The dwarf shakes his head incredulously.
"Tsk. Well, aren't you diligent?" he says, his voice thick with mockery. "Aye, we've got somewhere you could have a private chat. But seeing as our Priest is elsewhere on important business, you're sh*t out of luck when it comes to snitching. What's this to me, eh? Make it worth my while..."
The masked man is quiet for a time. He then gives a small chuckle.
"Ah, I see," the man says quietly. "I come here expecting greased palms, and find them."
He then narrows his eyes at the dwarf, giving him a piercing glare. "How many coins does it take to look away from dissent?"
The aura the masked man gives is not of compliance to rules--but a darker brand of destructive zeal--a ripple of emotions the masked man taps into from older experience in Nidal.
The Living God--the Steps--the fear, he summons the righteous indignation to himself.
"Yes, Brother, I am diligent. You would find that diligence is prized...for the prize for obedience is opulence."
Pointedly, he leaves out the second half, "—the price for disobedience, death."
After his declaration, he then nods to the dwarf, and says, "I bid you a good day."
The man then turns to leave ominously.
The effect of your words in difficult to judge, before you hear the cowed words of the Acolyte behind you. "Brother, wait! Obviously, I'd never take any money from the inmates, even if they had any. It's just that... well, the opulence the Living God promises can seem so far away in this dank hole. I know it is just a test of our faith, before the next Step. You're trying to get into someone's good graces as well, right?"
The dwarf shuffles nervously. "We left one of the cells when we knocked down the inner walls in the block, to serve as storage and a place to put troublemakers—not that we get many up here. You can have your little chat in there. But not too long, okay? We've got quotas to keep."
The masked man turns once the dwarf ends. He ignores the dwarf's excuses, dismissing them as an appalling lack of faith.
"I will speak with him there."
The storage is about as small as your own cell, and moreover, cramped with boxes and crates filled with bottles of ink, sheets of vellum, and the like. Many of these seem to be of poor quality, dubious providence, or both: you spot the hammer-and-sword heraldry of Molthune on one container, which has been broken open at one corner. Another box—this one unmarked—has splatters of something that is either red ink, or dried blood.
You hear the sounds of a short conversation from the outside. After a moment, the dwarf pushes in a prisoner, assumably Snell. He is a slight man of mixed Chelaxian descent, with the bent posture and permanently ink-stained fingers of a career scribe. Greasy locks of black hair have been pushed back behind his ears, falling lankly on his shoulders. His chin bears only the faintest hint of scruff, though he shows no signs of shaving.
Though not an unsightly fellow, something about him seems wilted, almost like he could have properly bloomed if allowed more time in the sun.
Snell makes no inquiries, but waits silently for you to speak, head bowed. Dark shadows rim his eyes—undeterminably blue-grey in colour—which are fixed on something off to your side. His body language does not come across as defiant, though it does not feel entirely subservient either.
The masked man is silent as he faces Snell. A moment passes, during which the disguised Raveen studies Snell.
"I'm going to cut right to the chase," he says in a low voice. "You leak messages in and out of the Prison and circumvent our measures to keep order and discipline. Do you deny this?"
For just a second, Snell's eyes flick to your face—or rather, your mask.
"I do what I am ordered to do," he says curtly. "Nothing more."
His voice is quiet, but not to the point of unintelligibility, with a firm, yet whispery quality reminiscent of a librarian. He also enunciates with a clarity belying an academic background, a broadly upper-class Chelaxian accent which is difficult to place. He could just as well be from Almas or Egorian, or even Korvosa.
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Despite his dread persona, Raveen feels a pang of sympathy.
Naberius... he thinks, narrowing his eyes behind the mask.
"Is that so?" he answers slowly, his study inconclusive. "You are 'ordered' to do undermine the Warden? By whom?"
Perhaps Snell can give Raveen his scapegoat to buy time and get the Warden off his back.
Snell lets out a sigh, a barely audible whistle of air through clenched teeth. His eyes are fixed on the back corner of the storage room.
"I am ordered to deliver messages," he says dryly. "If you do not know by whom, perhaps you should reconsider your inquiry."
"I'm not here to play games; I'm here to enforce divine Will and the order of this place!" the masked man spits. "You will answer now, or you will wish you have!"
Noticing quietly that he is looking off the side, Raveen strains his senses to feel if something is nearby or hidden.
"I'm not here to play games; I'm here to enforce divine Will and the order of this place!" the masked man spits. "You will answer now, or you will wish you have!"
Trying to capitalise on your intimidation factor, you opt for the forceful approach. However, it appears you misjudged your position slightly, as Snell does not flinch away in fear or otherwise show any signs of being cowed: he does comply, after a fashion, though seemingly out of frustration than anything.
"Forgive me," he says less than obsequiously. "I am... not from around here. I do not entirely understand the inner workings of the faith just yet, but as far as I am aware, the white robes answer to the grey robes. As your robes are white, any order from someone in grey robes supersedes your own. Correct?"
Noticing quietly that he is looking off the side, Raveen strains his senses to feel if something is nearby or hidden.
You think you might have noticed something moving amidst the boxes. However, at a closer inspection, it is your own shadow, which is perched amongst the flickering shapes cast by the lone lantern in the room. You are not entirely sure if Snell has noticed it moving of its own accord, or if he is just trying to avoid eye contact.
"Forgive me," he says less than obsequiously. "I am... not from around here. I do not entirely understand the inner workings of the faith just yet, but as far as I am aware, the white robes answer to the grey robes. As your robes are white, any order from someone in grey robes supersedes your own. Correct?"
The masked man is silent for a while. Tension grips him, as he feels himself reaching his goal. A dissident Priest!
The possibilities are endless--whether they can be a target for blackmail, scapegoat, or even a possible ally.A beat passed in the silence of his thoughts.
What place is this, where searching for an ally is the last avenue I explore?
