I felt, when you abandoned me? We could have achieved such great things together, you and I. Instead, you choose to play at games, and delude yourself into thinking you are a saviour of others. How pathetic..."
You do not think this is a matter of catching "Naberius" in a lie. Nothing he has said is something that could not be extrapolated from Raveen's mental impressions of the diabolist, and he has been very forthright about his false nature. While he might certainly lack knowledge of recent events, it must be something you are also unaware of—such as what happened in Westcrown after you left, or his own fate. From this you deduce that the entity behind this charade does not seem interested in deceiving you, as much as it wants to elicit a certain response—which means presenting things in an way that accommodates that impulse.
As "Naberius" said, it does not matter if this is a disguise or a puppet: either way, there is a conscious force behind it—and it has a reason for staging things as it has. As such, making it show its "true form" might be entirely counterproductive. There is a distinct possibility that this is the only meaningful way it can communicate with you, but there has to be a motive for the use of this specific imagery. More precisely, it seems to have keyed into Raveen's doubts and regret over his past actions, which were in the forefront of his mind as he entered the house. In effect, you are conversing with yourself as much as you are with it.
Perhaps engaging the entity further might reveal its intentions—if it does not entrap you further. Regardless, you are at its mercy. Logic dictates that if it wanted you dead, it would have killed you already. This indicates you still hold something worth negotiating over, if only you can figure out what it is...
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"We are often compelled by forces outside our control. Mortal conception of free will is largely premeditated on ignorance of planar forces, which nevertheless affect every soul in existence. That much is apparent to any well-studied practitioner of conjuration, whether they choose to submit to the truth or not. Diabolism, especially, is based on understanding your position within that unseen hierarchy, and the exploitation of any perceivable advantage it may afford, all the while minimising possible risks to your own person. The eternal question is, how much we gain from the bargain—and is it worth the cost. That is why you have come, is it not? To bargain with forces you scarcely comprehend, hoping against hope to gain more than you lose...
...
"What arrogance! Have you anything to barter away? Anything at all to show for your past efforts? Look around and see what you have wrought: failed heroics and wasted time! Beasts of shadow still stalk the alleys of Westcrown, and you have nothing.
...
"Getting caught on semantics, are we? Still: an expression indicating a period of time up to and including the present. Or do you seriously propose that assortment of naïve, self-delusional imbeciles could have lifted the curse without our assistance? Do not make me laugh, Raveen.
...
"You abandoned them. How do you reckon I felt, when you abandoned me? We could have achieved such great things together, you and I. Instead, you choose to play at games, and delude yourself into thinking you are a saviour of others. How pathetic..."
Raveen was quiet for a long time. His neutral expression was undisturbed, though a strange mix of emotions ran across his soul. Naberius's withering mockery would have one day gotten to him. Indeed, the spirit of his forebears, raiders of frozen, heartless lands, would have murdered for much less.
His other half--the ghastly wraith that resonated in the presence of The Shadow lay obediently. It answered with an evasive argument--his action was merely a tactical retreat, that he is never truly defeated until he gives up. Indeed, therein true victory lies.The shattered bust lay before him, however, molded with his hand and his will, before the will of the hidden Master overpowered his own.
The display of power was so carelessly done, and with such horrendous indifference, that his true worth was laid out cruelly before him. He knew then that the cosmic power could unmake him, just as it casually unmade the bust. It was not even a question.
The mirage of the hideout that surrounded him was empty, not for lack of life, but the dark simulacra it was. This world did not have life, nor could it have. It was merely a broken mirror that reflected nothing of worth, just an echo of what might have been.
In his silence and in realization of the utter helplessness of his situation, the doubts he held silent for so long began to speak. He never voiced them, but they were a consolation in sleepless nights.
I was burdened with them. They brought me down--
Cowardice.
A miracle couldn't have saved them, not with that leadership. He deserves his fate if he couldn't--
Unreliability.
I am destined for greatness. It would be criminal to stay--
Pride.
A memory came, unbidden.
The wizard nods gravely, and says, "The ruination of great many rulers during history. Lessons you would do well to take to heart...""Let me ask you a question instead. An exceedingly simple one, since you have obviously studied the theory of illusions: in the days of Ancient Thassilon, which mortal sin was associated with that school of magic?""If it comes as a surprise at all, the answer is Pride: the mother of all sins, and the ruination of the state of Azlant."
