Henry isn’t sure how common constructs can be among mages, but he certainly hasn’t seen any guarding merchant shops or part of any trade caravan. As far as he knows, to the world at large, they something of a rarity.
“Do not speak of what you do not know, young one,” Zaal Vsok replies coldly to Quick, “Surely, if these many believers were capable enough to evade my divinations for centuries, then they ought to have found this lone temple long before the ragged band that presently stands in this sanctuary.”
The floating voice of the spirit is silent for a moment after the rebuke, and then continues in a softer but no-less-bitter tone, “No, we are alone. I measure your words and find no lie in your intent to preserve our most holy relic. But an honest tongue is not enough; only a fool trusts a cowardly dog. I see now my duty to deem worth ahead me once more. For your long-winded words, surely you bear a command over the air you breathe. Prepare yourselves...”
“Ven zii...”
Zaal Vsok has begun summoning an air elemental, a creature of raw natural energy.
Quick, grim faced and determined, draws his sword and speaks a single word of power in Draconic
"Vrii"
Henry Southgard has been in enough fights to know when one is about to start. He draws his falchion and slides with his back against the wall towards the rest of the group.
"Orateur de la langue, est-ce la lâcheté d'éliminer une menace avant qu'elle ne peut vous nuire, ou simplement une mise en garde? J'ai vu un cadavre qui a lutté longtemps après la mort, et cherché à empêcher son retour."
Coppervein sighs and grabs his axe, raising onto his feet, and swings his holy symbol into his hand.
A soft breeze begins to stir in the enclosed room as the four ready themselves. The orange coals brighten and grey ash dance up out of the brazier as the draft grows stronger, but despite the heightened glow, the room drops in temperature. In seconds, the room is as cold as the mountainous outdoors, and the growing wind centers on a single point on the stone floor of the sanctum.
The ash of the braziers and snowflakes appearing around that spot, to the right of the steps, begin swirl into a form a cloudy, whirlwind shape as tall as a man.
The ghostly voice replies to Henry in the elven tongue.
“Hivyo tu; Sina matumizi ya mifupa yangu. Hata asiyeamini inaweza kuwa kuheshimiwa kwa hekima inayotumika. Je, unafikiri mtihani huu ni adhabu?”
“Just so; I have no use of my bones. Even the unenlightened can be respected for practical wisdom. Do you think this test is a punishment?”
With the miniature tornado is fully formed, it hurtles toward Gwath with astounding speed.
But the flurry of ice and ash buffet harmlessly against the privateer’s armor. In the time it takes to blink, the cloudy form circles quickly around the center stairs, reappearing again close to the place it originated.
The aggressive whirlwind is an air elemental! These creatures speak Auaran, the language of their kind. They are very fast and quick to dodge attacks, and while not as substantial as flesh and bone, they can still be subdued, but never really killed, with mundane weapons. In combat, they tend to rush by an opponent, slamming them with the force of wind before continuing out of reach of retaliation.
"Fus!" A cold blue light coalesces at Quick's out stretched figure tip, then shoots unerringly toward the windy shape.
"Those air elementals I heard? There's one!"
"Mimi nina kufanya tu ni wazi kwamba mtoto haina kusafiri kwa waoga."
Henry Southgard slips past the party and stands between Quick and the tempest, falchion raised in a defensive stance.
'An angel? Under the spirit's control?' Henry Southgard wonders at Gorim's pronouncement.
*Edit* If I'm doing it wrong, I am going to be thoroughly disappointed in myself.
*Edit Zwei* O.O
Heck, I'm not sure I got all the bonuses right for using a Falchion. For attack, I have my BAB and Strength modifier, and for damage I just have my strength modifier.
Coppervein steps out holding out the holy symbol, speaking Dwarven tongues, as a faint wave of energy pulsates from his fist.
"Irori, pobłogosław tych ludzi; prowadzenia tego konfliktu."
The unseen voice utters syllables not made for the mortal tongue. The air elemental brushes past the over-eager privateer, bearing down on the dwarf.
Gorim bears the brunt of the focused winds, but Henry’s ready blade connects with the aggressive tornado. While the strike did not draw blood, the spirit of air takes immediate efforts to distance itself. Spinning up the stairs and back down the other side with impressive speed, it wheels around to the opposite side of the room.
But the mercenary sees another opening as the windy creature makes an escape, and feels the falchion connect once more.
A harsh laugh fills the sanctuary, and Zaal Vsok answers the human in the elven tongue, “Hufa yeyote anaweza kushambulia katika ulinzi wa mwingine. Lakini mtu ni kipimo kwa matendo yake katika uso wa adhabu.”
“Any mortal can swing a blade in defense of another. But a man is measured by his actions in the face of doom.”
The ghost’s words reach further than Henry’s ears, threatening his heart with a sense of dread.
