A cool night breeze wafts through the only window of the basement level in the abandoned farmhouse outside of Ravenwood, slowly coating the flagstones of the walls in a thin condensation. Three figures sit at a sturdy oaken table lit by the many candles placed haphazardly around the room; the breeze makes the resulting shadows flicker and dance in the dimness.
The first figure is slender, wrapped in cloak and hood and naught but his wry smile and the hint of pointed ears visible through his coverings. But more than that; there is an unnatural chill about his form, as if malice itself shields him more than mere cloth and steel. The second, a tower of a man, leans against the table studying a hastily-drawn map that lies outspread thereupon, his eyes cold and calculating against the flickering candlelight. His features stern, he reaches for his quill and carefully marks another point on the map. The third figure watches from the head of the table. His figure is hard to discern; it seems that if one were to try to look at him directly they would immediately forget what he looked like, as if they hadn't looked at him at all. Smaller than an average man he sits, his beady eyes overlooking the proceedings and his head covered by a deep woven cowl. In his hands is what seems to be a large, thin splinter of wood, which he holds with decided reverence. Every now and then the splinter sparks, to which the figure speaks a word unknown to men, returning the spark from whence it came.
The figures have met to acquire an item being kept in a vault in Ravenwood; an item that they have striven long to acquire: A key to the Forgotten Halls. A key to power and riches beyond their imagining.
The third man, currently using the name of Orm, sits quietly for a long time, as though his thoughts were elsewhere. With a deft motion, the long, thin yew switch disappears beneath his heavy travelling cloak. Every few minutes his eyes dart first to the map in front of him, absorbing the details laid out by the towering warrior, then flicker over to half-elf who sits at the other end table, as though silently gauging the distance between them.
Keeping hand and quiver hidden under travelling cloak, Orm’s left hand quietly taps away, once, twice, thrice, upon each of the slim batons tucked away in the quiver worn at his belt.
Orm himself is a good head shorter than the first figure, shorter still compared to the tall warrior by the map. His hands are gloved, his body hidden beneath a thick travelling cloak, and his face shadowed by a wide-brimmed hat.
Any passerby deciding to peer closer at the face beneath that hat’s low-brim would quickly lose interest. The face beneath bears no scars, no distinguishing marks and a flat expression. It is not merely a plain face, but a boring one, the face of a man glanced once in passing and immediately forgotten.
Yet if one’s eyes were particularly keen, they might note how the eyes briefly turn all-black when they catch the light, eyes far too clever and cruel for the dull face in which they are set. They might wonder why the bearing of the body suggests a body shape different from that seen, hunched and small. They might marvel at how the face’s movements are not quite in synch, as though somehow distorted. Taken together, it appears as though the image presented to the world and the reality of the seated figure are incongruous. As though the shadowed figure beneath the wide-brimmed hat were nothing more than a disguise, nothing more than an illusion.
At last, Orm speaks. At first his voice is soft, almost monotone, but then he clears his throat. When he speaks again, his voice is guttural and hoarse.
“Long have I wandered the world. I have beheld wars and tragedies beyond counting. I have seen kingdoms wax and wane. Yet I am still young by the reckoning of the world, and whole civilisations have risen and fallen before my feet ever trod the soil.
Their cities are rubble, their names forgotten by Men and Elves alike, all their great deeds ground to dust. Their people are gone – only the stones remain.”
And here a smile crosses Orm’s face (that is to say, the face he wears).
“But the stones remember.
There is a place untouched by history, where all the greatest secrets of an Age have been sealed away, safe from the sands of time. The Scrolls of Skelos, the Book of Eibon, the Pnakotic Manuscripts, these names mean nothing now, but once the very mention of their names would fill the hearts of mortal men with awestruck fear.
The object we seek is a remnant of that long lost Age. It is little more than a remnant, a memory. But it is the key by which we shall unlock the Forgotten Halls of history. And it is somewhere in Ravenwood.
The town is built over the ruins of a watchtower of that ancient civilisation. Find the ruins and we find our key.”
Having said his piece, Orm draws a long, thin-stemmed pipe. Embers seem to flicker in the bowl as he begins to smoke, though he lit no tindertwig.
“So, what do we know of Ravenwood? It has been some years since I have been down these roads, and my memory is not what it once was.”
At the edge of Orm's vision, the world falls away into ever-deepening fractal patterns.