It terrified him deep inside--how could he say so many words that had so little meaning?
Thoughts that were worthless, rotten drivel...all lies he told himself. Like all lies, they buckled under recollection.
"I was...humbled by the events in Westcrown," he says finally. "Yesterday, I might have smiled at your assessment, reveling at your acknowledgement, and agreed that with only our combined powers will the Twilight City be freed..."
Although he had an idea of what the object under the grayness could be, he moved forward to pick it up.
Naberius looks on silently as you walk off toward the alcove, his expression that of cool indifference.
Wiping away what must be decades worth of dust reveals a white porcelain surface, painted in the Minkaian style: a fox mask, with a crack running vertically through the middle of its face—as if it had been broken and inexpertly glued back together, leaving its face twisted into a lopsided grimace.
You hear a chuckle from behind you. From the corner of your eye you can make out Naberius' wiry figure, now framed by the doorway. "I was never one to wear a mask, yet I was forced by circumstance into donning one. You, on the other hand, wore three in so many days. Quite impressive, for mundane trickery..."
"Your epiphany is as empty as your delusion," he continues flatly. "The mind is a prison of hope, spurring one into an endless cycle of pointless striving. Blind, deaf and lame, all mortals live to squander their meagre hours in existence, never fully satisfied. There is no breaking the chains. Only through acceptance of its bonds will a soul be content with its lot, fulfilling its function until it fades away into nothingness."
At this point, something feels off. On an intellectual level, you know these are not Naberius' words—even at his most cynical, he was never a nihilist. Even more viscerally, you feel a void of emotion in those very syllables, stemming from an ennui that is utterly incomprehensible from the limited perspective of a mortal being.
This is the Other.
Naberius nods towards the mask, a wry smile touching his lips. "Take it. A disguise that would make most illusionists green with envy..."
"The mask is mine," a thought bubbles up from inside you. "I have made it, for what it's worth."
The thing that is not Naberius offers its cup to you, revealing the vessel to be filled with ashes instead of wine. "This is my gift. Drink, and be exonerated of all expectations. There are things in this world that should not walk free, and your floundering might delay the inevitable—for a time, at least."
An inner voice whispers:
"Cowardice."
"Unreliability."
"Pride."
"Absolution," counters the Other.
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Naberius looks on silently as you walk off toward the alcove, his expression that of cool indifference.
Wiping away what must be decades worth of dust reveals a white porcelain surface, painted in the Minkaian style: a fox mask, with a crack running vertically through the middle of its face—as if it had been broken and inexpertly glued back together, leaving its face twisted into a lopsided grimace.
"I was never one to wear a mask, yet I was forced by circumstance into donning one. You, on the other hand, wore three in so many days. Quite impressive, for mundane trickery..."
"Your epiphany is as empty as your delusion. The mind is a prison of hope, spurring one into an endless cycle of pointless striving. Blind, deaf and lame, all mortals live to squander their meagre hours in existence, never fully satisfied. There is no breaking the chains. Only through acceptance of its bonds will a soul be content with its lot, fulfilling its function until it fades away into nothingness."
"Take it. A disguise that would make most illusionists green with envy..."
It was at this moment did Raveen feel the Presence. He turns to notice the figure framed in the dark. It was as if Naberius was cloaked with a dark aura. The mask was finally off.
Raveen stops over the porcelain mask, peering into the darkness of its eyes. He says, "I wouldn't go so far as to call it empty--after all, I'm not finished yet."
This was the same war-room where he engineered daring missions, but now it held nothing but a broken prize born from his own spirit. He remembered Janiven, whose spirit burned bright but could not apply herself. He remembered Arael, who had heart but no vision. He remembered Tal, Monday, Naberius, and Vasco--and before that, Cato, Mera, and Litania. He picks up the mask, sensing its familiarity--intuitive as if he were observing his own hand--after all, it has been his face for a time.
Perhaps in irony, he moved his hand over the features of the fox just as he did over the Arodenian Bust, reflecting his words upon the mask.
"I would have yesterday reveled in the praise. Today, I do not. In truth, I cannot, because I see a flaw. It is for the same cause that I cannot accept nor reject Naberius's censure."
He cemented the image in his mind, just as he did before weaving the Silent Image spell--the image of his old comrades.
