DM - Tareth's page

The tiefling's eyes narrow with suspicion at Corso's question and draws the tin scrip back toward his own pocket.

"You going blind as well as losing your mind elfmarked?" He asks dipping his head to the side to make sure the rogue's gaze continues to track him. Finally, he raises a hand and gestures toward the massive mound of tiefling flesh lounging atop the central platform overlooking the entire area. A momentary guffaw echoes across from the platform as the bulky tiefling laughs at some comment made by a nervous looking human kneading a ragged hat as he shivers and continues to chatter quietly beneath Myrna's bugeyed gaze. "By all the hundred hells she's sitting up there plain as a witch's bare backside. But I thank you for the lowdown on that little sneak."

The tiefling tips his horned head and then ducks away into the crowd.

"Ahhhh. A fellow entoosiast." The gnome says smiling at Ingryd. "I've hoid of the fancy flavors and...heh...punchy brews youz bearkin got a rep for. He adds widening his grin in a rather disconcerting way. "Youz innerested in sellin some o' your stock? A jug o' your honey hooch would go fer big memories around here. Why, there'd be suckers who'd give jus about their who wasted lives fer a taste of the sun and summertime." A quick pause as his gaze flicks between Ingryd and Raseri keenly scanning the crowd and nearby booths. [b]"Wha'd'ya say?"

Gunnar tries to unravel or uncover any magical curiosities held with the strange market and casino. The dwarf finds his observations hampered as the general aura of underlying magic that seems to infuse the area obscures anything of greater interest or value other than the strange stones sitting beneath several pots and bowls that appear to keep the buffet of foodstuffs simmering and warm.

The dwarf does notice that most of the small stalls are shrouded in their own magical cloaks to prevent snooping, scrying, or the usual means of detecting what might be held within. Clearly trust is somewhat lacking among the denizens of Demise.

Luthael, finding himself just a bit overwhelmed by the aroma, smoke, and general careless and downtrodden attitude of most of the patrons also has trouble in his observations. However, his ability to read a crowd when preaching the words of Khors does allow the prophet to notice that all of those manning to market stalls, overseeing the dice, cards, and spinning wheels at the tables, or even bringing out fresh food and drink are all either goblins, gnomes, or tiefling's. None of which seem to be among the poor, destitute and downtrodden patrons of Mad Myrna's establishment.

With practiced ease Corso leads the way through the milling crowd. The half elf is able to mostly keep to the gloomier portions of the chamber and manages to avoid anyone who actually might be taking an interest in the newcomers.

"I'm tellin' ya, there's too much garlic in the stew today." Hisses a goblin to his companion as the former sets a large pot onto an iron rack after the other removes the empty. "Stuff'll curl your short hairs."

The goblin's compaion nods knowingly. "Cook's been adding the stuff by the bucketful ever since that blood sucker showed up. He thinks the damned garlic'll keep the vamp from comin' back." He shakes his wide head and spits in the empty pot. "Damn stuff'll won't do squat except give me the stomach jitters."

The two then wander off down the aisle and through a doorway where the smell of garlic and boiling mushrooms is much, much stronger.

Slipping by one of the stalls a gnome hisses softly to Ingryd and Raseri. "Hsst! Yous innerested ina a jug of hooch?" The redcapped gnome says clearly smelling the bearkin's breath and flipping a glance at Ingryd's nearly empty canteen as it sloshes against her hip. "Best stuff in Demise. Pureefyed and filtered before I'z run it through a final distillation of me own deesign. Guaranteed to shutup dem voices." He adds with a knowing wink while lifting up a large jug and giving it a shake.

Across the way a large goblin spins a wheel while a crowd of a dozen or so dwarves, humans and a pair of halflings stand around sliding slips of etched tin strips onto various numbered circles with background of either red or black.

"Round and round she goes. May the wheel of fortune show you mercy tonight." Hollers the goblin as she shuffles a foul smelling cigar to the side of her mouth. "Place your bets and win big." She adds before getting ready to drop a silver marble upon the spinning wheel.

Waiting for a path to clear, Corso is held up as a teifling steps over and leans in to whisper quietly in the half-elf's ear.

"Saw you come in with Shank." He glances quickly in the general direction that the goblin disappeared toward earlier. He holds up a trio of the same tin strips being tossed onto the gambling table. "These and five more if you tell me what that little sneak's been up to. What do you say?" The teifling's gleaming, golden eyes flick between Corso and the offered money.

Hi all, Just a quick note to let you all know I'm traveling today so probably won't be able to post again until tomorrow.