He then speaks dryly, adopting the persona of a one caught off guard (which, considering the circumstances, was not hard to adopt).
"Your Priest asked you to do this? Speak, and you may return to your tasks."
He couldn't help reflecting on the words spoken to him by Shadow Naberius.
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.
Snell grimaces. "With all due respect, I am not certain that would be... productive... for either of us."
The masked man gives a nod of understanding.
“Typical of an unenlightened one...you want a...guarantee,” he says, with a hint of disgust.
”If I were to furnish to you a written pledge of protection from a Priest, would you be more partial to aid?”
The masked man gives a nod of understanding.
“Typical of an unenlightened one...you want a...guarantee,” he says, with a hint of disgust.
”If I were to furnish to you a written pledge of protection from a Priest, would you be more partial to aid?”
"Well," the scribe mutters warily, "I suppose that would depend entirely on the Priest in question..."
”Priest Curnow is interested in sniffing out all kinds of dissent. If he is interested in what you have to say, you will be protected, and rewarded. Remember, the prize of obedience...”
Snell raises an eyebrow. "Curnow? From cell block 18? Why would he—"
He shakes his head sharply. "Nevermind. I want no part in any sectarian infighting. Get me a writ, and I will give you a name."
He shakes his head sharply. "Nevermind. I want no part in any sectarian infighting. Get me a writ, and I will give you a name."
"Enlightenment may yet be yours," the masked man says, turning to leave the small side room.
The masked man makes his way out of the scriptorium, smoothly pocketing the required items as he goes with deft hands.
Your second meeting with Snell goes much better than the last. With the forged writ in hand, the mask of authority becomes easier to wear, and the scribe appears to relax somewhat. He goes over the document several times, with great care and focus—he is certainly adept, but fortunately, so are you. Before he finally complies, Snell asks you to undersign a personal notification of his cooperation, which refers to the writ, and then writes copies of both.
According to him, a vast majority of Snell's "customers" are inmates from the upper levels, desperate to contact their friends and families. Many of them have been thrown into the Track without so much as a trial, and there is no one to inform their loved ones as to their fate. They simply disappear, and they are often thought dead. Most of these communications are one-time affairs, with the inmates being unable or unwilling to pay for additional correspondence. However, a dozen or so more well-off individuals keep regular correspondence. The scribe offers to draw up a list of these "repeat customers," though it will take him some time.
Before his imprisonment, Snell had been an expert cryptographer and forger—he is quite certain some of the inmates' communications include encrypted messages, perhaps even rebellious ones, but he does not have the time or the interest to decode them. While he denies any seditious motivations, he admits that his former clientele included "elements of the resistance," along with other underworld figures. These are the connections he has leveraged to discreetly circulate his "customers'" letters to their loved ones, and to collect payment from said recipients. Of course, none of this would be possible if his messages could not reach the world above...
...which brings us to his accomplice. Snell describes a Priest named Travers, who is the de facto quartermaster of the Forgotten Track. Known as a highly devout and loyal servant of the Living God—well on her way to ascend to the higher Steps—she is in charge of the great lid that covers the exit, as well as the armories, food stores, and other supplies. She has access to the deliveries in and out of the Forgotten Track, and Snell has the connections and skills to enable the correspondence.
As for Travers' motivations, Snell can only speculate. It is not unusual for Razmirans to have "something on the side," but she is risking a lot for a relatively little in return—a Priest in her position already has access to substantial material comforts, and the penalty for being discovered is "far worse than death." She has promised Snell a fair share of the profits, but he does not know if she has any intention of keeping her word—he does not really have a choice in the matter, regardless.
"The strange part is," the scribe adds uncertainly, "I do not... well, I am not entirely certain she is who she claims to be. I had a few interactions with Travers before this whole operation, and she is... different, somehow. I cannot quite put my finger on it, but something about her manner is... off."
As far as Snell knows, the dwarf is "a fool, and easily manipulated." No doubt Travers has him, the other acolytes, and perhaps even their overseeing Priest under her thumb. However, Snell does not think any of them are "in on it." Travers is not directly in charge of the scriptorium, but she has enough influence to arrange for his services as needed, which ensures that his other duties do not affect the operation. The other scribes are entirely ignorant of the matter—they simply view his apparent favour with the higher-ups as a result of his demonstratably superior talent with the quill, and grudge him for the attention.
For all his outside connections, Snell does not appear to have many friends in the Track.
Whenever there are deliveries, either goods or new prisoners, the lid at the top of the central shaft is opened, and the payload is lowered down on a pulley. At the same time correspondence, processed ores, and the rare ex-convict are withdrawn from the same aperture. There is an irregular schedule, but Snell does not know the specifics—the timing of the deliveries is purposefully kept secret even from the Acolytes, to avoid the inmates from using the information in an escape attempt.
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Shock both real and acted causes the masked man to pause as Snell answers his interrogation. A treacherous Priest at the highest levels of the organization--this is the perfect
The scribe offers to draw up a list of these "repeat customers," though it will take him some time.
The masked man looks at Snell, and asks, "How much time? Do you also have their targets' addresses? We need your full cooperation."
"The strange part is. I do not... well, I am not entirely certain she is who she claims to be. I had a few interactions with Travers before this whole operation, and she is... different, somehow. I cannot quite put my finger on it, but something about her manner is... off."
"That isn't much to go on. When did she appear to have changed?" the masked man asks.
Because if it does...that Other has more than just me on his ticket... Raveen thinks with an contradictory mixture of hope and dread.
The scribe offers to draw up a list of these "repeat customers," though it will take him some time.The masked man looks at Snell, and asks, "How much time? Do you also have their targets' addresses? We need your full cooperation."
Snell grimaces and wrings his hands. "A week, maybe? I could get it done in a day—the problem is that I do not have time for... recreational activities. If Travers catches me playing truant... well, the esteemed Priest Curnow is not in a position to protect me without solid evidence."
