Daryl rises to his feet, and begins to pace about. As he turns towards the rest of the group, they notice a long jagged white scar mars the otherwise perfect glistening black scales. It intersects his right eye, and if you look closely you can see that eye has been replaced with an amber gem of some sort... but it moves with his other eye.
Daryl is certainly the judgmental sort, but has learned over the years that things are seldom as bad or as good as they seem on the surface. It is always best to wait for the whole truth instead of leaping to conclusion on half truths, and unknown truths.
"From my experiences the Thayans seldom leave all their cards on the table for all to see. Tell us more about this 'Task' and I'll consult with Enlil to determine my interest".
The big Dragonborn, absentmindedly strokes his holy symbol at mentioning the name.
"I admit that something guided me here for a reason. The Order put out a call for assistance... and Enlil showed me visions of some thing that might or might not have happened here... but I will need to know more about what is expected of us".
IN HUMAN FORM ;D
"If the Thayans are truly threatening the existence of Mulmaster, that would tip the balance of power on the Moonsea and in Faerun. Even devastated and recovering from a disaster, Mulmaster has an important place in the eco-system." Arran the Druid comments and takes another sip of ale.
Ensuring that he said his true name while facing away from Lindaer, the human druid continues, "I'm sure Finlogan the Hierophant would not let Mulmaster be destroyed. However, he also probably would like to find a way to thwart the Thayans, if you know what I mean."
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His interest suddenly perked Lindaer spoke up. ”Did you just say Fingolan? Am I to understand that you are his disciple? Will he be joining us? It has been many a year since I have enjoyed his presence, and I am sure that his abilities would be of great value in this endeavor.” And if he sent a disciple because something else is more important, then I will never live this down. He thought to himself.
IN HUMAN FORM ;D
"Yes, I represent Master Finlogan. If there is something worth joining here, then yes, he would attend." Arran the Druid replies carefully to avoid lying and takes another sip of ale to hide a smile in his tankard.
"So you...you welcome these undead abominations into your city?" The shock and disgust is clear on Tarn's face. "And these Thayans are necromancers who now seek our help?" He swallows and rubs a hand across his eyes.
"Loregiver's Grace." He whispers to himself while listening to the others. He knew these northern lands were different, uncivilized and heathen in many ways. But to openly use the dead for cheap labor?! It is...unthinkable...even to Tarn's more casual interpretation of the teachings, such a thing is revolting. Yet, perhaps this is why the Caliph sent me? To uncover the true depth of this lands depravity and to find their weaknesses in case more....drastic action is required. And there was a lot he could do with that much platinum.
"Let's take a look at what has these Thayans so disturbed. Perhaps, that will help shed light as to how we may, or may not, be able to help." Tarn says cautiously, emphasizing his growing dislike for the people he is supposedly here to help.
"Well, let's go hear what the have to say. I mean, their money spends just as well as anyone else's. If they try to double-cross us, I have a great place to store the Red Wizard who does."
Sympathetically "I understand steering trepidations towards the Red Wizards of Thay. If it helps, consider whatever you agree to with them to actually be an agreement with me...with the last peoples of Mulmaster. Anyone could have stepped in and offered the help...but the fact is, the Thayans are the ones who did..."
He steps over to an open stone window, gazing out into the midday's light catching upturned storms of dust. Strange regions of antigravity hold sections of once glorious towers above the rubble in odd inverted poses. His voice takes on an even more somber tone "The Zulkir is here, you know. It is he who requested you. There are only 8 in existence...one for each school of magic. Please understand the attention of a wizard of that power is no small thing."
He holds up a hand in 'stop' motion "You need agree to nothing right now. I implore you simply go to the large tent at the end of the 3rd row...it is in that makeshift temple of Ilmater you'll meet the first who were sent..." He's referring again to the large encampment of tents outside, arranged like field hospitals.