Raveen turns to observe the figure, and says, "I could have not carried the Children of Twilight to victory, regardless of my will or what help I could conjure. Indeed, if the hand of Iomedae Herself was above ours to aid us those days, victory would have still eluded us, for the simple reason that we did not deserve it. Incompetence is never rewarded, nor should it be--for we had no plan, conflicting goals, murky leadership, unknown targets, and unclear methods."
"Regardless of my comrades' shortcomings, I acknowledge that, had my heart been true, I would have not left Westcrown at all. I would have completed my mission, and lifted the curse upon the city, even if I had to do it alone and on my own terms. I walked without conviction. You know what they call those who act upon the whim of fate and have no clear direction...
"Fools. Fools and clowns. Aimless wanderers who don't know what they're doing, and who deserve to wander until they act with purpose."
"So I declare once more--I have come here to bargain. I have not come with nothing," Raveen says. "I have information, and I have a plan."
"This is my gift. Drink, and be exonerated of all expectations. There are things in this world that should not walk free, and your floundering might delay the inevitable—for a time, at least."
"The bones of the earth hide something, Great One--is it the same thing that should not be free?" he says quietly, as if to himself. "Do the Razmirans know what they're doing?"
Raveen stops over the porcelain mask, peering into the darkness of its eyes.
The surface of the mask feels cool and smooth, and vaguely yielding to the touch—knowing it to be of the Shadow Plane, you realise it is only partially real. More real than most similar construction you have ever witnessed, certainly—likely owing to the place it was created—yet an illusion all the same.
And within lies power, as of yet untapped.
It was at this moment did Raveen feel the Presence. He turns to notice the figure framed in the dark. It was as if Naberius was cloaked with a dark aura. The mask was finally off.
After the sudden rush of exhilaration at being acknowledged, you note that things are—ironically—not so black and white. On a closer inspection, Naberius does not really look any different, save for momentary lapses of emotive capability: a vessel, more than a mask—a vessel which appears to be leaking. There is a fracturing of signals, as if you were receiving multiple messages through different senses all at once, some of which you did not entirely realise you had access to.
"Perhaps it's the mask?" queries the inner voice. "Or perhaps it's... me? The mask is me.
"The mask is you," confirms the Other, impassive. "We all wear masks. That is all we ever are."
Raveen turns to observe the figure, and says, "I could have not carried the Children of Twilight to victory, regardless of my will or what help I could conjure. Indeed, if the hand of Iomedae Herself was above ours to aid us those days, victory would have still eluded us, for the simple reason that we did not deserve it. Incompetence is never rewarded, nor should it be--for we had no plan, conflicting goals, murky leadership, unknown targets, and unclear methods."
"Regardless of my comrades' shortcomings, I acknowledge that, had my heart been true, I would have not left Westcrown at all. I would have completed my mission, and lifted the curse upon the city, even if I had to do it alone and on my own terms. I walked without conviction. You know what they call those who act upon the whim of fate and have no clear direction...
"Fools. Fools and clowns. Aimless wanderers who don't know what they're doing, and who deserve to wander until they act with purpose."
The diabolist scoffs, yet his mien is that of cold amusement rather than derision. "Yes, perhaps the endeavour was doomed from the start. I certainly never believed in our prospects, until I met you... but alas, it was not to be. I see much of myself in you, Raveen. We are both fools, of a sort..."
"All mortals are fools," corrects the Other. "Blind fools, chasing a false promise of fulfilment. What is purpose, if not another way to fool yourself into thinking your life has meaning? Accept that you are nothing, and be unburdened by such ineffectual restrictions. That is the only truth there is."
"Yet, we must still live," goes the mantra.
Naberius shakes his head, catching your eye. "Yet, we must still live."
"Your existence is not mandatory" the Other retorts, never breaking the gaze Naberius started. "Nor is it consequential. It simply... is."
"So I declare once more--I have come here to bargain. I have not come with nothing," Raveen says. "I have information, and I have a plan."
"The bones of the earth hide something, Great One--is it the same thing that should not be free?" he says quietly, as if to himself. "Do the Razmirans know what they're doing?"
"Mortals seldom do," says the Other.
Naberius purses his lips, cocking his head in thought. "Ah, the disciples of Razmir. They are fanatics, correct? No doubt most of them are witless pawns, but someone is playing the game, deciding which piece goes where on the board... but the question is who, and why?"
"Another fool," the Other carries on in a flat monotone. "Thinking he might take my power, and that of the one I am guarding. For himself, not his master. He is severely mistaken about his ability to bind me to his will, of course. Yet, I cannot risk the integrity of my ward..."
