Tarn rolls his eyes at Falko's obvious disdain of books. "And you northerners say my people are barbaric." He says shaking his head in mystified wonder as he walks toward the big open book to the south.
"Although I will say, a book this size seems a bit impractical. I mean really a stone cover? Not really going to take that on a trip to the seaside are you." His ramblings continue as he looks over the pedestal and then climbs up to get a closer look at the writing. With a frown he reaches up and moves the battered feather in his hat back and forth a few times.
"Blasted thing must have got out of alignment during the fray with the wraiths." He says continuing to adjust the long feather. Finally he smiles and nods with satisfaction. "Ah....that's better. Now let's see what was so important it had to be written in a great big stone book."
Tarn sets about to read the enormous tome to the south...indeed the stone cover is most unusual, clearly magically-reinforced even. A quick carnival games estimate would put the work at a hefty 550 pounds. The title reads Principae Antiquus and is made of thinly hammered brass and silver.
The left page it was originally open to (nearly 4 times the size of Tarn himself) contains a detailed portrait of a middle-aged man in full military dress wearing ornate mithril armor. The page is titled 'Lord-General Hazirawn' and is subsectioned by 'History', 'Performance', 'Criteria', and 'Findings'.
The right is a highly detailed schematic of a wickedly barbed greatsword, including necromancy, enchantment, and abjuration sigils...one sigil has been scratched off the page, however. A crystal icon has been pressed into the corner of the page.
A precursory skim reveals this Hazirawn as a successful military commander of the Netherese Empire who led numerous skirmishes and rarely suffered any loss. Over a career spanning centuries thanks to the spells of a certain 'Council' he was responsible for many significant protective actions. His honors and achievements ultimately led to him being summarily selected for 'the process'. Upon reporting to the Laboratory, he was 'pressed' into the greatsword seen on the right-hand page. The 'Findings' section indicates that Hazirawn felt a great sense of betrayal but his value needed to be preserved, and how he believed 'only due to the incorporation of the Battery' that he can be included as an eternal instrument of the Empire.
"When the elves stole one of the Nether Scrolls in -3095 DR, Lord-General Hazirawn was nominated by the Council to lead the investigation. Though the thieves were never identified, Hazirawn made significant progress (or so the Netherese believed) and even managed to assert non-magical control over a trio of arcanaloths that had been summoned and deployed to aid in the efforts. In recognition for his prowess on the battlefield as a keen commander of men and resources, he was granted command and control of the Mines of Dekanter in -2758 DR."
"Lord-General Hazirawn was long stationed in the demesnes of Dekanter, and oversaw the substantial ores and gemstones that were mined from that location. He was known to spend time with both Ioun and the Chronomancer, and despite his disdain for arcane magic he formed close bonds with both of those men; Ioun would provide many magical items for Hazirawn’s troops and the Chronomancer would provide them with riddles and mental training exercises designed to keep their minds sharp during the lonely watch under the mountains."
"Lord-General Hazirawn was joined by the Chronomancer on an expedition far to the east, to a research facility near the Moonsea, in -2097 DR. The Chronomancer died two years later of a war wound thought to have been gained during the Battle of Ilusk in -2103 against the orc hordes, but the Lord-General was not seen again and is assumed to have perished during the easterly expedition. There are few who know the truth of his pressing."
Subsequent pages include similar: a portrait of some notable figure on the left, and a schematic of some weapon or other bauble to the right. For example a Amaunator priest and his mace, a wizard and a ring, and so forth. Some later pages appear to have been in-progress before this place was abandoned. The very last pages indicate a spellbook with another scratched out sigil, a sloop (one-masted sailboat), and a set of lockpicks.
Also, from the height of the raised platform containing the massive Principae Antiquus, you can see 2 hallways descending further into darkness in both the east and west directions. The western section of books here could also be explored.
Szasa stands in wonder of the library before her. So enraptured is she that she misses Falko's original comment and Tarn's retort.
Stepping in, she looks around, but sees no creatures react to their presence.
A library like this should have a librarian. she says to herself.
"Hello, is the librarian available? We'd like some help perusing the library." Szasa calls out after a moment's thought.
