After he has dealt with the ancient words, Gunnar spends some time checking on Silvia, hopeful that she has survived within his shield, then executes the ritual for detection of magic that he might help sift through the wreckage.
With evil defeated, at least this particular evil at this particular moment and in this particular place, our heroes take a brief respite to heal wounds of both body and mind as well as shift through the wreckage to find anything of potential use or value. No easy task given the wide area covered by the airship's crash.
Planning on staying for a while, Quinn manages to scout out a good, defensible campsite with a nearby spring for water. His search allows the elf to avoid witnessing the rather grim and brutal destruction of the Patriarch's remains by the anguished bearkin. By the time a gore soaked Ingryd has finished sating her anger, there is little left of the inquisitor's coffin, its mysterious arcane mechanisms, or the frail mortal remains held within. Fortunately Scramsax and Gunnar made sure they were completely finished with their examination of the unholy creature before unleashing the barbarian.
It takes the wizard a bit of time and some concentration, but eventually he is able to translate the ancient scrip tattooed upon the man's pasty flesh.
I am Solarious. Blood of my blood, Mind of my mind. A single soul sworn to purify all beneath the bright sun for all eternity. From one many are born. With many the fires of Righteousness sweep the land. All are Solarious. The inscription ends with the Ankeshelian numeral IV.
There is nothing to salvage from the actual remains of the Patriarch. Every jewel, bit of gold plating, silver tube, contains the stomach churning, mind clouding void runes in one form or another. Some are as large as a beholder's eye while other are so small as to be nearly undetectable except for the faintest prickling feeling that races along ones spine whenever the piece is handled. Scramsax manages to located one or two exceptions after a grueling search that leaves the halfling nauseous with a pounding headache and a peculiar jumpiness at any sudden sounds. He proudly displays the silver coil souvenir along with a single flawless diamond buried deep in the central heart of the device. Nearly the size of his thumb, the round cut stone glitters brilliantly in the setting light of the sun.
A stupid grin plastered itself across the halfling's face when the diamond was unlinked from the transonic regulator and the last of the thick necro-stabilizing fluid was rinsed clean. Holding it aloft in the daylight Scram was paralyzed...until the comfortable country livin' was discovered by Quinn. The statue somehow found itself quickly nestled among the roots of an old oak tree, never taking his eyes from the precious gem. That is until the nearly beaten to death little guy blacked out, his metabolism supercharged by the piles of loot and treasure nearby...
== 25.
== 28.
== 29.
Luthael blesses Scramsax to scavenge the wreck, while the prophet collects the bodies to perform last rites and burn them in holy fire. Performing the traditional ritual helps him recenter his faith that the encounter shook. How could allow Khors suffer this patriarch's obvious evil? How many suffered at his hands? How many souls were twisted by his evil? What did it mean that his blessings from Khors failed to affect the patriarch?
He tended to everyone's wounds and tried to make sense of evil beyond his imagination.
Nodding at Invictusol "...so let it be written, so let it be done." smirking and giving a thumbs-up to the proven prophet while dipping his roast potato snack in the Nullbox fae juice for sweet-n-salty flavor.
But then the mind expanding magics took hold.
Neurons already soaked with nascent psionic capacity duplicated geometrically, quickly reconfiguring into a much more efficient neural network...his pupils dilated and contracted as violently as his nostrils as a hundred puzzles pushed to his subconscious selves suddenly found conclusion. Illarya's sapphire orb, which had since the great heist sent deeply anchoring tendrils here and there, now blossomed and overflowed...cascading the already infinite space and time of the halfling's Intellect Fortress into a new expansion that washed over an unexplored sector of Ginnungagap.
There was a pause as if the thief was caught by a distant breeze, swaying gently. He realized how open and insecure his vest pockets really were, all things considered, and reminded himself to purchase some kind of protector for them (the pockets) later. Then finally he shook his head and mentioned "No offense chaps, but I tire of this meretricious persiflage. Behold, the spearpoint of this fortuitous expedition has taken aim..." pointing to some random crap across the way "...do not mistake my course for tergiversation, friends. Ta-ta." waving his bright red crowbar goodbye.
Ingryd will take the time to gather the bodies of the fallen and bring them over for Luthael to give last rights. She will then bury them, and see if she can use Wreckage bits to make crude head stones.
He was lying of course.
The thief had already deduced a clandestine path to the motherload. He would go out of sight behind that pile of random crap, then sneak crosswise and quick to fallen gated chamber. That dark reliquary where this anti-Khors blessed dangerous, yet valuable, assets..such as huge, solid metal gold rods. It wasn't a hunch, but the single logical conclusion from the last 24 hours of observations.
Having retired to camp for the evening, everyone sleeps the deep sleep of the battered and weary. Quinn's selection of location was indeed a good one as you pass the night with no interruptions and little bother from the usual bugs and crawling critters that ever invade an open camp.
