The Umbral Lands had not always been thus, for the half-orc remembered a time before the curse when Saevia had been lush and vibrant, rather than the cold, cloying miasma of greasy darkness it represents today in the dawn just after the Age of Darkness. Generations of men were as grains of sand slipping between his fingers, as uncountable years had passed since he had fulfilled his contract with the Prince of Darkness. A painful reminder burned into the flesh of his chest would never heal and as such remained a permanent reminder of his pact with Asmodeus, and the horrors he had been forced to commit with 1000 years of service in Hell; vampirism had stolen his humanity, and Asmodeus had taken the only thing he had remaining, his soul.
Such marks against his soul guided him to restore balance to his existence through acts that buoy up the forces for good.
Asmodeus' maw had cracked in a truly epic smile as he flicked his tail, "My price for your escape is your soul. This is a non-negotiable, and irrevocable agreement." Floating before each of them was a scroll, longer than they were tall, and the floating quill dripped with ink. They understood it to be a binding of sorts, a supernatural pact, and those that choose that path felt the intensity of the verbal contract throughout their entire body. "Death still awaits, but after serving me for 1000 years in Hell you will move on to whatever happy hunting grounds your existence is owed."
Age was creeping up on him, and he found his bones brittle, and his breath short, but he doubted death would skulk up on him. He would die horribly, and he would die bloodly
Dandelion suffered as no mortal could even comprehend. Asmodeus' words still haunted the druid, "You will fall, trapped here in this lightless place forever. The denizens will feed on your bodies for eternity, leaving you screaming and cursing until centuries hence madness will steal your every waking thought." There was a sarcophagus, but it was little more than an empty box for one to direct prayers to. Calvoric remained transfixed in their eternal slumber. Grendel remained the guardian of an empty box, and a sarcophagi with a vampire that chose the oblivion of stasis brought on by a stake, for thousands of years, and would continue his watch for time immemorial.
'An ancient, slithering evil dwells within a previously unknown land.'
The portal had been closed. But at what cost.
The three, for Jaevan was nowhere to be seen, stood strong holding the line against all matter of horrors, their backs pressed against the oppressive darkness behind them, feeling the window to the world they once knew slowly closing to them, inevitably understanding that it will leave them trapped there forever.
The Deva Sanriel had conveyed Asmodeus' words verbatim while her magics replayed the scene for the youngsters, "I curse you mortal. Jaevan Az' Thoh never shall you find rest. Never shall you find love, rest, or happiness again." His hand sinks into Jaevan's chest, rupturing skin and bone in the process, and draws forth the man's very soul, a wispy silver-white thing, then pushes it into the man's blackened and twisted hand, making a phylactery of something that was once a sentient extension of the man, but is now little more than charred meat.
For the first time in your adult life you hear the surname of the most vilified of the four that had closed the portal, and it does not take long to make the connection between Jaevan Az' Thoh and Lich Lord Azthoh, considering what you know about Asmodean curse.
Asmodeus holds the lich's phylactery.
The entire realm shuddered as the ancient, slithering evil rose from its aeons of slumber and moved towards them.
From an empty darkness, so vast and terrible that it makes your lungs freeze, and locks your breath as a hostage in your throat, it greasily slithers. It comes slinking out of the depths, free of its aeons-long imprisonment, with hundreds of tentacles bulging with blackened veins, quivering with unnatural power and laced with tiny, scalpel-sharp talons. Its wet and bubbling body shows the languid arrhythmic pulsing of a corpse filled with maggots. A nimbus of vile energy flows forth, a reflection of ancient magics, as it lumbers slobberingly, gibberingly into sight and gropingly squeezes its gelatinous immensity forth.
A mere glimpse is all he needed.
The feral druid had peaked behind the thin curtain that stands between normalcy and the gibbering maelstrom of insanity. It is a wonder that he is not mad.
If he is not mad.
" I... have no words, and I will not offer gratitude, you and your friends did more than one could have. I.. gods... I don't know what to say, on this new information that you have given us. " Daxniss pauses, trying to force her mind to work in a more proper fashion as Grendal had done for more in his time.
" I would ask in your aid if you were willing that is, in helping us travel to Enwas. I've heard of there might be a something we could use, I will give you all the information that we found out on our last visit to Caern. I ask for your help, as we have heard that Dainoth is now in Sigil and while for the time, we lack the ability to reach Sigil, I feel that we need to go there to try and enlist aid from other beings. Too much at least by what little of a picture we can gleam, that too many beings have tipped the scales. " Daxniss bows her head respectfully to Grendel, the half-orc could have danced into madness however she had to hope he was lucid these days. After all, he had helped rescue her and the others all those years ago.
[ooc]
Diplomacy check if needed using a hero point
It glides over your skin like a cold and greasy oil, something foul and cloying that makes you want to start brushing it off. It writhes up your arms, prickles of distraction and disorientation crawling over your limbs: the full attention of a master vampire.
Grendel merely grunts an affirmative grunt to Argon regarding his burrow and his identity, more interested in the venison, swimming in so much blood that it might qualify as a soup, before him than social pleasantries. Stabbing the hand-crafted cutlery into it, he chews for a time before speaking around the bolus, "Here I hold the line to prevent Jaevan Az' Thoh from enslaving the world." It is offered so casually, as if it is a daily occurrence for this inscrutable half-orc, that you are left wondering if you could ever truly comprehend the trials he has endured.
He continues with an almost bored tone and flat affect, "Sabavet was flayed alive as an example. All of the young ones, save you four, have been executed." The vampire takes a moment to ensure that he is not dreaming this meeting, or that a trick has been played on his eyes, or his mind. Inscrutable heterochromatic eyes stare far past the point where it was uncomfortable before he continues, "Desia is little more than a plaything. Rygear lays broken in the cells. You were the last to see Dainoth."
This druid knows where his fellow Umbrae are, yet makes no apparent move to intervene. He acknowledges Dainoth's location, but says nothing. "Umbrae is no more."
Giant spiders make noises that sound as if dry bones are being snapped. The druid, for he tenuously held onto some of the power he once wielded, if only by the tips of his finger, cocks his head to the side and hears that the juicy meat sacks had planted a future webbing anchor.
Launching himself to his feet, furniture clattering across the room, he grabs the nearest of the party with impossible speed and demands, "Why do you seek Enwas?"
His response seems strange until you remember the commonly held belief that the Lich Lord Azthoh dwells in the mouldering remains of Enwas, among the statues of heroes of a time all but forgotten.
Mentally shaking off the mental images that the Deva had shown them years ago, Ssilax looks at the devil-druid. He had probably had the least amount of contact with the Man in Black over the years. Something which had suited Ssilax just fine. Grendel frightened him, long before he had learn what the man really was. There is always a sense of barely restrained danger radiating from the Man in Black. As if he was moments away from unleashing a storm of blades.
Now, the dragonkin still feared the devil, only a fool wouldn't, but he found a deep sense of respect for the creature known as Grendel. After sacrificing everything, even his soul, served a Devil Prince turned God for a 1000 years, and then roam free from then, he still fought. From what they had been told by the Deva, the fiend had spent all that time aiding the good and innocent. In his own, admittedly lethal fashion.
