The hound-man twists to meet the point of Nme’an’s blade with his heavy armor. He says nothing to half-elf’s retort, though his face holds a thoughtful expression. When the knight steps up to strike again, he half-heartedly interposes the wide flat of his greatsword against Nme’an’s steel.
With swords still crossed, he looks down into the knight’s eyes. “Patience,” he rumbles.
Nme’an realizes as the hound-man begins to turn his body that his blade will become pinched between armor and greatsword, and pulled out of his hand. If he can twist the blade in time, he might be able to manage a cut using the hound-man’s movement…
The hound-man spins away and vaults long strides and stops twenty-five feet away.
“Do not hide behind your shield, half-elf! Let me see you grit your teeth! Show me why I was sent here!” he challenges Nme’an with lyrical lilt.
Nme'an realizes his hurried strike was in poor judgement just a moment to late. He attempts to counter his opponents disarming move but the angles and leverage favor the otherworldly creature and his sword goes flying.
Clearly at a disadvantage, Nme'an drops to one knee, shield raised as he prepares to turn aside an attack that does not come. Instead, he is forced to spin round to track the hound-man as he continues past.
"Shielding others is what I do, but you are right, it is not necessary here," Nme'an replies as he tosses his shield aside. He pushes off and advances on the creature, his armor clanking as he closes the distance as if to charge it or maybe tackle it. But, before he gets there, the Knight Apprentice plants his feat and slides to a stop with both his hands raised... though he is still some fifteen feet away.
'Dawnflower, light my way,' he pleads silently before a cone of fire erupts from his fingertips, the leading edge of which just reaches past his dueling partner.
The brief gout of fire envelopes the hound-man. When the roaring flames clear, the warrior creature stands noble and tall, unscathed by the holy fires. The ground around him is blackened, save for a perfect circle that narrowly surrounds his figure. A stoic look regards Nme’an for a few moments.
“That,” he begins, “was not what I expected. Well done. I will not attack until you have a weapon in your hands, if you wish to retrieve your sword.”
The armored hound-man stands at the ready with his greatsword, but makes no aggressive move. “How do you serve the Healing Flame?”
"She gave me strength to help save my town from attack some twenty years ago. I have taken up sword and shield for the sake of others since ever then," Nme'an replies as he retrieves both his sword and shield.
"And you? What is... no, I think I might not grab hold of your story... Instead, why are you here?" The Knight Apprentice asks once he is once again ready for combat.
Now visibly woozy, Mot nevertheless takes hold of the proffered beverages and swoshes them down. With one more, one two three!
Eyes closed the hulking warrior reels to and fro across the party, seemingly at random. Mostly because it is. Arms outstreatched, the Casns tries to dance with anyone willing.
"Ish dat how it ish, you ogre?! exclaims Themp with a wide grin, grabbing the first shot.
He gulps in a swift motion and grabs the second, the room suddenly very blurry.
He gulps the second shot in an awkward splash, half of its contents missing his mouth entirely.
A last glimpse of responsibility crosses Themp's mind before he downs the third shot. In a swift, precise motion, he manages to empty the glass surreptitiously beneath the table while appearing to drink it.
Laughing loudly, he stares Mot in challenge and continues his tirade.
“You probably could not pronounce my name anyway.” He replies imperiously. “I am here to deliver a message. I do not question my superior’s orders, but that does not preclude me from curiosity…” He begins walking forward with slow steps toward the ready paladin, his greatsword held upright at his side. “I am to tell you that you must continue to do what is right. Truth. Justice. Mercy. And the strength...”
He puts his shoulders into a heavy swing, straight down.
The Knight Apprentice lifts his shield in time and the enormous blade hits loudly before sliding off to one side.
“...of will to balance these statutes in the grey murk of the world.”
“I must also warn you of trials to come.” He brings the blade around to a defensive position.
Themp realizes mid-joke that the blurriness of his sight is getting worse. The fuzzy visage of Mot and the gnomes expand into vague shapes and colors, though the sounds of celebration still ring clearly in his ear. By the time he finishes his joke, the scoundrel cannot see at all.
Mot’s stumbling dance wanders into a short, gnomish partner, but he does not see who it is. Mehbeh, he giggles, thinking to himself, Ah shood open me eyes… But when the big hairy man opens his eyes, he still cannot see his fellow dancer. Or anything else, for that matter.
As he speaks, Nme'an shifts away from his dueling opponent. "Hebu mwisho huu," he speaks quietly to himself before straightening his pose and nodding for the hound man to attack again.
“I have not spoken your name,” the hound-man replies evenly, “because I do not know it. Those admitted into Heaven are given their true names, and often mortal names are ill-fitting or incomplete. If we must contact mortals before their time, we find them by the light of their heart.” The creature of Heaven lunges forward with his greatsword.
The sword deflects against Nme’an’s armor. “...and you should not be so casual with my first admonishment,” he says gravely.
