With Strange Aeons Even Death May Die

Game Master Synxol

The ink gains shape, resolving itself from vague discolouration to the dark, sharp lines of the sigils and runes of thaumaturgy.

It begins on your right cheek, under your eye and winds down around your face, around the back of your neck, and on down over one collarbone and into the neckline of your clothing. It emerges again winding down your arm and leg, finishing at the back of your left hand and over the bridge of your left foot. The designs lend a savage aspect to your appearance.

As the ink fills your flesh you are provided a glimpse into a possible future, one where you have accepted the curse of vampirism as a tool to stave off the encroaching darkness. Vampires are not creatures of this period of time, but from a world that is savage and brutal. Creatures of their ilk have slowly eroded entire civilizations to slake their thirst for blood.

The thought sends a shudder down your spine.

Dandelion is satisfied with the tribe's reactions to their request, and is grateful for the information that help themed frame the request best for such a situation. He enjoys the tribe's hospitality, and it reminds him of living with his father, and his mother too, in the forest, in a simpler fashion.

When Pribi asks about the tattoo, Dandelion nods and prepares for a painful operation, as he has sacred tattoos already which provide him luck. When it is all done, he likes the look of it, even on his face. Perhaps he would get more tattoos someday.

There is a sense of wrongness in the air which only gets stronger as you proceed forth into the belly of the unknown.

You three find no sentries, guards, or even a discernible barrier as you approach the cultists' encampment. Wide-eyed humans in filthy robes, their unwashed bodies pungent with bodily excretions, move about in a bedlam of chaotic and oft sexualized activity.

Darkness prevails, not because it is light, but because the wall of black obscures the sun, making it seem much like dusk. Braziers provide some degree of illumination, as do the strange meteors streaking across the sky and burning civilization to the ground.

Small tents bedeck the expansive area, each holding braziers that release great volumes of a sickly sweet smoke, making the air thick, languid and hazy. You feel your thoughts and movements dull enough to avoid the smoke and give your head time to clear.

Prayers rise up from those that prostrate themselves before the roiling wall of blackness, they chant in gurgling wheezes that betray that they have torn their own tongues out.

Makeshift altars are interspersed about the area speaking of the cultists' penchant for evisceration. They are practicing a rather brutal form of anthropomancy, as they attempt to gain information by reading human entrails; including some of the faithful reading their own. Madness abounds, as some cultists simply refuse food and drink until they die, while others cannibalize their own flesh. Eyes are gouged out, bodies are used for sexual gratification, and all other manner of unthinkable depravity.

A 10' wide corral, much like what would be used to hold animals, awaits in the centre of the chaos, surrounded by 3 braziers which are stoked high. Looking closer you realize that the corral is made out of the bones of hundreds of humans, and its grounds are caked in stone stained brown by gallons of tears and ichor: this is a place of slaughter.

You hear a commotion as 10 cultists return with two squirming and screaming boys, so young that their screams are indistinguishable from girls their same age, and throw them into the corral. They have been ill-treated, and cower from the cultists, crawling fearfully back towards the centre of the ring.

None make a move to stop you, even if you kill someone, or kick over the braziers, their rapt attention is upon the boys. You get close enough to touch the corral. The sense of "wrongness" about this area has doubled, and redoubled as you have approached this corral. Something is moving about within the corral, as you can see the ground being depressed under its invisible weight.

You remember the closest boy, tears and snot flowing down his face, as his head is simply crushed like a grape by unseen hands. His body goes limp, and the other wide-eyed boy is simply paralyzed with fear. Tendrils of the purest white energy erupts from the boy's eyes, gathering together to slither through the air, and reveal the outline of a mouth, which drinks it in.

Grendel quickly surveys the area, his plus pounding in his veins as he contemplated doing something very foolish. He looks to see if this seems to be the most important place is this site of filth. The sight of these cultist filled his throat with bile, their degradation knowing no bounds. Their willingness to worship something so.., wrong, flew in the face of all he held dear.

Desiring nothing more than to wipe them all out with cleansing, pure fire, Grendel pauses. The druid was begining to doubtthat would do anything but serve to power the entity behind the Darkness. Which rankles the druid to his very core. Murdering these fools would only be doing the evil that kills the land a favor. Still, it's a sacrifice that might have to be made.

The sight of the boy's head being crushed like a grape stuns the young druid. What he could only assume was the boys soul, or life force was goggled up by an mouth of an invisible horror. Perhaps the same type of horror that dissolved the multi-winged creatures that had crashed to the earth near Dewsdam.

"Run fool!" the druid hisses to the other child, paralyzed by fear. The youth had to break free of fears clutches to have any chance of survival. Grendel did want to last waste to the child if he could avoid doing so, a lesson he had learned with Jaevan.

Dandelion enters the camp feeling the entire thing is oh so unnatural. What could entice these people to behave like this. As he wanders around, he sees the braziers and how important they seem. He wonders if there is some alchemy produced in the smoke of them that makes the people go crazy. An idea forms in his head and he looks at Grendel and whispers.

"We could create water on all the braziers. That would stop the strange smoke, and also make it darker, giving us an advantage."

He looks around and does a quick, rough count - an estimation - of the number of braziers.

As they continue their unimpeded tour, Dandelion sees the two boys being corralled. And he witnesses the horror of one of them having his life snuffed out by some invisible force, likely something related to the chains from earlier. The question of how to save the other boy, for the first is already gone, enter his head, when Grendel just calls out to the boy. But Dandelion fears it is much too late. He wonders if he puts his shield between the boy and the.... god? Are they close enough?

Cal snarls slightly, angered by the distrubing sights that appearing before him, trying to figure out a better way to get the child out of his cage. Bringing the force of his magics from his Songs, calling into effect a simple why to detecting the aura's of magic.
"Burn the lock, if you are able too, I'll see if these bastards can handle the flames along with the sword. Dandelion, take care of the braziers and the the smoke, get the child out, perhaps the... thing will go after the freaks." Cal whispers to the others

Meagre light and a great deal of smoke flows forth from perhaps 29 tents bearing braziers, probably 19 other braziers randomly placed about the area, and the 3 braziers that surround the corral.

Magically-conjured water falls heavily upon two of the three braziers surrounding the corral, dousing them and removing two light sources. It is an immediate positive in that it lessens the smoke that thickens the air, which helps your thoughts to flow like quicksilver, rather than chilled molasses.

Calvoric cuts down the closest cultist and screams out in agony, momentarily blinded as he opens his eyes to the spectrum of magic, which is absolutely dominated by the stream of energy flowing forth from the boy's eyes. It is his very soul being drawn forth to feed something inhuman. Blinking a few times restores his sight, though he is still distracted with the afterimage.

Harvested bones, still bearing chunks of flesh and stained with blood, have been lashed together with either strips of the intestines, ligaments, or tendons. The macabre structure forms a roughly circular 10' wide and 4' high corral with large enough gaps interspaced about it to see through, but not for an adult to escape.

A child is another matter.

The remaining boy clutches to Grendel's words like a drowning man would to a log while asea, and crawls through the makeshift barrier, tearing his soft skin in a number of places, his retreat protected by Dandelion's shield, throwing himself into the awaiting half-orcs' arms and laying all but senseless as he watches the other boy's lifeless body.

Killing a cultist, or meddling with their sacred opium fire, is acceptable, for in chaos all things are valid.

Unless you steal the sacrifice.

Stealing the sacrifice brings forth rage-filled screams and the cultists gather up weaponry to tear you asunder. There are hundreds of them starting to rise to lay waste to you 4, and though you doubt their combat prowess, they will likely bring you down by the sheer mass of their numbers alone; especially since they do not seem to care about pain or dying.

You catch a glimpse of Jaevan, about 140' away, sliding along like a limping shadow until an opportunity avails itself to lay open a cultist's throat, his hand over the woman's mouth as he lowers her corpse silently to the ground.

You hear the invisible creature within the corral for the first time, an inhuman low growl that makes the animalistic part of your brain scream for you to hie away as fast as your legs will permit. Something unseen smashes the corral wall before you with a giant's strength throwing shards of bone into your skin and drawing blood.

White energy continues to flow forth from the malformed skull via the conduit of the dead boys lifeless eyes, which becomes especially bright in the half light.

You are left with all manner of nightmares to consider what awaits you as soon as the creature is done feeding.

Taken a step backwards, Grendel begins to summon up his will as he begins to shape a ritual. He does so defensively, knowing that he is less than seconds away from battle. The druid momentarily regrets having Nagrish hide in the form of a small statue, but it seemed wise at the time. The wrongness that radiates from the center of the corral, is worse than the evil that surrounds the corral itself.

What ever it was was not a natural being. The druid was hoping it was acting as a mouth piece for the Darkness.

"Hungry big fella? I got a little taste of something for you!" Grendel snarls as his hands jet into the air as he wills the ritual of Flame Strike. He acts as a conduit for the cleansing flame to wash the horror free from the All Mother.

As soon as he is able (which might be a moment), Grendel plans to grab Cal by the back of his shirt and flee. The druid had a few more tricks up his sleeve, but he really wanted to put some distance in between himself and that corral.

"I dont' know if we should - " Dandelion stops as Grendel casts his fiery spell. The thing seemed overly powerful, but perhaps the three of them... But there are so many cultists, and only three of them. He looks for a possible route to run away, towards Jaevan if possible.