"Szasa, each set of shelves is dedicated to a single school of magic. However, necromancy is notably absent. Additionally, a similarity in each set is that the final tomes of a group have a lightly carved symbol that looks like a crystal or diamond."
"These End tomes contain details on incredibly complex arcane rituals... namely those to create sentient items. As impossible as it may be, these formulae would never be contained mentally...even within a mnemonic for 9th order spells. Could it really possible these are 10th order spells? If so, they would be incredibly dangerous to the outside world."
"These crystal labelled End tomes have titles like Adjustments for This School Pre-Battery, Incorporating the Battery, and Post-Battery Findings. There is a set of three for each school of magic (again, with the exception of necromancy)."
"This much smaller set of books are specially marked with a magical sigil that doesn't match any known school. One of these three books has the same crystal symbol as the other school's End tomes. They seem to be incredibly advanced, but aren't spellbooks. Rather, they bear notes, proof-of-concept experiment reports, and personal observations. The tome bearing the crystal icon for this unknown school holds findings that are described as incredibly exciting, with each object in the trials imbibed with exactly the desired properties and many more... but then abruptly on the fourth page it simply says "Experiments terminated by order of the Council."
"That sounds ominous. Can you make anything out about this?"
"I hope you're wrong. Mystra got rid of 10th and higher level spells for a reason; but, let's take a look."
"with that being said, the legends say that most of the magics that were higher than 9th level were rituals in nature and took large amounts of energy, but are cataclysmic in nature. Imagine creating a city atop a floating mountain; raining death down upon an entire country; causing the entire population of a region to obey you completely and without question. These are the sorts of powers we're talking about when we speak of the higher tier magics. Mystra removed their knowledge from the world because one such spell was used to kill a god."
Szasa takes a moment to read through the books that appear to contain 10th level spells.
Szasa, it hurts your head to look at the formulae...like a mathematics problem you have no idea how to solve. There is a certain breed of complexity inherent here that you realize typically requires artistic creativity rather than pure methodology. After all, logical method can be deduced at any stage of a culture's development, but arts can be lost with time.
Not being able to read Ancient Netherese isn't helping, but even the most raw manifestations of the elemental plane of air you are so familiar with pale in comparison to the powers hinted at here. The channelings of energies outlined here transcend exponential growth in a new model you have never experienced nor dreamed of. If these are not true 10th level spells, they are at least related to them in some way...you can imagine more than one magic-user that might be interested in purchasing these volumes. How they escaped Mystra's attention after the disaster of Karsus' Folly is beyond you...but surely it shouldn't be possible if your accounting of history is correct.
"This is....we...." Szasa begins and starts,then thinks for a moment before saying "Bring me every book that has one of these markings on them." she points at the crystal sigils. "This magic is not allowed anymore, and it should be destroyed. I will not have the next magical disaster be called Szasa's Folly."
"Ooookaaaayyyy." Tarn says slowly backing away from the book. "It seems they took their best and brightest heroes and put them into various weapons, rings, and other stuff." He shivers slightly at the thought of being trapped inside a sword and relays what he learned from the book to the others.
"Szasa, if you don't speak the language, you can borrow my Helm of Comprehending Languages." The wood elf heirophant removes his headgear and offers it to the magic-user.
"That would be helpful, thank you." Szasa says at Fin's offer of his helm.
At Falko's comment, Szasa says "Do you also kill storytellers, burning them and letting their ashes go into the night sky?"
"Books store knowledge and make it accessible for more people than a small group hearing a single storyteller. Is their value any less than a storyteller's?"
Books and scrolls are beyond Daryl's province, unless they are religious texts. "If any of you find any religious texts, please set them aside for me".
Otherwise he assists the others when asked, and is overwhelmed with the knowledge offered here. He finally decides to ask Enlil for help.
Daryl finds a quiet place to COMMUNE with Enlil.
- Should we destroy the contents of this library?
- Do we need to find the artifacts in the big book?
- Are there any tomes in here that are extra important to me?
Something about this place interferes with your prayers...its almost as if you feel buried beneath the weight of the material plane, and must shovel upwards and away some clear conduit to reach your god. And you soon have a suspicion why: your vial of holy water required for the ritual is little more than a salty residue...having been completely dried out by the same accelerated decay afflicting your other equipment.