"The strange part is. I do not... well, I am not entirely certain she is who she claims to be. I had a few interactions with Travers before this whole operation, and she is... different, somehow. I cannot quite put my finger on it, but something about her manner is... off.""That isn't much to go on. When did she appear to have changed?" the masked man asks.
"I could not tell exactly when," Snell answers with a shrug. "When she approached me with her 'offer,' I could already tell something was different, but it had been some time since our last... well, lets call it a conversation. She is more... flexible, maybe? Less fanatical."
The corner of the scribe's mouth twitches almost imperceptibly. "Not to imply that piety is a fault, of course."
The masked man sighs patiently, and then says, "Snell, you know about our excavations, don't you? How there might be...things down there. Does Priest Traver's change...coincide with that?"
Snell blinks twice, clearly not comprehending. "'Things?' What, like monsters? Travers does not have anything to do with the mining, except packing up and shipping out the processed ores."
Snell grimaces and wrings his hands. "A week, maybe? I could get it done in a day—the problem is that I do not have time for... recreational activities. If Travers catches me playing truant... well, the esteemed Priest Curnow is not in a position to protect me without solid evidence."
"Prepare your list as soon as you can do it discreetly," the masked man says. He then adds, "And put a hold on any letters sent by our repeat offenders. Send nothing outside the prison until you have that list prepared for me. Find any excuse, but let nothing out."
The masked man is quiet for a moment, and then he adds, "For now, give me a name of the more frequent senders."
"'Things?' What, like monsters? Travers does not have anything to do with the mining, except packing up and shipping out the processed ores."
"My question is clear," he replies with an edge to his voice. "The excavations in the new tunnel--did Travers change after work was started on it?"
"Prepare your list as soon as you can do it discreetly," the masked man says. He then adds, "And put a hold on any letters sent by our repeat offenders. Send nothing outside the prison until you have that list prepared for me. Find any excuse, but let nothing out."
The masked man is quiet for a moment, and then he adds, "For now, give me a name of the more frequent senders."
Snell runs his fingers through his lank hair and sighs. "I suppose I could fill some of the envelopes with nonsense substitutes, if there is to be a delivery, but I cannot withhold them entirely. Maybe write down false addresses? I have no idea if Travers reads them all or not, though, or how thoroughly..."
He digs in the storage for stationery, and jots down six names and some other identifiers. The majority of them say nothing to you—save for one: Sherrill Rosefinch, a halfling working under an overseer named Pascal Caulfield. The other names are a mix of people from the lift crews, ore sorters, and other upper-story inmates.
"My question is clear," he replies with an edge to his voice. "The excavations in the new tunnel--did Travers change after work was started on it?"
The harried scribe looks at you strangely, but nevertheless takes a moment to recollect.
"Yes," he finally says, "We had just gotten a new batch of inmates from Xer through Pilgrimage, and I had to process their documentation—most of them were assigned to excavate the newest tunnel. Maybe a week later, Travers came to me with the offer. I still do not understand the connection..."
He digs in the storage for stationery, and jots down six names and some other identifiers. The majority of them say nothing to you—save for one: Sherrill Rosefinch, a halfling working under an overseer named Pascal Caulfield. The other names are a mix of people from the lift crews, ore sorters, and other upper-story inmates.
"Mostly workers in higher floors, I see," the masked man says, apparently glad none of his superior's inmates were involved in the messaging.
"The halfling. Give me one of her letters."Aware he was pushing his luck, he requests one of Finch's letters for a skim.
"Yes," he finally says, "We had just gotten a new batch of inmates from Xer through Pilgrimage, and I had to process their documentation—most of them were assigned to excavate the newest tunnel. Maybe a week later, Travers came to me with the offer. I still do not understand the connection..."
The masked man nods, a cold feeling creeping over his chest.
"Very good. You have done well," the masked man says, in something what seems to be like a croon.With all this done, the masked man says, "We might visit you later in the week to check on your progress. Until then, keep it quiet. My master will know how to handle this in a way that is safe...and rewarding to you."
"The halfling. Give me one of her letters."
Snell rolls his eyes, but he does reluctantly step out of the storage cell. After a while, he returns with a small piece of paper, covered in cramped handwriting. "Before you ask: no, I cannot understand any of it. Travers did not seem to care, so maybe she reads the tongue. I do know the message is meant for Rosefinch's uncle in Thronestep—or in the Stones, rather. Barnaby, Bartleby, or something to that effect."
The message is, indeed, written in the hodgepodge language of the halflings, with many familiar Taldane and Varisian features—as well as myriad other influences—all stuck together in entirely novel configurations. It still appears to be fulfilling its original function as secret code rather admirably.
"Yes," he finally says, "We had just gotten a new batch of inmates from Xer through Pilgrimage, and I had to process their documentation—most of them were assigned to excavate the newest tunnel. Maybe a week later, Travers came to me with the offer. I still do not understand the connection...""Very good. You have done well," the masked man says, in something what seems to be like a croon.
With all this done, the masked man says, "We might visit you later in the week to check on your progress. Until then, keep it quiet. My master will know how to handle this in a way that is safe...and rewarding to you."
The scribe does not seem able to muster any sort of enthusiasm for his new role. "Sure, whatever you say. I just want to get out of this alive..."
Upon your return to the clinic, you find that Myrna remains absent. Brynmor yet snores away in his bunk, though you suspect the effects of the sleeping draught have already ran their course—inmates in the Track rarely get to sleep in, a privilege the Kellid now appears to be taking full advantage of.
With some time to burn, you take a moment to examine Finch's letter...