The goblin nods at Luthael's request. Spitting another gob of candy colored phlegm onto the sand he then returns to his business of gathering, this time scrapping a set of scaly pink and purple growths from another corpse.

"Aye. I'll lug you lot over to Myrna's. Gonna finish work first. Plenty of time." He offers a wide, lopsided grin. "Always plenty of time in Demise. That's the one thing folk always have more than enough of."

After a seemingly endless wait as the goblin gathers more colorful shrooms, including a small patch of the same 'screamers' that cropped up after Luthael's casting, fungi, strange shadow silk, and whatever else the little beast deemed worth his time and effort, he finally wipes his hands on a filthy rag and tips his head toward the center of the canyon.

"Ain't hard to find Myrna's place." The goblin says with a grunt as he heaves his heavy pack over his shoulder and starts walking up a nearby ramp. "Nearly every major walkway leads to her place in way way or another." A finger brushes against his nose. "Course they do, cause Myrna's the one who paid to build most of these." He stamps on the rubbery boards of the ramp and walkway hugging the side of the canyon. Then taps one of the flickering lanterns illuminating the ever present gloom. "Refines the mushoil and pays the lamplighters to keep them full and lit."

He leads the way up, down, and along a variety of rickety ladders and cliff hugging walkways. Most passersby ignore the goblin and those he escorts, their eyes and thoughts simply elsewhere or uninterested in what might bring another to this place. A few nod a greeting at the goblin, while rarer yet is an occasional more boisterous greeting. These latter usually from another goblin or the occasional kobold that happens to pass. After rounding a bend in the canyon, the goblin leads everyone across a bobbing, stomach lurching bridge to the opposite side where a large cavern mouth oozes light, smoke, and the fetid smell of roasting mushrooms and unwashed humanity. The clatter and clank of clay jars, the prattle of dice, the muffled murmur of conversation ranks the place as the most lively to be encountered since entering the Land of Forgotten Hope.

Shank breathes deeply of the air and licks his lips. "It's kebob night." He says smacking his lips in anticipation as he slips inside giving the big orc sitting atop a stool just inside the entrance a quick nod.

Inside, the cavern quickly widens into a huge natural cave that is filled with a cacophony of trading booths, gambling tables, and roasting pits sizzling some kind of meat and mushroom skewers. Rising among the midst of the strange amalgamation of marketplace, gambling hall and taproom is a round platform upon which lounges one of the largest tieflings any have ever seen.

Shank waves a hand to take in the cavern. "Welcome to Mad Myrna's. A finer pit of delinquents, destitute, demoralized, and doomed denizens you'll never find. But there's plenty to eat and drink. Always a table open to try your luck..." He winks, the house always wins. "And plenty of pawned goods for those hoping to find a bargain or two off of others poor luck and misfortune."

Tipping his head toward the central platform. "That's Myrna, as you might have guessed." He says starting to duck away into the crowd. "I've business to attend to, but she's expecting you whenever you're ready. Ain't no hurry." He adds with another wide grin and strides off toward a row of several stalls offering an assortment of mushrooms and other things for sale.

Shank nudges his cap back with the tip of his small sword. Reaching into a pouch, the goblin pulls out a twisted know of some pinkish yellow fungus and pops it into his mouth. Slowly chewing the soft mass, his red eyes flick across Corso and his newly discovered friends, weighing, whatever it is goblin's might weigh in order to make important decisions. Finally, the little creature points his sword at Corso and gives the half elf a knowing nod.

"Aye, by the Shadow Queen's silvered arse, Myrna's will still stands." He says to Corso, turning to spit a wad of pastel colored phlegm onto the sandy ground. "Good you remember that."

Sheathing his blade, he moves toward the shroom covered remains of one of the corpses and starts to pluck the largest ones from the body and drop them into a separate pouch. While he works, he talks.

"They scampered out the other end of town a little under two Glasses ago." He says nodding in the direction of the opposite end of the ravine. "Followed them for a ways out into the sands, but not too close, mind you. I've no intention of ending up like old Bloodpalm here."[/b] He reaches out a pokes the large corpse with the tip of his boot. It makes a rather odd sloshing sound that makes just about everyone but Corso and Shank feel squeamish. "Just far enough to make sure they were leaving for good." He shrugs. "Trail's likely gone from the storm."

Dropping another batch of mushrooms into his pouch, he pauses to pinch his lip thoughtfully. "Best talk to Myrna. She'll have a line. Spent a good bit of time talking distances and directions with that big pale bloodsucker before they slipped into a room to rest for a Turn. About all I know, except anyone in their right mind should stay well away from that bunch." He shakes he head and spits a second time. "That vampire was a mean, cold-hearted bastard." He stops, tips his head and chuckles. "Then I guess you wouldn't expect a dead half-elf like that to have a warm heart. Haha." He adds with a chuckle.