But Lindaer thankfully prepared some water creation magics, and refilling the vial you manage to establish a connection, as tenuous as it seems...
Tarn chuckles softly to himself as Falko storms off in frustration. It seems some things are the same no matter if from the north or south. The goblin thinks to himself. His memories drifting back to some of the more inexplicable arguments he'd had with Khadi over the years.
"Don't worry friend Falko." Tarn hollers after the barbarian. "Books are good and must be preserved at all costs...unless they contain information you fear or do not understand. In that case they are bad and must be destroyed at all costs." He flashes a confident grin at Szasa, knowing he's helped patch things up between her and the besotted barbarian. "It's really quite simple, is it not."
"Yet I'm not sure we should delay our explorations for a good book burning. In fact, I think we should seek out this battery that seems to have been mentioned in several places, including the original Thayan documents." He adds walking up to the next exit.
"I am only intending to remove the magic that Mystra, lady of magic, has banned. No sense riling up a goddess, and I'm sure as s#$t not going to hand it over to a bunch of Thayans. The other books I have no interest in destroying."
Szasa begins using firebolt to set the books ablaze after finding a box or crate to contain them.
As if a switch was flipped, Szasa turns quickly towards Tarn and says "Did you say that you found information that there were Netherese artifacts here?"
When aren't your northern gods riled? Tarn can't help but wonder. But he merely shrugs and leans against the frame of the eastern exit waiting for the others to be satisfied the bonfire is going sufficiently to take care of business.
When Szasa asks him about artifacts he simply offers another casual shrug and nods. "If by weapons that hold the spirits of mortal warlords, priests, wizards and other heroes of this ancient Netherese empire? Then yes. It's all in the big stone book up there." After flicking a bit of wraith ooze off his threadbare and worn sleeve, he points to the south where the book still sits on its pedestal "Some poor fool named Hazirawn who gave his all for queen and country apparently ended up being turned into a big sword. A bunch of others in there. Book seems to be something of a catalog of soul infused items...or maybe an obituary of Netherse heroes. All depends on your perspective I guess."
Finlogan produces flame and uses his druidcraft to instantly light a small campfire-size pile of books. He prefers his stories remembered and told. The striving Netherese and Thayans cause too many problems for the Nature of Faerun that takes centuries to unwind. Any opportunity to stop them, is a small joy.
"You might. Magic that rips the soul from the body tends to drive the subject mad if they are unprepared for it. You would also be stuck in that form forever. No final rest; no end of life, surrounded by loved ones; no peace. Just your soul in a black abyss, with little to no interaction."
"Why do you think incorporeal undead are the way they are? They are displaced souls that got trapped, like those wraiths just now. Their madness has driven them to feed on the souls of the living, so they can have just a fleeting taste of what it is to be alive again."
"You are very pretty Falko, but you say the dumbest things sometimes."
3000 year old ensorcelled paper burns with the scent of cedar, as it turns out. The tiny embers of ash flare with occasional bursts of wilder colors, perhaps the Mythal responding in some way to the death of its creator -- the god text of knowledge now scattered in ruin. Surely no simple Mending cantra would ever put these notes back together...and it was hard to imagine anything that could. Yet, an annoying reminder at the back of your conscious chided that wizardry's domain is the unimaginable...the impossible.
As the rising fumes reached the vaulted ceiling and lost heat, they fell rapidly and accelerated towards the eastern and western halls...slightly preferring the east path.
"That was mildly entertaining. Let's go that way." Fin points to the east.
Tarn watches as the smoke from the bonfire of books drifts up and out the eastern exit. Figuring this might lead the way out, he agrees the Fin and follows the smoke east, eyes watching for any sign of wraiths upset by the ransacking of their library.
Passing down the long hallway to the east, you soon realize its about to dead end. However, theres a hint of light coming from the north that suggests a sharp 90 degree turn in that direction. In your mind's eye, it sort of makes sense...each level of a pyramid (upside down or other wise) would after all be a perfect square.
All the while the rhythmic thumping is getting louder and louder, though its steps in time remain steady and unerring.