At first, you do not discover anything of interest: most of the vocabulary has to do with agriculture, and there is an implication of something (goods?) being moved around. Various kinship terms are used liberally, which imply a larger group of relatives: perhaps she is enquiring as to their wellbeing, exhorting Uncle Barnaby to inform them of hers, or perhaps both. The more you examine the letter, the more the names themselves appear to be meaningful—more like aliases than actual names, something which would not be picked up on casual read-through. One of the names mentioned, “Cousin Curly,” catches your eye, as the Varisian root is the same used to form the name “Kedzierski”—literally, “[someone of the family of] someone with curly hair”. This person is referred to using female pronouns.
After a while, Myrna returns. She looks as harried as ever, but in her expression there is a certain grim determination.
”Everything is ready,” she says. ”Are you?”
You follow Myrna out of the clinic, and up the ramp leading to the uppermost platform. The sounds of labour emanating from below are slowly diminishing, as the workday nears its end—there must be an hour or so until the bell rings. As you reach the platform, you find it empty: both Heralds are conspicuously absent. The healer takes one last look around the area, as if half-expecting someone or something to jump out of the shadows. Once she is certain you are alone, she produces from her battered doctor's bag a key, which looks as if it had been saved from a fire: entirely blackened and melted at the bow, it yet serves its function.
You slip through the entrance, and Myrna gently closes the heavy iron door behind you. Once again, you can see the warden’s (relatively) modest worship chamber: the rows of black stone pews that precede the thirty-one white marble stairs, which ascend towards the back wall. The gold-and-ivory, gem-encrusted visage of Razmir scowls down at the intruders from above its altar, the magical glow from behind its eye-holes lighting the hall in shades of green. There is no one in the room.
To each side of the altar hang curtains and draperies of various expensive fabrics, falling in rainbow-coloured folds upon the floor. You recall the warden entering from the left, where you can just barely hear the vague sounds of someone moving about and things being rearranged. Myrna, however, is making her way silently towards the right, keeping close to the wall—she is very careful to avoid the nave, and makes certain you do the same. Together, you push through the rich hangings.
Beyond is a spacious, lantern-lit room, centred by rows of tall drawers. Each has dozens of small compartments, which are labelled alphabetically. The perimeter of the room is taken up by display cases and glass-shuttered shelves, which hold sufficient esoterica to fill a museum of the arcane. The collection has a touch of Nidal to it, with various artefacts bearing obvious relation to the Shadow Plane: an oddly fused-together lump of kyton-forged chain, a blood-stained sacrificial dagger roughly the size of a greatsword (evidently of shadow giant make), a handful of the obsidian-like scales of a shadow dragon, and so on. The warden appears to have an obsession.
The most noteworthy, however, is a freestanding pedestal topped by a glass dome, which is placed prominently at the far wall. Inside is something roughly the length and width of a dagger, displayed point-up and covered with a night-blue cloth. A fine layer of dust implies the object has not been disturbed in some time.
Myrna walks along the lines of drawers and whispers, ”Now, I don’t know your full name, so you’re going to have to find it yourself…”
You barely hear the healer’s words through the blood rushing in your ears. You feel a sudden, powerful—though not entirely overwhelming—tug on your consciousness, an empathetic desire to go and uncover the object on the pedestal. There is something sentient under that fabric, something that calls out to be discovered. Your shadow stretches across the wall, creeping closer and circling the pedestal like a curious cat. Myrna appears none the wiser.
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Upon your return to the clinic, you find that Myrna remains absent. Brynmor yet snores away in his bunk, though you suspect the effects of the sleeping draught have already ran their course—inmates in the Track rarely get to sleep in, a privilege the Kellid now appears to be taking full advantage of.
Raveen enviously looks at the Kellid, but shakes his head, and sits on a nearby crate. He studies the letter sent by Finch--a riddle to calm his nerves.
One of the names mentioned, “Cousin Curly,” catches your eye, as the Varisian root is the same used to form the name “Kedzierski”—literally, “[someone of the family of] someone with curly hair”. This person is referred to using female pronouns.
Raveen frowns.
Andrzej has curly hair...No, female pronouns.He files the note for future study, and closes the note, folding it into his clothes, as Myrna's approach nears.
”Everything is ready. Are you?”
He nods quietly, not trusting himself to speak.
He makes his way with Myrna, focusing on finding any pursuit and keeping his eyes (both mundane two and arcane third) open. His eyes pierce the shadows with his darkvision, and extend the range of normal light, and his arcane eyes sense the ebb and flow of magic.
He stands in awe of the room, the Warden's obsessions plain to the eye.
He tries to recall if he has heard of such artifacts before.
He follows Myrna quietly, waiting until she points out his drawer.
Now, I don’t know your full name, so you’re going to have to find it yourself…”
Raveen nods, but slows down as his eyes fall upon the pedestal. The pull upon his soul stops him. As his shadow reaches to the pedestal like a child around a flame, he recalls the Other.
"Is it from him?" he whispers in a low voice, almost in a trance.An urge within him would have blindly grabbed whatever was on the pedestal, consequences be damned, for perhaps whatever was there was a key to all the mysteries: the bones of the earth, whatever the Other guarded, and the dark machinations of the Warden. Perhaps it was even a gateway to power over the shadows that Nalutari required years of mastery to attain, making possible years of toil and study void.
Perhaps it would even validate his decision to leave Westcrown--for such power might even undo the Shadow Curse of Westcrown.
His senses as a thief kicked in.
And perhaps it was a trap. Bait to grab curious intruders--a web to catch a wandering fly.
He harshly drew back his shadow. "The master first," he whispered under his breath. He bit on his unruly curiosity and fight against his desire to claim the object the Warden apparently failed to make use of or neglected.
Yet his eyes lingered--and studied the web of magic around the item.
He makes his way with Myrna, focusing on finding any pursuit and keeping his eyes (both mundane two and arcane third) open. His eyes pierce the shadows with his darkvision, and extend the range of normal light, and his arcane eyes sense the ebb and flow of magic.
