Vorathan circles around to prevent the shadow demon from moving at will around the room. Bugdip has had enough, however, and decides it is time to end this little game.
A bolt of pure energy shoots across the short distance in a flash of light, connecting with the smoke monster. It's shadowy mouth opens in mock pain and horror as it whithers away and disappears from sight.
"Oh, thank the gods you are all right!" the disembodied figment of Wulessa's head exclaims. Simultaneously to her cry, a panel falls from one of the walls onto the catwalk.
Walking over to inspect, the group sees the icon that Wulessa spoke of searching for when this scene played out in real life. However, instead of shining gold, the group at once notices that icon is made of glass. This realization sets off another mind melding, environment melting experience.
Wulessa’s memories fade into a different reality as the stone walls again become glass. The room’s dimensions remain the same, but the altar, catwalks, and vents all vanish. The statue remains, but its form distorts into that of a featureless humanoid, all signs of either demonic or Wulessa’s likeness melting away. Beneath the statue, a glass portcullis blocks off another passageway. Opposite the passage and statue the wall once again crumbles away into a fathomless void.
Though they were standing on the catwalks only moments before, the pathfinders find themselves on the floor level of this altered room. The glass blocks, which start out in their checkered, pulsating pattern, begin to flash and change as before. The Archivist is trying to communicate once again.
The pathfinders see images of Wulessa's face being drawn onto a scroll, rolled up and placed reverently inside the Monadistic Archive chest. Then they see a montage of images of her life beside piles of coins, jewels, and other valuables, growing alonside her life experiences. Finally it shows scenes of the pathfinders, equated to a nest of rodents rummaging in the walls of a well-ordered house.
In all of this, the pathfinders get the profound sense that the Archivist is trying to tell them, Wullessa will be added to the archive, and there is nothing you can do about it. Her rich experiences are a treasure trove of knowledge, and invaluable to this place. While I was curious about you at first, you have proven to be a nuisance, and must be swept away. I hold no grudge against you, but you cannot be allowed to continue to infest my domain.
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"A nuisance?" the normally affable Bugdip actually seems annoyed, "Well, why kill us? Just let us out of here. You're all powerful, right, get us out! Or bring it on. We took on your last two challenges. You'll have to try a lot harder to fool - or kill - us!"
Bugdip stabs at the ground as though that may somehow hurt the archivist.
"Come, friends, let's find a way out of here..."
The walls flash images of a flushed rat returning to its nest time and again until it is killed by the housekeeper. The image then shows an extensive passage of time while the nest remains empty. The pathfinders sense that the Archivist is saying, Kill? Remove? These things are not different to me. I will sweep you away, and you will no longer bother me and my domain.
The glass blocks go back to their base, checkerboard pattern and resume their soft, pulsating glow. Suddenly the giant statue animates and breaks free from its platform, holding its arms out wide in a menacing fashion.
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"Is this soldier of clay a trick of shadows, like the belkers? Or can there be something real in this place?"
The theoretical discourse on the topic can wait. Tybain stands in front of the large statue, which is most likely going to attack him. And the masked man happens to be a devout believer of 'offence is the best defence', so he better get working. Since only thing better than forward attack is a flanking attack, Tybain takes a couple running steps to get behind the warrior statue and from delivers his attack from this more advantageous position.
I only hope that hurt the statue even remotely as much as it did hurt on my fist...
"Why must the archive be so eager to get rid of us? I've always wanted my name in the history books! (Although enjoying life for quite much longer as well)."
Bugdip lashes out with his rapier, allowing the fates to help guide the pointy end. Unfortunatly, the fates are not so kind, and he misses.
Tybain positions himself to take advantage of teamwork, however his powerful punch is turned aside by the creatures hardened clay exterior.
The creature is unthinking and uncaring. It moves to the closest target, which happens to be the agile swashbuckler. It swings its arms in an attempt to slam the thin youth into oblivion.
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Once again drawing the earth to him, this time instead of a long spear, the dirt coalesces into a shape resembling the head of a hammer.
"Gotta whack this one with a hammer, like my dwarven brothers are so fond of."
He thrusts his hands forward, and makes a motion like the banging of a hammer on an anvil.
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Glarifyur regards Nugats and winks at him as he steps forward towards the melee.
"Didn't you play 'Hammer, Clay, Axe' when you were a kid? Clay covers hammer, hammer breaks axe, and axe cuts clay..."
Glarifyur attempts to prove his point against the illusory clay monstrosity.