You continue along another 100 ft or so and finally start to see some details to the north: most prominently, a large staircase leading upwards into the ceiling that criss-crosses back on itself a few times before getting there. It seems supported by 4 sturdy looking columns, one of which has some graffiti that you can't quite make out.
Second, you notice another humanoid in robes of red...face down on the ground.
The passage also appears to continue further north after the staircase, as well as branching back to the west.
Szasa scoops out a handful of the ashes and then flies up and slaps the top of the odd door, watching it retract into the wall, taking the ashes with it. She then turns and follows the others.
Seeing the Red Wizard, Szasa approaches the body and kicks it.
Hard.
Szasa bolts out of the darkness at high speed and executes a perfect punt on the fallen wizard's nape, sending the severed head ricocheting off the stairs and down the hall to the north. What's left is a neck full of dried worm husks...the body quite long ago consumed by the hungry larva. He very much resembles the patients from back in Mulmaster, and is most definitely a Red Wizard of Thay. However, in his particular case, the worms were clearly not dormant...progressing until quite fatal.
"Let us try and track down what is making that god awful thumping. I feel like it's counting down my lifespan as we explore".
Barely slipping out of the way of the charging sorceress, Tarn watches with surprise and just a hint of barely disguised revulsion as Szasa kicks the defenseless head down the northern passage. A single small clawed finger scratches behind his ear as he shakes his head in slight confusion.
"So book burning and now corpse desecration. Loremasters grace! Can someone explain to me again why goblins are the ones being hunted so often here in the north?" The goblin can't help but ask as he ties a thin cloth bandana over his mouth and nose.
"Since we know so little about these creatures, I'd rather not take the chance of breathing in any worm spores, eggs, or whatever these things might use to reproduce, that may have been stirred up by Szasa's rather aggressive attack against a defenseless corpse." His eyes flick to Falko with a bemused glimmer. "They clearly have some way of replicating. Most likely the eggs lie dormant until disturbed and then up your nose they go. Probably feels like a tickle or itch inside your body that you can't scratch or reach at first as the little critters wiggle their way further and further inside..." He lets his voice trail off and then walks quietly on up the passage to get a better look at the graffiti.
Finlogan, with your mental lexicon of biological oddities, you note the husks here are similar to a common variety that infects domesticated cattle...a type of parasite.
First, the parasitic mother enters the host through the lungs, being breathed in and embedding itself on the sticky and soft tissue inside. The eggs she lays there get coughed up into the victims mouth, then swallowed where they enter the digestive tract. Being surrounded by such brown matter is of course beneficial to the young larva, but also requires a strong husk to resist digestion which is shed shortly after their 'exit'.
The difference here of course is that this particular variety seems to have no preference for any fecal feast, and rather dines on decayed skin and the meatier flesh beneath.
Daryl, you are 99% certain the incessant thumping is coming from up the stairs.
Tarn, it seems Zahp has struck again. The graffiti reads 'Zahp was here!' and includes a crude little sketch of an unnaturally busty, scantily clad gnome flipping you off.
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”In fairness, up north it is the Orc empires that are the true problem. Their hordes burn and conquer, and the goblin tribes mostly fall in line. I would posit that but for the orcs, the goblins of the north might be more like our friend here. But, to be sure, the northern goblins are much better for the sharpness of their knives than their tongues.” Lindaer interjected, his eyes on the corpse the entire time. ”I wonder how the infection begins? We should certainly stick to summoned water. And freshly summoned water at that.”
Finlogan replies to Falko, "The husks here are similar to a common variety that infects domesticated cattle...a type of parasite. These parasitic mother enters the host through the lungs, being breathed in and embedding itself on the sticky and soft tissue inside. The eggs she lays there get coughed up into the victims mouth, then swallowed where they enter the digestive tract. Being surrounded by such brown matter is of course beneficial to the young larva, but also requires a strong husk to resist digestion which is shed shortly after their 'exit'."
"The difference here of course is that this particular variety seems to have no preference for any fecal feast, and rather dines on decayed skin and the meatier flesh beneath."
"The cow parasites can be Healed. We don't know what this stuff is."
Feeling better and better about his recently added mask, Tarn leaves the illustrious Zaph's graffiti and continues up the stairs toward the sound of the rhythmic thumping.