“The message comes from my commander, Charlabu. There is one more thing I must convey.”
Nme'an repeats the unfamiliar commander's name to himself then moves to address the hound-bro's first statement. "The balance of truth, justice, and mercy is not a trivial task. I have never seen a three weight scale," Nme'an corrects himself. "I only mean that the balance of the three is a task I am gift and burdened with every day. Of this mission specially."
Nme'an, unsure of how long this duel might go on, reverts back to striking with proper timing and from, treating it more as the exercise it is than an a contest to be won.
for
The Knight Apprentice’s blade again finds a narrow opening between the plates of celestial steel. But Nme’an’s armored hand feels the thick fur soften the blow like before. His sword edge comes away unbloodied.
“Almost,” chimes his rich accent encouragingly. “But what will you do if…” With his greatsword in one hand, the hound-man wraps his free fingers around the rim of Nme’an’s shield, and turns it like a wheel to spin it out of the half-elf’s grip!
The shield falls to the dry, packed earth at the paladin’s feet. Bringing the enormous blade around, the hound-man’s retakes the handle with both hands. At the last moment, he turns the flat of the blade toward Nme’an’s unshielded side.
Like a metal club, the sheer force of the blow crashes into armored plates, but the strike jars the half-elf’s insides. The hound draws not a drop of blood, but Nme’an can feel the warm sting of a welt already forming just below his rib cage.
The hound of Heaven takes a step back with an wary, measuring look at Nme’an. He waits for the Knight Apprentice to make the next move. “I know nothing of your mission, so perhaps my next message will make more sense to you than it does to me. Charlabu indicated it comes from a being higher than himself.”
He takes a deep breath, and intones with a melodious voice,
“Eight of us advance, never to retreat.
To guard the crown and lands, our enemies we meet.”
Beorae watches Themp and Mot with an increasingly-worried look drawn on her face. "You two, uh, know that stuff can make you go blind, right?", she asks, not even sure if either of them heard her.
"Blind, you say? That's preposterous!" Themp snorts, looking squarely at the general direction the sound of Beorae's voice came from. His meager attempt to point straight her is, of course, even less successful.
"Tell her, big guy!" he nudges the empty air 2 feet to the left of Mot.
Nme'an attempts to keep his grip on his shield but the unexpected twist is too much and it is ripped from his grasp. With no shield, the Knight Apprentice is unable to block or avoid his sparing partner's incoming weapon.
*CLANG*
Nme'an glares at his opponent. "If you had been trying that blow would have struck easily, thus I concede," he says. He takes a moment to regain his cool then sheaths his sword and addresses the hound man.
"Your first message I do not understand the importance of but will try to keep. You second perhaps is more clear. My task, when not losing duels in my own dreams, is to follow and find a group of fellow knights who never returned from their mission. Perhaps they are the eight speaking."
"Their mission, which is now mine and my companions', is to reach a mage tower built by one called Ithalgol. Do you know the name? If not, perhaps you know of his tower?" Nme'an asks. "It sits past mountains dwelled in by Kobold and a forest lived by many more peaceful creatures and has, of late, been active with dark and terrible power."
The hound-man nods curtly at the reason of Nme’an’s concession. “Yes, but I turned aside the edge to continue our match. Is such sparring not fun? Had we agreed to first touch, I believe you would be the victor…” There is a smile to his bubbling accent, though his noble canine face shows no trace of happiness.
He kneels to one knee and listens to the half-elf as he produces a polishing rag and begins wiping the blade held across one armored leg.
“Perhaps they are,” he comments on Nme’an’s supposing of the eight.
He shakes his head at the end of the knight’s account. “I know nothing of this Ithalgol or his tower, though I am but a lowly Hound Archon of the holy hosts. Some wiser than I may know, some more familiar with your world. I assume you make for the tower to rid it of the wickedness you speak? I know something of destroying evil. It is my purpose -when I am not winning duels in other people’s dreams.” Again, the smile returns to the tone of his voice.
"From all accounts, there is a great evil in Ithalgol's tower which I shall lay sight on soon after I awake. My party is but four and our task seems to grow larger by the day. A fifth, one who knows something of destroying evil, would not be unwelcome. Though, I would understand if you cannot help. Dueling those you are delivering un-understood messages to must keep you quite busy," Nme'an says, allowing himself a small, amused smile.
Finished with cleaning the greatsword, the hound archon unshoulders his sheathe to return the blade. He rises, slinging the enormous weapon onto his back.
“It is as you say; I am not permitted to join your quest. I expect to be summoned back to the holy realms any moment, now that I have delivered the message.”
“Still,” his tone brightens, “your performance today impressed me somewhat. Lend me your pauldrons.”
He holds out a hand for the Knight Apprentice to offer his shoulder armor pieces.
Some of the gnomes squint uncertainly at Themp’s off-target point, and some others hold their bellies and laugh. The alchemist wears a concerned, albeit drunken, expression. He quietly raises two fingers in the hand that holds his drink, and jovially calls out to the Urlghain. “Big one! How many fingers am I holding up?”