Henry Southgard feels a sensation like cold water trickling down his scalp, but quickly shakes it off and lets old instincts take over.
"Close ranks, cleric to the rear, backs to the wall!" he bellows, moving to catch up with Gwath.
Opportunity Attack:
"Got it" responds the Dwarf moving into position.
Gwath’s blade hits the air elemental as Gorim’s healing energy pulses outward. A small moan of unexpected pain comes from the base of the steps nearest to the door.
“Fus!” A small, glass-like bead shoots from Quick’s outstretched hand, impacting the swirling wind creature. He quickly turns and closes ranks with the others.
The small torrent of ash and snow seems to slow in speed, as the winds that form it begin to dissipate. In moments, all that is left of the spirit of air is a circle of ash on the stone floor. The summoned, cloudy adversary is no more.
Zaal Vsok speaks again, his voice drawing closer to the group. “You all have done well, better than I anticipated. Now, Kiir Do Faal Viintaas Gein, I must see how you and the unbelievers with you stand against fear.”
At his last word, a ghostly, skeletal figure blinks into view just in front of the door. Dark, wispy energies cloak Zaal Vsok’s form, and the hollows of his eyes return a terrifying stare to the four.
"Faas gevild nid seyl kolos Apsu gerik ok viing!
"Fear holds no sway where Apsu spreads his wings!"
The four stand unphased by the ghost’s display, and after a few moments, the black, oily smoke around Zaal Vsok covers him completely. Then the cloud dissipates into thin air, and the spirit is once again concealed from the eyes of the four. His voice fills the empty space. “Well done, faithful of Apsu and companions. I find your souls worthy, and if you truly wish to help me leave this mortal plane, you will find the Silver Scale. My spirit is bound to this site as long it is in the hands of unbelievers. And for the sake of my brothers that haunt the temple, tell any who would bow to Uthylzarion and his patron Apsu to find this place, and return it to its former glory.”
Zaal Vsok is quiet for a moment, and the four hear whispering voices streaming from the corners of the room. It is difficult to make out what they say, but the high priest speaks over them to the half-orcs, the human, and the dwarf. “My brothers tell me you found the remains of our treasure vault. Tell me what you desire from it and it shall be given to you, for there is only one earthly possession that I care about now: the Silver Scale.”
"You are kind, honored father. My companions greatly desired the sword and knife from the vaults below. For myself, I would ask the boon of the coin and jewels that I may better equip myself to serve the Shining One and, by my presence if nothing else, inspire others to take up Apsu's cause."
"Your generosity is much appreciated," Henry Southgard says. "Though I would also ask for gifts of knowledge."
The mercenary clips his falchion on his belt, makes a mental note to make a scabbard for it later, and stands beside Quick.
"First, the kid's still young. Don't send him back into the world without greater knowledge of his magic."
"Second, we know the name of the one who took the Scale. A Drow harlot by the name of Sheog stalked our late benefactor as he pieced together the clues that led us here. Beyond that, we are ignorant of what she is. How did she take the scale?"
Quick seethes silently at Henry, but says nothing out of respect Zaal Vsok.
I will teach you not to call me kid, you ignorant Firok. My magic is born within, no one can show it to me.
"You'll see these halls active once again, Zaal. I'm sure of that".
“The faithful one will learn when he opens his heart and mind.”
“Ripping a soul from ancient bones is not an easy or painless experience. The third intruder to this hall, a she-drow, unleashed a spell of scorching light on my body when I struck down her two minions. As my spirit was wrested from my body, she reached the altar and took up the Silver Scale. I hastened to stop her as she produced a written incantation. She invoked the far-traveling magic, and I was only able to partially disrupt the spell. She did not reach her destination, but she succeeded in fleeing this sanctuary.”
“Thank you, dwarf-of-another-god. Do not forget your promises.”
“Ithwundun vuuk. Bo vuuk.”
The sound of stone grinding on stone gives way to an opening across the sanctuary. Cold wind begins to rush by the stone walls, streaming in snow-whitened daylight from the clouds outside. The stone block lowers to form a small corridor leading to what appears to be an open balcony on the backside of the spire. Zaal Vsok’s voice resonates over the wind, closer to the new entrance.
“This way,” the high priest commands, and adds, “take what you might use from the fallen vermin and my useless bones, and cast the remainder over this edge.”
Aside from the black leather armor sets embossed with a spider web design, the two drow bodies also carried one light steel shield each. The black-painted face of the shields bear the image of a spider, though a few deflected blows have scuffed the paint. Two hand crossbows are also found, along with two rapiers, two quivers of bolts, one containing fourteen and the other containing eight. Turning the bodies over, the black leather backpacks contain four vials of a black, inky fluid. Moreover, the currency found in pockets and pouches amounts to seventeen gold pieces, twenty-six in silver, and forty coppers. The packs also contain one heavy canvas tent each, a number of fleshy-looking filets sealed in six glass jars, one map that appears to be a copy similar to the elven archaeologist’s, and a missive scrawled in a strange, unfamiliar language. Unfamiliar, that is, until Gorim looks it over.