The dragonkin glances at Dog, noting that his familiar was looking at the spider curiously. It looked like he wanted to chase it around like it was another dog. At the same time, Dog realizes that it's a big ass spider that could really ruin his day. Ssilax grins slightly at Dog, bending slightly and scratches his ears. The cleric was trying to not fill anxious, waiting for the devil to respond to them.
The devil-druid seemed content to pay attention to his meal. Whatever that might be, Ssilax wasn't sure he wanted to know. Although, his sapphire orbs where already shifting in curiosity to the what the devil-druid might eat.
'What was the old tale about curiosity and the cat?' Ssilax thinks as he is hosted off his feet. The speed at which Grendel moved was beyond breathe stealing. One moment he had stood up sending his chair flying, the next, Ssilax ended up far too close to the Man in Black.
Swallowing nervously, Ssilax manages to keep eye contact, only barely.
"We are to steal a Black Book and return it to one of Daxniss's contacts. It was to be payment for switching the magistrate when I was captured and was to be sentenced to burn at the stake," Ssilax says, trying to keep calm. "I ended up with a magistrate that was almost sexually pleased to burn arcane users. As to what they want with the book, I can only speculate, but given what is going on in Caern, it cannot be anything good." Ssilax pauses for a few moments.
"My guess is that the Arch-Magus, or someone close to him, is looking for the book to use for his own advantage. Although, that could also be said of the Holy Mother. Having no facts to go on, I can only speculate," the dragonkin tries to shrug while being held in the air. "Concerning Master Dainoth, I know how we can get to Sigil. The portal is in the center of Kharbdys. However, I do not have the power to open it. And if I am wrong, my mistake kills all of us."
'This is so much closer to a vampire-devil then I ever wanted to be,' the dragonkin thinks to himself. Even now, death literally in his face, Ssilax seeks to improve his knowledge of the healing arts. The dragonkin's eyes glance over the bits of Grendel flesh that is not hidden by his armor and clothing.
Recalling all that had been told of this creature, Argon feels fear. A natural fear, a rational fear. But he tells himself Grendel is on their side, so it is attention and respect this man deserves, more than fear.
Argon does not want to make him wait any longer, so he says, "To pay for Ssilax's life, a book was promised. It lies in an Arcane Tower in Enwas, and it is labeled Isenatha Risa. Is that correct, Dax?"
Somehow extra words and pleasantries seem unnecessary; even rude, or something. Talking to a king must be something like this...
" Aye that is correct, if the book has some way to give more power to those that should not have it, if the Tome is in a tongue I can read, I'll forge a false copy. However if I don't return with it, well I can kiss what little life I've got goodbye, as all agents of the Caern guild would have an open season on my life. "
" If I was luck it would just be death, if not well, I'm sure there are other fates out there. " Daxniss finished with a shudder. Daxniss looks down a realizes that she is holding a dagger shaped from shadow, it finishes forming into a steel blade that is somehow the same color as the night sky. Looking down at it she frowns, not understanding, since it isn't one of her normal daggers that were hidden about her person.
" Umm what? I didn't draw this. " She whispers to herself, feeling a touch of fatigue for a few heartbeats, and the dagger slides back into nonexistence.
Mind racing, as the dragonkin hangs from the clenched fist of a master vampire, a strange thought occurs to Ssilax.
"My apologies for jumping subjects, but in your existence as an immortal, have you noticed events unfolding like they have in Cearn before? I have a theory concern the cycles of history and how they seem to repeat some events, only the people and places changing. Only certain events actually seem to have a direct shift in the course of shaping the world," Ssilax pauses for a breath. "I am wondering if we are approaching a point in which we could bring about a change. A way to restore the balance between the arcane and the divine magics on Sel Torin. "
The devil-vampire says nothing, just holds him in the air as if he weighted nothing, glaring at the dragonkin. In his peripheral vision, he notices Daxniss hold a dagger looking to be made of shadow, and looking down at it surprised.
"Um, please don't eat me." Ssilax is all the dragonkin can think to say.
Those that speak the elvish tongue are able to translate "Isenatha Risa" to "Dragons Rise".
A pale hand was all it took to bring the cleric up to the 6'5" half-orc's eye level, and hold him off the ground with no perceptible effort. There is an unmistakable coldness to the moment that steals any warmth from the scene. You are as nothing to this creature, little more than a soulless vampire who does not appear to understand human emotion, if he ever did. It appears to be difficult for Grendel to let go, and Ssilax catches a momentary lustful glance at the artery running down his neck before he is casually thrown to the ground to pant for breath.
Grendel’s eyes show his thoughts to be far from this place....
Dandelion had chosen the hardest way out: torture and the oblivion of madness, rather than face this sullied existence of shame. Not for the first time does Grendel feel envious of that decision.
Someone had to hold the line, now more than ever. Though they were vampires, they were dying, if imperceptibly slowly.
The Lich was eternal, and very soon there would be no guardian to stand in his way. Perhaps these youngsters...
Calvoric Tsadorivon had been unable to stomach what he had become: a monster betwixt life and death, forever tortured with eternal hunger and regret. Grendel hated him for leaving, for begging him to drive the stake home, and leaving him forever alone. No longer was he able to speak to someone that had even the slightest idea of what they had been through, had any idea of the world that he came from…so different than this one. He considered selfishly removing the stake a thousand times, but as far as he had descended he respected his friend’s choice too much to end his stasis.
Alone.
Returning his attention to those whose idealism had not been affected by the truth of what their eyes showed them.
“I know not of this tome, but the Arcane Tower of Enwas is where the Lich dwells.”
Ssilax' question brings about an unreadable response, "The cycle ever repeats."
Grendel considers the group for a time, wondering if they still intended to proceed, “Remain within the protection grove. Do not draw your weapon, or show aggression, for any reason. I will approach you when the spell is prepared to transport you.”
Torn for a time he offers each of you a root to chew on, which he cryptically says will connect you to your ancestors and cleanse your spirit, which will facilitate transportation. There is more to the story, as the vampire is not a good liar, but questioning a being of such palpable rage seems like a bad idea.
(for those that take the root please include a description of your next 16 hours being a very intense dimethyltryptamine mixed with mescaline experience)
Perhaps 80 giant spiders live in the grove, and those that did not enter as arachnophobics leave as one.
Lying on the ground, Ssilax pants, able to freely breathe once more. Dog looks at the vampire-devil half-orc, head cocked. The dragonkin's familiar eyes the creature and trots over to Ssilax, never letting the Man in Black out of his eye line. Sitting down near Ssilax, the canine sniffs at the dragonkin making sure he was unharmed.
Rubbing the scales of his unpunctured neck, Ssilax considers what Grendel had said, "The cycle ever repeats." A stagnate cycle in which nothing can really grow or change. This felt wrong to the dragonkin, continuing to plod along the same recycled path. Not if they had the chance to really change things. Perhaps, they actually did. Ssilax briefly wonders in the illusions in the Planar Sphere could examine areas of Sel Torin in different times in history.
Shaking his head to clear it, the dragonkin gets back to his feet as Grendel decides that he will assist them. The young cleric feels like a small weight had been removed from around his neck. He sighs in relief, before realizes that meant that they had to stay here for however long it was to take the vampire-devil to prepare his magics. He swallows nervously, glancing back at the moving wall of spiders a ways behind them.