Cal manages to take a step back, trying to use his sword to help defend himself, bringing the words of the magic that rested inside his mind. The spell would help shield himself from others trying to attack him, defensive spells were going to be of more use at the moment.

Spidery tendrils of black slide through the boy's blood vessels, as the phage drinks the very essence of the fallen boy's existence. Flesh wrinkles and collapses in upon itself, reminiscent of a number of the corpses you saw as you marched in the blackness not so long ago.

Druidic magic brings forth a vertical cylinder of fire, momentarily lighting up the area and burning the creature and the boy's body, severing the connection. There is not cry out in pain, though the wash of flames had provided you a glimpse of a hunched over shape much larger than a man. There is a smell of something burning, which you cannot place for you have never smelled anything like that before. It appears that you have hurt the creature.

Calvoric takes a step backward and raises his guard, which is all that saves his life as the invisible creature rips wickedly sharp claws across his face, neck and upper chest; the wounds a cursed mix of poison and disease. Its second blow is foiled by the magical shield and the bard's defensive posture. Blood stains the creatures 7 claws, droplets of blood mingling with the rest of the blood within the corral. Ragged lines of flesh hang from the bard's horrific wounds, and he finds it difficult to catch his breath. A moment later washes the feeling of despoliation from his tissues; the area around his tattoo providing a strange feeling as the thaumaturgical magics counter the effect of the curse. His tattoo is almost imperceptibly less sharp than it was before the attack.

Initially it appears that Jaevan had disappeared, but following the trail of dead bodies leads Dandelion to the silent rogue as he stands over the body of an aged man. The cultists sprint forth in a disorganized fashion, those closest eating up the ground much faster than those behind them, and every second in this place decreases the chance of avoiding battling all of the cultists to cut free.

Wave after wave of cultists throw themselves at the group, forcing them to adopt a defensive posture.

It is a ruse.

No attack lands, they had simply sought to get between you and the corral, tearing the boy free of your arms. The nigh-catatonic boy is thrown back into the corral, his high screams piercing your ears. The cultists link arms to form a wall of humanity, turning their backs on you, and the barrier of bodies grows thicker with each passing moment. The cultists fearlessly meet their own deaths, sliding in to fill any gaps that might be exploited, until the inevitable happens: the second boy's skull is shattered and the creature begins to feed upon its life force.

Cultists slowly return to other activities, choosing not to bear witness to the creature feeding upon an innocent, with heavy and forlorn steps. You witness no sign of human emotion in their stoned eyes.

Perhaps the second child is the lesser of the two, since the feeding is over almost as quickly as it begins and the presence of the wounded creature melts away in the direction of the darkness as evinced by the drips of the bard's blood upon the creature's claws.

Jaevan drives a dagger into a passing cultist's eye hard enough that the guard cracks the woman's orbital bone. He is not much of a communicator, but he is very efficient at meting out death it appears.

A moment later and there are two husks of the children, and the cultists simply wander away to rejoin their hedonistic pleasures.

Mentally prepared for the onrushing horde of cultist, Grendel was not prepared for the what they had planned. The druid realized all to late what they had intended to do with their mass of flesh and insanity. Unable to do anything as the the second child was thrown into the corral, Grendel's limbs went slack. The cultist went back to what they where doing before the group had arrived.

Grendel's mind races as he looks around, eyeing the corral. The druid was certain he had annoyed it. 'Of course, it might have struck out because it's.., "meal" was interrupted,' the half-orc thinks, trying focus on staying alive and figuring out what they where going to do next.

They hadn't really learned much other than something horrible unnatural was here, feeding off the souls of the innocent. 'Which is almost exactly what Cal said when he tried to read their journal with his magic,' Grendel thinks. He had believed it then, seeing the proof with his own eyes was something he could have survived never seeing.

"Now what," the druid mutters as he mis-matched eyes keep moving.

Dandelion watches as the cultists give further examples of their strange behavior. It seems the only thing they care about, aside from their own twisted gratifications, is the ritual at the corral.

He feels sorry for that boy - they had him, and thought they had saved him, but it was not to be.

He gets an idea and relays it to the others. "Instead of killing their master, we can deal with the cultists - witness what Jaeven has been doing. Not that we need to do the same. But if we extinguish all the flames and get the smoke out of here, they might start behaving like people again... Perhaps then we can talk to them and find out more. As for killing or stopping that thing, I have no ideas at the moment, aside from fire."

It is much darker than it was not long before, glancing about you realize that the latest of the fire storms in the sky had ended at some point.

Two packs of cultists wordlessly form up and wander far afield; likely in search of new sacrifices. Others return to their sexual deviancy, some move to prostrate themselves before the wall of blackness (which you noticed has advanced a tiny bit), but the majority accomplish very little except to draw in the opiate smoke taking part in meaningless activities. Bodies are dragged to altars for evisceration.

Anthropomancy is a valid, if disgusting form of augury, and well known to anyone with any training in arcana. It is reputed to provide powerful portents into the future via divination. Tongues are useful for such magics though, and you see no evidence of spell casting activities.

You each find a number of items that can help you with your journeys. Jaevan dons boots from one of the cultists he had put down and continues his efficient search of the bodies, pocketing items here and there.

Calvoric looks about ready to collapse, his blood flows free from the long rake lines on his body.

Magical water obliterates brazier after brazier, thinning the air, and also removing sources of illumination. Dousing the braziers brings out a reaction, but likely not how you would have imagined.

As Dandelion opens a tent flap to douse the brazier within a meaty hand grabs him around the throat and he is bodily pulled from the ground as the creature exits the tent. Lumbering forth is, upon first impression, an enormous 14' human with broad, thick shoulders and two solid, tree-trunk arms stretching down to almost drag on the ground. At further glance, its skin is a sickly, greenish hue and its eyes are pools of inky blackness. Its face is long and angular, with a solid, pointy chin and a crooked, hawkish nose, and its hair looks more like a mat of forest weeds and rests tangled and greasy on its heavy brow. Its hands end in razor-sharp claws and its body seems taut and agile despite its size.

Each of you have heard enough horror stories to be familiar with trolls, and what they can do, which is mainly to avoid them and run if needs be.

The troll looks Dandelion in the eye conveying an air of unsettled violence about it. Glancing about he realizes just how scattered the group had become in the process of removing nearly 60 braziers, though the thought is likely to be the last one as his feet dangle several feet above the ground; he is rapidly suffocating. It becomes painfully obvious how fragile a half-orc's neck appears to be.

Fetid breath is an attack unto itself as the troll and demands of Dandelion, "What do you want?" Glancing about it growls low in its throat and yells at everyone else, "Leave the sacred fire be, fools."

Everyone hears its booming voice, though the closest is still a distance away. Cultists all thrown themselves to their knees, staring at the troll with their fingers on their temples.

It's more than a little creepy.

Dandelion is dropped lack a sack of grain on the ground and the troll orders the cultists to find their feet and relight the braziers. He calls the cultists "Vidjelu", which is not a word that any of you know. He walks on grumbling under its breath in the giant tongue the entire way about "weal or woe, they snuff out the incense, insolent pups" as he moves to the closest altar and begins tearing into the body of a dead cultist in search of the future via the woman's entrails. An emanation of magic gathers over the area as the troll beseeches the forces of primal magics in a voice purposefully made as quiet as possible to deliver him the information he seeks.

Beady black eyes widen and fix upon the party with newly found respect. His entire demeanour shifts and he nods to them with something approaching respect.

Braziers have been relit, and all members of the group are able to gather in close proximity.

Jaevan wields two daggers and slinks into the shadows of a tent.

It speaks in flawless Common as it licks clean its hands of gore, "I have seen portents of the death of the world. Sacrifices are made to slow the advance of the black." He admits to knowing little more than: there are creatures who must be fed or the world will fall within two tendays, and even feeding them will perhaps buy as much as another tenday.

The troll opens up its own entrails as well. Claws rakes its abdomen, spilling forth slimy grey intestines. It hurts, that is plainly obvious, and the damage is so extensive that you feel that you could quite easily put this creature down.

You recognize a very similar process to the last divination magics that were cast. While none of you are not positive, you imagine both spells to be similar to an augury, but much more powerful. This time the intestines twitch with peristaltic motions, and quiver with the creature's blood flow.

The troll is in agony, and very pale from the damage and blood loss, "What do you seek hunters? One specific question is all you can ask about something to happe...be quick, before I succumb to the blood loss."

Cal spends time closing his wounds with magic, expending most of his songs on stopping the flow of blood. Sastified that for the most part he was in less danger of immediate danger, spending more time in shadows looking for anything that could tell the group more about what the cultist's plans.
The bard was angry that much could be seen by his expression, but killing all the cultists would do no good if they were part of the problem that is. Still those that had crept to close with offers the bard silenced.
Bits of paper a few books, might be located, along with a few other odds and ends that catch the bard's eye. Still if this had been a cult that worship death, this puzzle within puzzles and no clues was vexing to say the least.
Spotting Dandelion being picked up by a troll the bard started to move quickly forward. A spell coming to his mind, one that the troll would feel the burning rage of Calvoric disapproval.
Cal stopped moving forward when the troll dropped Dandelion, this was something different.