Vodalus sits at the table. Vodalus scans the map. This is a retrieval job. Go in/ grab the idol/get out. A good profit if successful.
A glance toward Orm.
You tell me. This is terra incognita as far as I know.
He's an imposing figure. He doesn't need to be hidden by hoods or hats. He has nothing to hide. He scans the room.
The hooded figure makes motion at the map.
"It's all plainly before you guys, am I the only one who can read maps?"
Arothcar peers from beneath his hood, his eyes gleam.
The map, drawn by Arothcar in a previous visit to the town, shows what knowledge the half-elf had gleaned at the rumored location of the stone idol which you seek. It is somewhere in the town's bank, where surplus supplies as well as valuables are kept under lock and key. The building itself seems to be a refurbished keep from ages long past.
Vodalus glances about at the room, but sees nothing out of the ordinary. He and his companions' packs are against one of the walls, and their sleeping rolls lie across the ground. The farmstead, long since abandoned, is vastly uninhabitable on the ground floor due to large holes in the ceiling, and the furniture long since rotten.
Arothcar, having only visited the Ravenwood once, can offer little insight into the customs of the people there, or the temperament of the town itself. It is a large town, however, and busy; many caravans pass through during the day in the Merchant's District.
Map: Ravenwood Bank
Arothcar leans back in his chair a little.
"I admit I have only been to Ravenwood once in my travels. But my map is gold. Everything you see before you is truth. The object witch we seek is rumoured to be within the merchant city of Ravenwood. If **it** is within Ravenwood it would be stored within the bank."
Arothcar points to the bank on the map.
"I know not if it is within, but it is a start. The bank lies along "old keep street".
Another point.
"I will warn you though, that their barracks is just on the other side of the canal, so it would be wise to not draw too much attention to ourselves."
A third point.
"That being said, it should be easy to keep a low profile, for Ravenwood is a busy merchant town. I believe we could easily go to town in the morning and see what we are up against. if all goes well we could very well make our move as early as tomorrow night."
With this Arothcar raises his eyebrow.
What say you two?
Orm takes in the map. Eyes dart from the one detail to the next. All this from one visit in town? Arothcar was proving to be valuable as an ally.
"Ravenwood's size might prove to be something of a double-edged sword. On the one hand, it means we should be able to enter unnoticed. But the larger the town, the greater the force needed to defend her. And the bank, as Arothcar has noted, is near the barracks.
On the morrow, let us make for Ravenwood. A few travelers should go unnoticed, amongst the caravans, especially if we enter separately. A map-maker looking to sell his wares, a strong-armed traveler seeking work and a wanderer wanting momentary respite from the long road. Just be certain to conceal those great blades of yours."
At this, Orm eyes flicker over to the long blades both Arothcar and Vodalus bear.
"We must be wary about showing our hand too soon, and those great things are sure to draw attention. Hide them under a cloak, or wrap them up with your bedrolls if you must."
For a moment, Orm considers those blades. How much blood would be shed before this quest was done? No matter. It needed to be done, and if the prize was won by using corpses as stepping stones, then so be it.
"I propose that tomorrow we dedicate ourselves to getting a sense of our prey.
Arothcar, walk the streets of Ravenwood, get a sense of her terrain, her districts and her buildings. See where her walls are strong and where they are weak. Which gates have the fewest guards? How does the Ravenwood canal wend its way in and out of the town?
And what of her people? Are they anxious, fearing some threat, excited from some festival or as placid as cattle?
Vodalus, walk with him, help him where you can. But talk to the people as well. Listen to their prattle and their gossip and glean what information you can from it.”
"As for myself, I shall walk the streets of the town, listening for her pulse. I may not remember Ravenwood, but soon I will hear all that she has to say."
"As for the bank itself, visit apothecary and forge, perhaps buy a few clothes. We need a sense of points of entry, of doors and windows, perhaps even this sewer outflow. Still, do not tarry by it overlong, lest the guards become suspicious. Perhaps one of you might consider taking out a loan? Then again, I'm not sure how well such a deception would work when weighed against the risks.
Either way, tomorrow we enter Ravenwood."
"Solid plan. I'll take the measure of the guards. I can tell the difference between a veteran and a greenhorn easily enough."