Mention a root that is part of the transportation, Ssilax perks up. Taking the offered root in his golden claws, he looks it over and sniffs it a few times. Curious, Ssilax wonders if he has come across this root in his learnings of the healing arts or alchemy. Turning it over in his claws, Dog gives it a sniff and a lick. Sneezing twice, his familiar licks the roof of his mouth like he had gotten into peanut butter. He looks at Ssilax and "Wuffs", giving the canine equivalent of a shrug.
Certain of one thing, that if Grendel was going to slay the lot of them, he wouldn't bother with a poison root. Besides, Ssilax was almost painfully curious about the magics involved with the teleportation. If chewing the root was part of it, so be it. Although, he did get the sneaking suspicion that was not telling the full truth about the root.
Looking at the others, Ssilax finds a comfortable spot to sit within the zone that was not part of a giant spider. Preferably, as close to the middle of the protection of the grove as the dragonkin could get. Smiling at the others, Ssilax pops the root into his scaled maw. Closing his muzzle, the dragonkin begins to slowly chew the root, analyzing it as he did so.
Argon wonders for a fleeting moment whether they should trust this being, but that thought is quickly pushed aside because 1) they knew him and knew he was a member of Umbrae, 2) they didn't really have any other options. He wonders how a chewing a root will help with transporting them elsewhere, but knows so little of magic that he assumes it will help in the spell.
He sees Ssilax starting to chew it, so he sniffs at it and carefully puts the root in his mouth and starts chewing.
It is so normal, a little bitter, until he notices some arcane symbols on the root. Touching them, it appears they should be peeled off and not eaten. He thinks to warn the others of this, but is distracted by the page that is there, with the symbols on it, and then the book the page is a part of. The symbols are unrecognizable to Argon, but for some reason he can read them. Likely this is a part of their magic. He sits on the floor and starts to read. Shortly, a tiny spider crawls over the page - one of those spiders that looks only like a dot, until it moves. He brushes it aside, and continues reading.
After reading several pages, more spiders start invading his book-space. Annoyed, he starts brushing them off the pages, and more come on. He recalls some unmeasurable time in the past in which he was overwhelmed by spiders, but it seems a distant memory. These spiders are trying to climb toward his head. He finds one next to his ear, and it is whispering in it. "Trust not Zafe," it says. Strange. Another spider finds the left ear and whispers, "Trust not Me'lar." Soon the whispered messages are pouring in, telling him not to trust Grendel, Rygear, Nadi, Dainoth, Momordica, and even his family Ssilax, Wrathe and Daxniss.
He stands and shakes off the spiders. He's about to search for his alchemist's fire in his backpack, but the spiders all run off at that point.
After that, things go back to normal. Wrathe kisses him, and he and Daxniss and another Daxniss sit down for a meal of iron ore and oakroot. After that Argon is quite tired, so he starts to sing a little song about the travails of a snail, a mouse and an elephant (though all are the same size, that of the snail) and their quest to copulate with all the orchids in the forest.
He wakes with a headache, and his teeth feel as if they are floating in his mouth.
Wrathe was ever a good judge of character, and here he sees through the vampire's story with ease.
Daxniss cocks an eyebrow, the dagger had disappeared as quickly as it had arrived and at Grendel's words, Daxniss holds some disbelief, it was more likely that Grendel wanted to be alone for some time. Besides even if he wanted them dead, it wouldn't take much effort for the former Half-orc. Looking at the others she gives a shrug, watching them eat the root, with a sigh she follows suit, it was either that or sit around and wait.
Daxniss finds herself standing beside herself, the wyrmtouched rogue or perhaps it was her shadow that had always been a pain still, it had always been there. No matter, she could see a dragon perching next to her, it's silver scales reflecting a spectrum of various colors along with a steady, soothing tone.
Whilst chewing the root noting it's taste and texture as he chews, Ssilax sits, wondering what the effects of the root maybe. 'I bet it's just something to keep us calm while wait so the spiders don't decide we are on the menu,' Ssilax thinks to himself with a giggle.
That is about the dragonkin realizes that he feels really good. Blissfully happy, Ssilax looks around the room with a happy smile. Everything looked to be crystal sharp, the little bits of light in the grove sparkled like cut diamonds under a focused light. Each floating mote of light seemed to be as bright as the sun, the dragonkin notes as he tears his gaze slowly from the supernova candle.
Looking down at his gauntlet hands, claws peeking out from the slights in the tip, Ssilax wiggles his fingers at himself. He stares, amazed as they curl backwards as if no bones exist within in the scaled digits. It was an astonishing feat, especially with the metal gauntlets on. It was then he realizes that there is something very odd happening with his shadow.
Ever at odds with his rebellious shade, Ssilax can only stares as it slowly rises from the floor like an inky blob. Reaching forth, it hits the dragonkin in the chest with a tendril. The cold liquid darkness quickly cover the dragonkin. Instead of being terrified, Ssilax fills empowered, as if blinders had been taken from his eyes and he could finally understand.
Suddenly filled with power, Ssilax finds himself expanding, ripping through the cave as if it was made of thinnist parchment. Flinging himself into the air with a few beats of his mighty wings the massive platinum dragons looks about. Folding his golden limbs underneath him, Ssilax flies across Sel Torin, mighty wings carrying across vast distances in moments instead of days of weeks.
The platinum dragon could feel the Mask of Nethys upon his skull, pulsing with untapped power. Invigerating him in ways that he couldn't yet fully comprehend, Ssilax sapphire orbs suddenly go wide as he begins to see through the ages past. He watches for an untold length of time as the same event just continue to repeat themselves. Once again, Ssilax feels the innate wrongness of the cycle. In all Nethys had shown him in the merest of glimpses, the cycle was wrong. It anything, it unbalanced magic itself, and hampers it and everything else's ability to truly evolve.
With a few flaps of his wings, the platinum wyrm rises high above Sel Torin to hang motionless in the vast empty of the starry void that holds the bright blue-green ball of Sel Torin. Ssilax continues to watch history repeat itself, no matter his best attempts, he was unable change the past. Turning his enhanced vision, the Marked Dragon narrows his sapphire gaze and flies into the far flung future. Far into the possible future of what might be if the cycle can be broken.
Lying on his side, Ssilax slowly becomes aware of his lazy heartbeat thumping away in his chest. He is vaguely aware of Dog curled up in his lower back. Blinking sluggishly, he thinks about the strange sight that is still in his mind's eye. Tall buildings, some of metal and shimmering glass, others made of strange rock stretch up to claw at the very clouds. Odd horseless metal carriages of many shapes and sizes travel in mind bending long caravans throughout this strange buildings. All mater of beings walk about in strange garb, to many different species of fully count. They move about, talking with each other, or just as often on strange flat of what might be a metal. Dragon had occasional flew in the sky, as well as large metal bird like creatures that seemed to levitate and move about without flapping its wings.
At first there is a strange detachment that invites introspection while also dulling the very tool needed to flay the experience wide for scrutiny.