Dandelion groans and sits up, and then stands. He rubs his neck, and moves it around, cracking it so he can feel it in his bones. He is confused as the Troll first starts auguring. Dandelion is familiar with such practices, for he does the same on animals on occasion.

Soon enough, the Troll asks his question of them. Many come to mind for the large half-orc, but only one is important. He says it before he wavers, or shows fear. "How can the darkness be stopped before it envelops everything here?" They seem to be slowing it down, but could it be stopped?

While you find nothing to further explain the purpose behind the actions of the Cult of Vidjelu, taking a moment to consider what you have seen thus far might provide some insight:

• Whatever they believe, they believe it enough to tear their tongue out for it, and to die for if needs be. You have seen cultist's tearing their own flesh to expedite their divinations, or perhaps they are simply emulating the troll, yet humans have almost no chance of surviving such an action.
  
• They are willing to sacrifice themselves rather than attack the group to ensure the ritual of feeding takes place. This seems counterintuitive considering how much damage they could cause with the use of force considering their numbers.
  
• They collect innocent sacrifices; if the troll's words can be trusted that this is indeed a selfless act to slow the coming of the inevitable apocalypse.
  
• Possibly the most profound insight comes from their cultists' heavy, forlorn steps as they turned away from the young boy before he was slaughtered. Perhaps it came from a place of hopelessness, or the drugs they have ingested, but then again it could be a sign of sorrow. If it was the latter, then the opiate smoke might be to dull their senses so they don't feel the heartache of their role, or perhaps to dull the senses of those to be sacrificed.

Dandelion's words are repeated verbatim several times over the next handful of minutes, the troll's blood staining its hands as it probes through its own viscera in search of answers.

Finally it's eyes go blood red, its spine snaps straight and it speaks in an otherworldly voice, "The portal between worlds must be closed. The dreams of the abducted must end."

Wyver, the troll shaman, collapses from the blood loss and is barely breathing. Given enough time you are confident that the troll's regenerative abilities will permit the creature to recover.

At the sight of the troll, Grendel barely had time to blink, let alone react, before the beast had snatched up Dandelion as if he was a sack of grain. The druid was about to draw his scimitar when the troll boomed out , seemingly everywhere at once.

The events rapidly unfold, as the druid observes and tries to make sense of what he hears from the Troll. The same creature that looked ready to kill them, then gutted a corpse. And then turns around looking at them with something akin to respect. Which had slightly unnerved the half-orc, truth be told. 'Hells, this whole day has been pretty much insane,' the druid thinks to himself, rubbing his temples.

The worst part of the whole thing, was that Grendel actually believed the Troll. It was complete insanity, but a glance at the wall of Blackness was all the reminder that madness was currently the ruling party. Looking at Cal, the druid focuses his will and uses a curing ritual that will help with the bard's light wounds. He could do more once they where back on the ship.

"Well, that just means we have to find this portal and close it, and wake a bunch of dreaming people up," Grendel says looking at the other two. His voice sounds heavy, and the druid's shoulders are slightly slumped. "Sounds easy."

Mis-matched eyes looking over the encampment once more, his gaze lingers on the corral for a few moments.

"I guess we've learned what we came to find out," the druid says grimly. "Let's get the hell out of this place."

A tenday is spent aboard ship as the group recovers and considers all they have learned.

The ship is returned to the Tilestu, and Pribi bids the group a fond farewell, having joined the others from the outpost of Stormhold, which they razed behind themselves.

You learn that Jaevan had been retained as a bodyguard for Corros, but the strength of arms around the older man had eliminated the need, and he continues to shadow the group, which is not surprising since everyone has a stake in the game that the trio of half-orcs are playing.

If Wyver was correct then there is a tenday between now and the end of the world, or two tendays if the Cult of Vidjelu has continued to sacrifice innocents to the monsters of the night.

A decision awaits of where the group will go from here.

Gather round as this is the tale of three who would be a dying world's last gasp, three who would either save the world or fail. The story starts as all do, by chance; Grendel Varax Kunndas, a prince far from the rites of succession, trained by the druids. Grendel had completed his training and went to see what lies beyond the desert sands for reasons known only by him. His turn of luck allowed him to survive his ship, along with Nargash, after two weeks surviving on the ship wreak, he reaches land.
The land would welcome him with another half-orc, oracle by training that nature herself had given some of her secrets. Dandelion who had given his ability to hear, as the Mother herself whispered in his ears thus, he lost the one sense and was given so much more. Dandelion had wondered in the forests, feeling more at ease surrounded by nature shying away from the cities and towns, searching for a place to belong or at least live on the outskirts of the land. The world doesn't always treat those that are born different with love, in fact fear and hate is the normal for those that fate or happenstance to be half breeds.
The two met up on the shores, which was close to the city of Dewsdam, a port city, it was as good a place as any for two travelers to find information. At the very least it would give Grendel a chance to dry out fully, bathe, and some information on where he was. For Dandelion it might be as good as a place as any, for whatever the oracle could find.
Calvoric Tsador, the half-orc bard had gotten off a wagon here, as his coinage had run dry for the moment. The half-orc had no memory of his earliest years, found by a wondering troupe of entertaintors Calvoric was near death, the wounds of his body were made by serrated edge weapons. The child clung to life by threads, the half-elf Alrishmindin Tsadorivon took the child and tended to his wounds. Alrishmindin had lost his wife in childbirth along with his infant daughter, decided that he would care for the half-orc. Raising him to be another helping hand for the troupe, he imparted as much tricks that Calvoric could learn.
Calvoric or Cal to his friends had been to Dewsdam before, knowing that he could make enough coin to fund his passage on either a ship or wagon, for the bard had little worries to where he was going had been in Dewsdam for a week.
On the same evening that Grendel, his animal companion, and Dandelion wondered into the tavern " The Gilded Wyvren " where, as fate would have it, Cal was plying his trade, telling tales and keeping the crowd happy enough.
Cal looked at the three entering the tavern and felt spent a little time on one of his breaks, talking with the other two half-orcs. Shortly there after, the door to the tavern burst open as a man had come into the first building he found, beseeching aid for adventures that had been in town not that long ago.
The boy just barely into the middle of his teens, had been out, perhaps to deliver food to four adventures or, getting in from the fields, had found two folk; one near death the other, dead. It would turn out the near dead one was an adventure who went by the name of Dimqu, the hunk of meat lying in the cart was name Xelien who, would not be answering anything sense he had passed from the mortal coil.
Dimqu passed from her wounds at the time the three did not know what managed to end her life. They went looking for evidence of a campsite or, for a battles sight that would give them a clue to what caused such savage wounds. What they found was a destroyed campsite, along with the the start of something called the blight.
After a little bit of searching the three found something strange indeed a force that froze things at the touch along with spreading rot through out every living being. Dandelion had taken a stick that helped probe where the "Chain" of blight was at, along with his arm that lost a number of layers of skin and blood.
The three went back into Dewsdam, looking for more information about those that cast no shadow, along with what could cause this blight. A number of days would pass before information of those that cast no shadow could be found: Vampires Xelien and Dimqu were still 'alive' if you could call it living. The two had succumbed to the state of undeath, where the light of the sun would take them to their final resting place.
Xelien and Dimqu had two others with them, Bragh was another member of the adventuring party, the four of them were looking into the cause of the blight, worried that it might spread through out the land. The three found after a tenday, another victim, drained of his blood, along with a trail leading to the outskirts of town.
No sooner then they reached the end of the footprints, then the skies turned to the darkest black. A storm of fire, the sky itself was blocked out, no longer could the sun be found for miles. After running for cover the three of them would find a hole in the ground that would hide a creature that lived in the dark; a vampire.
The three half-orcs were overpowered quickly, as vampires are difficult foes, for those that are not properly prepared for fights against vampires. Still after being captured, drained of blood, along with being staked to the walls of the creatures lair. They pulled themselves off from their bounds, damaged, beaten, but not broken the pressed on, looking for a way to escape from a vampires lair.
Another lost soul was staked into the wall, after some discussion they freed the man who was kept as food for a vampire. Moving past a heap of corpses, they found a few items, along with a tome. The Tome Calvoric would call a " Tome O' Madness", for the contents of what it held were phobia inducing at the very least.
The three of them would never find out who the prisoner was, as the vampire returned to feed off it's larder. However, the walls of the 'mine' or better yet, underground passage were weak and prone to cave ins.
The unknown man gave his what was left of his life, along with the walls and ceiling to stop the vampire from pursing Grendel, Dandelion, Calvoric, and Nargrish, now they were trapped, safe from the vampire at the very least.
Not stopping to moan at their fate, they managed to dig there way out and to the surface where, the sun no longer showed in the air. A former church now a ruins, lay before them. Making a note of where the ruins lied, they trekked back to Dewsdam where, they hoped to find supplies or at the very least help.
What they found was a city filled with the dead, no one had survived in the city, as beings crashed from the heavens, onto the mortal plane, dead. Taking a number of supplies with damaged bodies, they left for another city, hoping to find some other living beings.
Upon their travels, Calvoric used his bardic abilities to read from the Tome, the result, left the bard with a hint of darkness nay, Madness. Knowledge was gained, he found that there was a being that was consuming all of the life out of this world. After the brief period in which the bard was unable to speak clearly, he regained his senses.
The rain from the sky burned, acidic in nature, it seemed to help spread the corruption further. All of them headed for the nearest city, finding a small gang of ogres, carrying sacks. The damaged three were successful in putting the ogres into the ground after which they opened the sacks. The sacks contained children, alive and frightened, after all hope was still important to say the least.
The children were from the keep of Stormhold which, was under siege from a number of orcs, giants, and other monstrous beings. After a minor misunderstanding (to say the least) the half-orcs woke up in Stormhold alive.
After a day of rest, they agreed to seek out the city of Muaem, enjoying the company of the children that the three of them had saved, along with folk that were not dead. Still, the trek to Muaem was not without peril for the half-orcs, a giant mistook them for orcs and wondered off in search of better tasting beings.
Upon reaching the city of Muaem, the half-orcs followed a path, that would take them under a city that was also under siege. The bard had talked to a thief that had managed to escape from the underground passageway.
They found a golem that asked them a riddle, which Dandelion and Grendel both had the answer too, as the bard was still thinking of a correct answer. They followed the golem made of glass, through many traps, to the passageway that was formerly known as the royal palace.
They found themselves into a town under siege, searching for a tavern they quickly found a safe haven... for the moment that is. Throughout their searching for more information the half-orcs had found a tattoo design done by a gnomish woman, who had the talent of inscribing protection against a form of corruption.
That corruption had ended the lives of the four who had set out to end the spread of the blight. The two Paladins of the group had failed in there task, it was now the three half-orcs task to save the world.
The monsters that were laying siege broke through the walls of the city of Muaem, the half-orcs saved as many townsfolk as they were able too alas only 147 people were saved from their fate. The half-orcs brought them survivours back to Stormhold however, the people of Stormhold had places for them to stay but not enough supplies.
Grendel, Dandelion, and Calvoric agreed to get help from the barbarians tribes. Along the way they met a frost giant who, was trying to find a survivor for a nice tasty snack, Jaevan. The man was so quiet, that he had managed to do hit and run attacks against a much more dangerous foe.
Grendel, in a splendor of druid ability and magic, smote the frost giant after Calvoric had informed the other's on what the frost giant was weak against. Jaevan survived and the barbarian tribe was convinced thanks to Dandelion's words, to assist the folk of Stormhold. Along with Dandelion;s words, Grendel's trophies, and a little bit of harmony from a bard; they also borrowed the chief's ship to sail into the lands of the cultists. On the ship ride to the lair of the cultist's, the half-orcs had Pribi the gnome tattoo artist, to ply her trade with her protection tattoos.
After tendays of travel by ship, they found the lair of the cultist who, were using living sacrifices to hold off the creatures that were sent out to devour the living. After a brief battle the half-orcs found that the cult was trying to buy time for the nemesis to be locked out of the realm of mortals.
It took a troll, stopping them from putting out all of the ritual fires and incense. That troll preformed magic to find out why the half-orcs were attacking the cultists, along with the three's mission. The troll informed them, that they only way to stop the nemesis from winning was to close the portal between worlds.