These two want to be sneaky about pulling this job. Smart. Boring. No mutilated militia. No peasant vermin exterminated. Unfortunate.
Veto on the loan. I have no collateral and it draws too much attention. If things go wrong we don't want the bankers recognizing us. We'll take a look at the place but no more."
No more discussion that night. Only quiet anticipation for the day to come.
As each man settles down upon their bedrolls, Orm takes a moment to step up to the barnhouse doors. A flick of the wrist, and then a thin yew rod appears in his hands, its surface carved with dozen of tiny figures - animals of every walk of life - wolves and deer, birds and fish. Quietly, he holds the length of wood in his hands, and the surface seems to swirl, the carved figures seeming to reshape, go from many figures to just one. A mist rises up around Orm for a brief moment, and when it fades a masive rat sits before him.
.
He stares down at it, his beady black eyes eerily similar to those of the dog-sized rodent. He gestures to the door and speaks a single word. "Guard."
Eerily, the large rat then scuttles over and seats itself at the door, very much like a hound might. Affectionately, Orm walks over and scratches its head. Then, turning, Orm settles down to sleep, draping the wide-brimmed hat over his face.
------------------------------------
The next day, Orm rises with the sun. For a long time he sits silently. One by one he draws slim shards of wooden forth from the quiver at his belt, a seemingly endless quantity. He examines them as other craftsmen might look at their masterworks, turning each over, running a hand along them. Seeming satisfied, he stands, donning his cloak and rolling up bedroll and blanket.
He glances about the shambles of the farmhouse. There appear to be no signs of any rats, small or large.
A white willow branch in hand, he taps first his hat, then his quiver. With a quick sweep of his hand, the branch disappears into the quiver, replaced by a length of oak. This, he taps to his forehead once, quietly muttering words long forgotten by Humanity.
Waiting for his companions to rise, Orm whistles a little tune to himself.
In truth, he proves rather tuneless, but what does he care? He smiles, and whistles on.
Arothcar wakes to the sound of an off key and terrible attempt to whistle.
"I guess you're still not used to those 'certain' changes, eh?"
Arothcar's eyes are alight with mirth at his clever comment. Although he makes sure that the big brute of the man isn't paying attention.
"This is how you do it"
With that Arothcar takes a seat and starts to whistle a happy elven tune.
Vodalus awakes to his colleagues whistling. One is off-key. One is quite competent.
"Arothcar wins. You get a biscuit. Now, quit lollygagging. We have a town to reconnoitre, a vault to infiltrate and an idol to abscond with. Best get started."
He packs his gear. He breaks his fast.
Arothcar stops whistling and jumps to his feet.
"I'll gladly take that biscuit."
His eyes gleam.
Arothcar eats the biscuit and sets off to packs his bags. He takes extra care to do as the old man says and wrap his sword in his bedroll to conceal it. Arothcar is now ready to travel to Ravenwood.
"I said you get a biscuit. I didn't say I'd be the one giving it to you."
Vodalus rolls his eyes. This one could be irritating, but no use antagonizing my partners needlessly. Vodalus reaches in his pack. Vodalus holds out a biscuit.
"Don't ruin your dinner."
Arothcar ignores the sarcasm that is so clearly in the barbarians tone. This one was obviously born in a barn.
Shouldering his backpack, Orm turns to observe the exchange.
Come you two. Heist first, biscuits after.
Arothcar shrugs, smiles at the barbarian, and gathers his belongings.
With a quick glace around the countryside outside the barn Arothcar notices...?
You leave the shelter of the old farmhouse and exit into a happy autumn morning. The farmhouse sits upon a hillside, and from your location you can make out Ravenwood in the distance, perhaps an hour's travel away by foot. The town is surrounded by a quarried stone wall, and the path you follow towards the main road will eventually lead to the southern gate.
Arothcar gazes out over the fields, taking in his surrounds. The fields nearest the farmhouse haven't been tilled in years, and weeds have sprung up where once golden wheat had grown. Along the main road, a quick ten minute jaunt away, you see four horsemen moving at a trot towards the town. From this distance, however, you can make out no more details than that.
Further still, on the other side of the road, you see spots of white upon green hills; what you can only assume are sheep grazing peacefully.
Orm will wait until the four horsemen disappear over the next rise before exiting the farmhouse. No sense in raising questions about why the three were staying in an abandoned farmhouse.
