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"Even if it is not, we should remain alert in the days and years to come." Anwel nods approvingly at Andrei's and Phedre's divinations, and slumps back against the stone door frame. The battle, and Iomedae's trials, have drained most of his energy, and his magic is nearly spent too. Pashtiel's tricks have given him a few new ideas of his own, but he will need to rest before attempting any serious experiments. "I do not mean to diminish your accomplishment Vrag, Andrei, but no demon strong enough to require all this," he waves his hand at the runes and shattered glass, "to bind it would have been destroyed utterly by the force we brought to bear. It is likely banished, and may return. "But if it does, it will seek us out, not this place of its confinement. Folk can resettle here safely. That is what matters." He pushes away from the wall and sways a little on his feet before steadying himself. "We should let them know."
"Why did I expect anything different?" Anwel shakes his head. Pashtiel's illusions kept getting the better of him, and he was allowing it. No matter. Better take advantage while they're gone. Anwel points at the demon and looses a glowing green ray at its chest.
"Not for long." Anwel holds his guard in front of the passage until the group of no-doubt-summoned spiders bears down upon him and his friends. When he is sure he will catch as many as he can, he looses his spell. A grayscale spectrum spews from his hand, seeming almost solid in the darkness left behind by Iomedae's fire. It finds the eyes of the spiders and checks their forward movement. "Distractions." He looks to Andrei and Phedre. "They will regain themselves presently."
Anwel crosses his arms over his face as the runes vent their wrath upon Pashtiel's prison. He feels the flames burning through the outer layers of his clothes, with particular intensity where he'd tucked his conjured sword. He goes to draw it again when the heat subsides, only to find it translucent and flickering. It would need some time to regain itself. In the meantime, Anwel points a preparatory finger at the shattered crystal, waiting for the demon to emerge.
"Is that what the runes do? That makes sense." Anwel slips his shadowy sword into the sash around his waist, and draws his bow. He steps away from Pashtiel's sphere, gives the others a moment to do the same, and fires an arrow at the deepest-looking crack he can see.
"Hold a moment. Look." Anwel puts up his sword and glances at the runes on the wall. Where before they were red and threatening, now they shone like the light of a full moon. The oppressive sulfur smell was weakening, too. "Is that a good sign?"
"Let us not," says Anwel firmly, locking Pashtiel's golden orbs with his own gray eyes. "As for your freedom, be sure to savor it. It will be brief." With a swift motion of his hands, Anwel shapes the shadows of the chamber into a long-bladed sword. His feet settle into a wide stance in preparation for a swing at the demon as it emerges from its prison. He would break the glass, but even damaged as it is his new weapon might not shatter it.
"Close your ears," offers Anwel, fighting the pressure on his temples. He crosses his arms and glares icily at Pashtiel. "You have nothing to offer. We only want you gone."
Anwel takes a moment to steel himself against the binding chamber. Its assault on the senses—of smell and of rightness—is more subtle than the fiery tornadoes of Iomedae's trial, but more horrible for all that. The desert had been neither real nor malevolent. This was both. Still, deadly danger is nothing new to Anwel or his friends, they are more protected now than they have ever been, and there is no going back. If the door will not close again, they cannot allow Pashtiel the possibility of manifesting bodily and striding through. Which means coaxing it out to its end, now. Anwel steps up to the glass globe and lays a hand on its surface. "Pashtiel," he intones, his reedy voice somehow managing to echo, "We have not met. Your good fortune, however, is at an end. Come out."
Anwel holds up a hand. "That should not be necessary. The runes are meant to impede magics that heighten and extend perception, as well as magics that cloud it. But they are no barrier to people, and the ward they form is damaged in any case." He brushes his hair back. "That damage was likely seismic in nature. When Avistan shifted, it allowed the demon to reach beyond its prison, create pockets of its influence like the one we encountered, and kill the miners. It is a shame the binders did not foresee that possibility. Very little is as stable as it appears." He tries to open the door, calling Vrag, Warren, and Phedre over if he cannot make it budge. "We should simply be able to walk in. Walking out is, of course, another matter."