Returning to the ship, Grendel had quite, lost in his own thoughts. The druid was partially surprised at himself for so completely believing what the Troll had told them. Unfortunately, what the shamanistic troll tale had the ring of truth to it, not to mention the cult itself. The longer he thought about the peoples and their action, they did seem to be enjoying throwing sacrifices in the corral. For everything else that was taking place, not one of them really celebrated the sacrifice. Had they been the ones to bring the Darkness, the druid was certain they would have been ecstatic during the sacrifice.

Grendel did share his thoughts concerning the cult, and what they had learned, with the others the first night back on the ship. The daytime had seen the druid shift into swirling form of an air elemental. The spinning clouds, shifting funnels of air clung together in a large, vaguely humanoid shape. The druid had floated behind the sail, control the winds to speed their journey back to the barbarians. Grendel spent most of that day shaping the wind. The next day, he spent even longer, close to 10 hours, speeding them along.

Returning Nagrish to flesh, rather than a small statue, the Druid was a bit perplexed and surprised at the sight of the desert cougar. The cat was about the size of tiger now. Grendel had known that his animal companion would become more powerful as he traveled with him. The increase in the companions size had apparently been left out of that conversation. He watched as the desert cougar licked a paw clean, as one of the barbarian sailors moved it to touch the cat. With a blur of movement, the cat spins and leaps on the barbarian. Six inch fangs gleam as he holds the sailor on the deck, a low growl rumbling out of the big cat. Getting his point across, the desert cat lets go of the mans throat, which didn't have a mark on it.

"Well, where do we think these portals might be?" Grendel asks as they sat together the second night on the ship. They had time before they arrived at the Tilestu's camp, so it wouldn't hurt for them to figure out their next move. "I'm wondering if they are where the chains that are coming out of the sky. That's about the only place I can think of, off the top of my head."

Calvoric spent more time on puzzling out where the portal could be at " Perhaps the portal lies in the ruins that we found by the vampire, sadly we don't have a clear idea. As for what we just saw, that was strange to say the least." Cal says to the others on the evening of the second day.

While the group considers their next step the warmth of the land grows hotter and hotter until it is nearly unbearable, and the areas of darkness continue to crawl unchecked across the lands. Off and on fire scorches the umbral sky. Hundreds of thousands of lances of white-hot fire, trailing luminous purple vapour and sparkles of yellow light relentlessly collide with the ground with explosive force. This bombardment continues for hours, but your luck holds and you're able to keep sailing.

As the druid's words fill the ears of those gathered, and Jaevan not far away leaning against the railing, the half-orcs harken back to the bloodstained hemp rope the trio found proximal to the strange "chain", which matched the wounds on the ravaged Dimqu's hands. Dandelion had observed what you imagined to be the other end of the rope fluttering some 150' above the ground. A slid down the rope and a fall had been a possible explanation of Dimqu's abraded hands and broken bones.

Pribi had mentioned hearing the doomed group speaking of "evil creatures being able to ascend." This was interesting since you were unable to touch the chain, and if indeed the other group had two paladins in their complement they certainly would not be able to complete an ascent up the links of the chain.

Unless they were vampires; creatures of unspeakable evil hopefully restrained by their magical tattoos.

They had purchased great quantities of rope, but no pitons, which would also corroborate a climb of something that you could not slam a metal wedge into. It would also necessitate something like Slippers of Climbing, which you found in Bragh's possession.

You are certain that the doomed party got to a place you have never seen before, as the sketches show clearly horrific vistas and monsters.

Xelien and Dimqu were found at the base of the chains sporting injuries that could not be explained considering the surroundings, though the stream would account for Xelien being burned as bad as he was; and you are aware that Bragh was close, since his hide was only a handful of miles away.

The "ancient, slithering evil" is feeding on "goodly and lowly creatures from beyond the known world" and you have witnessed creature with an alien voice falling from great heights, and even saw one face-to-face, and the creature that plummeted to the ground was unlike anything you have ever seen before.

As you consider your options your eyes play over the small sack bearing well-protected phials, yet when you found them some had been shattered; perhaps by a fall.

Calvoric had heard of another "chain" many many miles away from the one you found, and the disappearances had been reported far and wide. Possibly there were many ways to get into this realm.

The doomed group had gathered near Dewsdam before setting out, and been found a mile and more away from Dewsdam, at the site of the "chain".

Dandelion nods at Grendel's statement. "I thought so too, the chains. I can think of no other place the portal might be, so it might be anywhere at all. But the chain... the only way to climb it would be to be evil, or perhaps using some magic. Ah, I might be able to let us walk up without touching the chain."

He wonders if, reaching the portal, there might be some other requirement to be tainted of heart. They would have no way of knowing... unless, the book.

"Cal, did you learn anything about the other realm at the top of the chains, when you read the journal?"

Jaevan busies himself using sea water to wipe blood from the leather housing of the goggles you saw him lift from one of the cultists. The lenses are made of a violet crystal, and when he dons them it gives him a slightly bug-like appearance. More importantly the Goggles of Night permit him to operate alongside the group of half-orcs without slowing them down.

Means both magical and possibly mundane are likely to permit the group to ascend without coming into contact with the strange chain, and ignoring the possibilities of dying from a falling so far to the ground, there is the question if the realm beyond has the same qualities as the chain then the first person to come in contact with it will die a death as horrific as the impatient guard you had met.

Casting lots to determine who would touch the alien surround first might be the last action of the one least loved by the Norns.

Calvoric had delved deep into the waters of madness to return with prophetic words, his speech had been affected as he slowly tried to push the gibbering horrors aside and return to what the races of man called "reality" once more, and the plunge had left him scarred. To go deeper was incomprehensible, for he knew not what creatures awaited him in the depths, and was dubious that he would ever be able to return. Dimqu, Xelien, and Bragh act as possible exemplars of what happens when one looks too deeply into the darkness.

He had returned with the shreds of his sanity, and the following, "An ancient, slithering evil dwells within a previously unknown land beyond the shadow chains, and it is feeding on the essence of goodly and lowly creatures from beyond the known world who are battling it even now." Considering his words has one part of the prophesy standing out...

Beyond the shadow chains.

You find yourself still talking about your next step in bits and pieces throughout your journey, still working towards consensus as you dock, watch Pribi depart, and return the ship to the Tilestu.

Corros hands a small sack that jingles and thanks him for his service these last few months.

You are lauded as returning heroes, your fame well established by the survivors of Muaem and the Stormhold as well. The Tilestu clap you on your backs and look to drink and celebrate with you. An eyeless half-rotten frost giant's head adorns a pike not far from your location.