"H's reet, Berenrea!" Mot slurs as he spins slowly in place. "Nae Casnsnss hes'ver goon bland." He points a finger straight out, resolutely, while still maintaining his gentle rotations. "Ehs impressionable! Imperial! Imm, imm," His great hairy face scruntches up in consternation.
"Et's nae dooable!" He nods as if imparting sage secrets. "Nae dooable beecoouse wehre cursed!" His hand tries to shoot to the sky but brushes against the lower boughs with a soft 'paff.'
"Lahght oop soome laghts an' Ah'll tellll yoo hae many fingress!"
Nme'an struggles to reach the pauldrons of his heavy armor, much less remove them but then smiles to himself as they appear in his hands with nothing more than a thought. It is his dream after all.
"I do have a request for you," he says seriously as he hands over the shoulder pieces. "Tell whomever sent you that we desire to do good but fear we may need help. Thousands of lives may very well live or not on our success and such matters should be more important and more acted on then sending hardly understood messages.'
“The wisdom of my superiors, and of Sarenrae herself, is absolute.” The celestial being answers stiffly after taking the pauldrons. “They have the power and intention of providing whatever help you might need, in their own timing. I have never been sent to deliver a message before; you ought to count yourself blessed that Charlabu and those above decided to reach out to you at all.” He begins tracing fingers over the armor plates in his hands, and seems to give the odd task a considerable amount of concentration. He is quiet for a moment, and adds with a kindly tone, “Perhaps they think you more capable than you think of yourself.” His compliment is followed by silence as he draws his fingers over the steel.
A few more minutes pass before he turns the armor pieces back over to the half-elf. Noble, elegant designs of gold are inlaid onto the protective steel, with fine detail that shows the mastery of the craftsman. Foreign, golden runes trace along some of the artistic gilding.
As the Knight Apprentice inspects the armor pieces, a thick golden fog begins rolling into the training arena. “It is time for me to go,” the hound archon says cheerfully. He turns his glowing eyes to stare straight into Nme’an’s and says, “One final word: Charlabu ordered to name you Knight Lieutenant. These pauldrons mark you as such.” He reaches out to clasp the knight’s forearm to express his congratulations. The shimmering fog begins to billow around the canine sparring partner. “I would brush up on the angelic tongue, if I were you…” the final, richly-accented words sound echoey and faint, but very happy, and the arm in Nme’an’s grip seems to evaporate somewhere within the heavenly mist.
The alchemist gnome frowns, and his tribesfolk glance at the lit torches around the wake celebration with growing smiles. Some of the more drunken gnomes are giggling. “Blind as bats they are!”
The frowning gnome glances worriedly at Beorae, and marches down into the warren. He returns a few minutes later with an armful of phials of various concoctions. He has the two try one after another, but to no avail -their sight does not return.
“Well.” He scratches his chin as he thinks. “I don’t think I have anything else to treat this... ” A troubled look goes up to Themp and Mot, then to the druidess. “I worry it might be permanent.”
“Which moon is it?!” screams one of the smiling gnomes, perhaps a bit too loudly for how close she stands to the group. Her wobbling stance betrays how much she’s had to drink. The night is in full, but the overhead canopy of trees blocks nearly all view of the night sky.
It is currently a half-moon.
“Why does it matter?” the alchemist cannot help an amused look, despite the circumstance.
“The Basidirond,” she whispers playfully with an impish grin. Many of the gnomes brighten and nod enthusiastically, beaming widely.
“You had too much to drink,” smiles the worried one, “that would not be a good idea.”
The basidirond is a fungus consisting of four spidery stalks, long green tendrils, and an inverted bell-shaped cap filled with spores. This deadly plant feeds on mineral-rich moisture, be it runoff from cave walls or fresh blood. It is known to release clouds of hallucinogenic spores when hunting live prey. They are usually found in warm caves, and have a weakness to the cold. Nothing is known about the basidirond’s correlation to moon cycles.
“No, it would be the best idea!” pipes up another gnome in between snickers. “We need to fix their eyes tonight! Think of how cross the Shinygrump will be if he has to deal with these two like this tomorrow morning!”
“If you liked our wood alcohol, let us take you to the Basidirond,” says Mot’s dancing partner. “It will melt your brain in the best of ways. And it will ‘laght oop yer laghts’ again!”
"I... I will..." he replies, sounding almost awestruck.
The Knight Appre... Knight Lieutenant inspects the pauldrons and the new gold etched runes.
"'Shinygrump', meaning me who is still with you?" the Knight Apprentice asks as he takes a step away from the tree he had been quietly leaning against.
"You two are acting like fools the night before we reach the goal of our journey and I have no wish to watch you fool farther," he tells Mot and Themp with a disgusted tone.