"We were warned of that possibility, Andrei, right at the outset. I did not witness Pashtiel's visions, and cannot compare, but from what I saw those who did were never offered that kindness. Nor, I imagine, were you promised the possibility of escape." Anwel has other arguments—for one, no particular course of action follows from Andrei's premise, so they might as well try the arch—but sees no point in offering them. Persuasion and cajolery had yet to get him anywhere in these lands. Accomplished facts, however, demand a response. Anwel steps through the door.
Anwel flinches at the sudden brightness, but composes himself and returns the bow. He would have preferred no obeisance either way, but it was better than simply accepting the priest's. "If we leave, will we still be prepared upon our return? I would hate to have faced that trial for nothing. Nor is the prospect of doing so again a pleasant one. "Either way, I believe Phedre wanted to stay and speak with you for a spell? If we may, can we have your name?"
It had turned out the flames left no burns or blisters, even on Andrei, but Anwel was still keen to give them a wide berth. Fortunately, the path had seemed to keep them at bay, and the party remained safe as long as they stayed on it. Unfortunately, however, that was the only solace the path gave. It had seemed to stretch without end into the distance. The oppressive heat and the barrenness of the plains had lengthened the walking hours into what felt like days or weeks. It got so that Anwel began to question whether they were even going the right way. He had even wished someone else had spotted the path, if only so they could have decided to follow it, and what direction to take. His own track record did not inspire confidence, and his navigational tools were useless in this mindscape. Finally, a dark protuberance had appeared on the horizon. It lifted the party's spirits and quickened their pace; any sight other than torrid flatness was a welcome one. By the time they had reached it, however, Anwel had gone quite parched. He had examined the archway from all angles, and now leans against the side for a moment, looking into the darkness. The rock is no cooler than the air, and with the fire whirls on all sides it provides no shade, unless one were to step into the threshold. But it is a support, and it lets Anwel catch his breath and wet his chapping lips. "Does this look familiar?" he says, patting the rock. It reminds him of the archways they had passed through to begin, and end, the first trial. Hopefully this is another of that kind. "It does to me, and, frankly, ours seems like the kind of situation in which any development is an improvement. Shall we go through? I do not think there is anything to fear from the darkness."
"Well. It appears I spoke too soon. That could be a way out." Anwel gestures at the path with the hand Andrei had been holding, then notices that Andrei is no longer holding it. He quickly turns back to the storyteller and reaches out to grab him again. "Come, Andrei, step out," he pleads.
"Not as such, no," admits Anwel. "But that does not mean there is no way out. The last vision simply ended when it failed to convince, after all. At least it did for me."
"Flames of purification indeed," Anwel mutters. Out loud he says "Remember, this is merely another vision. It cannot harm you unless you let it." He keeps his voice calm and measured, not at all the tone of someone being burned alive. "Close your eyes if you have to, and listen to my voice. There is no pain. There is no heat. There are no fumes. There is only you, me, our friends, and our task. Focus on that. Know it. Believe it."
"One moment longer, please." Anwel smiles welcomingly at Andrei, Phedre, and Vrag. "I am so glad you all made it." He gestures at the priest. "Our friend told Warren and me that the corridors we just passed through represented a trial of the mind. We can speak of our visions later, if you wish. Going by his speech earlier, that makes this a trial of the spirit. He also called these the 'flames of purification.'" Anwel holds out a hand and grasps the first hand that reaches out to take it. "I would be honored if you all stepped through with me." He turns to face the fire, his gaze lingering for a moment on the priest. "And I hope to see you on the other side." He knows Phedre wants to interview the old man. Anwel takes a deep breath and steps into the fire.
Anwel smiles at the sight of Warren. Of course he would make it through with little trouble. "We all come out here, hmm?" he says to the priest. "Have our friends passed through the fire yet?" Not that he thinks Vrag, Andrei, or Phedre would have left him and Warren behind—the trek to Rassada's grove proved as much—but if they came out individually they might not have realized they did not have to continue on alone. "If not, may we wait for them? It seems only right that we all go through together, if we can."