However, as you rise with the dawning of the day to the smell of freshly brewed coffee and pastries, you all realize that something or someone did in fact pass through you camp. Five large ceramic mugs sit steaming upon a nearby flat rock surrounded by groups of fluffy, warm from the oven, pastries and donuts. Honey coated jelly filled donuts, autumn blueberry and roasted pecan streusel cakes, lemon custard tarts with a dusting of sugar. It is a wonder of baking delight, interspersed with some of the largest, juiciest, sweetest berries, peaches, and melons you've ever come across. Each sparkling with a dusting of pixie dust that glitters and sparkles in the morning sun.
The most scrumptious breakfast display is a stark contrast to what you find a hundred yards away at the center of the crash site and where the Elder Patriarch met his final demise. Gunnar, Luthael, and Quinn can each feel the still churning energies roiling the air and ground. The wizard feeling them all most acutely as his head begins to ache after any extended length of stay in the vicinity. But even the less that arcane focused Ingryd and Scramsax suffer from the residues of void and unholy magics. Twitching muscles, queasy stomachs, a constant thirst, are all symptoms everyone encounters as the search and salvage of the wreckage plods through the day along with the more grim work of dealing with the scattered bodies.
But the misery does not go unrewarded. By working together to search, shift, and dig through the remains you manage to discover several items of interest and more than a bit of wealth.
Somehow a delicate, silk embroidered handkerchief with the initials J.M. in the corner survived the crash. It was stored in a well crafted, rosewood box that also contains a collection of a half dozen small turquoise animal figures. Elsewhere the halfling manages to uncover a set of gold dragon themed combs, the pair made of actual gold and with red garnets marking the dragon's eyes. Gunnar determines that none of the items are magical in nature, but Scramsax is certain they are worth around a thousand gold crowns in total.
Later in the day, Gunnar is able to spot a pocket of magic emanating from a bit of wreckage. After much cursing and grumbling from Ingryd as she struggles to clear several heavy crossbeams from the arcane source a small chest is revealed. Marked with the seal of the Inquisition, the chest is found to contain three intact potion bottles. Each gleaming with magical aura's in Gunnar's enhanced gaze. Tucked beneath the potions is scroll case which also shimmers with arcane power, but it has the same sickening void resonance as so many areas of the wreck.
Finally, Scramsax comes across an odd little pocket within what used to be the stern section of the airships main gondola. Scattered about the remnants of a small cabin are several partially finished paintings. Reasonably decent work, but nothing ground breaking. When rummaging through a box filled with busted paint pots and brushes, the halfling comes across another box bound with silver and red ribbon and marked with a twinned rose and shield symbol. To everyone's surprise Gunnar confirms that the contents of the box radiate with strong magic.
By the end of the days work everyone is tired, drained, and feeling the effects of the foul magics released during the crash. The area where Ingryd crushed the Patriarch's body has blackened and turned soft with a tar-like stickiness to it.
Ingryd seemed to be unphased from the day's work. Though some of it could be still reeling from the imagery she had to relive. She kept to herself being somber and sullen. In fact, she would on the next day go to the woods and seek out honey, as well as the solitude the wild brings.
She would make sure to get hearty doses as she knows the Great Bear Maiden would provide her companions and herself stave off the exhaustive work they were doing.
Scram was tired and weak...yet driven forward by pure greed.
Gunnar offers thanks to the unseen fae who provided such a sumptuous breakfast for them, then digs in with gusto. His day is spent alternating between help search the wreckage with his magical senses and spending time trying to unravel the void magics that threaten to take hold in the very earth itself.
Worried about corruption of the location and any nearby ley lines, the Dwarven Abjurer wizard focuses on his area of expertise, working his spells to unravel as much of the alien and evil magic as he can—and what he can’t, he calls in Ingryd to bash to pieces…
He ends the day weary…and still worried about Silvia.
Luthael enjoys the breakfast of the faerie. Logically, he connects the appreciation to the liberation of the fey prisoners. Illogically, he sees the hand of Khors behind their appreciation.
After firing all of the dead and parts of the dead in the holy flames of Khors, Luthael follows Gunnar's example to dispel the residual evil magics.
The second day, brings another rounds of hot coffee and fresh pastries. The large mugs filled to the brim as the sun's first rays touch upon the ceramic rims.
Gunnar and Luthael spend most of their time and energy cleansing the immediate area where the Patriarch fell and several areas of wreckage already pilfered by Ingryd and Scramsax.
While wizard and priest deal with the more esoteric issues, Scramsax, Ingryd, and Quinn continue to sift through more sections identified early by Gunnar as having potential useful sources of magic.