His eyes then dart across the landscape, seeking hidden threats and lurking foes.
Should he find none, he sets off, dust swirling behind him as he strides down the worn road.
The four horsemen look decidedly un-apocolyptic. They ride in series along the road; the first is clad in iron chainmail and a thick traveling cloak, his horse large and well-bred. The second and third wear colorful livery, and their horses seem weighed down by sacks and small locked chests. The third wears leather hide armour, and has a bow slung across his back.
Scanning the surroundings ever more paranoically, Orm spots naught but a hawk flying far overhead. Also, he could swear that one of the farther-off sheep is eyeing him with deadly intent.
Arothcar squints, the sun glinting off the first horseman's armour blinds his elf eyes, preventing him from noticing much else about the horsemen.
Arothcar is nonchalant about these horsemen. They are obviously able to handle themselves, and Arothcar decides they are probably well off, but Arothcar is in no mood to tip off the guards in the city by attacking some outsiders.
The horsemen vibe wealthy merchants. Offing them would be a good source of money for future endeavours. Unwise, however. There's too many of them, they are one horses and they are too close to Ravenwood. If even one gets away we're in trouble. Best to move on.
Arothcar is futzing around. He's trying to pass for human.
"Pull your hat over your ears. Or wear a hood."
"In addition I recommend we keep moving and leave those four alone. We have to keep a low profile and it's just too risky."
The three of you walk towards the main road before embarking on the long trek towards Ravenwood's gates. The merchants and their guard, now well ahead of you, plod along, their steeds kicking up dust as they head towards your common goal.
The sun beats down warmly upon your brows, the coolness of autumn having not yet set into the air.
Vodalus speaks to Orm.
"You are clearly learned in the discipline of magic. What other fields of study are you conversant in? Religion, political theory or the arts, perhaps?"
Orm turns to face Vodalus, his eyes piercing, his voice a hoarse whisper.
"Magic, Vodalus? Magic is the childish play of hedge magicians and conjurers of cheap tricks. I have Power, and the skill with which to wield it."
His eyes turn once to the road once more, his voice returning to a more normal cadence.
"As for the other topics, I have picked up a few things in my travels. Religion, I will confess, is not my strength. Little attention have I paid to the shrines before which men kneel. And politics? All too often nothing more than the squabbling of little men, each more concerned with their own inflated sense of self worth than in actual governance.
But Art? Art is something of an interest of mine. The works of craftsman and poet alike, their capacity for creation...
It is something I take great interest in indeed."
Vodalus gazes into the distance and speaks.
"Power and the skill to wield it. Well put. For is that not what all those disciplines are really about? Religion and the power of the gods and those who speak for them. Politics has its basis in sovereignty and the skillful wielding thereof. Art is the imposition of will in order to shape reality or create a new one. I remain a dilletante where the arts are concerned. I write, mostly."
He returns his gaze to the road and walks onward.
You reach the southern gate of Ravenwood, the dark stone of the walls imposing and rugged. Before stands two guards wearing breastplates and armed with pikes.
The one to the left of the gate is leaning against the inside wall. He has a dark mutton chops that reach all the way to his chin, and has a rather disinterested look on his face. The one to the right eyes you suspiciously as you approach; his demeanor is like that of a snake poised to strike at any instant.
As you reach the gate, the guard to the left looks over and straightens up, while the one to the right steps forward and gestures you to stop. His words are sharp and to the point.
"What business have you here?" he says curtly.
"Oh for goodness sakes Deldrich, add a little honey to your words," the other says exasperatedly. "Not every weary traveler wishes you harm; people generally get to know you first before it gets to that point. Travellers! What brings you to Ravenwood?"
The elf-man, his hood pulled over his ears, steps forward and speaks:
"My name is Brant, I am here with my cousin Victor."
Arothcar nods to the much larger man Vodalus
"And my uncle Olaf"
a motion to Orm
"I am a mapmaking traveller by trade and have come to your city to re-stock on some supplies.
My cousin is an honest laborer, although he talks little, he is a strong as a troll.
And my uncle is a story teller, although he can be a little absentminded."
Taken aback with Arothcar's confidence and friendly smile, Deldrich simply stands there, unable to continue his line of questioning. After a moment, the other guard speaks.
"And how long do you suppose you'll be in our fine city, Mister..." he pauses, waiting for the space to be filled with your family name.