చీకటి కవర్, మరియు ఎవరూ చూతురు శిబిరం కింద ప్రయాణించవచ్చు. పర్వతాలు జాగ్రత్త. ఆలయ కనుగొను. సిల్వర్ స్కేల్ కనుగొను. నాకు అది తీసుకురండి మరియు మీరు రాజ కుటుంబం యొక్క ఒక కుమార్తెకు వివాహం కమిటీ, మరియు మీ ధనవంతులు మరియు శక్తి పండిస్తాం. మీరు నాకు విఫలం మరియు తిరిగి ఉండాలి, నా అందాలను మీ ఎముకలు న విందు చేస్తుంది.
చక్రాలు యొక్క మిస్ట్రెస్
Travel under cover of darkness, and camp where no one shall see. Do not take slaves unless they will not be missed. Beware the mountains. Find the temple. Find the Silver Scale. Bring it to me and you shall be wed to a daughter of the royal family, and your riches and power shall grow. Should you fail me and return, my beauties will feast on your bones.
The Mistress of Webs
On the scattered bones of what was once Zaal Vsok, a finely-crafted suit of scalemail can be plainly seen. Inspecting the two sickles nearby also show them to be the work of a master smith, and fine golden chains braided into a necklace is found tangled around the collarbone.
Following Zaal Vsok's voice to the icy balcony, the four adventurers see the pile of wealth and weaponry laid out exactly as it was in the treasury, only now it appears to be gathering snowflakes from the howling winds that whip through the enclave in the stone.
"If she is still within Thaleniel's borders, I promise we'll find her and the Scale," Henry Southgard says, mentally running through the logistics of tracking a teleported fugitive. "If the remains of your library contain any manuscripts on the Drow, we'd appreciate a look."
The mercenary motions for Gwath to get the other Drow, and proceeds to drag the nearest one out to the balcony. Once there, he sorts through the Drow's belongings. The leather armor is left as-is, the rapier is discarded with scorn, and the hand crossbows are picked up only to examine the craftsmanship.
Henry Southgard elects to take the hand crossbows, crossbow bolts, vials of black inky substance, the coins, the tent, the fillets, the map, and the missive. He may need help carrying it all.
Out of curiosity, he opens a jar and examines the meat to see what kind it is.
The gear used and worn by the two Drow are uniform enough for Henry to suspect an organized source of the armor and weapons. There are a few minor variations, as warriors are wont to do when their weapon looks exactly like their neighbor's, but overall Henry has good reason to believe the hand crossbows came from the same maker. Likewise, the armor sets appear to be nearly identical. The web or spider could be a sigil or official symbol of authority amongst the Drow.
The crossbowman's examination of the meat reveals something pickled with a slight fish odor. Far from any sure conclusion, Henry's best guess is that it is freshwater fish, sealed in preservatives for a very long time.
“The Drow,” the disembodied voice says the name with great distaste, “we did not keep records of their kind here, so I do not know where they live, other than deep underground. When you are ready, I can transport you to the last place I sensed the Silver Scale. It has since passed on from my divining sight, one day ago.”
Gorim scans the belongings and finds nothing to catch his eye, though something seems to be teasing him on the back of his mind, something he's been meaning to mentio-
"Ah! Zaal, I'd picked up these books from ya library. It'd be rude of me ta take 'em without mention... I'd be honoured to hang onto 'em and learn their pages" he states, examining their covers as though in fascination.
Can't go stealing things. Certainly not from a temple...
"Take the armor if you want it," Henry Southgard mutters to Gwath. "If it doesn't fit, I could probably adjust it."
Struck by a new idea, the mercenary begins stripping the leather armor off the Drow he carried.
“May the knowledge you find serve you well, dwarf,” Zaal Vsok answers Gorim.
With many parts that are too small to be of use, or hardened into curves to fit closely around a body that do not help his scabbarding efforts, Henry thinks he might be able to salvage two sheathes from one leather armor set, for weapons as large as falchions.
"I'm gonna take an hour out. Priest stuff", states the Dwarf, pointing at his soon to be meditation spot.
He wonders over and drops into a set of press-ups.
While Gorim Coppervein communes with his god and wonders at the sanctum the party has found itself in, Henry Southgard quickly strips the leather armor off the two Drow. With a knife from his pouch of artisan's tools, he quickly reduces the two sets into two piles, one of usable leather, the other of scrap. Both the scrap and the Drow are unceremoniously rolled into the yawning abyss.