Terrifying intensity marks Wrathe's journey into the darkest corners of his fractured psyche, and it affords him a perspective on the likely future. He could see himself with painful clarity as gaunt and distant, disappearing for days on end to spend increasing periods of time with nefarious types. Necromancy would be his focus as he delves into magics that would force him to sell away everything that matters to him, ideologies, beliefs, his family.
Tears flow freely as he lets go of those he has lost, finally understanding that he is impotent to change the past, and in fixating so hard on what has been, he has missed out on what is.
You notice that while animals act in the service of the druid none come into the grove or get anywhere near the vampire. Only insects and vermin, many of which are giant, are willing to come within striking range of Grendel. Of note is that you have not seen the half-orc cast any magics, though he touches a heavy gold torc he wears about his neck often, which appears to be magical, with a faint divination aura, to Wrathe's eyes. Perhaps he cannot cast druidic spells anymore, due to the undead curse, or after serving 2000 years in Hell, and the magics have turned their back on him.
You find a large mule deer, it's front leg shattered by a bear trap (Perception 15, Disable Device 20 (escaped with a 22 Escape Artist, 24 STR check, 20 Disable Device, +10 melee, 2D6+3) dead at the edge of the grove. Sharp metal jaws had sprung shut around the creature's ankle, leaving it immobile until it had bled out. From its haunches a large chunk of flesh looks to have been simply been torn out with unfathomable strength. Vermin reclaim the body and fill their tiny stomachs on its putrefying flesh.
You are the hunted. Grendel takes your copper amulets from you, and simply crushes them with a single squeeze of his hand.
(please remove your copper amulet from your character sheet)
Ssilax was familiar with the root, as it was used in many ceremonies, though none involving druidic magics, or transportation. If anything it was good to make people more pliable to suggestion.
Too many emotions were involved in interacting with mortals, and Grendel had long since lost his patience with such things. The monster within him screamed for him to elbow them until the light left their eyes, and their blood filled his maw. The soma root, that he had taken off the body of dead Cult of Vidjelu adherents he had slain, turned down the intensity of the experience, and more importantly shut their flapping food holes from trying to constantly fill the air with words.
While still under the effects of the soma, though lucid enough to comprehend, he gathers everyone and spins a tale of the time after the deal was made.
"Azthoh grows stronger while I grow weaker. The endgame approaches, as my animal spies speak of mobilization. We must all be ready, even those that hide, and those that chose oblivion. Only when Azthoh falls will there be balance once more."
He hands each of you a whistle hand carved from hickory, while standing guard over you during your period or total vulnerability.
Grendel implores in a language that none but he understands (druidic). Raising up his hands to his forehead he pours fresh water onto roots of the sapling the party brought to the grove, and he commands that everyone repeat the phrase, "waktu ngalir cai."
You are taken into a feeling of connection beyond anything you can ever describe as you become one with the Wyld. It is difficult to comprehend. Normal existence doesn't really encompass this kind of experience. Time passed, but in different directions simultaneously. A light filled your senses that was primarily blue, but didn't seem to come from any particular source. It was utterly strange, alien. The air entering your lungs wasn't made of what you thought of as air, but it didn't seem to matter.
Hours, days, years, it is impossible to comprehend, but during this time you feel your heirloom act as a bridge between you and your ancestors known and unknown. Their spirit flesh reaches out to yours and suddenly you are one person, and you see the world through their eyes and perspectives (permanent +1 attribute bonus to two attributes of your choice). The heirloom you have carried since you were a child melts into your skin, leaving behind an indelible mark of supreme connection that will be with you forever. There is a binding magic to the mark, which you do not yet understand, but you need simply concentrate for 20 slow breaths and it will be revealed to you.
(please remove your heirloom from your sheet and add Grendel's Boon)
You awaken dozens of miles form Enwas, on the northern edge of Saevia, slowly drawn from your reverie by loud spray clashing against rock. You are soaked and recognize that you are behind a low waterfall some 40' off the ground. Nothing is found on the small shelf save for an exact replica of the sapling you left behind. You understand that to pour fresh water on its roots, which sink into the very rock itself, and to repeat "waktu ngalir cai" will transport you back to Grendel's Gove. These magics will be available to you as long as these two trees live.
Below is a burbling spring flowing next to a mountain path worn smooth by the passage of time, and a chill in the air which permits one's breath to be seen. Bright sunlight flits down between the occasional cloud battling the chill. Wild animals are glimpsed as they move sinuously about the breathtaking scenery.
Not 500' beyond that is desolation unlike any you have ever seen before. An army had marched past this place perhaps a tenday ago.
Grendel is no where to be seen.
Argon opens his eyes and feels his heart still pumping much faster than normally. He realizes the root had done this almost immediately, but at the time he was too distracted by the phantasms in his mind to even notice.
He stands, joints sore from being in an usual position, and looks out at the landscape, appreciating the island of beauty in the sea of misery and desolation. He thinks of Me'lar, and reaches for his Balanca, but it is no longer there; instead, a small scar with a very rough image of his parents, barely recognizable as people, remains in the center of his chest. "Is everyone okay? Coherent? I suggest we take a few minutes to fix our satchels and clothing. Wouldn't want my pants falling down while I'm busy being beaten to a pulp by another giant. Downright embarrassing, that."
He wonders what the whistle is for, but thinks perhaps the Balanca's transformation is related to the whistle's purpose and function. He closes his eyes and concentrates on the heirloom's cicatrix for a time; however long is required to remove the nagging feeling that more understanding is required here.
After that he sits and casts Mending, fixing any problematic holes, cuts or rips in his backpack, pouch, and clothing. Then he inspects the others' with the intention to do the same.
As he does this mending, he recalls all Grendel told them. He tries to imagine a thousand years, and finds it almost impossible.
(ooc: Added +1 STR, +1 DEX)
Daxniss shakes her head, trying to get her head right after spending so much time being in an altered state of being for the hours. " Aye, I'll live, not that enjoyed that little drive around my own head space to say the least, with out many drinks. Gahhhh anyone seen the wagon wheel that hit me in the head. " Daxiss shakes her head again, more like a dog shaking water off it's coat.
Daxniss understands that cost of living for a long time, as she might have a number of extra years on her or, perhaps not. Daxniss could feel a slight pulse behind her eyes, not a headache, more that something had opened it's eyes from it's slumber. Daxniss exhales a few breaths, a slight plume of frost exits her mouth. The awareness fades again, and Daxniss sets the thought to the side, more important things required her attention at the moment.
Eyes snapping open, Ssilax sits up straight and looks around. The dragonkin feels energized, like he had a full, good nights rest followed by a pot of strong coffee. Inhaling deeply, the young dragonkin slowly lets the air escape his lungs. Mentally still processing the experience, cleric is slow to respond to outside stimuli.
Without thinking, Ssilax's golden claws find there way to his throat, searching for the copper amulet and more importantly, his draconic pendant . After confirming what happened wasn't a part of his hallucination, the golden claws of his right hand linger where his heirloom necklace had been up until this point in his life. Feeling a slight weight in his left palm, Ssilax uncurls his hand to see a hickory wooden whistle. Something had changed.