"Ortelius. Brant Ortelius. I don't think we shall be long at all. Perhaps a few days. I would rather like to map the area, and my uncle is a little weary from travelling. I don't suppose you would be able to provide directions to the local inn? And perhaps someone else who might be in the cartography industry?"
"The Meadow's Dawn is a popular inn by all accounts," the guard mentions, before being interrupted by Deldrich.
"You'd best watch yourselves of debauchery, though; I shan't have any drunkards in my streets!" he says. The other guard sighs.
"As for cartographers, you might try the Archives. Small though it is, it may be of some use to you. You can find it off the main square. Well, welcome to Ravenwood, Mister, Mister and Mister Ortelius. May you--"
"Your uncle is your father's brother, then?" says a man, appearing from behind the gate. He is old, by human reckoning, and his face is deep with both scars and furrowed brow. He wears a dim bronze chestplate with no adornment.
"Yes, Uncle Olaf is my father's brother. Why?"
Arothcar is now slightly on edge.
As Arothcar and the guards converse, Orm stands slightly behind him and Vodalus, observing guards and walls alike.
Two guards. Breastplates rather than scale mail. Pikes rather than bows. Standing at the entrance rather than up on the walls.
That they were standing by the gates rather than behind them, or up on the wall, suggested that the town was largely at peace, not expecting immanent attack. But the arms and armour suggested a well-funded militia, at the least. The average peasant recruit could hardly afford much more than spiked clubs, simple spears and ramshackle armour. Breastplates? Those cost money.
That corroborated with the map's depiction of a barracks, but was troubling nonetheless.
The walls were sturdy. Could the gate be a weak point?
The thought is interrupted, the idea abandoned, as a fourth individual joins the gateside conversation.
Not here for a war anyway. Just a heist. I hope.
Orm's eyes narrow.
Bronze armour? Who uses bronze rather than steel?
"Your uncle is your father's brother, then?"
"Aye, sir. My elder brother. A good man, rest his soul." Orm speaks quietly, deferentially, bowing his head to guards and stranger alike.
Nothing to be won by being proud. Humility meant going unnoticed.
The man in the bronze breastplate stands with an air of authority and quiet calm. Even so, his left had rests on the hilt of his sword. He seems suspicious of you. You also notice that Deldrich has stiffened and is standing at attention at the arrival of the bronze-clad man, and the other guard is watching him with silent reverence.
Arothcar attempts to appraise the worth of the man, but quickly realizes the folly of his intention. Instead, he looks to the breastplate itself; bronze armour is rarely used in current times, so you suppose that its worth is more sentimental than monetary, especially since it seems that the armour had been visibly repaired from damage.
"Ortelius; a fine name. Uncommon, to be sure. I know every trader that regularly comes through these walls, and when I heard the name I thought you might be a relation of Parser Ortelius the fletcher, and his family; I know they have an extensive family down in Legner. Are also from there? If so, you have traveled far indeed."
Orm's answer follows quickly.
This one seems entirely too clever. Well, when facing a foe that can tell when you are lying, it is best to speak the truth.
"No. Not from Legner, m'lord. Not so far as that. The Orteliuses from there are no immediate kin to us. Perhaps a more distant ancestor?
As for ourselves, we've travelled out this way from Velion.
We've put behind us a dear little farm which has recently fallen on hard times. No money to be made working there anymore."
All humans are kin if you trace them back far enough. And though we travelled through Velion, it was not our home. And the farmhouse we put behind us is just on the outskirts of town. Still, no need to mention those details. The truth, but not the whole truth. Still, best to change the topic now.
"May I ask your name my lord? 'Tis not many souls who can wear bronze armour with all the bearing of one clad in mithral. There must be quite the story behind it."
The movement obscured by cloak and the two men standing before him, Orm draws a wand, taps his leg and resheathes it all in one motion.
Intelligence: the target gains a +8 competence bonus to a single skill of his choice for the duration of the spell.
Target Vodalus:
target bronze armour:
Arothcar has never been a soldier, more a sell sword.
target bronze guy:
Arothcar doesn't know much about the race of men... or at least this man.
target me:
or religion in general.
"I am Garret Hargreaves, Commander of the City Watch here. My men, although loyal, are sometimes not as thorough as I would like in their duties, so you understand that I sometimes like to check up on them."