Now is the time for action. Words can be exchanged on the road if needs be.

"Well, I guess we just have to become vampires and climb up the chain. That should be exciting," Grendel says, mis-matched looking out into the distance as they begin the trek back to Dewsdam. "If it wasn't for the death of all life, I wouldn't even be having this conversation. It's possible I'll lose all of my druidic powers once I.. once I die and come back." Grendel rubs his face with both hands. The druid sighs, looking over at Nagrish.

"I'll have to release Nagrish before we go in, and I'll bury Ichi before we get into the Darkness," Grendel rubs behind the desert cougar's ears, being rewarded with a throaty growling purr.

The day before leaving, Dandelion had provided food for many, using the forces of the Mother to conjure food and water up from nothing. He performed the ritual seven times that day, and told them the food must be eaten within the day or it would go bad. In total, there was enough food for more than two hundred humans, for a whole day.

Now, on the dark road back, Dandelion sighs. "We have the ink. I guess it is the only way. I only hope we'll be more successful than the first group."

The group heads back to Dewsdam. Dandelion's new backpack holds possibly a hundred pounds of gear, but it seems like it only weighs a few pounds, and that helps his progress.

They would need to see if the chain is still there, and one more thing Dandelion does not want to think about. The vampire. He wonders if they will let it infect them - kill them, actually, and then kill him. It is the ultimate sacrifice, but considering how many have died, how many have been sacrificed to that invisible soul devourer, and how many more will perish before it is all over, it does not seem like too great a price to pay.

Darkness envelops the party fully a mile from where you left it previously, as the black advances, and you are drawn in with ease to the nightmare world you once escaped.

Following the River Ibey invites attacks, but your newly found strength sends creatures scurrying away from you, helps them draw their last breath, or provides you ample ability to avoid combat.

Sodden ash chokes everything staining everything a uniform grey, and the poisonous mist obscures as much as the blackness does.

Your wounds are few, but those are very slow to heal, and healing magics seem much less potent, as before.

You find no reprieve in sleep due to the immediate onslaught of your nightmares: The dead dominate your dreams, but as withered shadows of their former selves writhing in eternal agony, their mouths open in silent screams. Amongst those you have met, and those you have loved, is a barrage of fleeting images of paper-thin amorphous creatures fashioned of a grey transparent material haunt your dreams. More than once in the night you wake up screaming, ragged breaths gasping for air, your skin crawling with sweat, and your eyes wide with fright. Each night is like this, and you grow more and more tired with the passage of days.

Storms light the sky as do the lances of white-hot fire as the bodies continue to fall.

You find the charred remains of Dewsdam and then the "chain", and the feeling of uncleanliness about it is felt nearly 500' away and it only grows more intense as you approach. Animal corpses lay all over, and each has been drained of its blood post mortem, which is a tip off of what is to come.

You do not find the vampire so much as it finds you while it hunts for kine to drain. This time is different, for this time Bragh returns with a scourge of vampires.

Bragh looks ancient, with eyes reminiscent of cataracts. Flakes of dead flesh fall down from the corners of his mouth. Brittle hair, like dried straw, had mostly broken off to the length of a finger, but here and there are longer strands the colour of bread mould that brush his shoulders. His laugh is full of cobwebs and sandpaper. There is no warmth to him, no humanity, no kindness, no joy. A tattooless withered human shell, held aloft by a nightmare. Its teeth are yellowed, like a corpse, not fanged as some stories say.

The end of the battle was inevitable.

They never stood a chance.

The feral vampire, shows no restraint, lays at your feet whimpering and trying to bite you. It bindings digging into it as it screams out in its blood lust. Other vampires lay mangled, but not surprisingly still alive.

During the battle Jaevan had been knocked back into the chain, and had simply pushed back off of it and continued fighting. He shows no ill effects of the contact with the chain, and does not look to be bothered by the proximity to it.

Cal was glad the ring that he bad picked up negated his need for food and drink, as well as reducing his need for sleep, as when he had spent time looking for new books and other objects, the ring had stood out.
As for the thought of becoming a vampire, that didn't suit well with the bard, however if that was truly the best way to get up the chains, as he had no way of flying, so be it. It wasn't like anyone would say that the curse of Vampire-ism, had to be permanent, if there was no cure, it was due to the fact that other's had perhaps not looked hard enough for it.
" If the chains are the only way up to the portal and we have no way of flying up the chains.... fine, after we save the world, we'll look for the cure to being the shadowless undead." Cal finishes with a grin. The bard thinks hard about the story he had heard, wondering if the location of the first chain had a ruined temple nearby, it wasn't as if they had much of a choice but if there was a better option the bard really wanted to consider it. Noticing that Jaevan hadn't taken any effects from his contact with the chain, the bard shakes his head.

A ruined church perches over Bragh's hide, which is a handful of miles from the first chain that the group found. Regarding specific details of the surround of the other chain, Calvoric is unaware.

As to how vampires are reputed to create their spawn, Calvoric is well aware: A vampire can create spawn out of those it slays with by draining its blood or the drain of energy that accompanies some of its attacks. The victim rises from death as a vampire in few days. This vampire appears under the command of the vampire that created it, as the scourge of vampires that accompanied Bragh appears to be, and remains enslaved until its master's destruction. A vampire may have a limited number of enslaved spawn, which means the group must free these enslaved spawn in order to enslave a new spawn. Once freed, a vampire or vampire spawn cannot be enslaved again.

The scourge is easily dispatched, leaving only Bragh. Lances of white-hot fire are reflected in the creatures soulless eyes.

Finishing the last of the pack of spawn off, Grendel walks back with Jaevan. A goodly distance away from the bound vampire, the druid speaks to the human. He did notice that Jaevan had bumped into the chains and been unharmed. It was either from some type of magical protection, or the man's nature was more agreeable to the Darkness.

"Jaevan, once we turn, it'd be best if you finished off that one," Grendel nods towards the remaining vampire. "Since it looks like you won't need the protection we do to climb the chain."

Once the druid had rejoined Dandelion and Calvoric, he looks down at Bragh. Gremdel's expression was neutral as the druid looks down at his future. He was glad he had freed Nagrish, the cat didn't deserve to follow him here. The druid's final gift to the big cat was to Awaken his mind, allowing him the best chance at survival far away from the desert. The two had spent a little bit of time by the grove where Grendel had laid Ichi to rest,

"I guess I'll go first then," Grendel speaks up, pulling himself out of his thoughts. "Unless we can get the same results from drinking Bragh's blood, as opposed to the other way?" the druid looks over at Cal, a faint look of hope in his mis-matched eyes.

Unless the bard tells him yes, the druid moves closer to the bound vampire.

"Alright Bragh, we're here to finish up what you, Dimqu, Xelien, and Aryaa could not do," Grendel says to the feral looking undead creature. The druid has a sharpened knife ready to open up a vein or artery. He didn't want to sever a tendon, since it didn't look like their bodies where going to heal. "Don't they just have to touch flesh to drain life, or does it have to be blood? And yes, I'm not thrilled about this plan. If we have to cut, be careful not to cut through tendons or ligaments as I'm not sure if we'll "heal" once we rise."

During their long walk Dandelion carved a likeness of Cal, and one of Grendel, and finally one of Jaevan too. Who knows what will befall them once they climb to the sky? In all likelihood, they would perish with the rest of the world. When the food of vampires, souls, is all dead and gone, do vampires continue on? Do they go into stasis, like the tiny animals found in ice, only to become live again upon thawing?

He keeps the small wooden statues of his companions in his pouch.

Finishing off the sub-vampires made him sad. These were once regular people, in all likelihood with families, homes, lives.

He looks at Bragh. He has a few questions for him. "Who infected you and your friends? What was your plan? What happened? What did you see?" He stands over the angry creature and waits for an answer.

Bragh had demonstrated a sliver more than animalistic intelligence upon your last meeting, growling and slapping himself in the head, and the time between your meetings has not been kind to him, as the blood thirst looks to have driven him quite insane. The paladin, who had sacrificed everything that meant anything to him, shows no sign of understanding the group's words.

It is indeed a glimpse into a possible future.

Jaevan considers Grendel's words for a few minutes before stating, "Let's finish this." What drives him is a mystery, since he has shown no concerns about others. Perhaps he is here only to save his own skin.

The animal part of your own brain sends a tremor down your spine to warn of the vampire’s “kiss”. Its tongue run down your flesh, savouring the meal to come, which was followed by the sharp sensation of its teeth slicing through your skin to penetrate deep into the meat of you, blood vessels sluice forth their precious contents. Bragh moans as he drinks deeply, widening your flesh enough to bathe in a flood of your metallic blood, struggling against his bonds with feverous strength as he greedily pulls your life from you to quench an endless hunger.

A tingling non-feeling washes over you…a shivering sensation as cold energy brushes close to the blood pulsing beneath the skin.

Dead flesh adorns you even now: nails, hair. You tend them and caress them like any other mortal. Your women decorate them. Entice with them. Death is not a thing to be feared. She is a lover who waits to take you into her arms. You can feel her, if you know what her touch is like: cold, slow, sweet.

Death lures you into her dark embrace.

Days had passed by the time your eyes open once again.

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.

You feel the rush of rain and wind upon your face. Streaks of white-hot flame reflecting in your inhuman eyes.