Sadly, his axe skitters harmlessly against the hardened clay.
"Maybe I am remembering that game wrong..."
Glarifyur's blade skips off the hardened clay statue to his dismay. In his head the sounds of young dwarven voices ring off of deep cavern walls. Suddenly it dawns on him that the game goes like this - Clay covers Axe, Axe breaks Hammer, Hammer shatters Clay. At least, thats how the kids sang it until the Priests of Torag would come and correct them all. Something about the hammer shattering and reforging everything. The priests never could seem to just enjoy a little fun and games.
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"I think so, Bugdip!" he calls in reply to the grippli, almost finding his own words to be a surprise. "But I think it could have been a lot worse!"
He quickly draws up his blade and lunges forward. "I don't know how I'll fare on the next one, but I'll keep it distracted!" After stabbing forward with the slender blade, he bounces back and forth, making himself a more enticing target.
The group surrounds the clay statue, a holdover from Wulessa’s previous memory that the Archivist has commandeered in an effort to whip the pathfinders from the Monadistic Archive. They lash and slash and bash, but their attacks are rebuffed at every turn. Some of them are able to see the shadow illusion for what it is, but others still struggle with making the connection.
Bugdip and Tybain's fates are the same as the rest of their companions, their swings ineffective.
The statue remains unthinking, and continues its assault on the thin man.
Edgar sees the attack coming, and raises his blade to try to deflect the incoming blow.
And successfully pushes the stony fist away.
As the second swing comes in, Edgar tries to do the same thing, but unfortunately there is no weight in his attempt, and the statue crushes his arm into his chest for the effort.
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"As if I needed you tell me. On it Vorathan."
The swirling mass of earth and stone still continue to orbit the gnome like some celestial satellite. Again, closing his eyes, Nugats wills the circling mass to coalesce into a hammer head shape. Gesturing as if he is driving a nail into a log, the mass of earth shoots out, slamming into the monster's chest.
"Damn, move it to the left. I have been slicing all day!"
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Edgar jumps up and down, swinging his arms about, and seeming to flail ineffectually. After a moment of dancing awkwardly and swaying about, allowing various openings in his defenses, it becomes clear his trying to draw the creature to attack him further. Suddenly he lunges forward, stabbing with the slender blade.
"I don't even think I can hurt the thing!" Edgar calls out. "But maybe I can have it attack me so that you all have more time and chances to strike this monster down!"
Glarifyur laments that he doesn't have the weapon of his deity, and tries to see if he can carve a deep enough gash to make something count.
Unfortunately, like his friends, he just can't seem to connect.
The construct of clay and shadow swings again at Rattus, unthinkingly trying to pulverize him into oblivion.
Both of Edgar's attempts to deflect the massive blows are crushed under the massive weight of the statue's slam attacks.
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Somethings got to give! Rattus will be pulverized if we keep this up!
Vorathan examines closely the punishing overgrown pot, power-pummeling our poor pathfinders.
"It's working Rattus, you certainly have its attention!"
Seeing his opening, the rogue moves to strike!
Alas, much like throwing flattus into the wind, the potency is nay so pungent.
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"Bah! Hang in there boy. We'll get you out of this soon. I hope!"
Once again a portion of the swirling mass of earth breaks away. This time the mass of earth more closely resembles a carpenters tool with a precise, blunt head. Instead of demolishing the creature in one blow, this time Nugats aims for where the aim meats to the body. Hoping to shatter its shoulder and lessen the power of its blows to Edger, he lets fly.
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Tybain dances around his opponent, trying to find a weak spot somewhere. With the monster's attention focused on poor Edgar, Tybain is fairly free to move and launch a series of soft punches to test where he could get through. But for all his effort, the masked man begins to think fist does not beat clay.
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After time and time again being frustrated by this creature, Glarifyur shakes off the frustration, takes a deep breath, focuses on an area of the statue's back, and swings with all his might.
"Yeeeaarrrggghhh!!!"
In his over-exuberance, Glarifyur slips a bit and once his axe weakly hits the immovable body of the shadowy clay soldier it reverberates awkwardly and goes flying to the side.
"говно ебут несеп говно ебут!!!"
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I refuse to wish Glarifyur a Happy Birthday for the following reasons:
• Steve clearly (and gratuitously) wants us to.
• He didn't wish me a Happy Birthday when it was my birthday.