In one ruined cabin, Scramsax comes across a severed hand wearing a silver ring with a citrine stone mounted in a circular setting. Quinn locates a a curve blades scimitar, the gold handle crafted in a flame motif. Pulling a body from beneath some wrecked iron stove, Ingryd discovers a finely made set of splint mail that appears completely untouched by fire, soot, blood or any dirt or grime. The upper left chest plate is dented badly marking where the stove likely crushed the man's ribs and heart.
At a second site, Scramsax finds another blade locked within a simple pine box. The hilt and handle are made of a dark, nearly black wood while the short blade shines brightly in the sun, an eerie crimson tint running along the deadly sharp edges.
Returning from a successful honey hunt, Ingryd locates an odd looking pole, when she picks it up a waves it around a bit it suddenly trasforms into a well balanced fishing pole complete with reel and delicate fishing line.
Near the same place Scramsax discovers the boxed blade, Quinn uncovers a fine silk lined leather bag. Tucked inside is a large silver horn. Northern decorative knotwork runs around the horn along with what looks to be long bearded, axe bearing warriors.
Finally, it is Gunnar who comes across a cloak. It is black as the blackest night and cold to the touch. Darkness seems to ooze from the cloth making the dwarf feel as it is was staining his fingers black, although they come away just fine when he puts the thick leather cloak back down. As the wizard examines the cloak further he realizes it is no normal leather, but the stitched together skin of some beast of the void. Not doubt the item is imbued with power, but at what cost to one who wears it, the wizards simply cannot say.
In addition, to the items of arcane or spiritual potency, several other things of mundane value are also found. A silver rose necklace with a carved coral rose petal drop. A small gold bracelet engraved with a Nurian pattern. A small obsidian statuette of Khors set upon a gold pedestal. A string of small pink pearls clutched in the hand of a dead priest. A set of gold-cloth vestments, embroidered in the motif of the inquisition. A long silk robe of black and red fabric embroidered with golden griffons stuffed haphazardly in a busted chest. And, of course, a small chest stuffed with one thousand, one hundred and ten gold crowns worth of various coins and small gemstones.
Overall, it is an amazing amount of goods. The kind of wealth so many who choose the adventurers life seek but rarely find. Yet, it does not come without a cost. For despite the best effort of wizard and priest, the energies and voidmagics still roil the area. Although both note that their efforts are helping the situation stabilize and are likely keeping some of the most dangerous aftereffects from taking hold.
Ingryd seemed to not worry too much. She found some semblance of solace in the work. She also lived the woods enjoying the canopy and its many flowers. Bees darted in and out, it was peaceful.
When she found the fishing pole she flicked it and saw it transforming a fishing pole. She smiled and uttered a quick prayer to the Bear Maiden and then thanked the forest as well as the fey she had helped free.
" Guys I found a magical fishing pole!!"
Despite sticking with his own provisions instead of the apparently delicious looking breakfast...the thief tired little. His experience in the witch's tavern that ended with him boiling alive made him quite wary of the mysteriously appearing food. Regardless his rations were just purchased a few days ago and still rather fresh, or at least as fresh as hard tack and salt pork could manifest.
Scram was really in his element with his breaking and entering skills taken to a new, uncharted, industrial scale. What was next, looting an entire city? The organizational and logistical problem solving was quite invigorating.
Gunnar wakes up exhausted from his efforts the previous day, but he goes right back at it, detecting magic, dispelling void magic, and identifying items as they are found.
A weary dwarf says, ”This void magic is dangerous. We need to destroy these items tainted by the void as we find them—and keep defending the land against the residual void magic at the crash site.”
(Assuming destroying the scroll is easy)
Luthael breaks his fast after his rituals celebrating the dawn as the sign of the Lord of Light, but he feels exhausted from the previous days work.
He asks his companions, "are we making a difference here anymore? When do you want to start our journey south to destroy the unholy sword?"
"I have two vials of sacred honey, it should have the effects of washing away fatigue.' Ingryd says as she looks at the others then back to the pile.
"We should also give these people funeral rites. I would hate to have the foul magic of the ship make the dead here raise again. If we can do something for them. I fear many were duped." She says hauling the gear up and wrapping it in hopes to keep it taught and ready to grab and carry.
"Though I'm keeping this fishing pole. Fresh fish are marvelous!!"Ingryd smiles knowing she can now work on how to fish for her self.
"Wait, so there's more of these things? Is Katarina safe or are more coming?" In truth, the halfling was much more concerned for Illarya, the saint's de facto grove-mate...but would never say so out loud.
The third day starts in a similar fashion to the first two, but the pickings among the wreckage are getting slim. This is both something to celebrate as there are fewer bodies, but it does mean there is less in the way of valuable treasure for salvage.
Scramsax manages to pilfer another six hundred and thirty five crowns worth of coins, gems, and mundane bits and bobs. The halfling is also able to discover a pair of magical potions and another scroll that somehow managed to survive the blaze of the crash.