"You said there was somewhere for us to rest? I would like to begin do so now," Nme'an says to the Gnome leader, speaking a good bit more kindly to her than he did to his fellow party members. The leader looks to Mot and Themp and then back to Nme'an, clearly not entirely sure of the dynamic between the party members, but she then gives herself a little shrug and leads the metal wearing half-elf to a room with heaps of fur for bedding before bidding him a good rest and returning to the party.
Beorae knows that it's a waning half-moon, but decides to keep quiet and just watch the proceedings. When the 'Basidriond' is mentioned, her face scrunches in faint recognition of the word, but she can't quite place it's meaning. I don't know if I should be worried by their excitement or not, the druidess thinks.
When the gnome refers to Nme'an as "shinygrump," Beorae almost loses composure, holding in a laugh that is trying desperately to get out. But after a moment, the feeling passes and the gravity of Themp and Mot's situation regains focus.
"Pfffffbbbbb. Mot says with derision. "Ah'm nae bland! The big warrior asserts with confidence. "Ah've joost forgotten hae tae opeen mah eye-wholes!"
He bows elegantly in whatever direction he happens to be standing. "Leet nae tha paarty stoop oon oour acoount! Coome oon Themppp, led tha wae tae thes Bass-n-rod!" The Casns fighter begins marching proudly, hopefully in the direction of the fungal growth.
"Melt my brain? In the best of ways? Where do we sign-up, right, big guy?" Themp slurred out, leaning comradely Mot's shadow on the wall.
With a concerned glance at Themp and Mot, then to the alchemist, Beorae stands and follows Nme’an and the gnome to their sleeping area with Shark in tow.
The alchemist gnome nods reassuringly at the druidess. “I haven’t had nearly as much as they. I’ll follow them. Don’t worry, get some rest.” With that, he turns toward the galavanting gaggle of gregarious grog-gulpers. When Casns and Namor express their interest in the Basidirond, the drunks cheer and take up torches. Together, they begin marching into the jungle.
In the room with many beds, Nme’an and Beorae find Olp asleep. Two gnomes are tending to the severe mold infestation of his body, chattering in hushed gnomish. His wounds from the vegepygmy spears are already bandaged. The gnomes tell the half-elves to drinking the cups of steaming tea on a nearby nightstand, saying it will help them sleep fully and deeply.
The two blind men are led by a gaggle of drunken gnomes, with their hands resting atop hairy gnomish heads as they lead ahead. They feel their feet tread over thick jungle foliage, and occasional warmth when the gnome torches stray close, and their ears take in the chatter and giggles of their guides. “You need the unfreezing water before you can approach the Basidirond!” they cheer. In his excitement, Mot missteps falls flat on his face, and the gnomes hold their bellies and laugh. Themp does not see what happens but joins in the laughter anyway.
In mere minutes, the gnomes realize that they are lost, and have forgotten why they are deep in the jungle past sundown. Twice more this happens, each time the alchemist patiently reminding them of their blind friends. As they continue through the jungle, going slow as the blind plod and trip along the path. Suddenly, a distinctly not-gnomish voice rings out in the dark. A silky, sinister voice that states simply how delicious the men and gnomes look. Themp’s sharp ears point out where the speaker comes from in the dark, and points it out to the gnomes. “It’s the dog that is not a dog! RUN!” they shriek, fleeing.
Holding their sides, the two blind men laugh heartily as they give chase after the gnomes. “Prey that sees death coming tastes all the better!” they hear the voice call behind them, “I’ll be watching…” By sheer luck, the two manage to not fall on their faces while keeping pace with their shorter drunken friends. After a long bout of running, the group stops to catch its breath, seeming to have lost the “dog that is not a dog.”
But now, they are most certainly lost. The drunken group wanders a bit until they hear the loud crashing sounds of falling trees. The crashings repeat and get closer, and then the two men hear a great, deep voice. it booms ever so slowly. When the Mot blurts that they seek the unfreezing waters, the enormous voice guffaws. The gnomes snicker at the name, and tell Themp and Mot that they are talking to a walking, talking tree.
Soon, the crashing footsteps cease, though no one was really paying attention when exactly Mossbottom stopped leading them. Moreover, all the trees were looking the same (according to the gnomes), and more importantly, gnomish and human ears could hear the bubbling of water nearby. Shuffling closer to the sound, the two blind men feel the air get colder, and the plants they pass are covered in frost. There is another sound among the bubbling, some rhythmic splashing as though a swimmer disturbs the waters. Themp’s and Mot’s toes scarcely reach the edge of the icy pool when a harsh, high voice shrieks at them to stop. She demands to know why they disturb her inner sanctum, and adds that the unfreezing waters are not just for anyone. When they drunkenly explain, she issues them a challenge to guess her name, offering only an incomplete rhyme as a clue. The scoundrel and highlander make many attempts, until the Casns resorts to naming every rhyming word he can think of, until he stumbles across “Yrd”.