Head cocked slightly to the side, Ssilax feels like there is something scratching at the back of mind. It concerns those that carried the dragon amulet before him, his ancestors, and his connection to it. The young cleric concentrates upon that feeling for several minutes, trying to locate the source, or perhaps memory that is trying to be recalled within his mind.
Slowly, the thought that he had an ancestral line creeps into this thoughts. The thought was a blessing, further removing the thought that the dragonkin was left on his own and Nethys's whims. His sapphire orbs open once more, drinking in the small oasis of uncorrupted land that they had arrived in. A small smile plays on the dragonkin's muzzle for a few moments.
Looking at the others as if he is seeing them for the first time today, Ssilax lethargically blinks his eyes and yawns mightily, stretching out the cramps in his muscles as he gets to his feet.
Dog returns from marking several nearby rocks as his. He trots over to Ssilax and sits on his haunches.
"So, I had the weirdest dream last night. I'll have to tell ya about it later. It was really, really weird," his familiar tells him in a string of dogspeak as he greets him. Ssilax nods in response and says, "I did as well, also rather weird, but exciting."
"Morning," Ssilax says with a faint smile, looking back at his friends after giving Dog ear scratches. "Or whatever time of day it is," the dragonkin adds with a chuckle. He waves off Argon's offer to mend his gear with a smile. "I will attend to my gear, though thank you for the offer."
"And no, sorry Dax, the carriage driver made a clean getaway," Ssilax responds to her comment. He pauses to look at the hickory whistle in his palm.
"Anyone have an idea why He gave us all whistles? Other then using them as whistles, perhaps some form of summoning?" the dragonkin asks out loud as he checks his gear and prepairs his person. Thanks to the acid storm, the cleric was taking a bit of extra time to Mend the damage it had caused.
Ignoring the spray still drenching them from the relatively small waterfall, Ssilax looks around them to make sure nothing has noticed their arrival.
Wrinkled fingertips slowly slid down his face, tracing the path of his tears, memorizing his every feature. A warm smile crackles her sun-darkened face as she looks into her grandson's eyes for the first time since Asmodeus stole him from his bed. Standing protectively at her side are hundreds, if not thousands, of his once mighty line.
Months of toil had provided him with the general location of his village located upon upper Aenghus, but this was his first glimpse at the noble tribesmen of the line that had spawned him.
The wizard works into a sitting position, feeling the warmth from a sense of a familial connection that he had never experienced before, hunched over to hide his face as he wipes away his joyful tears as he looks at the mark lying protectively close to the scar that Asmodeus himself had burned into the wizard's flesh.
Blowing his cheeks wide, he lets out a long breathe, blinks a few times, and realizes that his teeth are chattering from the cold. Backing from the spray he wants to apologize for his distance as of late, but finds himself too proud to do so at this time.
Instead he sends magical cleaning and drying vapour around to each person.
As each of your concentrate you gather the wisdom of countless generations to reweave your soul and body to protect both.
Argon (Fire, Cold)
Daxniss (Acid, Electricity)
Ssilax (Fire, Electricity)
Wrathe (Fire, Cold)
With a slash of your hand you can rend space itself, permitting you to leave items in the space between space (Spirit Pouch: like a bag of holding and can actually hold material of as much as 2 cubic feet in volume or 20 pounds in weight, takes 1 minute of full concentration to open and a simple gesture to close).
Within the Spirit Pouch you find another heirloom, this time though it is a magical item.
(please choose a magical item up to 2400gp)
Blowing the hand-carved hickory whistle reveals nothing at first, until the clicking reaches your ears as chitinous shell impacts against the rocks get close enough to be heard over the small waterfall. It is a massive spirit of a tarantula covered in bristly hairs, that strides forward with deliberate steps, its eight eyes scanning for prey. The light horse-sized creature moves next to the one with the whistle and waits for them to mount up.
Upon its back is webbing suited to act as a specially-crafted exotic riding saddle, which also looks to be made of spirit-stuff, since it's translucent.
(As mount spell for a 3rd level caster, creature is mindless and will only follow orders, if killed the spider cannot be summoned for 1 week, mount does not attack or climb anything a horse could not traverse).
In the distance is a large winged shape: very large dragon, which does not appear to have taken notice of the group, and you see nothing else taking any interest your location either.
Daxniss grunts and says " Of course you would have a good time, and not have any I'll effects. " Daxniss blows a raspberry at Ssilax and starts to go over her gear.
Pulling at the strings that make up what they can perceive as their reality, Ssilax slashes the air in front of him. The dragonkin's gauntleted golden fingers disappearing as he does so and cuts open the space that is somehow tied to his very essence. As he does so, the ghostly impression that he has done this hundreds, if not thousands of times before washes over the young cleric. It was at once both a new exciting experience and yet at the same time, it was a familiar, almost bored memory. Instinctively, Ssilax feels that he knows how much the space can contain, as if had been the one to design it. Reaching into the space, the dragonkin pulls something out and examines it.
Dog stands on his hind legs and sticks his paws on the opening like it was a ledge. The canine then sticks his head to look around. It is a curious sight to be sure as half of the animals head visual disappears. Ssilax looks at the sight from the side, chuckling as Dog drops back down. He looks up at Ssilax, his tongue hanging out, wearing a broad canine smile.
"You get the neatest toys! Can I put my chew rope in there?" the familiar says in dogspeak. Considering it for a second, Ssilac bend down and digs into Dog's saddle pack and gives him the chew rope after tying the pack closed. Hopping up once more, Dog puts the chew rope in the dimensional space. Pulling his head from the hole in nothing, he drops back down to all fours. After it disappears, the animals tail wags so hard his butt moves with it.
With a wave of his hand and a laugh, Ssilax closes his Spirit Space. Pocketing the item from the space, Ssilax reaches down and scratches Dog's ears. Standing back up, the dragonkin looks at the Hickory Whistle and turns it over in his claws. Putting it to his scaled muzzle, he thinks for a moment. Gently, he places it between his teeth, holding it still with his claws. It takes a few attempts to channel air correctly, but the dragonkin manages a feeble, airy "tweet" that sounds like it came from the lungs of someone who smoked a pipe for over a 100 years. It is still enough to produce a rather shocking surprise.
The heavy "thud" draws his attention almost directly above them. Jaw dropping over, Ssilax takes a few shaky steps backwards. The massive tarantula effortlessly climbs down and stands silently near the twitching dragonkin. Realizing that the giant spider was more of spirit form, similar to a magic mount spell, Ssilax calms down as his heart stops hammering in his chest. The dragonkin walks around the magical beast, looking at the spider silk saddle.
"Well, that is both terrifying and amazing," Ssilax says, looking at his friends, smiling. He glances at the spider mount as it's mandibles, and it's eight eyes seem to be hunting for something. Whether it was danger or prey was anyone's guess. "Mostly terrifying ," he admits.
Looking around once more, something in the sky catches his attention. The dragonkin's jaw drops once more and he points to the sight that steals his speech.
It was a dragon! A huge dragon, of what type, Ssilax couldn't tell, but it was an awesome sight to be sure. One that stirs an undercurrent of emotions, and a distance sense of memories that don't quite surface to his Mind's Eye. The dragonkin can only stare as he watches the dragon fly through the air. He is both pleased and sad that it didn't notice them.