By the time the day ends you all hear voices calling through the woods which are soon followed by a dozen men dressed in city watch uniforms and led by an officious looking dwarf. He is accompanied by an elf dressed in the black and red robes of the Red Queen's court and his bespectacled gaze frowns upon the scene of the wreckage.
Upon seeing the five of you, the dwarf marches over and offers a brief salute.
"Greetings travelers. I'm Sergent Tamar of her majesty's guard. Me and my squad have been sent to secure this area while Royal Justicar Gandis determines exactly what has happened." He says, his voice gruff but polite as his eyes scan the scattered wreckage and salvage efforts. "Might as well get started by asking what you know about what happened?"
Covered in the grime and soot from moving and firing bodies all day, Luthael steps forward. "I'm Luthael Invictusol, a prophet of Khors. This battlefield is the business of the Church of Khors. The Elder Patriarch was discovered to be possessed by an evil power. This wreckage is the righteous judgement of Khors of who truly follows His divine vision."
"There are more bodies who need last rites, if you can assist."
”There is a bit of a governmental tie-in, as the Courtlandian Commandant’s secretary was revealed to be working in secret with the giants who used the purple flower pins to disguise themselves as mercenaries, killing and stealing from the people of our town. We last saw her three days ago after the attack on the town and we rushed off to deal with her master—this corrupted patriarch. Given the vast evil presence begat by void magic and his corruption even in death, we have labored here three days to unravel the destructive magics and prevent the stench of its evil from seeping into the land,” adds Gunnar.
Turning to Luthael, Gunnar asks, ”Has Khor’s justice been dealt and the malign influence purged from the wreckage? Are you ready to turn over this site to the crown?”
Scramsax found it wise to keep a tight lip...not because he might say something stupid. Rather, because his knees were about the buckle under the weight of his giant, filled lootsack (nearly twice the size of the thief himself) and needed controlled breathing to stay stabilized.
Shifting somewhat, he did finally manage, importantly "Behold...*gruff* time is the tinkerer of the Prophet's Word. *huff puff*"
Luthael nods at Gunnar, "I fear that the malignancy of the evil power that controlled the Elder Patriarch will contaminate this site for years. Fortunately, there are other powers in these woods who could potentially purge the evil more effectively than us."
Ingryd chuckled as she hoisted the loot sack and the halfling holding it."I can carry it for you my friend" She says with a smile.
"I am just hoping the dead get properly buried and some priests can concentrate the ground so none of the dead decide to rise up" Ingryd offered not really wanting to add to the already mounting undead menace.
"Of Aye. We've tracked down a couple more o' those big bas#$@rds." The dwarf says to Gunnar regarding the witch's disguised giant infiltrators. "It's been a major resource sink and one of the reasons were only just showing up today. Had to track down a pair who tried to tear down that little inn not so far from town. Fortunately, those folk are a bit tougher than they look and were able to hold them off until we arrived."
"Excuse me. Void magic, did you say?" The elf asks. His voice is high pitched, slightly nasal as he peers through a set of spectacles, his long nose practically touching the ground were you placed warning stakes around the death site of the Patriarch. "Most fascinating. And backed by a holy power? Or was it a corruption of holy power? Would you recommend a complete interdiction of temples dedicated to Khors? A purging of the clergy? After all, there's a war on. Can't have such things going on behind the lines, if you know what I mean."
The elf continues to speak as he stands back up and begins dictating various descriptions of the site, down to spacing of each piece of wreckage, into a book that hovers just to the left of his shoulder. A feathered pen scratches away sounding like a rat scrabbling about a ship's hold. The dwarf arches an eyebrow, sighs, and then steps back to begin packing a pipe with a pungent bittersweet leaf.
"Tsk..tsk...There does appear to be unusually high levels of contamination as you say..." The elf continues. "...But you've done a reasonable job containing any immediate outbreaks. Still, given the prolific use of void magic as well as possible undead elements potentially tied to the Blood Kingdoms and their ghoul allies, we'll need to send to her majesty and request, at minimum, a Level 3 Containment and Removal crew from the Academy."
"My goodness!" The elf exclaims suddenly. "You haven't removed anything from the scene have you? Why, it should all be examine and held in confinement until the academy crew has declared it satisfactorily nullified."
The dwarf looks over at the wide eyed halfling with the bulging sack and simply snorts as he lights his pipe. The old campaigner obviously has a guess about the contents of the bag, but he seems to hold his tongue adding nothing to the elf's question except a cloud a tobacco smoke.
"No. There is no recommendation to interdict the Church of Khors nor purging of clergy..." His control of his temper stops him from finishing his description of those questions.
Seeing he is dealing with an functionary, he turns to continue his job firing bodies.
Scram eyed the dwarf and saw an opportunity "Excuse me good sir, this is all very fascinating indeed. To think, you really know the Queen! But I'm not here to quipper about political allegiances, rather I shall present to you a grand slam home-run of a deal."