A thought of frustration comes and goes, screaming by in a rush:"But if nothing has any meaning, why does this matter?!"
"Because if it says so," says the cold voice of reason. "It must really matter. What would move an absolute nihilist to take action?"
Naberius chuckles. "What is so useful about hierarchies is that they are predictable. Once you have sufficiently internalised the patterns on which a system operates, you can manipulate it as you please..."
"Dismantle their means of self-deceit," exhorts the Other. "With this, and the mask, you will be bare. Free to remake yourself as you please. There will be nothing for their feeble minds to grasp, for you will be nothing. As long they cling on to a false sense of self, the truth will elude them, as it does you..."
He—or it—never lowers the cup. There is no insistence, simply the inexhaustible patience of one who has stopped caring about time.
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It was at this moment did Raveen feel the Presence. He turns to notice the figure framed in the dark. It was as if Naberius was cloaked with a dark aura. The mask was finally off.After the sudden rush of exhilaration at being acknowledged, you note that things are—ironically—not so black and white. On a closer inspection, Naberius does not really look any different, save for momentary lapses of emotive capability: a vessel, more than a mask—a vessel which appears to be leaking. There is a fracturing of signals, as if you were receiving multiple messages through different senses all at once, some of which you did not entirely realise you had access to.
"Perhaps it's the mask?" queries the inner voice. "Or perhaps it's... me? The mask is me.
"The mask is you," confirms the Other, impassive. "We all wear masks. That is all we ever are."
Haemor Ulfwyth.
Hrafen.
Anna Kelyn.
Arthur Kohelm.
Raveen Liquean.
Alkalak of the Dawn.
And Mr. Fox is among us once more.
"Yes, perhaps the endeavour was doomed from the start. I certainly never believed in our prospects, until I met you... but alas, it was not to be. I see much of myself in you, Raveen. We are both fools, of a sort..."
"All mortals are fools Blind fools, chasing a false promise of fulfilment. What is purpose, if not another way to fool yourself into thinking your life has meaning? Accept that you are nothing, and be unburdened by such ineffectual restrictions. That is the only truth there is."
"Yet, we must still live."
"Your existence is not mandatory. Nor is it consequential. It simply... is."
Raveen maintains his gaze on the gestalt Other-Naberius, coming to terms with the Other's philosophy.
The mind is a prison of hope, spurring one into an endless cycle of pointless striving. Blind, deaf and lame, all mortals live to squander their meagre hours in existence, never fully satisfied. There is no breaking the chains. Only through acceptance of its bonds will a soul be content with its lot, fulfilling its function until it fades away into nothingness.
Something in the Other's words resonated in Raveen's mind. This outlook would explain the despair he feels, justify the suffering he witnessed and partook in, and give meaning--even when taking all meaning away.
"Because if it says so. It must really matter. What would move an absolute nihilist to take action?"
"I acknowledge the limits of my power," Raveen answers, lowering his head before the Other--the creature which had Naberius as a vessel, the creature that delivered his mask back to him. "However, I am not finished yet. I have not tested my chains to their limits. The distance I might gain when I stretch my arms may be enough for me to soar."
He raised his mask to his face.
"I'm good at subverting expectations. I hope you'd give me a chance to try to stop the Warden with my own tools," says the masked conspirator. "There is nowhere to run to. This time, I win or die."
"As you wish," says the Other, as impassive as ever. "Nothing will come of it, save for more pain and suffering. But the choice has been made..."
Naberius smiles, upending the cup. "Until we meet again, my friend."
As he pours away the ashen contents of the vessel, everything around you seems to drain away. The ruined shrine blows away like dust in the wind, revealing the underlying canvas of dim nothingness. For a moment, you see another place, similarly colourless: a chamber of adamantine mixed with what looks like shrivelled flesh. Figures lie motionless at the edges of some bizarrely organic aperture, wrapped in tatters of dark musty robes. There are three of them, collapsed at along the edge at regular intervals. Below them, a foul presence wails and writhes in perpetual agony. Whatever it is, the merest glimpse of it fills you with terror.
Then, everything is reduced to blackness.
"Raveen?" says a familiar voice. "Oh, thank Desna. I think he's comin' to..."
The indistinct blob above you resolves into the concerned features of one Andrzej Kedzierski, framed by a ceiling of adamantine. "Oi! You gave us quite the fright there, friend! I thought for sure you'd pegged out. Now, what on earth are you wearin'...?"