But then, she requires one more task. At the bottom of her spring lays her ice-sapphire that she accidentally dropped, some time ago. Before anyone can stop him, Mot disrobes and dives head first into the below-freezing pool. Deeper, and deeper he swims, until at long last he resurfaces with a round stone in his hands so cold, it burns to the touch. As soon as his hand opens, the sapphire is stolen away by Yrd the ice mephit. With Mot already drenched, she allows Themp to enter the unfreezing waters, but the blind civilized man is reluctant to be so cold. The two goofs are eventually soaked in below freezing water, and the gnomes laugh as they lead them on to the Basidirond cave.
It isn’t until they reach the warm stone of the cave mouth that Mot realizes that not only are his bagpipes missing, but the rest of his garments and accessories as well. He goes tearing into the thick jungle foliage alone, and a handful of gnomes give chase. Themp is too busy telling jokes to the gnomes to notice his friend’s departure.
The Casns, with the help of a few gnomes, finds the unfreezing spring once more, and manages to redress, though his chainmail shirt is on backwards. He sweet talks Yrd with his thick, enchanting brogue, until his flirtations earn him a brush of claws along his cheek and a needle-toothed nip on one ear. He returns to his jokester friend to boast of his “conquest”, and one of the gnomes hands Themp drumsticks and panpipes. “You two need to play music that will lull the Basidirond. Play well! And we will shout instructions from here. Don’t panic if you feel the whips touch you -it won’t hurt you if you are covered in coldness.”
The alcohol in Themp more than makes up for his lack of practice, and the two blind men start off with a solid tune as they march into the cave. At one point, they falter in the song, when one player zigs when he ought to have zag, and a second later they feel strange tendrils snapping then recoiling from their bodies. At last, by the direction of the gnomes, they stop just short of the Basidirond. Themp keeps playing as Mot makes a grab for the bell-shaped fungus, but the big hands miss. When the highlander takes up the pipes again, the fast-fingered rogue deftly picks the plant and they retreat from the cave.
“Eat it!” the gnomes exclaim, “Eat it!” The two scarf down the strange fungus, and in a few moments, the two seem to hallucinate. The bagpipes in Mot’s hands become an armful of snakes, and Themp is quite certain he has shrunk to one-tenth of his normal size. Time passes in a funny way; it proceeds at a snail’s pace and yet the two feel as though they are hurtling through space and time. In that vast expanse of seconds, or days, who knows, Mot finds himself drowning in quicksand, while Themp himself is melting like a wax candle. The slow, hilarious panic gives way to an absolute tranquility, and the two feel a profound connection to the air they breathe, the ground on which they tread, and the plants that brush their arms and legs. They, and the universe, are one. The gnomes pat them reassuringly as they approach the entrance to the warren, and the two see that there is a room with beds prepared and healers at the ready. In fact, they can see all around them!
Mot manages to sneak into the room without disturbing Nme’an, Shark, or sharp-eared Beorae. Suddenly, the alchemist gnome stops Themp from entering the room, frowning up at his face. “Your skin seems paler than when I first met you… and the big man does not seem to be as discolored as you. Are you feeling alright? Did anything bite you before we found you?” Themp does relate the brief tangle with the oversized bat-mosquitoes near a bog, and the alchemist tisks disapprovingly. “I’m going to have you rest in a different room, just in case…”
Once another room is arranged, the alchemist has the thief gulp down a viscous, bitter tea. He lights a pinch of incense in the small bedroom readied for Themp, and urges the tall man to not come out until he is fully rested. The alchemist seals the door tight, and sweet-smelling smoke fills the small chamber.
In the morning, half-elves and Mot wake to see that Themp is not with them. Olp still looks quite sickly from his exposure to the mold that once infested the warren. Nme’an finds that his pauldrons in the real, waking world are decorated just as they were in his dream. Beorae wakes to find Shark half-heartedly nosing through her pack, after the bundle of Feline’s Felicity. Mot rediscovers a bite mark on one of his ears. Themp has to force his door before it opens.
The gnomes greet them with a large breakfast of various cooked tubers, leaves, nuts, berries, and honeyed insects. To drink, the tall folk are offered water, or hot herbal tea infused with berries. At the feast, the chieftess approaches the Sevenstone, holding up a small glass phial. “Our apothecary is resting; he stayed up all night caring for your tall, thin friend. He caught a sickness somewhere in the jungle… before we found you. Anyway,” she holds up the tiny transparent container, which holds a pinch of dirt and a small mushroom sprout. “‘A single drop of water will coax light from it for ten minutes,’ he said. ‘Keep inside of the phial from drying out, and in a few days it should give off more light as it grows.’ Seems simple enough to me,” she adds, as she offers the glass to the druidess.
“One more thing,” she raises her voice to the gnomes and tall folk eating together. “Today is a new day, and we are no longer the Ekki’Ekki’Ptang. Beastmaster, we grant you the honor of naming our tribe this day.”