All of your wounds have healed, and you no longer feel any sense of "uncleanness" in this place. Though perhaps it is because you only breathe now if you choose to.

There is a feral quality to you now that will make others uncomfortable to be around you; especially your ancient voice, which is cold, vicious and inhuman. A cold wind seems to gather around your flesh. Your features have stretched to make your cheekbones starker, eyes more sunken, and face more gaunt. Your skin dulls, bleaching to white. Your eyes have changed, its irises flicker to a shadow of crimson. You hear no heartbeat, and the lightning conspires to remind you that no longer cast shadows.

The curse has sharpened your senses. In the back of your mind somewhere, you are aware of the approach of the sunset. You have no clue how you know it, really, since it was darker than pitch in this place, but that does not seem to matter. You can feel the presences of its warmth, which is anathema to you.

There is a raw hunger in your belly that you have about to sate with a hunt. The strength and power of your body, the glorious thrill of the chase as the prey flees as it was created to do, testing your speed, strength, endurance, and will while the night called and the storm rages around you. Wild and ferocious joy, and adrenaline sense of excitement, passion, of savage harmony red in tooth and claw. You can feel your prey’s lungs burning, watery legs, fear, knowing that there was no escape.

You fight the urge to let loose an earsplitting creaking shriek of rage, to call up your power and start laying waste with it, to feel the blood washing over your gums, to feel life scorching through your thoughts and body…

It is only raw will, buoyed by magical tattoo that saves you and brings you back to yourself. Your actions are your own, save for occasional impulses that seek to tear your humanity away further, as is your magic and abilities.

The paladin lays awkwardly upon the desolation of the ground with a sharpened statuette of Jaeven staked in his back between the ribs that protect the creature's heart. Jaeven is the first to recover, and his first action is to bend down to begin the gruesome task of freeing their master's head from its body.

Undead fingers reach out for the chain and find its slightly malleable surface without ill-effect. It is as if its surface is made of solidified shadow.

" Alas Grendel, all the tales that I've heard require a vampire to drain the life out of it's victim in order for the victim to become one of it's ilk. I shall be the next one, after you I hope that this will only be temporary at the worst. After all, if there will be a cure to the curse, I think after we save the world we can focus some of our time on that." Calvoric says with a wry grin.
On the outside, the bard was calm, even joking inwardly, the bard was fretting that this would work out in a way that would allow for a decent ending for the three. " Also I've got slippers of spider climb, so the worst one at climbing should use 'em, or perhaps the first one up might. We will figure it out soon enough I guess." Cal finishes with a sigh, it seemed that no matter what this tale would go pear shaped no matter what.
" And to think that the least of our worries is to become vampire's..." the bard mutters to himself, awaiting his turn. After watching Grendel fall into the final embrace, Calvoric sighs, wondering if there would be some way to get back to the mortal coil.

After falling into the state of undeath
Coughing as air get's sucked into lungs that no longer require it, the bard forces his mind to come back to a normal sense of things. Even being undead, the bard still manages to keep himself as himself after all, more things were at sake. Plus he forced the new primal voice a certain logic, if he didn't help to save the world, no new hunting would ever be found.

Dandelion feels pretty good, and he knows it is somehow wrong, since he is dead. He considers giving up this fool's errand and going to enjoy his new form, but then realizes that is the very trap that the likes of Bragh had fallen into, though his path was much harder given the vows he had no doubt taken. No, he would, they would see this through.

He looks up, seeing no great beanstalk to the clouds, but knowing it is there.

"The climb has two dangers for us, and now only one of them is removed. Climbing is hard and slow, and falling is still a real possibility. I can give us all the ability to walk up the air, as if it were a hill, instead. It will be safer and faster, I think. If the chain is too long, we can start climbing higher up, so we should be ready. Still, we should connect ourselves with ropes in case one should fall.

Grendel, if you would rather fly I can save one of my Air Walking spells, though I know such a transformation uses your energy as well. If you take my magics, at least you can change if something makes you fall. I have a ring to do something similar. Do either of you? He looks at Jaevan and Calvoric (somehow, he does not seem to be "Cal" any more).

Awaking to unlife, Grendel had to sort himself out. Once again, the difficult training he had endured to become a druid helps to center himself. The desire to run and hunt was strong, it didn't help that he had the knowledge to shift his form. It was a good thing that their where no living things nearby. The prince wasn't sure that he would have been able to stop himself. The hunt and need to slake the Thirst that ran through the new born vampire was suppressed, for the time being. Grendel breathes silent thanks to Pribi for her tattoo.

The newly living dead Grendel finally stands up, stretching out to loosen muscles that longer needed to be stretched. The druid looks up at the chain and walks over and touches the strange thing that caused so much grief. He turns away after a few moments, walking back to the others. Grendel casually kicks Bragh's severed head out of the way like it was a pebble in the street. The prince doesn't even spare the rapidly decaying body a glance.

"I need to meditate before we go," Grendel's voice was dead calm as he looks over his gear. "It will take me about an hour to find out if I still have my connection to nature. If I do, than I will more than likely fly up."

Sitting cross legged a few feet away, Grendel closes his mind to, seeking to connect with Nature once more. If took him a few minutes to crush the fear that coiled in his mind. The prince had to know if Nature would still grant the druid her boon and caress him with her magics. The reason he had done this were to restore the Natural Balance.

'How many others have paved their ways to the Hells with good intentions?' Grendel thinks briefly before slipping into his meditations.

Jaevan spends a few minutes acclimatizing himself to the invisible "chain", running his fingers along several links to increase his understanding of what lay ahead. The rogue was an expert climber, and given the newly found strength of his thews it appears that he is confident that he can climb it. Trust is not easily extended for the young man, so he forgoes affixing himself to the others, or accepting magical assistance.

It is slow going utilizing the Air Walk spell, but fatigue is all but a thing of the past, as is breathing, or feeling the bite of the cold, all of which are boons as the air grows thin and the wind increases. The air walkers are buffeted about, but have each other and the chain itself to maintain stability. Flight is all but impossible this high, as the air is too thin, but a small form is perfect for perching on another's shoulder.

You rise above the oppressive heat and lose all visibility in the unseen clouds above. This is a most dangerous time, considering the storm, and 20 minutes of climbing later has the first lightning strike, except this time it affects everyone in the cloud. Terrible burns rip across your bodies, but nothing like what you would imagine due to your innate resistance to electricity, and your healing is such that in short order you watch your charred flesh mend itself.

Hours of climbing all but blind brings you to a point where there is sudden bone dryness and an impossible cold, which freezes your canteens solid in short order.

The chain no longer continues up, but clambers along an semi-solid ground. The surroundings are crafted from dark, dried blood and sun-bleached bone obscured by a lifeless grey mist. You feel as though you have been swallowed by the darkness. It is oppressive, ominous, and enormous.

The chain continues to stretch in a direction where flashes of painfully-intense silver-white light illuminate in the distance.

This is not a physical place, it is a shadow world, a magical realm, and its substance is as mutable as thought. All around are whispers of things moving invisibly. Scaly rasps, softy, hungry hisses, together with the unseen gleam of malevolent eyes.

Even undead flesh begins to crawl with a shivering sensation.

Cal had spent most of the climb lost in his own thoughts, that hadn't changed however, there was almost a split in his mind. That split had two identities, Cal and Calvoric, it seemed that the vampiric portion was holding frame with Calvoric: the part that didn't have the love of humor or jokes, more focused on the task on hand. Yet one more victim of the madness of the end of the world, the bard gives a wry smile to himself. The other portion of his mind held Cal, the half of him that loved to talk, life, and telling stories, Cal hoped that he wouldn't lose himself before closing all the the portals.
Upon reaching the top, the bard vampire looks around, hoping for an easy portal to close in sight, not expecting things to be that easy or to be that lucky.

Releasing his hold on the form of an air elemental, Grendel reforms back to unliving flesh. Oddly, he found the changing of his form was.., easier that when he had been alive. Perhaps it had to do with the living connection to a body. Something he would have to ponder at a later time. If there was a later time.

Feet touching the semi-solid ground, the Prince looks around at the strange place they had found themselves. The eyes of a hunter flinch at the intense, painful blast of white light. The keen senses of a vampire didn't seem to matter that much in this ghostly place. Briefly, Grendel thinks about how high they had gone, and what would have happened to them had they not become vampires. Such an odd way to survive, willing shedding their mortal lives.

Shaking his head to clear it, Grendel feels a whisper of feeling, similar to the connection he once had with Nagrish. Something was following him, and it was close by. The thought of hunting pack of wolves comes to his mind's eye, ghosting from shadow to shadow.

"Come out," the undead druid commands. He had his fill of unpleasant surprises at the moment. It was at this moment, Grendel realized that he had a shadow. Until the shadow begins to shift like liquid blackness and pull away from Grendel.

The shadow forms itself into that of a wolf, almost the size of a small pony. While it was made of shadow stuff, the wolf seems to be solid. Grendel reaches out and gently rubs the head of the shadow wolf. At the touch of vampire druid's hand, the shadow wolf's eyes open. A burning green light shapes it's eyes.

"I am not forgotten after all," the druid quietly comments to himself and the shadow wolf. It's "tongue" of the shadow wolf hangs out, and the mental thought of pack hunting flashes in his mind once more. "Yes, we hunt," the druid comments to "animal" that was to be his companion in this place and beyond.