Shank didn't mind Demise. Actually, he liked the place. Called it home. Compared to the terrors, bizarre diseases and fugues that haunted the Wastes, Demise was a veritable paradise. Sure, if you weren't carefully a Crawler or a Lurk might get you, but Shank was careful. And rather than freaking out and sending a band of hired killers after him, most folk barely even noticed or cared if they were eating and drinking with a goblin. In Demise the big folk just left him alone. Something that never happened before Shank had stumbled through that wizard's portal and found himself in this little sliver of Shadow.

It took him a bit to find learn the ropes. But goblins, if they are anything, are adaptable. He didn't mind doing a bit of work for Myrna. She was a decent boss. Didn't beat him, much. And always paid in good quality, spicy shrooms so he didn't have to risk his neck out on the dunes. And the work was usually easy. Keep an eye on this traveler. Deliver a message to some deadbeat. Shank the occasional dummy who ignored the message. Sure Myrna demanded half of whatever he managed to lift from the slobs, but most of the time you could steal the knickers off a virgin and she wouldn't even bat an eye. Easy livin'. What more could a goblin ask for? If one asked Shank, which no one ever really did, he'd answer, not much.

That was until those strangers wandered in and took out Bloodpalm and his gang. He'd seen the whole thing. The brutal takedown, the shadow magics, those nasty little grinning halflings. It's not that he was friends with the big half-trollkin gangster. In fact, he hated the brute. Still being beat to death with your own arm and then sucked dry like a daiquiri on festival night, that just wasn't something Shank would wish on anyone. Well, maybe one or two, but not Bloodpalm. He wasn't that bad.

Fortunately, he'd had time to race back and warn Mryna before she got any bright ideas about taking that blood sucker for a ride. Course, she didn't really believe him at first. then they come striding into the bar like they were Her Imperial Majesty herself. She might be a bit mad, but Myrna isn't dumb, not a bit, she could sense power as easy as a fly finds a corpse. It took about a heartbeat for Mryna to give Shank a shove toward the shadows and start groveling with the 'Yes, sirs', 'No, sirs' and 'As you wish, sirs' for the rest of the Glass. Kept that smile plastered on her face until Shank was certain the teifling was going to sprain something in a permanent way. Sold him and his bunch a room for a turn of the Glass and a bit of grilled shroom and finally sent him on his way.

But never one to turn down a possible bit of salvage. Myrna had sent Shank out to scrounge what he could from Bloodpalm's remains and those of his gang. After, he'd tracked that vampire and his bunch long enough to make sure he'd left Demise for good. Myrna didn't like taking chances. She was cautious that way. Another reason Shank liked working for her.

So he'd been a bit slow getting back to the corpses. He had to admit, he was a bit surprised to see folk mucking about in the muck and mushrooms that were already sprouting atop the bodies when he finally got around to gathering the goods. Another group of strangers. A stink he hadn't smelled for who knows how long. Heroes. Adventurers. The pungent aroma of such folk still made his stomach lurch and his heart lurch. Sure, a few of those bastards had found themselves in Demise over time. But most were already broken and doomed by whatever witch, wizard, curse or other misfortune sent trapped them here, so they weren't much trouble. Usually went wandering out into the desert and into Acedia's embrace after a couple dozen turns of the Glass. Three dozen at most.

But these didn't have the usual look. That vacant stare, the shuffling gait, the drooped shoulders, and sunken cheeks. And somehow they'd hooked up with that Corso. Shank had to admit, Corso had lasted longer than most. And he hadn't shown the usual distaste or dismissal of Shank that most with elven blood tend to display to goblin folk. They'd even chatted once or twice over a pitcher of Myrna's Spicy Shade Ale. But the half-elf had been getting worse and worse lately. Shank figured he'd be heading into the Embrace soon enough, so it's with a mix of suspicion and surprise that the goblin gazes upon the bearkin, dwarf, human, and pair of half elves poking through what was left of Bloodpalm.

"Oy there!" Shank hisses slipping from the shadows. "Them corpses have been claimed by Myrna. Best you folk not be rummagin' around and takin' what's already been spoken for."