Approaching slowly, appearing wholly unarmed and empty handed "Now, you look like a discerning sort. You certainly wouldn't drink contaminated water from a muddy pond, right? But why should your sweetleaf be any different? With Scramsax Selects(TM), each ounce is inspected by trained herbologists to ensure one thing: this leaf is pure."
"Even the air at our packing facility is changed every 4.5 hours to ensure no foreign microbes are bringing in a premature staleness. Yes, its that extra care that gives Scramsax Selects its refined quality. Pure as the water you drink." unfurling the product in a magnificent display, opening the sack and taking a whiff. It was the strange blend he had planted while inside Illarya. "Please, do yourself a favor and try my product?"
Whispering again dramatically while dangling the bag "...Scramsax Selects..."
All the while sizing the dwarf up for royal valuables.
"Its good tea, though it usually needs honey." Ingryd says as an offhand comment handing honey to Luthael.
"Eat it restores vigor and vitality to your body" She says worrying about the clearly fatigued priest.
"Ahhhh...excellent." The elf proclaims nodding at Luthael's clarification concerning the worship of Khors within the Red Queen's realm. "An isolated incident then. That is most helpful. And I see you've taken the precaution of incineration for the fallen. Prudent, most prudent." He says pausing to look at the scratchings of the feather pen.
"No..no...no...incineration. And you check here, not here." He says irritably pointing to several areas on the page with a long finger. "Here let me see that..." He is then completely occupied reviewing the writings for several minutes, occasionally muttering and adding a notation here and there.
Meanwhile, the dwarf puffs away on his pipe while listening to Scramsax talk up his own special pipe blend. By the time the halfling completes his sales pitch, the dwarf is nodding thoughtfully and clearly intrigued at the thought of trying such a blend treated with such love and thoughtfulness. He arches an eyebrow in curiosity when the bearkin speaks of using it as a tea, but then again, in his experience, bearkin often had unusual diets and tastes. And of course damned near everything was slathered in honey. He suppresses an involuntary shiver and turns his attention back to the hopeful halfling.
"I'll take ye up on your offer." He says after a few minutes, tapping his pipe against his boot to ready it for a new sample. When the dwarf steps closer, Scramsax realizes the old veteran, is simply that. An aging veteran stuck in the hinterlands conducting escort duty for yet another stuffy, pompous government official. The halfling would probably be lucky to get more than a handful of coins from the dwarf or anyone in his charge. Except for the elf, who seems much better off and holding much more authority than the old guardsman.
"First one's free." packing the dwarf's pipe. "...and one for the doctor..." packing his own. Scram instantly realized his mistake: the tiniest spots of rust on the dwarf's pauldrons, his general preference for comfort and utility over style, not the slightest attempt to suppress or cover natural body odors. A mark the dwarf was not.
Still, they had found a simple pleasure on the edge of destruction. Wasn't that the true treasure, after all? Smirking, so Scram lied to himself, puffing away and letting his thoughts drift towards Illarya...the woman who was his greatest escape.
"Wait, the prophet has spoken...but...wasn't there a number on the thing? There could be more, right? Maybe not an isolated incident?"
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”Royal Justicar,” says Gunnar as he moves over to the elf, ”We have indeed purged as much of the void magic as possible from this site. Let me share the inscription on the corrupted patriarch’s coffin—I translated it from the lost Ankeshelian language using magic.”
”I am Solarious. Blood of my blood, Mind of my mind. A single soul sworn to purify all beneath the bright sun for all eternity. From one many are born. With many the fires of Righteousness sweep the land. All are Solarious.”
”As you can see, the inscription ends with the Ankeshelian numeral IV. Perhaps we are fortunate and this is the only active incarnation of this ‘Solarious’, but this blasphemous clone may have been but one of a series. However, we have done all we can here, spending three days cleansing the site even though we are urgently needed elsewhere. Might we have your leave to go about our business,” he asks humbly, ready to move on to their other tasks.
"Wait that wasn't Tea? No wonder my last cup of tea was disgusting" Ingryd says to Scram as she looks at the guards.
"Anyone got a nip of alcohol? I could use some after this" She says looking at the guard with a smile as she seems to be wearing rags despite her body and wounds somewhat healed and cleaned.
"Huh...what? Oh...oh...yes. Most helpful." The justicar says adjusting his spectacles and looking at Gunnar's transcription as the floating pen takes down both the dwarf's and halfling's suppositions.
The dwarf packs his pipe with Scramsax's new leaf, lights it and puffs on it appreciatively while keeping a watchful eye on the elf and directing the rest of his squad to stake out a sizable area around the crash site.