Raising a hand to your face, you feel the smooth surface of the porcelain mask, still covering your face. Other than its semi-tangible materiality, everything you experienced feels like a dream, quickly fading away into the vague impressions of a reverie half-remembered.
As you gather your bearings, you see the group of you are near the market below the abandoned quarter of the Dark Folk town, gathered near a wooden piling supporting one of the inhabited platforms. Pike stands over the prone form of Hjarni, with her foot firmly planted on the dwarf's chest. The old man is thrashing around feebly and raving in a hoarse voice, sounding like he might have been shouting for hours until his voice gave out.
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Then, everything is reduced to blackness.
"Raveen?" says a familiar voice. "Oh, thank Desna. I think he's comin' to..."
The indistinct blob above you resolves into the concerned features of one Andrzej Kedzierski, framed by a ceiling of adamantine. "Oi! You gave us quite the fright there, friend! I thought for sure you'd pegged out. Now, what on earth are you wearin'...?"
Raising a hand to your face, you feel the smooth surface of the porcelain mask, still covering your face. Other than its semi-tangible materiality, everything you experienced feels like a dream, quickly fading away into the vague impressions of a reverie half-remembered.
As you gather your bearings, you see the group of you are near the market below the abandoned quarter of the Dark Folk town, gathered near a wooden piling supporting one of the inhabited platforms. Pike stands over the prone form of Hjarni, with her foot firmly planted on the dwarf's chest. The old man is thrashing around feebly and raving in a hoarse voice, sounding like he might have been shouting for hours until his voice gave out.
The masked man says nothing, eyes fixated on the adamantine ceiling.
He was familiar with loss.
He was familiar with loss.
This was no surprise.
A tear slid under the mask, mixing into the sweat and blood and dirt.
The sight of Naberius aroused mixed emotions he did not allow himself to feel, but that passed as well once he realized what the conjurer's truth might be. It reopened a badly-healed wound, and tore further.
The Other's spiritual presence was as a void that almost consumed him. No past achievements, praise, or deeds could light that void--a wind that could snuff a star in a howling refutation of all meaning.
Never again will I feel this helpless, he finds himself thinking, as if through a thick cloud.
Once the feeling of paralyzing terror receded, once sorrow faded, and once confusion settled, a black, cold anger rose, burning away all other emotions. The anger stoked by his pride, he realized, but if that sin was the fuel he needed, he will use it.
Raveen Liquean, last student of Nalutari Blackthorne of Nidal.
He sat up, hand reaching to his mask. The bare hand touched the cool porcelain. For a moment, he couldn't hear Hjarni or answer Andrzej.
In the end, there is a person under the mask--there always is.
He then removed it gently, wiping his face from the sweat.
He gave a small smile, and says, voice hoarse, "I'm fine."
He stands up, but does it slowly, as if unsure if his legs would support him. He laid his eye on his shadow, looking at it silently for a moment.
"Perfectly fine," he says, before looking up. "What happened?"
"You tell me!" says Andrzej, incredulous. "We got separated, pulled apart by somethin' in the dark, and I got thrown out like a hound. Not the first time I've been bounced, but certainly the strangest. You were gone for... gods, I don't know, it's been hours..."
He glances at Hjarni and Pike, frowning. "The old man tried to run off, I think. Pike had to drag him back, and we waited. Not gonna lie, friend, I'd almost given up hope... that's when you got tossed out on your ass, wearin' that mask. We got the hell outta there real fast, and here we are..."
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"You tell me!" says Andrzej, incredulous. "We got separated, pulled apart by somethin' in the dark, and I got thrown out like a hound. Not the first time I've been bounced, but certainly the strangest. You were gone for... gods, I don't know, it's been hours..."
He glances at Hjarni and Pike, frowning. "The old man tried to run off, I think. Pike had to drag him back, and we waited. Not gonna lie, friend, I'd almost given up hope... that's when you got tossed out on your ass, wearin' that mask. We got the hell outta there real fast, and here we are..."
Raveen nods with Andrzej's report. He then looks around him.
"Hours...we shouldn't have taken this long," he says, standing up. "I don't want our mining rounds to finish with us down here. We must leave."
As Raveen heads out with the rest, he turns to Andrzej, and asks, "Where did Hjarni try to escape to? We reached here by boat."