"Let's get moving, I'm sure our presence has not gone unnoticed," Grendel says quietly to the others as he looks around them once more. He points towards the flash of light. "I think that will be our best bet for the time being," the prince says with a nod of his head. A faint grin ghosts his face for a few moments. "At least we don't have to worry about getting tired."

Movement within this alien shadow realm is as much a matter of thought as a physical action, for both must work in concert or else you start to be absorbed into the semi-solid mass of the ground; possibly to be digested.

You travel forth into the bowels of horrors untold. Battles rage around you in every direction as monsters cruise unseen.

Before you are two heavily-injured creatures engaged in battle:

One whose flaming longsword and flail gleams so brightly that it is difficult to look directly at. The sword wielder resembles a 7' tall muscular humanoid with coppery skin and coppery eyes, and flying about upon four large feathery wings of glossy white with coppery tips. This creature radiates goodness so sharply that it an anguish to be in its presence, especially since you are the defiled.

The other is armoured in the ceremonial garb of some grim knight, this figure stands unnaturally still, though the intricate metalwork patterns of its sculpted mantle writhe and shift as if alive. Claws the length of longswords extend from its armored fingers in razor-sharp fans, and no head or helm rests upon its ironclad shoulders. Instead, there hovers only a plain mask, an unnatural facade devoid of all empathy, emotion, or mercy.

Though you have absolutely no frame of reference to understand what these creatures are, you do understand how anomalous it is that they fight side-by-side against whatever invisible foes are present.

The truth of the monsters they fight is revealed in heavy blows delivered and received, and the winged being's fall. Its limp form slams into the ground, immediately being sheathed in a noxious-smelling substance that looks like tar engulfed in yellow-white flame. It is as if the surface is anathema to goodly beings. It sinks quickly and falls, likely to meteor across the realms of man.

Its holy weaponry lays where they fell, still aflame.

It appears that the fall of one creature opened an opening for the other, as the armoured creature drives its claws into the invisible mass time and again, its weight bringing it to the ground as it mercilessly slashes away.

Though you can see nothing with your eyes, your nose provides much more information as it is assailed by a stomach churning, nightmare-inducing mass, raw sewage. Despite not hearing anything, all of you, including Dandelion "hear" something in their minds as the creature dies, a tinny high-pitched, wet cracking sound.

Taking a moment to rise, its gruesome wounds already healing, it looks upon the 5 of you with a sneer and simply points in a direction where the darkness gets deeper and deeper, and the fighting is most intense, then simply disappears in a rending of teleportative magics.

It is a blessing that you heard not the Deimavigga's voice, for it could easily cripple you.

It is a strange place they find themselves in, even stranger than Dandelion had expected. They watch the brief battle with a mix of horror and awe, as one seemingly holy warrior is crushed, only to be turned into a deadly meteor, and to bombard the innocent earth below with its power and flame. Still, Dandelion finds room for a little inward cheer as the one creature destroys the invisible one, and an (illusory, surely) sound hits the half-orc's ears for the first time in about four years.

Happy to still be ... 'living' may not be the right word.... happy to still be conscious, he sighs and forges forward. The lightning had hurt him badly, though not as badly as it should, due to his new form. And it had quickly healed. The power in him, in them, is substantial, and he wonders about all the lesser beings back on the earth. Why had he been reluctant to undergo this transformation? So much power, he could get so much power over others. And do so much... so much what? Good?

He brings himself into the present, reminding himself that those feelings are not truly his own. They come from the special death he had undergone, and some evil force that influences his mind, his very thoughts. He must not allow it to affect him. He must be the same, the same as he always was. The vile thoughts, thoughts of power and superiority, will overtake him, occupy him and he will no longer really be Dandelion. To lose himself, he feels, is worse than death. He must remain true.

"This gives me hope. If others are fighting our fight, perhaps we can prevail. Now, where and how can we break the connection between the realms. I have no idea, aside from following where ... he ... pointed."

Noticing Grendel's new companion, Dandelion shrugs and asks, "Does it have a name?"

"Invisible foes. Of course, why wouldn't they be invisible," the prince mutters to himself after the Armored figure of darkness disappears. The druid's eyes look towards the deeper darkness that boiled with an unseen conflict. Looking at the flaming blade upon the ground, Grendel ponders the battle they just witness.

"If I'm correct, we just saw a paragon of both good and evil fighting together to fight the invisible thing," Grendel says to the other three. "Plus, we were literally pointed in the right direction. That's a first for us I think," a faint grin slashes across the druid vampire face.

"Can anybody use this blade?" the druid toes the hilt with his boot. It wasn't a scimitar, so it wasn't going to be of any use to him.

Grendel looks at the shadow wolf for several moments, it's glowing green eyes finding the vampire's gaze and locking on to it. The nether beast cocks it head in a strangely still living matter.

"When he was alive it was Starjumper. He calls himself Star-Eater now," Grendel says to Dandelion.

Your breath would be drawn from your very lungs if you still were required to breathe, as you witness the war being waged within the area where the darkness grows thicker. Winged creatures throw themselves into battle alongside all of the monsters of one's nightmares, of your own nightmares, against unseen beings. They fight and die by the droves, each body, whether angelic or daemonic, falls through the realm to become a danger to mankind below.

The location where the invisible creature fell, and the stench is the most intense, permits you to touch the creature's flesh for a moment before it is absorbed back into the shadow realm. It's flesh is uniformly dense, and perfectly remains reminiscent of the texture of the chain.

It is as if the atmosphere itself is the antithesis to life in this place, as you watch your gear, and especially your clothing, slowly rotting upon your very skin. It will take days and days to fully be made useless though.

Grendel feels an intense heat wash through him as he touches the flaming blade, but not from the fires, as its holy core reacts with the vampiric part of his being. It brings him to his knees, the feeling too intense to properly describe. This is a weapon that can be wielded, though it will take a hefty toll from the one that touches it.

For the moment of contact the druid sees with true sight, and the experience causes his eyes to glow with silver-white light. Fleeting images of paper-thin amorphous creatures, fashioned of a grey transparent material, withered shadows of their former selves, writhing in eternal agony, their mouths open in silent screams are seen throughout the battlefield. The most solid of these creatures is the angel the group just saw cut down, which has not died, though its body is no longer here, and looks to be doomed to remain in agony for the rest of eternity as the realm siphons its life force away. This is the fate for the fallen, human, angel and devil, and tens of thousands have been cut down here.

The place where the angel fell is ice cold, as is this entire realm, perhaps crafted by all of the death that has taken place here.

Grendel also sees the invisible creatures for the first time. Creatures tiny and huge move with a kind of shuffling grace, upon any number of limbs or none with equal efficiency, as if they have no real weight, and need only to touch the ground to propel themselves forward. Their dark, slithering shapes, are as varied as the imagination of a madman could craft change with liquid speed, vanishing into the rippling colours of reality into mere distortions in the air with but a thought.

In a quick scan of the field he sees hundreds of forms:

hunch-shouldered short, wiry
ball of greyish intestines studded with malformed kidneys and nodes of pus
inky tendrils of darkness
horrible fangs sinking into flesh and shreds of meat flying away
stunted legs
dark violet flickers of flame
inhuman
nightmarishly long finger
spines sundering and breaking
too long arms tipped in spurs
twisted
weeping eyes
tendons creaking
deformed
writhing darkness
soggy, matted lumps
a vague image of a cloud of ink in clear water floating
muscles swelling hideously until the flesh starts to rip

The creatures die as well, and when they are struck down they writhe and thrash for a moment, then implode, vanishing, to leave behind a coating of clear, glistening yellowish slime, which is quickly absorbed into the ground.

You are positive you do not wish to see this realm's aura of magical energy, unless it is your wish to be blind forever.

The impossibly large chain, momentarily visible to the druid, continues on in the direction that the Arch Devil of Hell had pointed.

Picking your way forth you realize that things are not getting darker. There is an immense structure ahead that looks to have been designed by a madman. You are able to enter the structure using the distraction of war, following the chain into a large corridor littered with ancient arms an armour crafted by either angelic or daemonic artisans.

Ahead your keen vampiric senses detect a human's blood.

Dandelion sees a breastplate of unearthly beauty. It is red and ochre, with black lining. The lines are curved and sharp, and it sports images of a variety of demons' faces just under the collar, and down the front.

He tries it on and it fits perfectly.

Dandelion looks up, wondering about the blood he smells. "There is a human here." He wonders if they should investigate, or keep following the chain. They need to find a way to close the portal. "The chain is part of it. If we could get to some place where the chain originates, we may be able to destroy it. What do you think?"

He considers casting an effect that would let him see all the magically concealed and changed things and creatures about. Perhaps soon..

When the others are ready he continues following the chain.

The battle outside is turning into a rout as all of the legions of the heavens and Hell begin to fall one by one.

Jaevan kneels next to the flail and wraps its handle in cloth to protect his hand from ill effects. It does nothing. He is thrown to the ground, agony tearing out a silent scream, looking to be tormented far worse than Grendel had been. Silver-white light literally flows forth from his mouth and nostrils. Those closest can smell his flesh burning, and it takes assistance from another to tear the flaming dagger, which is strange since he had picked up a flail, from his hand before he loses the limb. His burns are horrific indeed as you can see all of the bones in his hand, which he cradles close to his body without any wish to discuss it.