"Ankeshelian you say? Hmmmm....interesting, but much more problematic." He taps the tips of his lips thoughtfully. "Indeed, it is possible there are more of these abominations around. Depends on how many may have survived the ancient cataclysm. Certainly only a few, perhaps only the one. If there are more, I doubt they will be in this region." He says waving a hand in the air. "One can keep itself and its magics concealed. But two...or more...the disruptions caused by the void runes and chaotic resonances in the ley lines and arcane matrix would be too substantial. Too easily detectable by even a local priest or hedge wizard."
"Indeed, you have served the crowns interests well. Your sacrifices and cooperation will be noted in the record." He turns back to the wreckage, muttering and waving a hand dismissively. "You're free to be on your way if you like."
As the bespectacled elf wanders away, Quinn whispers to the others, "Have to deal with his like often?"
"Uh, excuse me..." Scram approached the pen, speaking directly to it "You misspelled 'The Narg Nasty 6'. One 'g', not two."
==30
Scramsax the Master Librarian launched into a sudden and unexpected erudite discourse on the nature of the ancient cataclysm, cross-referenced with forbidden knowledge hidden only in the tallest towers of the Geomancers of Barsella he had stolen as a teenager...it was all likely some intellectual hangover from 3 days of solid Enhance Ability magic.
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The halflings voice takes on an odd eerie tone as he suddenly begins to recite passages from a long ago stolen tome of ancient history. It had been many years since a youthful halfling had dared pilfer the eerie of Gabozul the Verbose. It was nearly the death of the young thief, for the great tower, long shunned by most well informed citizens and lower denizens of the city was littered with a variety of insidious traps. Traps the did not kill the wayward intruder. Nothing so drab as that. No these infernal devices simply transported the victim into the very presence of the wizard. A wizard whose brain, is so bloated with historical knowledge, arcane formula, and the largest cornucopia of useless factoids spanning the entirety of the races and places of Midgard that it has swollen and expanded itself beyond Gabozul's natural skull. Growing like a fungus from his ears and nose, sprouting wrinkled stair steps of knowledge that slowly rose and surrounded his entire skull except for three small orifices hollowed out to allow for breathing, sustenance, and very limited sight. Being a wizard, the cosmetic vulgarity of such an anomaly barely phased him. It did however limit his visitors and personal engagements.
And so Gabozul, took to talking to himself. Reciting all of his various essays, histories, philosophical theories, treatises, dissertations and other random writings. Should someone wander into his presence, he would hold them entranced until he was finished with which ever item he happened to be pondering at the time. Typically little was left except the skeletal remains of the unfortunate soul by that point.
Thus it was that young Scramsax whether on a dare, out of whimsy, or greed, only the halfling knows, entered old Gabozul's tower and promptly got himself transported to wizard's audience chamber. A dark, circular affair, acoustically sound, and filled with the remnants of an untold number of previous victims. For days the halfling was held aloft in arcane fields of power at the location determined to be the perfect seat to hear and experience the lectures of the Great Gabozul. No food. No water. Little rest except when the halflings mind simply couldn't maintain awareness any longer and thus would sleep fitfully, the constant droning words of the wizard streaming into his unconscious.
By some minor miracle of fate or maybe Lady Mnemone's blessing, the halfling's arrival coincided with the near completion of Gabozul's Historical Ruminations on the Rise and Fall of the Ankeshel.
As he lay practically comatose from dehydration and hunger, Scramsax absorbed the words of the wizard describing in their painfully tedious and circular fashion how the most advanced and powerful human empire to ever rule beneath Khor's sun on Midgard fell. His theories as to why the ancient island empire fell ranged from destruction by their ancient Aboleth enemies, to drawing the anger of the seagod Nethus who sent his numerous servants to drown the island. He even mentioned internal strife and hubris, but most scholars dismiss that as impossible among such an advanced civilization. Regardless of the cause, the empire known for its vril guns, flying carriages, lighting spears, and wonders of every kind imaginable sank beneath the sea three thousand years ago. The Great Cataclysm caused Ankeshel to sink beneath the sea and flooded western Midgard in the process. Outside of Nuria Nutal, it would take more than a thousand years for another human realm of any power to rise in Midgard, and none to this day have achieved its remarkable heights.
It is this history of Ankeshel that Scramsax is able to repeat, word for verbose word, over the course of the remainder of the day and well into night's embrace. He stops only long enough to wet his parched throat or repack his pipe or until someone finally convinces him they've heard plenty.
"Sergent Tamar, we leave this site in your capable hands."
"Companions, they said the small inn near here was attacked. Let's go check on them before we head south." Luthael concludes and suggests. He shoulders his pack and shield heading toward the magic carpet.
Concluding the discourse with a shrug "...yeah I mean, that's what I heard about it anyways. Maybe it was all this void stuff that took 'em out." He added "Hey, whatever happened to that 'whore spear' or whatever it was called? That reminds me, the wizard said the Ankeshelians also made lightning spears like that...maybe that stupid b*itch was an Ankeshelian pretending to be Thor's chosen this entire time. Heh."