Is the site screwed up for anyone else?
DM - Tareth: " … Is that a yes or a no?" Anwel leans against the wall for a moment, pondering the irony of it all. After being fooled by the run-of-the-mill figment in the tunnels, he had wished he could disbelieve others' illusions more readily. He got his wish; a goddess had placed before him a simulacrum that could have told him what he most wanted to hear, and he saw through it before it could speak.
"Or is the lesson to choose an answer?" Faith is an important theme in the Acts, after all. Anwel considers his options. He can choose to believe Darl would have forgiven him. Promises are important to humans, to be sure, but not as sacred as they are to his people. And the poet had been an optimist in life. Or Anwel can choose to believe that Darl begrudged him his betrayal until his end, along with the other counter-revolutionaries who brought down the Council. But what is the difference in the end? If he chooses either answer, Anwel will be putting the question behind him. "No. It is to learn to live without one." He shuts his eyes. A tear escapes through his lashes, and he brushes it away. Darl is dead. He will never be able to give Anwel absolution, and despite Anwel's guilt over Darl, he wasn't the one Anwel had hurt most. Anwel will have to forgive himself, for greater betrayals than simple neglect. Still, there are small blessings. At least Dima had been just as unreal as everything else. Anwel pushes away from the wall and steps toward the gray light.
DM - Tareth: "I have done nothing." Anwel's high voice quavers at the sight and smell of the macabre tableau, and of the Shadowcountess in the midst of it. He takes a breath to steady himself. It does not help. "This is not real." How could it be? Anwel recognizes many of these men and women, but time would have taken them by now even if the purges had not. If this were his doing, others, strangers, would be filling this hall. And, much as he hated to admit it, he would not be feeling so guilty over the murders of opportunists and betrayers. Anwel walks among the bodies until he finds his own old seat, to the left and behind Darl. Dimly he is aware that the Shadowcountess is following him, but he only has eyes for his lost friend. The poet lies slumped over his desk, a deep dagger mark smoking with wispy shadowstuff marring his back. Anwel recognizes that kind of wound. He memorized the very spell this morning. He looks down at his hands. The meaning could not be plainer. "You should thank him," he says to the Shadowcountess, not looking up. "One shade to another." Shade or no, Anwel cannot stop himself choking up. "Were it not for the promise I made him, I would not have found my way to you. Had I not broken it, I would not have surrendered so easily." Gingerly, he places his hand on Darl's shoulder. "I wonder, old friend, would you have forgiven me?"
Anwel looks from walls to the door, and decides to spend a few minutes refreshing his memory of the Acts before pushing forward. Phedre can probably quote them chapter and verse, but she is not here, and these trials might require him to demonstrate one or more of the qualities exemplified in the text. When he reaches the end, however, he steps through the door. There is, after all, no going back.
Anwel steps up to the fountain and looks down at the water. He sees nothing. The ripples Warren and Vrag had made when they drank still disturb the surface. But it does not matter; Anwel does not know what he was looking for in the first place. He cups his hands, brings some of the water to his face, and sips, letting the excess drain through his fingers. As he does so, he thinks back to his talk with Kallista before leaving Morrowgate. He had used words much like the Iomedean priest's; that he had not yet accepted his shadow's forgiveness for his weaknesses and fears. How much had changed in the days since then? For himself, very little. Anwel still feels guilty over Darl, and still cringes at reminders of the Shadowcountess. But maybe he cannot afford to take things slow anymore. Twice now he has felt the Countess's presence, here and in Rassada's grove. At least some of her other agents are dead, and she knows Anwel knows. He has much less time than he had thought he would. He still does not like the idea of a short cut, but he knows that is a construct of his mind. The priest had not characterized the trial that way. Anwel also knows he has nothing to lose. The consequences of failure sound like either death, or an eternity forced to bear his fears and weaknesses, never overcoming them. Before coming to the Stolen Lands, he had accepted such a life, and since, he has faced death many times. He steps away from the fountain, and stands in the threshold of one of the doors. "Maybe you will not hold refusal against us, sir," he says, "but I have a promise to keep." Zealous service to Morrowgate means clearing this mine, and he does not want his friends to face Pashtiel without him. He steps through the door.