Argon's introspection into his heirloom scar produces a result: he has a new, very particular understanding of a zipper of space next to him - he can cut it open and reveal a space somewhere else that doesn't exist here, and he can put something in it. Actually, he finds something in it! He looks in, incredulous, and pulls out a scabbard, thick and strong, perfect for a falcata. Somehow he knows it magical in nature, and that it belonged to his great-grandmother. He recalls how she was a community leader, and in her youth had gone on several dangerous missions for Almas, which was under some kind of attack at the time. This makes no sense to Argon, for nobody knows where Almas is or how to find it. He attaches the scabbard to his belt, and moves his falcata into it. It has letters engraved in it - at first Argon doesn't realize they are in common, for they are very strange and curvy. They provide advice to combatants - short phrases of things to remember in a fight. Argon knows he can now magically enhance his weapon for a short time every day.
Shortly after, Ssilax summons a massive spider, and at first Argon's heart jumps out of his chest, but then he realizes it is only a very large, very ugly mount. He will be reluctant to use his own, but it may be necessary at some point. He quietly thanks Grendel in his mind.
Satisfied with the changes, and new items, he turns to the others and says, "Well, shall we be off? Are we all healed of our wounds?"
Without realizing it, his shivering stops.
A slash of his hand rends space open with the ease wrought by ancestral guidance.
Deep scratches were found etched into every surface of the magical ring, speaking of a lifetime of use and abuse. Each man that wore the ornamentation demanded it to stand up to his abuse. Placing it over his finger reveals how much he had been altered by his experiences. It is too large, comically so, and though it resizes itself to fit him perfectly, he feels as if he is only just realizing what was stolen from him, and how different his life would have been had he not been stolen in the night.
With a dismissive gesture the spirit pouch closes behind him, holding a few mundane items.
Wrathe stares at the ring for a time, his other hand tracing over its every imperfection, as his grandmother's wizened fingers had traced over his features.
With a mischievous smile, newly regained, he runs across the shallow 15' ledge and dives out into the waterfall, and slowly floats down as a feather might. He is found once more drying himself off, but this time astride his spiritual mount.
No wound remains, and you find the time to be around late afternoon to early evening.
The dragon is nowhere to be seen anymore.
Daxniss shakes her head at the sight of a dragon, unable to tell what color it is, or it's temperament it would be best if they avoided it as much as possible. Concentrating on the feeling of something hanging at her side, she gives a twist of her wrist, drawing out silver edged raper that she knew her ancestor had once used against the ware wolves' tribe had used to harass the small hamlet.
While this blade didn't have any of the other powers, it still held the silver edge, along with a faint enchantment. It would serve Daxniss well, against any that felt a fear against silver, that much was certain.
Daxniss gives a shiver as she feels the ridges of her scale flex, as if somehow changing due to the recent acid that she had been scorched with. Along with a faint charge of the shock as if the weather had given her the a little jolt. Rubbing her hands together, she puts her old raiper into the space next to her and along with half of her coins and seals the pouch with a different gesture.
Checking to see how he and Dog where going to be able to somewhat comfortably ride on the spider mount, Ssilax looks over at his friends.
"So, does anybody else remember our Gravel voiced friend speaking to us before we had left? I seem to recall him speaking on his existence for all this time," the young cleric pauses for a moment, looking at the saddle, the spider and Dog. "I also recall him saying that he is weakening while his foe continues to grow in strength. And I have the sinking feeling that does not bode well for our immediate or long future."
Seeing Wrathe dash off out of the corner of his eye, Ssilax head jerks around and he throws out a hand as if he could grab the wizard back from the edge. Running over to the edge, fearing the worst, he sees Wrathe floating down to the ground with a massive, s~&*-eating grin on his face.
"You jackass, you almost made my heart stop beating!" Ssilax complains to the caster with a raised fist and a grin on his scaled snout. Seeing that Wrathe is fine, Ssilax heads back to his mount and gear. Taking a few moments, he rearranges his belongs, opening reality once more to access his extra dimensional space.
Getting ready to head out, the dragonkin seems to be mulling something over. Picking up Dog with a grunt, Ssilax sets him on the giant tarantula's back, near the saddle. The canine looks around excitedly, his tail wagging back and forth.
"I wonder if we could convince the Deva or Captain Zafe to help us. It seems like all the free floating evil is currently banding to together to strike Caern. Maybe we should try to bring a few more powerful allies," the dragonkin say to his friends. "I really do not believe that everyone is content to sit around and wait to be slaughtered."
Argon offers to craft an inner annulus for Wrathe's oversized ring, though he doesn't know in that will impact any magic it has. Wrathe would know, though.
He nods at Ssilax's question about Grendel. "It seems there is something we can do, if we're up to it, to make things better. Still, rescuing D would seem to be an important first step. Just need some gills, I guess."
He exits the cave, trying to reduce the wetness level as much as possible, then climbs down. Seeing two of the others have summoned their spiders, Argon reluctantly does the same. He climbs up, trying not to to touch the creature too much. Once settled, he makes sure his bow is in front of him and ready.
Argon notices that the ring had magically-resized to the wizard's finger.
Within the approximately 1000' wide grove you find a potable water, animals for hunting, and edible plants. One could live here quite comfortably for months.
Daxniss clears out areas of animals, spooking them with her mere nature, which does tend to destroy the perceived level of calm.
Freshly healed, cured, watered, fed, transported, dried, refreshed, and mended...
You depart the oasis after orienting yourself to your current location, understanding that you will have a long journey back to Caern if you cannot find it again, and set out across the desolate landscape. You wend your way through high hills festooned with jagged rock, amongst gnarly weeds grow from pockets of soil caught in bowls and fissures lines with black rock. The trails are gnarled and black from soot and char, tangled with sprawling boulders, overhanging shelves, and rimrock. Amongst the hills are rare mazes of lava streams, roiling and boiling at the surface, amidst interspersed pools of acid.
The hard ground leaves few tracks, but to Argon's trained eyes even a small shift in the terrain becomes obvious after hundreds of feet walk along, and he confirms that at most it has been a tenday and a half since an army marched through here. An army moved through this area many days prior, heading in the direction of Caern, which is opposite the direction of Enwas. Your journey has taken but a heartbeat, which has covered approximately 600 miles of travel. A conservative estimate of the time it would take an army to march 600 miles is 25 days.
Grey clouds hang heavily in the gray sky, and cool air blows erratically.
Dog jumps off and runs when offered an opportunity, though it quickly tires (dog, speed 40') when trying to keep up to the spider (speed 50') and is forced to jump back atop the monster and share the saddle. Something will need to be fashioned to make travel much less awkward.
Each mindless and tireless summoned construct serves willing and well. It is amazing how quickly you can get used to something as odd as a series of summoned spiritual tarantula mount, but it soon becomes mundanity itself.
An hour and more from the oasis, and off to the side of your path toward Enwas, you find a tear in space reminiscent of the one that the monster came through that took Master Dainoth. Getting closer you feel hot wind as it blows through the open portal, smoke and ash catching up in your hair and clothing. Through the rift comes agonizing wails of tortured souls denied the privilege of death. Within you see dark, reddish-gray clouds as they rain burning ash upon the landscape of cracked soil and boiling pits of slime. The pervading stench of smouldering flesh wafted through the portal, its scent like fine perfume of intoxicating power.