The two holy flaming weapons await an owner.

Once in the structure the sweet stink of blood draws you in the same direction of the chain, deeper into the structure. What becomes apparent is that this irregularly-shaped tunnel looks to have been formed by the chain, rather than the other way around. As the chain twisted and slithered about it pushed the "walls" back in undulating contortions.

You only make it a few steps beyond the area of arms and armour when two of you feel the brush of an unknown number of creatures rushing passed you to engage in the battle outside.

Continuing on the blood scent grows stronger and stronger, as does the intensity of the cold.

You enter a voluminous chamber containing hundreds of dead humans, monsters and humanoids, scattered about the ground, sucked dry as husks. Beyond them, stretching far beyond your vision, is the remains of a door that has been shattered with impossible force. You realize that there are no children among the dead, though that is what was reported more than anything else.

• An ancient, slithering evil dwells within a previously unknown land beyond the shadow chains, and it is feeding on the essence of goodly and lowly creatures from beyond the known world who are battling it even now.
  
• The portal between worlds must be closed. The dreams of the abducted must end.

The pathetic wails of children lures you to follow the chain into the darkness.

In the corner is the source of the blood. A pitiful naked and fleshless human that has been torn apart in a dozen dozen places and left to die. A burble of blood escapes its lacerated lips as its single remaining eye falls upon you and it raises its fingers, the effort of which appears to be exhausting.

It is barely clinging to life.

Cal had been shocked at first of what he had seen, adjusting as quickly as possible he still felt like he was out of his depth. Shoving off the brief moment of self doubt, he shakes his head at the whole thing. Glad that the very large creature had in fact pointed out the way that they should go, still perhaps it knew that the Half-orcs could do what they could not.
Seeing Jaevan almost lose his hand at the holy weapon he wonders if picking them up would be a good idea, since they were perhaps considered "evil" creatures, grabbing better crafted chain shirt, the bard recognizes the mithril, quickly pulling his old one off and placing into his back pack then donning the new one.
Cal touches the hilt of the long sword with a fingertip not wanting to lose his hand, briefly wondering if he could use his gift to hide from the sword, his new nature, if he was not able, then he would leave it behind, sending a mental plea to the sword itself informing it of his mission.

Staggering away from the flaming blade, the vampiric druid stared in the direction of the once more invisible great chain. He repeated what he had seen when his foot touched the hilt of the holy blade. Gnawing on his upper lip for a few moments, the prince nods to himself, making up his mind. Star-Eater brushes against his leg, passing halfway into the limb for a moment. The Shadow Wolf floats a few feet away when the druid bends down to pick up the blade. It seems to be looking at something off to the side that if ghost over to.

Once his undead fingers wrapped around the hilt, the powerful holy energies rush into his body. A pained growl escapes his clenched teeth as he can feel his undead flesh revolting from the presence of the holy weapon. Refusing to relinquish the blade, he twitches and jerks as if being slowly electrocuted. The blade seemed to be trying to escape the undead druids grasp as if offended by the contact with the unholy being.

An idea comes to his mind, dancing through the pain that rips his form. 'If this realm if shaped by thought, perhaps I can do the same to the blade,' Grendel thinks, focusing his will on the blade itself. Mentally, he shapes the blade as he would his own form when he shifts his shape. After what seems like forever, he can "feel" the blade curve and expand, begrudgingly changing it's blade to better suit the druid.

Panting with the effort, Grendel tries to put the pulsing pain out of his mind as best as possible. The silver-white light half hidden behind narrowed eyes, as he looks out at the true sight of the battle.

Hearing a faint "Woof" half in his thoughts and with his ears, Grendel looks down at Star-Eater. The wolf had found something very, very interesting, especially to the druid. With his left hand, he retrieves the inky black cloak. It was like holding on liquid night, refreshing cold to the vampire, soothing out the pulses of pain from the holy weapon. Stabbing the tip of the blade into the "ground", Grendel puts the cloak on with a flourish. The liquid black actually absorbs his old cloak, bits of charred metal falling off, once magical infused clasps. There almost seems to be something or things shifting underneath the surface of the cloak. Grimacing as he retrieves the holy scimitar, Grendel looks at the others and nods as they pick up their own armament off of the battlefield.

Jaevan's reaction to the one of the fallen holy weapons was surprising and Grendel had stood dumbfounded for several too long seconds. Jerking into motion, he and the others quickly got the now dagger out of Jaevan's charred hand. The sight of the vampire's blacked bones made Grendel glance at his own hand. Once the former human was ready to continue, they continued a short distance later to a sight that should never have come into being.

Grendel had stopped dead in his tracks. The mental propulsion that speed their way through this blighted realm ending with the stopping of his thoughts. The battle he witness was both exhilarating and terrifying at the same time. Nothing in his wildest nightmares could even come close to the sight. The nagging sense that he had seen the monsters wormed into his thoughts, pulling his attention away from the war-slaughter.

"Dimqu's sketches, that's where I've seen all of this before," Grendel says softly, shaking his head. "Damn." They stand at the edge of the slaughter, seeing that the hosts of both Good and Evil beginning to be overrun.

"There! We can get in there while they're distracted!" Grendel points at the opening made visible by his borrowed sight from the holy blade.

Barely managing to get in, the druid was was almost ecstatic that they hadn't been noticed heading into the Tower of Madness. Then the sweet scent of blood filled his nose. Unquenchable hunger raced through his body, all of his senses magnifying. Feeling a pleasurable pressure as his canines lengthened into deadly fangs, Grendel shakes his head to clear. Gripping the hilt of the holy scimitar, the druid focuses his thoughts once more.

"Let's end this poor souls nightmare," Grendel says, undead features almost struggle to show the pity that he suddenly felt for the tortured human. A tear of blood wells up and traces its way down his face. "I pray to the All Mother that you're next reincarnation is peaceful one," Grendel raises the holy blade to put the poor thing out of it's misery.

Wielding the newly-formed scimitar, once flail, once dagger, is like walking about with acid pulsing through the druid's forearm, as the weapon rejects the indifference of the druid's outlook. Wield it he does, complete with all the benefits of seeing the truth of the situation.

Calvoric picks up the longsword with only slight discomfort washing over him. It appears to recognize the goodly mien that the young bard adhered to before his undeath. The field of combatants contains much of what Grendel sees, but Calvoric sees the fallen much more distinctly, their lifeless grey bodies flickering in and out of being, and he can hear their woeful moans as they are tortured. Filaments of the purest white light, little more than a thread, trail from tens of thousands of dead, all drawn into the structure ahead. Like the chain, these threads simply bore their way into the morphic structure and continue down the tunnel toward the horror beyond.

Much of what is happening around them is lost to Dandelion, Star-Eater, and Jaevan, which is why the oracle and rogue fail to get out of the way of the onrush of creatures moving out to exploit the weakness, and complete the rout. Each point of contact, even casual contact, has a deleterious effect of both half-vampire's tattoos and they feel the urgings of the monster within much more strongly.

Calvoric's has to avert his eyes from the solemn beauty of the woman's spirit laying upon the ground. He has an overlay of the blood-caked physicality that his eyes see, and his ability to view one of the purest souls he has ever seen. It is a face he has seen before: the paladin Aryaa. Unlike the others she did not accept the curse of vampirism. The atmosphere itself looks to have torn her skin from her body. Her armour and weaponry has long since fallen into uselessness.

Jaevan wraps a hand around Grendel's wrist, his other hand little more than a charred claw, speaking in a inhumanly cold whisper, "If she is to fall, I will feed." In life such words would be horrific, but as a vampire you can understand him wishing to slake his thirst, though you intuitively understand that such an act would make him a full vampire and tear away any humanity he has left.

Star-Eater's lip curls back from its teeth as it emits a subvocal warning to the rogue to release its master.

"No, I'll do it, with a weapon of beauty, we shall not be like those that had succumbed to the curse, unthinking beasts drawn only to slake our thirst." Cal says, drawing the sword fully, stalking over to the paladin, her task complete, rather then letting her face this in numbing horror, she would get some of her honor back.
Stalking forward the bard says " You have suffered enough, I wish that you the ability to great your god that you gave much to." The half-orc says, if his eyes were still able too, Cal would be weeping at the sights that he had seen.

About to say something to Jaevan, Grendel stops when he sees Cal's face as he walks forward, blade drawn.

"You look as though you know this person, who is it?" Grendel asks bard. The druid's pity had been based more from the torture this being endured. "If it's someone that can provide us more aid, we do have two of those potions."

The undead druid looks at Jaevan with eyes full of entropy. The aspect of nature that filled the druid becoming visible. It was the endless march of time that reduces everything to down dust. There was no escape from Time itself.

"I'd recommend letting go of my arm before Star-Eater becomes Soul-Eater. Feeding will make you nothing more than an unitelligent thing like Bragh was. Are you saying you want to become nothing more intelligent than a mosquito?" The druid asks of the vampire. The silver-white eyes look over the human as if seeing him for the first time.

The undead druid shifts his gaze to Dandelion. Grendel meets Dandelion's eyes.

"Both of your tattoos are fading." Grendel didn't have to say what would happen. The sight of Bragh when they encountered him a second time was what they were in store for. A rotting corpse that was held together by a nightmare.