One of the gnomes comes wandering into the warren from the western tunnel leading to Ariella’s home. In his hands, he carries a bow too big for his small body. “The dryad is done with the funny man’s bow… where is he?” he asks.
”Oh, well, let’s see…,” Beorae says when she’s offered the honor of naming.
The druidess glances over the bow as its brought into the room.
Nme'an wakes and quickly his eyes are drawn to his armor and the changes that apparently made the transition from his dream to real life. He thinks back to the texts and histories he read during his Apprentice training, trying to recall what he read about dream and field promotions.
Deciding to mull it over breakfast, Nme'an leaves his armor behind for the morning meal.
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”After your valor in the battle last night, I would imagine that we can call you honorary knights apprentice. What do you think, Nme’an?” the druidess asks the paladin with a smile. ”I think we shall name you The Knights Who Say Ni!” she says, adding a sharp up-pitch on the last syllable for no particular reason.
"It has a ring of quiet intimidation and strength to it... if the final word were said in dragon speak," Nme'an replies.
This form of fungus is known in civilized lands as “foxfire”, though the druidess has heard elves and hobbits refer to it as “fairyfire”. In daylight, the mushroom has a greyish-brown stalk with a faintly darker brown ring around the cap. It naturally emits a bluish-green glow in the dark, and feeds off of rotting wood and moist earth. Some things in nature are brightly colored to attract pollinating bugs, while others are warn of dangerous toxins, if ingested. Sevenstone remembers that the pale bioluminescence of the foxfire accomplishes both functions, though the insects would merely spread spores rather than pollinate. The fungus sometimes used in lieu of fire or magic lighting in deep caves and tunnels of burrowing folk, like dwarves and probably even kobolds. In ideal circumstances, the mushroom can grow to be quite large (one account claimed the height of a man), provided it can find the room and nutrients, but its structure is quite fragile and the cap rarely survives growing any larger than a handsbreadth. If she can keep the miniature mushroom habitat properly moisturized, the foxfire should grow to emit torchlight in four or five days, though it may start to run out of nutrients and room to grow by a seventh day.
Beorae’s limited interaction with gnomes in Vyren tells her that they are less-beholden to permanent names, like other races might be. Dwarves and men especially, revere traditions of family names continuing from one generation to the next. Vyren’s gnomes tend to pick last names related to their trade, something that interests them, or perhaps they just like the ring of it. Given the whimsical attitudes of these isolated tribe of gnomes so far, the druidess suspects that the name will probably last a day, perhaps longer if they really like how it sounds.
Three or four little green nodes on the deep brown wood of the shortbow catch the druidess’ eye as the gnome approaches the feast. It seems that the wood is still alive, with tiny sprouted buds, even though it is no longer connected to a tree trunk or root system. Her minor divination spell confirms that the bow is no mundane bit of wood and string, but the magic seems locked away in some fashion. As it is now, the spring of the bow and the tautness of the string are naturally occurring and unaffected by magic.
The half-elf remembers hearing an account relayed to him during his squireship of Sir Belarand, before Nme’an was knighted Apprentice. He was lecturing the new recruit on the history of the Order of the Dawnflower, citing its beginning with the rise of Andreat power centuries ago. An unassuming Aasimar healer-turned-defender of the common man was the first head of the order, and in that time, the Dawnflower Knights were known better for their compassion, humility, and divine healing powers rather than prowess in combat. Piety was their utmost goal, and the most devout claimed to have dreams of angels bestowing unworthy blessings onto their humble persons, in times of desperate need. A handful of stories survived the ages, some featuring celestial tattoos, illuminated holy texts, potent conduits of healing, but most famous among them was the Golden Helmet of Mambrino. Sadly, the magical helm of gold was lost to time. Other artifacts have been passed down, from knight to knight, and over the years the Order of the Dawnflower has become much more aggressive in its mission to root out evil and defend the defenseless. Nme’an remembers seeing celestial gilding on the weapons and armor of Knight Majors and even on the Knight Commander himself, Prince Titus Andreat. But he does not know if the gilding was made by human or angelic hands, much less if they were results of divine promotion.
He does remember that learning the celestial tongue is a requirement for the rank of Knight Captain, and Sir Belarand had a passing knowledge of the exotic language. There were a few words of the foreign alphabet Nme’an’s master taught him, but fewer still were remembered for lack of practice. Though many of the markings are the same on both sides, the golden writing on either pauldron is not exactly the same. The Knight Lieutenant recognizes one of the matching words: אח. It means “brother”. A word on the left pauldron, but not the right, also looks familiar: ריפוי. However, Nme’an is unsure of its exact meaning, something related to forgiveness, healing, or making anew.
The gnomes cheer happily, banging their pottery bowls, plates, and cups into a raucous noise.
“We are the Night’s Appreciate!”
“The Knights Who Say Ni! The Knights Who Say Ni!”
It is plain that they like their new name very much. Olp, still looking sick from yesterday’s battle, manages a weak, pointy-toothed grin at the naming, but remains silent.