Any that is brought to cross the portal, with item or flesh, causes you to feel an immense pressure that nearly rips their spine from their back. They collapse panting, exhausted, and while not physically-injured they understand another attempt will lead to their end.
(need to be level 12 to use the portal)
You mark the direction the giant black dragon was last seen, which lies an hour or two off the path to Enwas.
(please include a Knowledge: Arcana roll in your next post to learn more about black dragons)
Wrathe is obviously distracted, and though he holds his cards close to the vest, he soon blurts out that he has finally mastered the ability to fly. It is all but torturous that he has to restrain himself, and save his spell energies in case they are attacked.
He glances in the direction of the black, sneering as he feels that the gods are prodding him further with a winged creature casually flying about, and tries to remember all he has read about them.
Daxniss feels a momentary flash of yearning at Wrathe's words, she loved the feeling that the memory of her brief flight. Daxniss pushes off the thoughts, focusing on the portal she shakes herself trying to effects of attempting to put her hand through it.
" Well that was nasty shock to say the least, at least we know we aren't going through there anytime soon. " Daxniss says sheepishly, feeling foolish for even trying to attempt such a feat.
Argon keeps his eyes open to all the dangers he's aware of on their passage, and to those yet unseen. Still, he can't get used to riding a giant spider. Perhaps if it had a name...
He dubs his spider Alice, after a girl who he knew in childhood. Not that she was as ugly as a spider, but she was not overly easy to look upon.
The spider having a name makes it easier to stomach riding it, though he is unsure if Alice is a boy spider or a girl spider. Alice's hairs are so big that they could be used to poke things, but when Argon pulls one out the hair just disappears. The ways of magic are mysterious.
Seeing Daxniss put her hand through the portal, he is about to offer her a warning but he is too late, as she pulls it back before anything too horrendous happens.
To cast such magics around the arcane magic-hating populaces would likely lead to his end affixed to a stake.
Overcome by opportunity Wrathe casts his spell and raises up out of his seat (mana 32/35). For the next 60 breaths he performs a number of stunts, flipping upside down, gliding, swooping, and the like. With wide eyes, and a playful smile unlike anything you have ever seen before, it is all he can do to stop himself from casting the spell on the ot...
"Gadzooks, we only live once."
With that he moves to the others, balls up a spell for each, its roiling spell energy dancing about upon his hand and offers them the power of flight for a time (mana 23/35).
Wrathe and Daxniss are both confident that they viewed an ancient black dragon, as its size gave a hint of its age. Beyond it being a flying wyrm that breathes acid, they can recall nothing specifically useful.
As soon as anyone moves or flies a few steps away from their summoned arachnid mount it simply winks out of existence. Leaving the whistle behind changes nothing, as it is something that needs to be held to be used, and only your whistle works for you.
A monstrous shape approaches the portal from the other side.
Distracted by thoughts of dragons, Ssilax didn't notice Daxniss stick her hand in the portal until she had already done so.
"What do you think you are doing?!" Ssilax hisses at the rogue. "Get away from the portal immediately." The dragonkin says staring at the portal with a mix of fear and anger. "Does that look like a place you want to wander around in?" Ssilax narrows his eyes looking through the very active doorway to another plane of existence. It certainly wasn't a place he wanted to wander without the proper magics. Even his curious nature was saying, "Nope," shaking it's imaginary head.
When a monstrous form begins to approach the portal, Ssilax realizes that the portal must be two way. His sapphire orbs grow wide.
"We need to get far away from the portal as possible as quickly as possible," Ssilax says speaking very calmly as he floats down to pick up Dog. He had briefly thought about summoning his spider mount once more, but the Fly spell would let them flee the portal and ignore the terrain.
Looking over at Wrathe, the dragonkin suddenly smiles madly, maw of sharp teeth gleaming in the light.
"Now, I am extra glad that you cast Fly. Before, I was thinking it was a waste of energy to cast it on all of us, given where we are. And how wrong I was," the dragonkin says as he directs himself away from the portal and back on track to their task.
"I agree!" says Argon as he starts to ascend and move away from the portal.
"Does anyone know how to close that gate?" He had been enjoying the freedom of flight, but now he's concerned that the big creature may come through the portal. He wonders where it is, and what the creature is.
To know the plane:
To identify the creature:
" It wasn't like I meant to stick my hand through it on purpose, it was a momentary flash of curiosity, Besides I think something was going to be coming through regardless of what we did. " Daxniss calls back as she flies with the others as quickly as she knew how.
" Keep an eye out for that black dragon as well, I would want to spend as little time as possible in it's possible range. " Daxniss finishes while glancing around at the sky.
Wrathe hovers above the ground, speeding along laughing and joking around, until he approaches the rend in space.
Glancing in he visibly pales.
"Closing a Portal? Even if that one was temporary, no, we could not close it. At best, with our magics, we might be able to get the portal to flicker for half a heart beat" Ssilax calls back to Argon, looking at the others still far too close to the portal.
"Is everyone's ears stuffed with wax? Get. Away. From. The. Portal. As in now, not later!" The dragonkin calls back a good 60 plus feet away. He had been flying as though walking, minus the moving of legs.
Rearranging Dog in his arms, the cleric showed little signs of stopping. At best he slowed down a little for the others to catch up. He had a really good idea as to where the portal lead to. Which gave him all the more reason to get away from it. Even if he was wrong about the plane it connected to, the few options as to where it could be where also unappealing.
The dragonkin finally speaks up as to where he thinks the other end of the Portal opens up in.
Before you is a portal to Abaddon a realm of vast wastelands under a rotten sky, Abaddon is perpetually cloaked in a cloying black mist and the oppressive twilight of an endless solar eclipse. The poisoned River Styx has its source in Abaddon, before it meanders like a twisted serpent onto other planes. Abaddon may be the most hostile of the Outer Planes; it is the home of the daemons, fiends of pure evil untouched by the struggle between law and chaos, who personify oblivion and destruction. Daemons, which are ruled by four godlike archdaemons, are feared throughout the Great Beyond as devourers of souls.
Approaching the portal is an obcisidaemon. This massive 25' tall fiend has thick claws like a lion’s, the broad wings of an eagle, and the legs of a massive canine. Its face is that of a three-eyed wolf with the jaws of a saber-toothed tiger. While two of the thing’s eye sockets are merely empty holes that trickle blood, the middle eye glows a sickly yellow. A cloud of globular soul-stuff cloaks the creature’s hulking body, bits dripping loosely from its barbwire-covered arms.
Wrathe recognizes the daemon, understanding that it is surrounded by a dark cloud of souls it has consumed, often resembling a tattered, ethereal cloak. When an obcisidaemon successfully captures a soul with its inherit soul ability, the soul becomes a part of its cloak of souls.
This is a realm and a creature that is so far beyond you that you would probably be better off facing the ancient black dragon unarmed. Should it be possible to close such a portal, the same type of portal that brought a giantess to the Umbral Lands from her native Plane of Shadow, such an ability is far beyond your current abilities. Fleeing on the other hand, that's something you have mastered.