Once that is done, he helps Gwath and Quick divide up the loot, throwing in the money he had recovered earlier and the coin purses taken off Moss. Ordinarily, he would have waited until they reached civilization once again and factored in the value of the weapons and armor they had found and hammered out a division of loot for the party to adhere to, but such haggling would have been unseemly in front of their latest client. Besides, he had heard some darkly entertaining stories about teleportation, and preferred not to leave all his eggs in one basket.
With some time left for Gorim to finish his prayers, Henry Southgard motions for Quick to bring Zaal Vsok's bones over and sits back on his haunches.
"That metal creature we fought outside," he asks aloud. "What was it?"
“It is a reminder that even our lofty ideals can be cast down by powerful wickedness. Despite Uthylzarion’s compassion and instruction for our fledgling races, a terrible red dragon sought to consume us in fire. Our Sacred Silver patron met the fiend in the air, and fought on our behalf over the heads of our humble forefathers. In the end, Uthylzarion managed to wound his foe before succumbing to the storm of fire from the red dragon’s throat. The crimson beast fled with his wounds, and we emerged to find one remnant of our martyr: a single, silver scale. The rest of him was ash scattered by the wind.”
Zaal Vsok continues, “The mechanical creature in the antechamber, like the red dragon, is infused with magic. Incantations woven into the mundane parts give verve to its constructed body, and an alchemical mixture serves as a weak imitation to the breath of fire. I expect, by now, that its remains have reformed and it waits for the next intruder.”
The lecture on Zaal Vsok's beliefs is unexpected, but Henry Southgard listens intently. When the ghost finishes, Henry mouths the word 'Uthylzarion' as if he is committing the pronunciation to memory.
He nods at description of the construct's construction. It doesn't sound too different from the legends of clay golems, even if the 'body' was made of completely different materials. And to his surprise, Zaal's words confirm that Quick was right about the construct being a test, rather than an arcane guard dog.
"If your library contains literature on the methods of animating mechanical creatures, I would like to see it on our return."
At Gwath's request, Henry starts adjusting the fit of the masterwork armor. It's not easy; the Half-Orc is considerably broader about the chest and biceps than the previous owner, and he at a loss for what to do about the wing-holes.
“There are tomes that contain such knowledge, but it will take much study and talent to be able to animate the simplest of objects.”
Henry Southgard quietly pockets the necklace after checking for sigils or holy symbols, bags the blades and the statue, and signals his readiness to move on.
Having finished his exercises, the Dwarf began his meditation, which has now come to an end.
"I'm ready when you are, fellas".
With possessions old and new gathered, the four follow Zaal Vsok onto the balcony. The chilling wind howls but the voice of the high priest resonates through the stone, air, and ice.
“I offer my gratitude to you four. It is my hope that each of you will find a faith in Apsu, for once the Silver Scale is in the hands of one faithful to the Shining One, I shall be allowed to pass on to see those before me. Do not forget that the thief travels one day ahead of you, and you must save the Silver Scale from the wicked hands.”
“The spell I cast requires each of you to lay hands on another. Do not be alarmed at the sensation, for mortal bodies were not created to be whisked across great distances so quickly.”
After the four prepare themselves for the spell, Quick feels an icy grip on the top of his head.
“Rithwundun…”
The swirling white from the windblown snow brightens, and fills the vision of the four adventurers. A queasy, exhilarating feeling of falling consumes their senses as their bodies hurtle through a silvery void dotted with large, floating dark spots. But the spinning, shimmering visage ends in the space of a breath, and the four find themselves standing as they were on the balcony of the cult temple.
However, no harsh cold winds bite at their skin; no ice or snow saps their strength. Green grass and low underbrush grows between their boots, and a canopy of high tree branches cover the four in shade. The dominant overcast relents for a moment, allowing the sun a glimpse between the many boughs of the wide, tall trees. The air is cool and smells of autumn, a pleasant change from the harsh and icy mountainside.
The forest teems with bird calls and unseen creatures rustling at the sudden appearance of the four. Thankfully, nothing accosts them immediately for the intrusion. No one can see any trace of civilization, though it takes only a moment for Henry and Gwath to determine true north from where they stand.
Henry Southgard shudders and doffs the parka he is wearing. The nausea passes after a few moments of deep breathing, and the autumn air warms him up considerably.
"Everyone check your packs, make sure you have your luggage," he mumbles.
After following his own advice, he pulls out the map he took from a Drow. If Sheog relied on a scroll for teleportation, it was safe to say that she couldn't cast it herself. And he got the distinct feeling that she wasn't the kind to plan for contingencies.
If she didn't reach her destination, she would have to retrace the route she took to Thalaniel. But before one could use a map...
"Alright, do any of you locals know where we've landed?"
"I seem to have everything, but I have no idea where we are."
Gorim stumbles into a lean on a nearby tree, scanning the environment as the nausea passes quickly.
He straightens up, once again grinning, patting the bark, "Never thought I'd be so happy to see trees!"