• Birthdays are no particular achievement. Everyone has one. Every year. Unless you were born on Feb 29. Feb 28 is mediocre. It is just 1 day short of being cool.
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Getting completely frustrated by his rapier scraping off this thing, Bugdip removes his scabbard and bashes it with that instead.
The scabbard bends in an ungainly fashion as the grippli smashes it into the floor. "Oh dear, I don't know if I'll be able to get my rapier back in there," Bugdip bemoans his predicament, "Nugats, do you mind if I use your wand... I'm less than useless here."
Bugdip tries to extricate himself from the untenable situation, making his way over to the dwarven gnome.
He slips on the smooth floor on his way, though, giving the statue all the opportunity it needs to smash him should it decide to do so.
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"Ugh!" he shouts as the blows rain down. "Ouch! Yikes!"
He then shakes his head and begins once more to bounce around in front of the creature, continuing to swing his arms and draw its attention. "It's working! It's working! It really hates me!"
He then lunges forward, stabbing at the creatures. "Feel free to take your time, my fiends! No rush here! This thing won't bring me down!"
The group continues to flail and smack uselessly at the powerful statue. The hardended clay exterior of the shadow conjuration turns away each blow with regularity, making the pathfinders wonder just how long they can keep up with this hamster wheel of futility. Perhaps the Archivist should have put more effort into its plan to sweep away the nuisance, as this current one seemed to be deadlocked in nothingness for eternity.
Finally, the gnome dwarf has had enough. Forming the imaginary dirt into an imaginary hammer and flinging it at the imaginary statue, the weapon of the mind connects, and solidly.
Bugdip ducks and rolls to get out of the mindless hack and slash of this melee, prompting the statue to take a swing. However, Nugat's blast has removed its right arm. As it raises its left to take a swipe, that also falls off. In moments, the entire clay statue is nothing but a pile of rubble on the glass tiled floor, and then almost instantly becomes a translucent haze of shadow that is wiped away by the pulsating glow of the tile walls.
The pathfinders stand around, staring at each other for a moment. To one side of the room the purplish vortex continues to spin, while on the other side a glass portcullis bars the way into the hallway beyond where the statue once stood.
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Glarifyur dusts himself off and retrieves his waraxe. He walks to the rubble that was once the clay statue and finds a chunk of the head that is still recognizable as such.
"Dodge this, ye bastard!"
Glarifyur swings down hard upon the clay face with his axe. However, as it has done many times before, the axe skitters harmlessly off the hardened surface. Glarifyur roars in frustration and kicks the head, which moves only a few inches and shoots a pain across his foot.
"OUCH!!! Damnit all!"
Glarifyur closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, remembering the peace that comes with the repetition of swinging a hammer onto hot metal. As he imagines his molten hot temper being drown in cool water, his blood stops pounding and his exhale seems to hiss a bit like hot steam.
"Well Archivist," a much cooler-headed Glarifyur says out loud to no one in particular. "What manner of beastie do you have to throw at us next?"
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Come out to the Mindscapes...have a few laughs...
"Well that was bloody fantastic! I knew you had it in you Nugats, if anyone could rip a stone beast limb from limb, my money is definitely on you! Rattus ol boy, you feeling alright? Nothing broken I hope."
Vorathan takes a quick spin around the room to see if there are any ways to vacate this fun house and then tries another approach to appeal to the controller of this realm.
"Master Archievist, your power and knowledge are truly wonderful and I believe it is safe to say that we are less welcome here now than before, so with your permission and grace, if you are so kind as to grant us a door to leave your fantastic palace, we would happily and promptly bid you adieu."
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Bugdip drops his rapier and battered scabbard. He stars at both as though betrayed.
"I... I am so sorry everyone," his inner eyelid closes slowly as though washing away tears, "I was less than useless in that fight. As the dwarves say: " For once, Bugdip gets the phrase exactly right.
"When this is over, I'm going to find a nice moist cavern and do exactly that," his utter disappointment and despondency proves that he never saw Finarin fight in the early days of the elf's career.
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Bugdip drops his rapier and battered scabbard. He stars at both as though betrayed.
"I... I am so sorry everyone," his inner eyelid closes slowly as though washing away tears, "I was less than useless in that fight. As the dwarves say: 'Егер сіз ұстахана өңдеуге алмасаңыз, саңырауқұлақтарды таңдау өтіңіз.'" For once, Bugdip gets the phrase exactly right.
"When this is over, I'm going to find a nice moist cavern and do exactly that." Bugdip's utter disappointment and despondency proves that he never saw Finarin fight in the early days of the elf's career.