IN HUMAN FORM ;D
"Ilmater. That's an odd choice for a Zulkir. They have never been too concerned with the suffering of others, even their own people. Zulkirs have only been focused on acquiring more arcane knowledge without limits." Arran the Druid stands and sets his tankard of ale on the jury-rigged table.
"If this mission travels through the large tent at the end of the 3rd row, then let's go."
With a nod to Arran "Yes...another means to an end, perhaps. Surely they are playing the long game."
Rastol leaves you there in the early afternoon to make your way through the encampment. The ravages of Mulmaster are still quite apparent, but large stone walls of obvious arcane nature have been erected to provide some boundary. Beyond which, the undead toil to clear major roadways and pull heavy carts laden with tools...under the watchful purple glowing eyes of the wizards in red.
Then from a short hill rise you spy large chasms in the distance spouting steam, lava running through the streets in some place. A large section of the city has been abandoned to just burn, burn, burn. Elsewhere debris hangs in odd rotations up in midair, as teams of casters chant in unison to reverse the flux.
Within the myriad of canvas tents, these bastions of Ilmater all bear a common theme: they are full of the injured and invalid. However, this one (the one indicated by Rastol Shan) seemingly has no patients...
A curtained off section lies at the rear, and muffled cries can briefly be heard behind it. There is a simple cordon closing off the area, from which presently bursts a frazzled and nearly panicked priest stumbling awkwardly and haggardly away from the tent.
He grabs you by the face and looks into your eyes as if searching for some hidden disease "..eh...enduring well wishes to you...have you been appropriately prepared?!" releasing you swiftly and continuing to walk away. The man soon scrambling over a ruined building shouting "...yes...back in five minutes! Ah haha...." It must've been break time...?
The tent is quite open, inside you can see many curtained off partitions, tables, and equipment...
Szasa uses Prestidigitation to clean herself up, then casts mage armor on herself.
"Very well, I'm really to go."
As the crazed man grabs her, Szasa shakes herself free then says "Touch me again and I'll burn down your temple."
She then walks into the place like she owns it.
Tarn's ears droop further and further toward the ground as they walk through the ruined city. The magical anomalies, the suffering of the staring, blank-faced people. There was nothing here for a goblin with his skills and talents. There were ruins in the desert that had been abandoned for a thousand years that looked more alive than this place. These people, this place was already dead, Shan and the others just didn't realize it yet. And now that had given thier hopes of survival over to a bunch of necromancers. He shakes his head sadly as he quietly follows the group to the tent.
The priests mad odd behavior and mad dash away, barely registers as unusual considering all of the various ceremonies and odd ways of worship he's encountered over the years. But that comment about being prepared....By the four great djinn, what was in the tent that caused mad priests and worried wizards? Only one way to find out. He thinks, quietly using the shadows to duck through into the closed, back area of the big temple-tent.
As Lindaer discussed etiquette with the Hurricane, none noticed the Zakharan goblin slip under the canvas.
The stark interior of this closed-off space is striking. Two male human patients are strapped to the top of tall metal surgical tables. One is catatonic, while the other thrashes around wildly while his voice rises and falls from hoarse scream to a whisper. The language sounds like a mix between ancient Elvish and Common...but you aren't really sure.
They are both covered by thin sheets, and have received grievous injuries. They have black pockmarks that range in size from the head of a pin up to about the width of a finger all over their upper torsos and to the bottom of their jawline. Then again over their forearms and hands. The catatonic patient is missing a leg, but the nub of a thighbone can be seen. The raving patient has an arm that looks like it has been equal parts burned and dipped in acid, and has a leg to match.
Several wooden creates line the edge of this place. Their lids do not appear to be locked or even fully sealed.
"I was being nice. I only threatened him."
Looking around at things, Szasa asks "Did we ever find out what school of magic the Zulkir specialized in?"