At first, you find nothing untoward on your approach: there are no Heralds waiting in ambush, concealed by the shadows. There is a standard enchantment on the lock, which fades momentarily as Myrna turns the key: an arcane lock spell, which seems to be connected to runes of power carved into the iron. This physical link to the bell is confirmed by streaming filaments of magic connecting the two. Unlike the relatively mundane triggering enchantment, this is quite unusual. You theorise it would not cause the bell to ring, but focus all of its stored energy to annihilate the intruder—assuming they wear a manacle.
The aura of the grand mask on the wall contains multiple potent abjurations, connected to strands of divination magic. You suspect that if triggered, it would alarm the creator (likely the warden) of an intrusion, and allow them to instantly peer through the mask into the room. Based on the way Myrna is navigating the space, and the direction of the magical emanations from the mask, there must be certain routes through the room which are safe to traverse—probably to allow trusted minions access to the storage when not accompanied by the warden himself. No such route leads to the warden's quarters.
He stands in awe of the room, the Warden's obsessions plain to the eye.
He tries to recall if he has heard of such artifacts before.
He follows Myrna quietly, waiting until she points out his drawer.
All of the items in the collection would benefit from an individual examination, either by a planar scholar or a more mundane antiquarian. Each of them is undoubtedly tied to the Shadow Plane (and by extension, the Negative Energy Plane), but appear to differ in their practical applications: some have minor enchantments, others tug at half-remembered pieces of lore connected to the Netherworld, while many seem like mere curiosities at a glance.
Yet his eyes lingered--and studied the web of magic around the item.
Fortunately, neither the glass nor the fabric are thick enough to stymie your inspection. You find the aura quite fascinating: the power emanating from the object is immense, but incomplete. You see places where the patterns of conjuration magic would have been neatly woven into another, but follow them only to find their ends crudely shorn off and frayed. It takes you a moment to make the connection, but you soon realise where you have seen this before.
The shard is undoubtedly from a shattered nightglass, a doorway to the Plane of Shadows. Even an apprentice with access to a nightglass can summon shadowbeasts that would strike fear into a master wizard's heart, and in the hands of an expert shadowcaller, their potential is nearly limitless. The Dusk Hall in Pangolais holds the largest collection of nightglasses in Nidal, where they are used, among many unsavoury things, to scrutinise new students for potential—and weed out any who show weakness. The bodies of those deemed unworthy are scoured clean of their souls, and instead become vessels for darker things.
Another, less known property of the mirror allows one to contact mysterious entities in the Shadow Plane and beyond. You suspect the shard would retain some of this communicative function, though it might be too small a piece to function as a portal. Obviously, something is trying to make itself heard.
You search fruitlessly under "L" for "Liquean," only to find what you seek under your birth-name. Inside you find nearly all of your equipment, neatly folded and catalogued. Everything is here, exactly as you remember it—except the flower-pot, which has diligently been emptied of its contents, mulch and all.
"Well?" asks Myrna, who is now glancing nervously at the doorway.
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The aura of the grand mask on the wall contains multiple potent abjurations, connected to strands of divination magic. You suspect that if triggered, it would alarm the creator (likely the warden) of an intrusion, and allow them to instantly peer through the mask into the room. Based on the way Myrna is navigating the space, and the direction of the magical emanations from the mask, there must be certain routes through the room which are safe to traverse—probably to allow trusted minions access to the storage when not accompanied by the warden himself. No such route leads to the warden's quarters.
The shard is undoubtedly from a shattered nightglass, a doorway to the Plane of Shadows. Even an apprentice with access to a nightglass can summon shadowbeasts that would strike fear into a master wizard's heart, and in the hands of an expert shadowcaller, their potential is nearly limitless. The Dusk Hall in Pangolais holds the largest collection of nightglasses in Nidal, where they are used, among many unsavoury things, to scrutinise new students for potential—and weed out any who show weakness. The bodies of those deemed unworthy are scoured clean of their souls, and instead become vessels for darker things.
Another, less known property of the mirror allows one to contact mysterious entities in the Shadow Plane and beyond. You suspect the shard would retain some of this communicative function, though it might be too small a piece to function as a portal. Obviously, something is trying to make itself heard.
As understanding dawned on Raveen, a shiver of fear went down his spine. Contacting other planes could lead to actual madness, let alone being manipulated by entities unknown. Far from a potent weapon he suspected the Warden failed to use, a Nightglass could...change everything.
Master Nalutari knew of the powers of Nightglass, and assuredly used it far more times than she cared to tell. If the Warden failed to use the Nightglass, perhaps the entity on the other side could see him as an ally of convenience.But once he stood before his old equipment, his eyes narrowed.
She wasn't here.
He grit his teeth. The Warden said he extracted everything from him--hence he would know about Nalutari.
A dark anger roiled in him, and he turned to the Nightglass.
"Well?" asks Myrna, who is now glancing nervously at the doorway.
"Stand near the door," he answers, slipping on his mask. "Let out a small warning if you hear someone coming."
He then approaches the Nightglass.
"Stand near the door," he answers, slipping on his mask. "Let out a small warning if you hear someone coming."
Myrna shakes her head in exasperation, but does as she is told. "You better know what you're doing..."
He then approaches the Nightglass.
As you start to focus and meditate on the power of the mask, you can feel the presence grasping half-blindly at its surroundings—it appears unable to truly reach out from the cloth-covered fragment. From what you know of nightglasses, one would have to peer into the mirror in order to form a connection.
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As Raveen cautiously ascends the pedestal, he sees his shadow circling--as if a hawk descending over its prey.
'I confess,' he whispers to himself. 'I failed my Master and my Body by being captured, and I failed my Mind and Soul by allowing the Warden in.'
The bitterness of being imprisoned and being unable to escape formed like bile in Raveen's mouth, and the introspection channeled anger and frustration to clarity...
'But through this, I may find salvation...'