As the prophet spoke, Scramsax was quick to agree adding only a simple "Yeah..." before unfurling the Nasty Rug with a flick of its predictable cone of turd spray.
"...what in the name of hell?" Scram turned around to look at his backside.
He had a third buttcheek.
Further investigation revealed a thick, heavy bottle...similar to the shards he was avoiding back in the ice hyena's lair. "Oh...this was on one of those disguised giant's earlier. What do you make of it, Gunnar?" passing the warm, sweaty thing over.
Leaving the wreck in the capable hands of the Red Queen's guard, you each once again step onto the wizard's dubious gift and Scramsax sets out for the rebuilt inn. It doesn't take long, but the sun is setting in the west as you arrive. The still warm ashes of a quartet of oversized pyre's fill one of the nearby fields. The dryad's willow stands tall, leaves rustling in the evening wind as the happy sounds of people drinking, talking, living echo from the inviting lamp lit windows of the large common room.
Aterro sits on the deck, a stein of ale in one hand. The cleric greats you all with a warm smile as he chides you for missing a good rollicking fight. Inside you see Kalisuel and Vee sitting in a corner where it seems the fey bard is teaching the mechanical woman to play the lute. A few tables away, Britta shouts happily and lays down her cards. Moans and curses erupt from Finn, Methada, and Ibrox and the elder adventurer scoops in the table's winnings.
Several other former residents of Nargenthal are busy enjoying their evening or, in more than a few cases, working to keep all the visitor comfortable and hydrated with the latest honeyed wine and ales.
When you ask about the rumored attack, there are plenty of different versions of the events. Most are likely true to a certain extent, some may have already grown over the few short days. Their height well fertilized with plenty of drink and fine dryad grow pipeweed. But all in all the enemy was killed, the soil still warm where their bodies were sent to the gods.
In talking with Finn, Scramsax quickly learns that young Trevor had been along to warm about the Inquisition, but that Katerina was safe. Thanks to the timely intervention of the Narg Nasty Six. That last is said with a round of cheers toasting in your honor for keeping the young saint safe and uncovering the hidden identities of the bandits. Given all of the current guests, accommodations are a little tighter than any of you had expected, but folk are more than willing to share or double up where needed.
The drinking and storytelling go on well into the late night and early hours the following morning until only a few diehards sit gathered aroung the embers of the fire.
At some point Gunnar hands the oversized bottle Scramsax asked about back to the halfling. Shaking his head, the dwarf warns Scram about drinking anything that may have touched the foul witches gnarled fingers. The potion will turn the drinker into a creature of pure elemental fire. But unlike typical potions which usually only offer a temporary physical transformation, this potion will do so permanently. As far as Gunnar was able to analyze the stuff, the effect will last in perpetuity as long as you continue to consume some kind of living flesh. But should one stop, the flames will turn upon themselves and whatever mortal or spiritual self may still exist. Thus you either feed upon other living things or end up consuming yourself in what the dwarf can imagine is a terrible and painful death.
Ingryd drinks and drinks. Though at first she is fun and plays along with others she eventually finds a spot to drink to herself. The bear maiden has relived the events again. Teary-eyed she stares out into the night alone.
What was worse is the manipulations of that thing, which not only made her relive the tragic deaths of her children but also her husband, along with the fight with the hag who did it, the imagery made her target her friends. The bear kin did not want to do it again. She liked her friends, and the pain, well the pain would always be there.
Somberly she drank. All in all the rest of the night and into the early morning she watched the stars only moving to get more drink when her cup was dry.
Luthael enjoys the warm company and only lightly proselytizes on the magnificence of the Lord of Light. He actively listens to people learning their names and stories late into the night.
At dawn, the prophet is up to ritually appreciate his divine patron.
When breaking his fast with the Narg Nasty, he asks, ”I understand that some of you want to return to the giant’s burrow. I don’t know if it is a big proverbial rabbit hole, but I would suggest we start south. We have an important task for Midgard to accomplish.”. He hesitates to speak openly about destroying the unholy artifact in order to not burden others with that knowledge.
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As soon as Gunnar identifies the potion, he winces, though he does hand it back to Scramsax after he describes its effects. ”A nasty piece of work, that. I counsel destroying it before some unfortunate soul sows the seeds of his own damnation in his quest for power.”
Finding Ingryd in her sad contemplation later that night, he approaches her and asks, ”I do not wish to disturb you, but I would share some thoughts with you if you will allow it.”
Sitting down and thinking quietly for a moment himself, Gunnar composes himself and starts speaking, ”There are powerful and evil magics in this land that can overpower a person’s will and make him—or her—take actions anathema to their very being through guile and trickery. How many noble hearts did the Patriarch corrupt, twisting their zeal for good into unwitting evil? Yet the holy ones, like the saint Katerina and our very own Invictusol, can bring us back from the brink, breaking the tendrils of dark magic and freeing us to do good.”