“When you are ready, I will have one of our tribe lead you down the east tunnel. At its end, you will reach the edge of the lake. There, your guide will leave you and return home,” says the lady gnome leader.
Nme'an's thoughts briefly linger on the Golden Helmet of Mambrino before moving on to more pressing matters.
The Knight Lieutenant finished his meal and helps clear the table before returning to his room to pray for the day's safety. Afterwards, he dons his dream-changed armor and head out to join up with the rest of the group.
Beorae helps the paladin clear the table before gathering her things.
Summoning Shark to her side, the druidess prepares to disembark.
"Hey Themp, come over here a sec."
Beorae looks over the rogue, inspecting his eyes, the color and condition of his skin. "How do you feel? The gnome mentioned something about Filth Fever. I think we might need to keep an eye on it."
She looks down at Themp's new bow, as well. "Can I see that real quick? It seems to have some magical properties…"
Picking at his teeth with a grubby-looking finger Mot watches in approval as the gnomes celebrate their new name. Though as Beorae mentions the bow his ears perk up with curiosity. Rising till he towers over the elven girl, the warrior then promptly stoops to get a good look at the weapon careful to not move it from its place.
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Groggily approaching the breakfast table, Themp greets everyone.
"Well, I do feel kind of weird, but I barely remember last night, so I guess alcohol must've been involved. And sure, I know you'll treat a gift from Her with care."
Maybe gnomish medicine doesn’t translate well for one who grew up in the alleys of Thaleniel. Maybe the stress of grueling travel has finally caught up with the scoundrel. Either way, Themp wakes feeling much worse than when he went to sleep.
The Golden Helmet of Mambrino has not been seen in three hundred years. It was lost in a pivotal battle between of the orcish hordes of the Korgrut Empire and the kingdom of Vyren. Nme’an doesn’t recall who the helm was originally bestowed upon, aside from the name Mambrino, but the Knight Major who last wore to battle was named Sir Sal Moedin. Historical records say that he died leading a heroic charge against the battlements of the dread fortress Karthag. There were no survivors, and it is assumed that the helm was hoarded in Karthag’s vaults, or melted down with dark magic and traded away. Nme’an does not recall any specific magical properties, but multiple account concur that it was indeed magical.
Beorae takes the newly-crafted shortbow. When she tests the string and draws it fully, she hears a word softly whispered where the twine is pulled back to her ear.
“รวดเร็ว”
Beorae knows that Filth Fever ravages a body’s reflexes and inner fortitude. The healthiest can shake the sickness in a few days, but weaker hosts can die of Filth Fever without aid.
The druidess discerns the magic sown into Themp’s bow to be evocation magic, woven to strengthen the spring of the bow and speed the arrow to its target. She detects a promise, or oath, waiting for some sort of pairing to be completed. Her knowledge of arcana tells her that Magic Weapon could temporarily coax the imbued magic from the bow, if only partially. The whispered word has something to do with the hidden oath and the archer’s need for vengeance, but the specific words needed to unlock this potent magic is unlike any she has seen. A puzzle, indeed. For now, she knows that the bow is safe to use as it is, in its mundane form.
As she's testing the bow, Beorae notices the new details on the paladin's armor. "Did you get new armor, Nme... Oohh...!" The druidess looks back at the bow in surprise when it whispers to her. "รวดเร็ว, indeed," she whispers back, giving it another look before handing it back to Themp. "Nice bow."
"New armor? No. Not entirely. An archon did visit my dreams. He came with messages about our journey ahead and... and gave me a promotion... This Filth Fever, is it something that will hamper his ability to fight... any more than usual?" Nme'an asks, upon hearing the conversation.
"Oy! I've heard that!
Beorae quirks an eyebrow at Nme'an's cagey answer, but decides not to press the issue.
"He'll feel weaker and weaker until he overcomes the fever. I have a restoration spell that should help, but I wasn't aware of the problem until after I did my daily meditations. I'll prepare it tomorrow, though. I'm not sure what to do until then, though."
"Dragon-kind sip liquid fire when sick," Olp speaks up, turning an sideways scowl to the gnomish healers. "They stopped me many times last night from trying that..."
He coughs severely, still weak from the russet spores. It takes him a few minutes to recover. He adjusts the strap that hangs his large, new round shield from his back, and holds his shortspear like a walking stick.
Mot moves amongst the gnomes patting them on the head and speaking his fond fairwells over the "forest-children." Eventually he retrieves his belongings and makes ready to depart.
When Beorae, Mot, Nme’an, Olp, and Themp are ready, the chieftess bids them a solemn farewell. “The Knights Who Say Ni will meditate for your peace and health in your journey. Go to the tall black stone. Turn away the monsters and their harmful intent. Maybe we will see you again.”
One of the gnomes, with a thick green hair on her head lumped into dreadlocks, reaches up and scratches Shark behind the ears. “I will be the one to lead you to the edge of the lake. Let’s go!”