The pathfinders look around, frustrated and angry at the strange and confusing circumstances. Behind them, the glass portcullis glints in the otheworldly light, barring their way to the corridor beyond.
In his frustration, Bugdip throws his scabbard across the room, angry with his perceived lack of effectiveness. Somewhere in his head he hears a voice, familiar, yet foreign. He can't quite place its source, or who it reminds him of. Do not worry my little disciple, all in due time. All in due time.
Meanwhile, his scabbard spins across the room towards the portcullis.
The scabbard hits the fragile portcullis in just the right spot and the entire barrier shatters in impressive display.
The way beyond is now open.
Walking down the yet unexplored hallway, The walls, floors and ceilings once again melt away into a space now familiar to the pathfinders, Palhuna Murqual's shop.
As the door opens, a familiar bell tinkles overhead, letting Palhuna Murqual know that his shop has visitors once more. The setting has changed subtly since earlier; while the shop’s layout remains the same, the wares previously displayed in cases and on the walls are missing. In their places are keys of all shapes, sizes, and construction.
The fat man saunters in, though it is clear that something is wrong with this place, this memory. The image of the merchant is flickery, and seems to jump when observed in periphial vision. He does not speak, as before, and begins to flap and slap his arms in exaggerated motions that seem to have no basis in any actual sign language. In his gesticulation, he produces an exquisite golden key. Glarifyur finds, inexplicably, in his hands a scroll, upon which is painted the face of Wulessa. Subconciously, each pathfinder understands what he is trying to say.
If I cannot kill you to eliminate you, I will allow you to leave, peacefully. However, you must give up on your efforts to reclaim the one I am loading into the archive. She is mine. I hold no ill will against you, and so you may simply leave, as long as you leave her to me.
A door that wasn't there before appears behind the merchant. He waggles his fingers at Glarifyur emphatically as if to say Gimme gimme gimme! indicating the picture of Wulessa, while offering the golden key to everyone.
Bugdip charges at the image of the fat shopkeeper, and is unsurprised to find nothing in front of him, no substance to attack.
The facsimile of Murqual’s shop shimmers like a heat mirage, transforming into the familiar meeting room in Farseer Tower. Familiar, at least, in shape. The furnishings are different, more resembling a grandmother’s cozy tea room than the stark, studious place where this journey began. Intricately brocaded settees and poufs clutter the room, while elaborate tapestries cover almost every inch of the walls. One of these, a floor length cerulean silk curtain, is embroidered with a portrait of Wulessa Yuul. Her arms are folded across her chest, and a look of distaste resides upon her face.
After a moment, the image of Wulessa turns, and begins to speak.“When I first became Venture-Captain and took charge of Farseer Tower, this was how the place looked. The whole tower. My predecessor was more concerned with frippery and luxuries than with hard-won knowledge and diligence. If this becomes my final view of the tower, it might be the greatest indignity of all.”
She shakes her head in disgust, then turns to the group, addressing them directly. “I think you are close to the end. I can feel the archivist pausing its work with me to face you directly. The shadows you fought before now were a reflexive response, like sweeping cobwebs from one’s face. Now I think you have its full attention. I don’t think it can appear directly. Its essence is split across all the archive’s scrolls, but whatever form it takes will have considerably more power than the things you’ve fought before now.”
"I can help you one last time. I will do my best to answer any last questions you might have, and I can offer one more spell to you, you need only name it."
-Posted with Wayfinder
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I will not abandon Venture-Captain Wulessa Yuul while I still draw breath.
Glarifyur rolls and tucks the parchment containing Wulessa's likeness into his belt pouch. He draws his waraxe and flips it idly at his right side while assuming his left-foot-forward defensive posture.
"You send what you will, Archivist, or you spare yourself and all your collected knowledge and just let Wulessa go with us. We have no quarrel with you; I actually respect the creation of a myriad of memories and lifetimes to be retold to countless future generations. I believe from some perspective Torag would approve. But not by forcing it from the unwilling. There are those among the elderly that might choose this as a way of preserving themselves forever. We recently had the unpleasantness of gambling at years of our lifetimes. This, to a mortal with a full life ahead, is an unthinkable sacrifice. Wulessa has not yet written the full depth of her own archive and as such your record, however interesting, will be incomplete. Let her go; let us study this artifact and bring willing participants for you to chronicle, participants who have lived full, interesting lives."