"Yes." Anwel's response, despite its directness, is clipped and somewhat doubtful. "That seems, however, like it should take longer than an afternoon." He thinks back to Rassada's grove again, to the lifting of the curse on that old priest and to Thad's Brightness. Both had been transformed, but the old man had spent most of his life doing penance and Thad had been strong and courageous to begin with. By either criterion, Anwel knows he has a long way to go. "Can you say what we must do?"
Anwel shakes his head at Andrei's suggestion. "One of the knights mentioned a priest that would prepare us. "Come out," he says coaxingly, to the seemingly empty room.
"May I take the ring?" After his bout with the box, Anwel welcomes any possibility of protecting his mind. Andrei had made it sound like the ring's protection is particularly potent. "As for the cape, electrical charges are often delivered by touch." That makes it suited best to Andrei or Phedre, at least, that is how it seems to Anwel. He pauses a moment before entering the new chamber. "This place smells familiar, almost like—" Anwel bites his upper lip before he can say any more, and looks significantly at Andrei and Warren. They would remember Rassada's grove, and would know better than to mention it, especially when the Countess might be listening. "Appropriate for a cleansing place." Anwel walks first to the fountain, then to one of the curtained exits, and puts his hand on the jamb. "Does anyone see any instructions on how to go about that?"
Anwel gasps at the all-too-familiar, malevolent intrusion into his mind. "They are all dead," he wails, holding the box away from him but unable to look away from the keening, tortured faces. "There was nothing I could have done. I did not know." The anguish, however, is mostly a mask, a cover for the revulsion he uses to push back against the Shadowcountess. It feels like forever, but in a few seconds Anwel is in control of himself again. He drops the box, plucks out the scroll, and disappointedly shoves it in his pocket when it turns out he cannot decipher it. Anwel thinks very carefully about what to say next. He can still feel the Countess watching his movements, though no longer his mind. "I believe," he says finally, "that that box could be used to imprison Pashtiel. Of course, the demon is already imprisoned, but it would be portable. Folk could live and work here without fear." He holds up a finger to forestall any counterargument. He has a number already prepared. "That being said, I know not how the thing works. Even if I am right about what it does, and could make it work, we would still have to get it past the guards. Considering the fate of my fellows," he punctuates this statement with a gesture to the corpses, "and my promise that I would do no such thing," he looks to Phedre for corroboration, considering only she would have understood it, "that seems unwise." Anticipating that no one would actually want to use it, Anwel leaves the box behind, delving into the unguarded tunnel with the others. Even if it turns out to be their only option, it is going nowhere.
Anwel sets a black robe, a suit of leather armor, and a silver ring off to one side. "If it is magical equipment you want, Warren, there it is," he says, his voice shaking slightly. His mis—the Shadowcountess had been busy. "Andrei can tell you more about what it does. It should only take a moment. Then we can see the priest who resides down that path," he gestures toward the unguarded tunnel, "and receive her blessing so that we may face Pashtiel." "जरूरत है कि हम सेल में दागी कुछ भी नहीं ले जाएगा , कहने के लिए।" he adds, turning his attention to the object most likely to be tainted—the darkwood box. He runs his fingers sympathetically over the figures of suffering bodies carved upon it, then around the unbudging seam around the edge of the lid.
Satisfied that he cannot open the thing accidentally, Anwel peers inside the attached tube, looking for a scroll or set of instructions.
Celestial: "Needless to say, we will take nothing tainted into the cell."
"Whom do you think it is, Phedre?" Anwel rolls his eyes and kneels next to one of the fallen blackrobes. If the guards will not let him pass, then at least he can gather anything useful. "Who could it possibly be?"
"Why should you? Anwel says testily. "The Chelaxians themselves barely speak it, not since the Taldans first conquered the place. Which probably makes these ancient indeed." He bows at the waist, presenting the back of his neck to the guards, then backs away slowly. Whatever they are saying, it sounds hostile. He stops, however, before the inscription on the doorway dissolves into distant illegibility. "Iomedae may have yet been mortal when her name was inscribed on that door."