With a hop, skip, and a jump, she somersaults down a warren tunnel yet unexplored by the saviors of the gnome tribe. Mushrooms grow along the walls and ceiling, giving off a pale blue-green light in the dark, and the tall folk have to pay attention the occasional dips in the ceiling that could bump their heads.
They pass several off-shoots to other passages similarly lit, but no noises come from them, and the smell of earth and moisture is thick in the air. By the extensive tunnels, it becomes plain that the surviving tribe of gnomes is but a small fraction of their former numbers. The carefree guide whimsically skips and whistles, every once in a great while make a turn to the right or left through the dirt-walled maze.
Hours of travel pass, and the bouncy energy of their guide is undaunted. Quite suddenly, she cries out, “Oh! Food time!” and seems to attack a random part of the wall with both hands. Clods of dirt fall at her feet as she burrows her little fingers deeper with a look of concentration on her face. “Aha!” Her face changes to one of triumph, as she pulls a thumb-sized grub from the earth and holds it up for her tall folk companions to see. Then she tosses it up, catches it in her mouth, and gulps it down with a grin. The guide plunges her hand into the dirt one more time and offers a second morsel to anyone who will take it. The large grub writhes and twists in her small, dirty hands.
A couple more hours pass as the troop continue onward underground. When it seems to be about midday, the path inclines upward, until the tunnel narrows to the point of the floor meeting the ceiling. The dreadlocked gnome prods against the dirt overhead until she exclaims and starts to push up. It takes some effort, and with the help of those with her, the plants that have grown over this seldom-used entrance snap and break and the door gets pushed back to reveal more rain forest. The air is wet and smells of plants, sounds of small creatures chirping and skittering here and there, and the green undergrowth on the jungle floor feels healthy and lush. Rain falls in heavy drops from the canopy of tree branches, enough to soak the ground and wet the cloaks of the travelers. “I will take you east until you can see the lake,” says the gnome, darting her eyes nervously around, “But once you can see it, I will go back to the tribe.”
Following the green-haired gnome, the six walk for another half hour to the east, trudging through mud and the rain of the jungle getting everything wet. The tall trees and underbrush grow as thickly as ever, but now, not a creature is scarcely heard, only the patter of rainfall. At last, the horizon of trees is broken up by a wide, grey space. “There,” she says simply, her expression more anxious than ever. “Go to the lake, and you will see your tall stone.” She scratches Shark’s head one last time before she turns to head back to the hidden tunnel door.
The walk to Stillwater Lake takes another half hour, and the travel is easy going. The undergrowth and trees thin somewhat, as less towering tree trunks stand in the way of a clear sight to the water. No longer slowed by the canopy of branches the downpour of rain soaks the half-elves, men, kobold, and tiger in moments. At last, they stand on the edge of the trees, taking in the enormous lake, made grey by angry clouds above and the surface restless from the heavy rain. It spans wide and far across; it might even be a whole mile in diameter. Rising up from its center is a small mound of earth dominated by the looming tower of Ithalgol’s Keep, a great black spike that seems offensively unnatural among the raw and wild beauty of the jungle.
A repetitive sound draws their attention south, to the right of where they face the lake. The champions of Thaleniel notice a tiny, dismal cottage in the mud where the waters meet land. A small rowboat is tied to a post beside the squat little home, and a thin trail of blue smoke rolls from the chimney. It’s one tiny glass window glows warm yellow, lit by the fire inside. A semicircle of long, sharpened wood spikes bristle out at an angle, unwelcoming anyone who might try to approach by land. Ringing the line of spiked palisade is a shallow pit. Some of the wood stakes stand straight up, holding round lumps above the ground. It takes the adventurers a moment to realize that those are severed heads up on spikes.
The cottage is still some distance away, and the adventurers see a big, lone figure chopping wood in the rain beside his small home, with an enormous axe. His wide and bulky form brings down the blade with tremendous force, and his big black cloak sprays water with every strike. He seems to not notice the five watching him.
Mot comes to a stop at the waters edge, kicking a nearby stone into the agitated swells. Planting his spear firmly in the loamy soil the Casns fighter leans heavily on the haft and spits out into the lake.
"Ah thenk wheer last." He says looking out into the dancing waters. "Thes dinnae loohk lahk ae Steelwhatar Lahk tae meh." He spits again and jerks his head at the cottage. "Ahn ah dinnae lahk tha smell o' tha place, eether." He glowers at the rain-swept world around him with a glum half-hearted glare.
"That man over there. A gnome mentioned him, I think. Said something about a monster that looked like Mot."
Before deciding what to do, Nme'an searches the stormy lake for a bridge or walkway or some sort of entrance to a safe underwater passage.
"Well, he does look unusual, but 'monster' is a bit too much, no?"
"There's nae ae persoon en tha woorld, tha loohks lahk mea." Mot says firmly, squinting out against the rain at the creature chopping wood.