Crinkling his nose at the sight and smell of the two patients, Tarn steps up to take a closer look. Pulling out a big magnifying glass he examines each of the wounded men more closely, looking for any signs of what might have caused such terrible wounds and madness.
Not being an apothecary, he isn't really surprised at not recognizing anything useful, so instead he turns to the crates and what they might contain. He couldn't really think of a reason why they would be in here, unless they were related to whatever the victims were doing when they received their injuries. Carefully lifting the lids he does his best to search through things without disturbing the contents too much.
IN HUMAN FORM ;D
Walking toward the tent, Arran the Druid waves in recognition to a couple druidic crews working to break the magic that holds the standing natural disasters plaguing the city. When Finlogan was in Mulmaster (a human city that stank with the rot of civilization even in its better days), he was Arran, a mid-level druid who maintained contact with the great Finlogan who was always too busy for Mulmaster.
Arriving at the tent, he finds that his friend has not changed, which is good. And, there was a clear reason that the half-elf was delivered in bonds. She appears barely able to contain the violence within her. Much like those standing natural disasters that the druid circles were trying to relieve.
Within the tent, Arran keeps his distance while surveying the scene, patients but also the detritus of caring for them. He attempts a diagnosis, while he fingers a gem-encrusted bowl in his pocket.
Szasa, you might know this Zulkir's school if you had heard the name, but you haven't yet. But surely it couldn't be Szass Tam, the most infamous Zulkir of necromancy rumored to be a centuries old lich...
You easily stretch your perceptions into the Weave, what once was a strange instinct and set you apart from others has become wealth of experience you rely and draw upon. The patterns are faint, but most closely resemble some residual necromantic energy...still there seems to be a mix of magical and natural causes at play. The wounds are not worsening, but the reason is uncertain.
Tarn climbs up the side of the 3 ft high crate, essentially getting inside the large cargo box to dig around. He immediately regrets that decision, encountering several wax sealed jars of creature parts floating in some odd preservative. They appear to be the discarded husks of worms, which is strange since typically worms don't shed their skin...
There's also quite a few dirty robes in here. They look like they were red at one point, but are now quite faded and sport many, many holes of various sizes. Holding one up and comparing the holes to the pockmarks on the bodies reveals a close match...
Finally, there are two vials of a congealed, syrupy golden liquid.
Finlogan, under the guise of Arran, concludes that the wounds are magical in nature. There is a flaky appearance around the holes, similar to paper that has been burned but yet completely turned to ash. From the coloration of the skin, you at first suspect gangrene, but closer inspection reveals a quite different shade of green from that common infection.
IN HUMAN FORM ;D
"These wounds are magical in nature," concludes Arran the Druid.
"I want to perform a ritual to examine the magical auras. It should take about a dozen minutes. Anyone have any objections?" he asks, before starting Detect Magic.
"I'll meet you there. I must pray before continuing as always. I don't think ten extra minutes will affect things for the better or worse".
Always in such a hurry. They must indeed have great power to still survive with such impulsiveness".
Daryl then steps to a quiet corner, and prepares to commune with Enlil to help answer some of his questions and concerns.
Daryl takes the time to don his vestments, take out his holy symbol, and perform the necessary steps to cast the Commune Spell.
DM
Question #1: Will working with these individuals result in the opportunity to achieve a common goal?
Question #2: Does the group as it now stands have the necessary skills and talents to achieve this common goal?
Question #3: Will cooperating with the Thayans through Raston ultimately be for the greater good of Faerun?
Arran begins a vaguely familiar ritual...the droning syllables never cease and it seems he will go on forever...
You let go of your mortal coil in prayer, the spell collapsing your identity into a pure mote of curiosity...one surrendered wholly to the will of Enlil. The god takes the mote into His hands, playing it like a bard strums a harp. Your first question returns a strong sense of affirmation...however your second remains unclear. At the third, the strong affirmation returns...giving you a sense of hope.