Anwel gestures to the sword and rose heraldry on the knights' breastplates. "These appear to be your comrades in arms, Phedre: knights of Ozem, Iomedae's order." He steps forward, hands raised placatingly. "Please, sirs, dames," he says, "is it Pashtiel over whom you stand vigil? My friends and I would put an end to her, if you would but let us pass." He repeats the entreaty in Celestial, Draconic, and his own tongue.
"Very well," says Anwel. "I will help however I can." In lieu of something tangible he can do, Anwel examines the skeletal warriors from afar, wracking his brain to see if he can come up with any advantage for his comrades to use.
"Must we?" Anwel points at the unblocked exit. "It seems they will not try to stop us to take that path." He lowers his voice. "And I am also far from confident in my remaining magic. These guards have survived shadowy attacks once already."
"Do they not look familiar, Andrei?" Anwel holds up one hand and lets his cuff fall to his elbow, and with his magic pulls the fresher bodies' robes aside (). The patterns are not exactly the same, but the scars of knife scorings and whip lashes are unmistakable. "These may be the men and women I was meant to meet." Anwel frowns, disappointed he never got the chance. "A scan of the room may reveal what killed them," he says flatly. "Unfortunately, that ability has fled me for the day. Would you mind?"
"Is there a reason to stay?" huffs Anwel, determinedly ignoring the persistent images of the restless dead. He knows he has no reason to be upset at being taken in, but he is despite that. Illusions were supposed to be his bailiwick, numb it!
Lacking anything better to do, Anwel re-wards himself and blinks hard at the shambling crowd of dead dwarves. How embarrassing it would be if an illusion had taken him in! Fortunately, everything about them seems real.
This far underground, the puddle Anwel conjures is dark brown and pungent with ages of decay, but no less slippery for all that. "There, Kallista. That should burn nicely," he says, glancing at the lightly smoking vial the alchemist has cupped in her hand.
Happy Thanksgiving if you celebrate it.
Anwel, stuck behind the others in the narrow entrance to the side passage and in no position to fire a bow considering the low ceiling, readies a spell. It will have to be good enough to let the others finish things quickly; it is the only one he has that might make a difference against a group of revenants.
Anwel nods, gathers up his rope, and follows Andrei down the tunnel, guiding himself in the absence of light with a hand on the left wall.
"At least let us drag them out of the cold so they do not freeze." From the cavern exit, Anwel slips the knot over his head and tries to catch it on Andrei's wrist or ankle.
His theory confirmed, Anwel scans the tunnel ahead for any information he can glean (), then returns to the others. "The cold and the enchantment do have a far edge," he says, letting go of the divination but maintaining his other spells as long as he can, "at least, in the left-hand path. Leave the cavern, enter the tunnel, and the fields end. Unfortunately, beyond that point, we will need light: fire or magic." He'll go on to describe any auras he saw in the corridor as he fortifies the others against Pashtiel's enchantment.
Coming to the cavern entrance, Anwel hands the rope end off to Kallista and begins casting a whole suite of spells to protect him and help him in his task. "If I need to be pulled back, I will tug twice," says his disembodied voice. "Phedre, do you remember which path made you uneasy?" After hearing her recommendation, Anwel steps into the chamber, making his way as quickly as possible to the safer path. If she does not remember, he stands between them and studies them with his divination, trying to spot a difference in their magic auras.
Anwel tugs at the rope's standing end, feeling Andrei's bowline's snug but comfortable fit around his waist. Satisfied, he coils the remaining rope and tucks it in the crook of his arm. "If you do not mind, I shall retain this until we have returned to the room in question. I would prefer not to be led around." He massages his wrist with his free hand.
Anwel smiles a reassuring smile. "I could carry a healing draught if anyone has or can brew one." Anwel gives Kallista a prompting look, hoping she will be able to make such a thing. "And I can always turn back if the cold saps me too severely. I will be fine." He shrugs. "If I turn out to be wrong...I can think of worse ends than aiding my friends."
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