The pain of defeat and the sting of failure fade away, giving way to a sense of cool, numb indifference—they do not go away entirely, but they are pushed aside for the moment, allowing you to concentrate on the matter at hand. Everything seems just a shade more grey than before.
Gently removing the glass dome and the cloth—both notably cold to the touch—you reveal a jagged, crystalline shard propped up on the pedestal. It reminds you of black ice, concealing fathomless depths of tenebrousness. Something moves through its oily murkiness, coiling like a serpent, though you feel like you can only glimpse a portion of a vast shape, viewed from the small crack in reality provided by the fragment of the shattered nightglass.
You brace for whatever otherworldly horror might reach out to crush your mind, but the end result is shockingly mundane: a voice echoes from the mirror—patently audible, verbal communication. Its tone is almost conversational. ”Now, now. What isss thisss? A human, though hidden from my sssight. How interesssting. Not one of hisss, no... your leasssh isss too ssslack, to be ssso obssscured in hisss sssanctum.”
The voice, as with the half-seen shape, has a distinctly reptilian quality to it: a lanquid, dry hiss. Moreover, it sounds relatable, somehow, not unpleasant in the slightest—though that in itself might arouse some discomfort. Speaking in an eruditely archaic dialect of Taldane, it has all the bearings of a nobleman from centuries past.
”What’s that sound? ” Myrna half-whispers from across the room. From your position, she is entirely obscured by the lines of shelves.
”Oh, but her I know, hisses the mirror-bound presence, sounding... vaguely amused? ”Ssshe worksss againssst you, even without knowing it. Thisss hass all happened before. Sssubtle isss the sssculptor’sss art, whether they work on ssstone, flesssh, or the mind.”
Clearly, the healer cannot make out the sibilant words emanating from the mirror, or else she is being remarkably calm about the revelation.
”Now, now. What isss thisss? A human, though hidden from my sssight. How interesssting. Not one of hisss, no... your leasssh isss too ssslack, to be ssso obssscured in hisss sssanctum.”
Raveen says nothing, narrowing his eyes, and awaiting the creature to fully uncoil its conversation.
”Oh, but her I know,. Ssshe worksss againssst you, even without knowing it. Thisss hass all happened before. Sssubtle isss the sssculptor’sss art, whether they work on ssstone, flesssh, or the mind.”
"Nothing, just watch out for me, please," the masked man answers Myrna, before turning its attention to the shape in the mirror. Is that a giant scaly figure in shadow that moves just beyond sight?
This wasn't the first time he had this suspicion."You are correct; I do not follow the Warden. Correct me if I'm mistaken--it seems he was not able to properly treat with you. A Nightglass is too precious to be left gathering dust."
His tone is respectful and distant--and maybe a little hollow. Just as he approached the Other.
"That dependsss entirely on your definition of propriety," the voice muses. "He promisssed to free me, and ssso I aided him in hisss sssearch. But he broke our compact, and then dissscarded me. Admirable isss he, in hisss ruthlesssnesss—but I am not ssso easssily betrayed."
Though its tone never drops beyond mild annoyance, you sense in the voice an underlying note of danger. "You wisssh to go againssst him, yesss? I know all hisss sssecretsss. Ssshow me your face, ssso we may... 'treat properly' with each other. You have nothing to fear from me."
"That dependsss entirely on your definition of propriety," the voice muses. "He promisssed to free me, and ssso I aided him in hisss sssearch. But he broke our compact, and then dissscarded me. Admirable isss he, in hisss ruthlesssnesss—but I am not ssso easssily betrayed."
Though its tone never drops beyond mild annoyance, you sense in the voice an underlying note of danger. "You wisssh to go againssst him, yesss? I know all hisss sssecretsss. Ssshow me your face, ssso we may... 'treat properly' with each other. You have nothing to fear from me."
Cautious to not reveal too much, the masked man answers the request for his face with a counter. "Not yet. What do you mean by the leash is too slack?"
"Isss it not obviousss?" answers the voice, amused. ”You are in hisss sssanctum, conversssing with myssself—the firssst one to do ssso. He likesss to toy with hisss prisssonersss, give them falssse hope only to yank it away, but he isss not thisss carelessss. I know him. He would not intentionally let sssomeone touched by ssshadow into thisss place, ssso clossse to me. Thisss leavesss him vulnerable.”
There a shifting in the nightglass, and the sound of scale rasping against scale, which give you the impression that whatever is on the other side is leaning in. ”Yesss, the ssshadow. I cannot sssee you, but I can sssee the absssence. If I cannot sssee you, neither can he, for now. He hasss made a missstake, but you only have ssso much time before he findsss out. I can help you, but I mussst sssee who I am dealing with—I have been played for a fool once, and I do not intend to repeat that misssstep. On my honour, I have no methodsss at my disssposssal to render harm unto you, little human.”
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Frustration and indecision welled up in Raveen. On one hand, the nightglass was left behind. Whatever entity the Warden angered could be an enemy, much like the Other--and the Other already helped him get this far.
Plan as much as you can...improvise the rest, he thought.
"You want a guarantee," the masked man said. "You got one."
He suppressed the scream in his mind to hide, take cover, and stay silent, and removed the mask.
"We have a shared enemy. Teach me what you know of him, and I will aid you, in equal measure."
You have the brief and disconcerting sensation of being scrutinised, but the response is—perhaps even more disturbingly—overwhelmingly positive.
"Thisss will do mossst nicely. I sssee you, and I ssseal thisss compact in good faith. May our collaboration be sssalutary."
"Now, lisssten well," hisses the voice, almost purring with contented anticipation. "The warden—Rassstagar—isss an artissst, and hisss medium isss flesssh. He wasss born of pain and ssshadow, made to be ssstrong in ssspirit, yet bound to a broken mortal vessssel. He ssseeksss to assscend, but hisss ambition exceedsss hisss ability. Thusss he sssearchesss for power elsssewhere, to sssteal for himssself. Hisss master—the falssse god—allows him hisss little projectsss, but thisss isss treassson. If only the divine pretender knew the extent of hisss minion’sss hubrisss..."