"Agreed that it is magical in nature. What's interesting, however, is that the wounds aren't getting worse, or better. They just remain as they are."
As Falko goes to leave, Szasa says "Can you find and drag back the person who ran off? I'm sure he'd be helpful in determining what we're dealing with."
The party inside the tent is content to let Arran conduct his lengthy ritual, the wounded man on the table continuing to spout his strange language...
Outside, Falko was just finishing a wedge of gouda debating the doctor's destination when an armed and glorious procession approached. A squad of red masked, red cloaked men surrounded a regal figure. Falko had never really been attracted to another male before, yet there in the final analysis he thought this could be the one who tips the scales. Funnily enough, there too was the little mad doctor who ran off 5 minutes ago (oh right, he said he would be back in 5 minutes).
The beautiful man nods and smiles at Falko, before throwing back the curtain and approaching the party inside "MY FRIENDS!" he bellows. He's of course clad in ornate red robes and sports many blue, glowing tatoos on his bald scalp...however his most notable feature is his wide smile of square, perfectly white teeth (perhaps slightly larger than usual). "I am Zulkir Dar'lon Ma, and would like to welcome you to the Jewel of the North! Though, I wish it were under better circumstances. These poor gentlemen were simply doing their jobs when this...malady...befell them. Tell me, what have you learned?" he makes direct eye contact with all of you...clearly directing his message of 'alpha' status.
Szasa...if memory serves this is the Zulkir of Enchantment.
Pocketing the two vials of golden syrup, Tarn crawls back out of the crate, with one of the worm filled jars. Holding it up to the light, he peers through his magnifying glass at the specimins to try and identify the odd worm-like creatures.
"It seems to be filled with the men's gear." Tarn says pointing to the crate. "Their robes are a mess, like they were attacked, judging by all the holes." He holds up the worm filled jar. "Also has a bunch of these worm things."
Tarn, just before the Zulkir's entourage enters, you put two and two together to get 22: there in one of the wider pockmarks, you spot the tip of a worm matching the husks you found...deep inside the wound.
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Lindaer met the look with disinterest, though he was careful not to show it. He had long ago become accustomed to men of secular power showing off their importance. Next to the fate of the soul such considerations were laughable at best. For what did such power matter? In his experience such men were often made all the poorer when they accumulated more wealth.
”Surely your time is too valuable for such trivialities. And none here have any reason to prove ourselves. I believe that it would be best to simply assume that we know little, rather than waste time with everyone giving incomplete assessment, though my associate here has shown how insightful that they can be. If you would be so kind, please inform us as to what has brought someone of your station here to speak with us.”
IN HUMAN FORM ;D
Halfway through his ritual to detect magic on the bodies, the Zulkir arrives. Arran the Druid ignores him while chanting and making abeyance to the divine patrons within the First Circle for the ability to detect magic as easily the aroma of flowers or skunks..
He keeps the bald one in his peripheral vision hoping that he is not really a lich in disguise. They are difficult to destroy.
He smiles and chuckles as if meeting a childhood friend on a spring morning "Ah Lindaer Elyrian, Son of Suldanessellar and Servant of the Leaf Lord, Keeper of the Quick Lore! ...please believe me it was an honest wish. My wizards and the few available clerics here have been quite unable to determine much regarding these injuries...I had such hope within my heart of your quick assessment it tickled. Tickled, truly. I was certain the legends that stand before me could have some insights? No? Well...er...wait...who is that?" he points to the strange human standing on one foot saying sentences in reverse and flapping his arms, who very much does not look like one of the legendary heroes of Toril he requested.
"Does he not know about the shell?"
"Great, an enchanter. Someone who lacks common manners and believes they can use magic to make people like them."
When Falko re-enters the tent, Szasa gives him a thumbs up sign, then walks to the crazy man and backhands him, saying "Quit trying to pretend to be mad. It's time to cough up some answers. You KNOW what is going on here, and you WILL tell me."