Sighing and propping up his shield on a nearby bench, Gunnar says, ”Now we must add another name to that list, for Sylvia gave of herself to aid you in breaking the Patriarch’s spell in that last moment, allowing you to regain your senses and put an end to his evil. I know not if her spirit will recover enough to speak into my mind again, but if her heroic sacrifice is not worthy of an afterlife in the halls of Valhalla, I don’t know what is.”
Gunnar sits quietly, offering up a silent prayer to Thor on Sylvia’s behalf. If Ingryd wishes to respond, he will speak with her more, even sharing his own weakness when he was overcome by the twisted promises of the evil sword. Otherwise, he eventually leaves her to her thoughts, hopefully now colored with thoughts of sacrifice and honor, not just grief and shame.
"It's not the evil magic, nor the offer of evil. They were used, My children, My HUsband, those thoughts of their deaths that hate and rage clouding my mind and making me trike friends. Though they were her, HER! the wretched accursed hag who ate my children, ATE THEM!" Ingryd stops and sniffles as she tries to wipe her eyes. She then breaks down unsure what she can add. The sights returning, the fight returning. She curls up into a ball and cries some more.
Rage and Angry were replaced with the pain of loss and the sorrow of never being able to be with her beloved husband and children ever again.
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Gunnar sits with her through the night, silently just being there so she won’t be alone with her pain….
Scram was relieved to see his daughter not only ok, but picking up some useful musical skills. Snickering, he wondered how her sleight of hand skills were going, so set a little trap for her behind the bar...placing a gold coin in his vest about the height she would wrap her arms for a hug.
Approaching "Ah yes, the sound of music...I only ever learned the musical fruits. 'Course thwap me hard enough I can also sing like a pigeon..." leaning into Vee for a little forehead smooch, curiously dropping the thieves' cant word for a mark in reference to himself. If Vee was wise, she would pickpocket her dad.
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Later the halfling snuck up on old Finn outside during a smoke. "Ahoy, safecracker. Guess you've heard, we're heading out for a spell. Well here's the thing...lost my picks and tools a while back, never really found a good replacement." showing him some of the odd bits and pieces from Radovan's metalsmithing workshop. "So I starts thinking I says...'ol Finn must still have his trusty pack kickin' about somewhere'. I know you ain't that retired...c'mon lend 'em to me. I can give you some coin if that's the deal."
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Finally Scram snuck off to see the dryad of his dreams, the prison that had held him all those months...the woman whose third eye he had stolen. The mental construct Scramsax saw as a priceless Sapphire Orb which was now powering every psionic trick the halfling could muster, even as his subconsciousness reached farther and farther across Ginnungagap.
Illarya had always wisely limited her roving to the branches of Yggdrasil connecting the planes, and it was such tree striding that ultimately allowed Scram to escape. Scram was much less wise, and with his psion mentor Coin now dormant or missing there was nothing to keep his subconscious plunge from accelerating exponentially.
Of course the thief was barely conscious of any of that, seeing it only occasionally as he strained to remember a dream. Illarya for her part also seemed suspicious at best, having absorbed some of Scram's more hallmark qualities apparently for good. Unable to grasp or express the truth, the raw feeling was much simpler...he desired to be with her. Not sexually of course, just as partners. They had started the sweetleaf fields together, and it was hard to tell the grove apart from them now.
Somehow the missing parts of themselves designed to bring them back together.
Perhaps that's why Scram had asked her to begin the dsilyidje qacal, the southern style sand painting spiritualists believed restored the health causing physical and mystical dissonance...ostensibly, that was the reason he entered the grove that night.
Finn, being Finn, can't simply give over his most trusted and valued instruments of financial security. Even if he has turned a new leaf and given up his skulking days.
""You just don't know when old, fickle Lady Fate, is gonna put temptation and need right in the same room with you" Is the tipsy rogue's response. Throwing an arm around the equally tipsy halfling, Finn offers a trade.
"Now I jusss....just happened to s..sss...see you had a few bits and bobs of jewelry *hic* among your trade goods." He says leaning in and hitting the halfling with a batch of breath that could've knocked a dragon back a step or two. Whether because of his own intoxication, or an immunity generated by constant close contact with the Nasty Rug, Scramsax seems unfazed. Although the question of how 'close a look' the drunken scoundrel had gotten at his stash does niggle just a bit. Still he waves a hand signalling Finn to make his offer.
"*hic* Now that silver and c...c...c*hic* coral necklace would be a perfect gift for my sweet*hic*heart." He says with a crooked smile. "And that silk *hic* robe. I...I...could do with a bit o'comfort after all the *hic*hic*hic* hard work I put in 'round this place. So what'd'ya say ole buddy." He pulls out the set of small, steel picks and tension tools, holding it tantalizingly in front of Scramsax. "We gotta deal?"