The Commander steps aside, leaning against the wall of the gate and allowing you to pass. As you motion to enter the city, he continues, chuckling to himself and looking directly at Arothcar.
"It would be strange indeed, I suppose, had you have been from Legner; as well you know, not an elf has set foot there in nearly fifty years after the trade embargo made against them. So to consider a half-elf having been raised there... well, that would be strange indeed. Please! Come in, weary travelers. Keep your peace, and I shall keep mine. Break it, however... well that is another story."
"Well met sir Garret, thank you for your time."
Passing through the gates, Orm walks awhile, putting a few blocks between himself and the guards at the wall. When he speaks, his voice is quiet, almost a whisper, barely discernible over the sound of the town's morning foot traffic.
"At last, the work begins. Arothcar, Vodalus, set to your tasks. Be discreet. Be watchful."
When shall we three meet again? In eight hours time perhaps, joining together once more at this spot in the fifth hour after-noon? Then to seek out an inn. Perhaps not the Meadow's Dawn."
Eyes dart over to Vodalus.
"And in the meantime, I believe you were planning on purchasing biscuits."
"Biscuits. This biscuit business is getting wearisome. I'll need to buy supplies at any rate. But first, I intend to get the measure of this town. Find out what the word on the streets is. I'll ask around town. Until we meet again. "
Vodalus walks off.
.
"Cheers"
Arothcar walks off by himself.
As Arothcar walks off he takes a look around, looking for direction, or too see if he notices anything about the people around. But he was shaken up by sir Garret realizing Arothcar's racial identity, and is slightly on edge now.
So he fades into the background a little.
Arothcar blends into the crowd and walks a while amongst the market stalls. It seems that there are all manner of items to be found in Ravenwood, and none in short supply.
Orm watches as the other two make their way off into the crowds. For a moment he lingers, then he too sets off.
Walking slowly along, he soon is just one more face in the crowd, barely noticeable.
As he walks, he taps his chest once with a slender rod of wood, the movement hidden by press of crowd and his heavy cloak.
Speak to me, O Ravenwood. Tell your story. Tell me your secrets.
His path is aimless, a long meandering route that seems to lead him everywhere and nowhere all at once. He passes by children playing, past mean and women shopping, working, eating and talking. He even stops for a moment in the market to buy a few day's worth of trail rations.
All around him, the town goes on with its life, a vast living body composed of countless people. And with every step, a susurrus rises up to his ears, a silent song hear by none but he. Quietly, Orm walks through the city's veins and listens to the beating of its heart.
At last, when the unheard whispering reaches a crescendo, Orm draws another length of wood, taps himself once more.
His focus sharpens, his senses clearing as the whispering about him grows organized, patterns forming. Not a chaotic jumble at all, but a vast tapestry of interwoven threads.
All these threads. Pull the right one and the whole thing unravels.
Orm smiles to himself, and walks on.
I find a back ally in witch to observe my disguise via my pocket mirror (the one that comes in my grooming kit).
Obviously it's a bad disguise because the gate guard knew I was a Halfling, so I re-cast disguise self.
But in the end I am dissatisfied with my disguise, I abandon the disguise, becoming satisfied with simply pulling my hood over my head.
So I leave the ally and proceed to go to the market.
As I go from stall to stall I cast sense motive on the merchants, commoners, and any city guards. I make small talk with them, talking about their *dull* day to day lives.
Each cobblestone upon which Orm walks tells a story, from grim murder long since forgotten to the twenty-year shade of an old cabbage stall.
There are tales of the founding years, of sixteen men and their families banding together to create an island of safety on a road long marred by banditry and death. From there, the town grew and grew, its favourable position in the countryside inclining more and more travelers and merchants to visit its streets. The walls were erected as the town grew more wealthy, and as thievery began to run rampant in the town. Along with the walls, so was established the Watch; a group of men lead by Garret Hargreaves, veteran of the Emerald War. Before him, his father's father had been Beltor Hargreaves, hero of the Battle of the Third Sun. The watch, although proud and brave when first established, has become complacent in recent years for lack of threats. However, should their fire once more be awoken, they may again relive their days of old.
The stones also tell of the world below the streets, of the thick tapestry of sewers and drains that weave beneath the happy markets above. Some say a creature dwells within there, and the stones affirm this, though what the creature is they cannot say.