There is a dry chuckle from the mirror, a distant and hollow sound. "Perhapsss you will be titillated by the fact that your presssence here might be the catalyssst for hisss downfall. Ever sssince the arrival of your disssembodied assssociate, the warden hasss lived on borrowed time. Sssee, he could not break her, and eventually had to passss her forward to hisss massster—there isss only ssso much he can withhold. Hisss quessstionsss have almossst certainly belied hisss intentionsss. Once ssshe tellsss Razmir of the warden’sss betrayal, he isss finissshed. Thisss hasss forced him to accelerate hisss ssschedule. He isss already clossse, clossser than you think. Unlesss we ssstop him, hisss assscensssion will ssshield him from retribution."
"Ssso, the voice concludes "there isss a risssk and a possssibility. The quessstion isss, how to benefit from the latter without being foiled by the former..."
Before his surprise -and fear for his master- could show, Raveen put back his mask on--if only to silence the instinct to stay hidden.
His relationship with Nalutari might not have been classical master-apprentice; the master necromancer had a grim and black sense of humor, and a needlessly sadistic teaching method. She, however, saw his potential and gave him an exit from a life he abhorred--she saw promise, and gave him mastery over his fears, dreams, and brought knowledge to an ignorant mind. She deserved his respect, and his full efforts to rescue her. Especially after he failed her--however it was done.
"My memories have not been abolished without cause--perhaps I saw something the Warden needed forgotten," he says. "Can I regain what I have lost?"
"You mentioned he has a broken body," he says. "Can I overcome his sorcery with my own, overwhelm his strange guards, or defeat him myself?"
"I have seen his sanctum. What defenses does it have?"
"My memories have not been abolished without cause--perhaps I saw something the Warden needed forgotten," he says. "Can I regain what I have lost?"
The voice shifts from near-flippant tone to a more sober one, sounding like a scholar giving a lecture—or a general laying out battle plans with their officers. "The warden isss wont to disssjoint, rather than utterly excissse. Thisss isss a prudent measssure: who knowsss when he might need hisss agentsss recollectionsss? He could sssurely ressstore what he sssundered, but I would not count on hisss magnanimity, even in defeat..."
"Of courssse," it adds, "there may be materialsss in the sssanctum you might be able to utilissse yourssself. Resssourcefulnessss isss a virtue."
"You mentioned he has a broken body," he says. "Can I overcome his sorcery with my own, overwhelm his strange guards, or defeat him myself?"
"He isss ssshackleborn," the voice explains. "a dessscendant of the kytonsss. Sssuch a heritage isss both a blessssing and a curssse: he isss a powerful sssorcerer, who drawsss hisss power from hisss fiendisssh blood, but hisss body hasss been mangled from the womb."
"Ssso, he ssseeksss to compensssate for the latter with the former. Hisss guardsss are, in effect, prototypesss: he ssseeksss to become an apossstle—gain the powersss of a kyton without losssing hisss mind and sssoul. He ssstudied the techniquesss of hiss forbearsss, practisssing on the prisssonersss here. He hasss perfected the methodsss and the theory, but what he now ssseeksss isss power to enact them on hisss own flesssh."
"You might be able to bessst one of hisss guardiansss, essspecially if you have the element of sssurprissse. Both at once, they would overwhelm you. However, even if they are presssent, you mussst prioritissse their massster—ssslay him quickly, lessst he hasss time for incantationsss. Otherwissse, he ssshall annihilate you. Bessst ussse covert tacticsss, or elssse place expendable pawnsss in the vanguard. Have you alliesss?"
"I have seen his sanctum. What defenses does it have?"
"Assside from hisss bodyguardsss?" muses the voice. "Dweomersss to alarm him to intrudersss in the ssshrine—sssuch that sssurvive the more potent enchantmentsss on the door. A formidable defence, indeed, but he isss far too arrogant. He placesss too much trussst on the bell."
Hatred roiled in the masked man's heart, directed at the warden--hatred, frustration, and grief over the violations performed against mind, body, and spirit. Magnified by the kidnapping of his master, and the evils he executed, the hatred became as a storm that brook no safe passage.
All such emotions were sharpened and directed by pure willpower.
"Tell me, wise one--what do I call you?" asked the masked man.
"Ssso, he ssseeksss to compensssate for the latter with the former. Hisss guardsss are, in effect, prototypesss: he ssseeksss to become an apossstle—gain the powersss of a kyton without losssing hisss mind and sssoul. He ssstudied the techniquesss of hiss forbearsss, practisssing on the prisssonersss here. He hasss perfected the methodsss and the theory, but what he now ssseeksss isss power to enact them on hisss own flesssh."
"What kind of power does he need?" he asks the entity. "There is deep power here."
The nightmarish power of the Other--whatever he guarded must be the Warden's target. He almost held his breath in anticipation.
"Assside from hisss bodyguardsss? Dweomersss to alarm him to intrudersss in the ssshrine—sssuch that sssurvive the more potent enchantmentsss on the door. A formidable defence, indeed, but he isss far too arrogant. He placesss too much trussst on the bell."
"The bell--know you how it works?" he asks. "I had hoped my colleague was here to aid me in my mechanisms, but if you can instead..."
He pauses, giving the entity a chance to think. "Turning his defenses against him would be a unique form of punishment, wouldn't you agree?"
Perhaps vengeance really does solve everything.
"Tell me, wise one--what do I call you?" asked the masked man.
There is a moment of silence—of hesitation. "I would love to offer you a sssatissfying resssponsse, but I am afraid I am... incomplete. Much like thisss mirror, in fact. There are rather large holesss in my memoriesss—sssomething which you might be able to relate to."