The Fly spell takes each person a distance away before gently bringing them to the ground, where Alice and her brethren are summoned to carry the party.
No sign of the dragon is found as you travel, which is a good thing, since your mounts fade away, their magics used around the 6 hour mark. All along your journey you have seen predators powerful and not that have been viciously slaughtered by numerous weapons at once. You find the masticated remains of soma root, which is something attributed with the ancient Cult of Vidjelu.
(please include a knowledge history roll in your next post to learn more of the cult)
The signs of the marching army are clear to the others, but crystal clear to Argon, though he is confused to see that it is perhaps only 200 strong. 200 men, for these are men, based on their tracks, would likely not be enough to pierce the gates of the city. Other creatures have joined the army along their path, but still their numbers remain small, and you are liking the cities chances, unless they are powerful beyond measure.
An eternal ring of ancient mountains rise up hundreds of feet to shield the valley from what lies beyond, providing a fortified amidst what looks to be an arctic mountain range. Outcroppings of stone lie here and there, providing evidence of past slides, their strata suggestive of millions upon millions of years of existence. The wide stream of lava gurgles away from the mountain pass that rises high into the sky until it meets the portcullis of the castle perched high atop the central mountain spur, surrounded by open space on all sides and a black tower jutting from within the castle's courtyard to scratch the heavens. Carved out of the eternal bones of the ancient mountain is a medieval castle, its roof stone laced with ice, situated atop the remote upper reaches of the central mountain. Its entrance a hard climb, perhaps as much as 2000' above the valley below, and barred.
Not a single guard remains behind.
Your bowels turn to liquid as the light is blotted out by the passage of a giant winged shape far above your heads. Glancing up you see that the ancient black has taken note of you, but does not alter its course. Perhaps you are not worthy of even being a snack to such a creature.
The Cult of Vidjelu sounded familiar, but Wrathe has to go much further back to remember anything further.
Thinking about the chewed remains of the soma root they had passed, Ssilax is quite for a bit. The dragonkin searches around in his ancestrally enhanced memory place for other mentioning of the root used in large ceremonies. There had been quite a bit sitting in a rather disgusting looking pile.
Staring at the castle carved out of the ancient mountain, Ssilax can only imagine the amount of magical effort had been put into carving out. There was a chance that it was done by hand, which was possible, giving the tales of the Lich Lord. Other than sacrifices, it would have made use of it's slaves for labor. 'Or slew them all and reanimated their remains,' the dragonkin thinks to himself with a slight shudder.
When the light is suddenly blocked by something far to abruptly to be a cloud, the young cleric of Nethys looks up. And swallows nervously at the sight of the ancient black dragon.
"Well, it definitely knows that we are here," the dragonkin mutters as he still looks up at the dragon.
Daxniss shudders as the dragon passes over head, she wasn't surprised that the dragon had taken note of the group, just glad that it hadn't decided to land and eat the group. Daxniss had no clue about whatever cult the others were talking about, history was one of her better studies, other things had been more important.
Shuddering again as the after effects of the ancient dragon's aura started to recede, she hopes that the dragon wouldn't be to interested in the group later during their travels.
After flying and riding, it feels good to walk for a time. The magic pouch has lightened Argon's load, somewhat, and he feels lighter and stronger than ever. The feeling is somewhat dampened by the nature of the place they are in, although the rivers of lava in particular are fascinating to him. Being a creature of earth and fire, lava holds a special meaning for Argon - it represents both. He wonders about the source of the lava, and the magic that keeps it molten as it flows across the land.
Argon's eye follows the lava to the mountain pass, and then it looks up at the high castle critically. Defence for such a fortification would be strong, only due to its location. He tries to recall its history and purpose here.
"Is this Enwas?" he asks.
Sanriel, the deva of Sarenrae that sought to bring a halt to the end of all creation, had relayed stories about a cult that Dandelion, Calvoric, Grendel, and Jaeven had encountered. Bits of information conveyed through the years, when compared against what the deva had relayed about Wyver, the troll shaman, calling the other cultists "Vidjelu", makes you positive that this is the same hedonistic cult. She had spoken of the Cult of Vidjelu as wide-eyed humans in filthy robes, their unwashed bodies pungent with bodily excretions, move about in a bedlam of chaotic and oft sexualized activity only heightened by great volumes of sickly sweet psychoactive opiate smoke rising up from sacred braziers lit to make the air thick, languid, and hazy. These cultists had offered prayers of evisceration to fuel their rather brutal form of anthropomancy, some doing so on themselves, as they prostrated themselves to stave off the end of days, they chant in gurgling wheezes that betray that they have torn their own tongues out.
Ssilax and Argon remember reading about how the cultist's madness had abounded, as some cultists simply refused food and drink until they died, while others cannibalized their own flesh. Eyes were gouged out, bodies used for sexual gratification, and all other manners of unthinkable depravity.
The areas within the ring of mountains is Enwas and all that has gone around is a rumour has circulated 19 years prior that the Lich Lord Azthoh dwells in the mouldering remains of Enwas, among the statues of heroes of a time all but forgotten None have returned to speak of this place. It once was a great keep for a king long forgotten, only the statuary speaks of the deeds of those great dwarves, in an age before the time of darkness.
Argon finds no logical explanation for the lava's flow, and deduces that magic is involved.
The structure looks to have been carved by hand over the centuries, with each new occupant adding their own touches.
Perched atop a distant mountain is the silhouette of the black dragon, curled about its peak. It's slitted reptilian eyes mark your movements with alien intent.
After speaking with the others quietly about what he knows about the extremely deranged Cult of Vidjelu, the dragonkin looks at the distance silhouette of the dragon. Once more, a slight shudder runs down his spine. The ancient creature is large enough to still be seen from this distance. Ssilax could barely begin to imagine the things that the ancient black had seen, or the torments it had rained down upon those that displeased it. A frown flickers across his scaled muzzle, as he thinks of how.., unusual of a habit this was for a black dragon.
"I had thought that the cult had died out, that it seems, is wishful thinking. And on the the subject of wishful thinking, any thoughts on how we are going to get up there? Other than flying once more," Ssilax speaks up after a few moments of silently contemplating their surrounds. "My concern mainly lies in the rather large dragon that is watching us. My pessimistic nature is leaning more towards it this places guardian."
Ssilax looks back up at the ancient wyrm.
"I find it slightly ironic that I have wanted to meet a dragon my entire life, and right now, I would like nothing more for it to wander off somewhere else,' Ssilax says with a dry chuckle. "I seem to have very poor timing when it comes to such things."
"If you yell and wave your arms, you may be able to 'meet' it. As they say, I don't have to outrun the dragon -- I only have to outrun you!" jokes Argon.
"As for how we get up there, I guess we will have to walk. Our spiders seem to have tired. It's unfortunate that our gravelly voiced friend did not get us whistles that summoned giant dragonflies or the like..."
" Well the lava is one problem for sure and I'm bloody well not sleeping with him. I doubt that I'm THAT interesting to a dragon. " Daxniss says with a chuckle.
Argon keeps an eye on the dragon as he starts the ascent to the castle. He looks around for boulders or other possible places to shelter.