As Szasa begins threatening the man, a strong smell of ozone fills the air.
The Dragonborn Priest/Warrior rises to his feet with a groan. That hurts more every day. , and for a moment he eyes the potion that was promised to bring him additional youth before repacking his goods, donning his armor, and heading towards the tent mentioned earlier.
Knowing this group, I'll bet there will be some kind of commotion going on outside this tent by now.
Looking back and forth between the specimen floating in the jar and the slightly wriggling thing embedded deep in the unconscious man's flesh, Tarn slips a small pair of tweezers from his thieves kit.
While the others entertain the rather arrogant Zulkir, Tarn deftly uses the tweezers with the aide of his glass to snag the worm-thing and pull it out of the man's flesh.
"Does anyone know what these things are?" He says, holding the live worm up next to the dead sample in the jar.
Lindaer only had the slightest second to observe the struggling worm at the end of Tarn's tweezers. A high pitched squeal came from the tiny thing, as its outer coating quickly dried in the exposure to air. The drying, chapped husk split apart and the bizarre greenish interior inflated rapidly like a balloon...before bursting in their face, splashing worm guts in their eyes and mouths.
Tiny little blue spheres also rained from the explosion...hanging briefly in the air suspended from small biological parachutes. It was hundreds of worm eggs that quickly burrowed back into the unconscious man's body, especially near the area of his detached leg. The body jumped and convulsed as its muscles fired uncontrollably for a number of seconds...but luckily he was far too gone to scream.
"...I was going to say at least it wasn't getting worse. I believe we should understand the source of this malady before applying any...inspired treatments. Don't you agree?" the Zulkir smiles.
About that point Szasa kicks the priest in the nuts repeatedly, informing him of what he knows and doesn't know. "Ack! Cacoon! A rind of energy, anchored to the marks...stop!...its eluding my prayers!"
The Zulkir watches with admiration "Hahaha. Lady Szasa, tales of your business acumen precedes you..."
The other conscious patient just continues to scream its strange language, adding further violence and chaos to the scene.
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Lindaer blinked in surprise as the foul goo splashed over him. It hurt, to be sure, but it wasn’t anything worse than what he had experienced before. With a single prayer the entirety of the damage was gone, following which he prestidigitated himself clean. His clothes neatly mended themselves. In about fifteen seconds the cleric looked as if though nothing had happened.
Then, ignoring the jovial nature of the others...and the beating that he didn’t feel was justified, he went over to the thrashing patient. Again, he couldn’t stand idle while someone suffered and he had the power to help. Lindaer closed his eyes and focused on the words. He let the spark of divinity flow from his hand into the thrashing patient. He truly hoped that it would work...
Tarn watches with curious fascination as the worm withers, dies, explodes, and the bits start to drift back down and re-infest the body. Stepping back and out of the way of the falling eggs the goblin easily avoids being infected by the creatures.
Lindaer's pain is quickly alleviated, but the taste of the worm guts in his mouth would haunt his dreams a while. Brashly ignoring the Zulkir's advice, he applied a new treatment...but immediately realizes there is some kind of magical barrier, a shell or cocoon, surrounding the man. The shell grasps his prayer like a thick mud halting an elephants charge, and warps it into mystic patterns Lindaer, nor anyone versed in magic, have ever observed...
Lindaer, the strange magical energies ultimately thwart your spell, but at least some minimal positive energy seeps through the cracks. It lashes onto one pockmark in particular, binding the skin back over...however it remains a purple scar. You have a feeling it would take hundreds of such castings to work the entire infection...furthermore, you consider how its a rare parishioner indeed who might even receive such an advanced calling as you have.
Dar'lon Ma tsks in disappointment "Yes, brave men just doing their job. The archaeological team was two score and four, 8 of the Red and their 16 acolytes. These two. Just these two returned! Surely if we put our heads together, we can get to the bottom of this...for the greater good." he adds.