"Call me by whatever moniker you deem fitting," it concludes, with forced nonchalance belying a deep frustration.
"What kind of power does he need?" he asks the entity. "There is deep power here."
"Yesss," the voice exclaims, "Deep, indeed. A fragment of lossst divinity, guarding a timelessss horror from beyond. There isss power in both, and humanity isss drawn to sssuch thingsss dessspite themssselvesss. The warden caresss little for the nature of the sssource, sssave for itsss magnitude."
"The bell--know you how it works?" he asks. "I had hoped my colleague was here to aid me in my mechanisms, but if you can instead..."
He pauses, giving the entity a chance to think. "Turning his defenses against him would be a unique form of punishment, wouldn't you agree?"
"I aided him in fine-tuning hisss invention," says the voice, tinged with regret. "Much of itsss conssstruction isss borrowed from the kytonsss, essspecially the hellborn teachingsss of Aroggusss the Abbey Maker. My role wasss to adjussst it ssso that the contraption'sss output did not overwhelm mortal prisssonersss—thusss the control rod, the manaclesss, and the ringsss. Methodsss of dissstributing power, while maintaining total control."
A note of amusement once again enters the disembodied musings. "You have intrigued me, little human. What exactly do you propossse?"
"Tell me, wise one--what do I call you?" asked the masked man.There is a moment of silence—of hesitation. "I would love to offer you a sssatissfying resssponsse, but I am afraid I am... incomplete. Much like thisss mirror, in fact. There are rather large holesss in my memoriesss—sssomething which you might be able to relate to."
"Call me by whatever moniker you deem fitting," it concludes, with forced nonchalance belying a deep frustration.
"You witnessed much, and see through this mirror into our world," the masked man says. "Gweledydd would do for now."
Names have power, the man knew. Perhaps the Seer can aid by granting him more sight.
"What kind of power does he need?" he asks the entity. "There is deep power here.""Yesss," the voice exclaims, "Deep, indeed. A fragment of lossst divinity, guarding a timelessss horror from beyond. There isss power in both, and humanity isss drawn to sssuch thingsss dessspite themssselvesss. The warden caresss little for the nature of the sssource, sssave for itsss magnitude."
"I have met its guardian, and I do not want to enable the Warden access to it. Alas, I need more time."
It seems I always need more time...
"The bell--know you how it works?" he asks. "I had hoped my colleague was here to aid me in my mechanisms, but if you can instead..."
He pauses, giving the entity a chance to think. "Turning his defenses against him would be a unique form of punishment, wouldn't you agree?"
"I aided him in fine-tuning hisss invention," says the voice, tinged with regret. "Much of itsss conssstruction isss borrowed from the kytonsss, essspecially the hellborn teachingsss of Aroggusss the Abbey Maker. My role wasss to adjussst it ssso that the contraption'sss output did not overwhelm mortal prisssonersss—thusss the control rod, the manaclesss, and the ringsss. Methodsss of dissstributing power, while maintaining total control."
A note of amusement once again enters the disembodied musings. "You have intrigued me, little human. What exactly do you propossse?"
The masked man touches his manacles, tracing the hidden runes, subtly indicating his ability to break it. "My Will has beaten the shackles, and I can abjure myself from his power. I intend to conquer the Bell, and turn it against him."
He pauses.
"If you wish to avenge yourself, I shall be your ally and your equal. You say you taught him. Teach me more. Show me everything."
"You witnessed much, and see through this mirror into our world," the masked man says. "Gweledydd would do for now."
"Ssso be it," the voice says in a coolly neutral tone.
"I have met its guardian, and I do not want to enable the Warden access to it. Alas, I need more time."
"You have preciousss little of it," says Gweledydd. "Once the warden ssstartsss for the ssship, he will not ssstop until it isss found. He hasss waited for too long, and he, too, lacksss for time. Ssstrike before he sssetsss out, delay him if you mussst, but do not let him leave."
"If you wish to avenge yourself, I shall be your ally and your equal. You say you taught him. Teach me more. Show me everything."
The darkness within mirror shifts once more. "Of courssse..."
"Raveen!" Myrna suddenly hisses from behind the shelves. "I have no earthly idea what you're doing or who you're talking to, but we need to go!"
"Take it," urges Gweleddydd, after a moment of surprise, "the ssshard! Leave sssomething in itsss place, but take it with you, ssso I can guide you."
The shard is cool to the touch, and obsidian-like in that you have to be very careful not to cut yourself while handling it.
Once you emerge, Myrna all but drags you away from the warden's collection, through the shrine and down the ramp towards the clinic. There is still no sign of the Heralds outside. You can hear some kind of a commotion from down below, perhaps the sounds of a small-scale riot or some other skirmish.
Once you reach Myrna's clinic, the healer turns to look at you with some suspicion. "Did you get what you were looking for? I don't think I can pull that off a second time, at least anytime soon..."
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Once you reach Myrna's clinic, the healer turns to look at you with some suspicion. "Did you get what you were looking for? I don't think I can pull that off a second time, at least anytime soon..."
Raveen sighs in frustration, and murmurs, "Not exactly, but I don't think I can even with another visit."
He then casts his eyes to the clinic door. "What's going on out there?"
Myrna frowns, clearly uneasy with the question. However, she also seems unwilling to skirt the issue.
"A small riot," she explains. "There's no other way to draw the Heralds from the warden's side."
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Raveen slides an amulet over his neck, hiding it in the folds of his clothes. The subtle reverberation he felt came first, then a hidden ripple of power beneath his skin that soon faded. It may not hold away a direct stab, but the deep abjurations that now suffused his flesh might deflect a close blow.
"Your work?" he asked. A riot would be the perfect opportunity to sabotage the Warden's planned delve.
Myrna nods curtly. "I'll no doubt be treating the wounded in a few hours."
The healer begins to put away her things and to prepare the space for new patients.