**********

Rest hadn't come easily for anyone. Despite the relative calm and quiet, every time eyes closed everyone could feel and hear the subtle whisper of...something...someone trying to slip into thoughts and dreams. Always it spoke of loss, grief, anger, injustice, waste, doom, and numerous other feelings that ultimately resulted in the voice offering to take it all away. Offering succor and comfort. That by giving in and submitting to it's gentle embrace, peace could finally, inevitably be discovered. Sleep, once it finally did come was restless, disturbed. Waking felt like a small blessing and a relief although somewhere in the distance shadows of the mind, that voice still whispers.

After food and drink to start what passes for a new day in this twilight realm, Corso leads the group to an area near the entrance to Demise. Scattered among the rock, sand, and debris of the broken town are several corpses. Many of them sprouting a fine carpet of mushrooms. It is a gruesome scene matching Corso's description of what he witnessed when the group's quarry entered the city. Ingryd is just examining the tracks and trail when a voice rises from behind a pile of busted crates.

The goblin is dressed in the typical hodgepodge fashion common to his kind. Worn leathers, a dark gray cap, boots. Oddly, his clothing and gear is in much better condition than that of nearly every other resident of Demise. It's as if the goblin actually put a bit of time and effort into caring for his gear. He holds a small sword, but not in a threatening manner as he gestures toward the corpses and speaks of someone named Myrna.

Corso quickly guides his new found acquaintances across the open space of sand and stone to the edge of a long, narrow ravine. Another deep gash in the landscape. Unlike so many others that have been traversed across the miles of relentless marching, this one is deeper, longer and wider. It is also filled with the eerie dirty orange glow of lamplight. Lights that hang along a crisscrossing web of narrow walkways that stretch across and along the sides of the canyon. Lights lining the ladders and steep stairwells carved from the stone where folk warily climb up from or down into the mist shrouded depths of the ravine. Lights that hang in front of dozens, perhaps hundreds of cavern openings that line both walls of the clawed out gash in the desert.

Caught within the circles of sickly light are grime coated faces, worn clothes, and weather beaten bodies of a myriad of lost souls eeking out some kind of meager existence before finally succumbing to the same madness and hopelessness that finally drove the poor pilgrims out into the final embrace of the desert.

In addition to the light, there is another assault upon the senses that hits as Corso quickly checks for nearby loiterers likely to waylay some unsuspecting or uncaring fool. It is the smell. A stale fugue that rises from the depths upon a pale sickly mist. It is the smell of mushroom and crawler soups cooking over rubbery fungal fires. The smell of mineral infused water percolating from a handful of tiny springs. It is the pungent aroma of mortal life slowly decaying and dying as it is forever descending into a grim, doom filled madness.

The way clear, Corso hurries along a narrow walkway running along just below the rim of the ravine. Boots making a muffled thump, thump thump as he runs atop the think planks made from a hodge podge of rubbery fungal limbs and harder chunks of carved or cut carapace. He makes his way toward a narrow formation of rock thrusting above the rim to overlook the surrounding desert. Near the base, he ducks into a narrow crack in the rock. It is just big enough for Ingyrd to squeeze her bulk into. Just. Suddenly feeling like an overstuffed bear trying to sneak into a rabbit hole, the bearkin is forced to scratch and claw her way into the small entrance and up the narrow, crudely carved stairs. Finally, after a steep, cramp inducing climb, Corso slips out onto an open ledge of rock. The balcony provides a wide view of both the ravine and its inhabitants below as well as the vast open rolling dunes and stone plinths the dot the desolate landscape.

Looking up and down at the sheer surface of the rock and the narrow confine of the balcony it is easy to see that this could be one of the more private and isolated spots within Demise.

Raseri points out the approaching group to her companions. As they approach a few details can be made out. A woman, her robes tattered and mud stained. A larger, darker stain marks the front of her robe. Against the stain she holds a smaller figure wrapped in a few scraps of ragged cloth. Another woman, her face and bare arms scarred and bruised. Her nose bent from being broken numerous times, like the first woman, her eyes are dark and staring ahead into some unknowable distance. A man, limping on a wooden leg, his hands gnarled by some affliction. His thin frame barely enough to hold up the filthy shirt and trousers that cover his body. A dwarf clutching at an empty purse, constantly raising it to his ear and shaking it to listen to the silent rattle of non-existent coins. An elf, walking with bare feet, a robe that once indicated wealth and status, now even the lowest Zobeck kobold would turn away from such a garment. Books fill the pockets of the robe. As the elf walks he rips another page from the book. Crumples it and tosses it into the wind which grabs it and carries the page off into the desert. A man rubs a hand upon a blood stained shirt, the other holds a locket. He gazes upon an image inside the bit of tarnished jewelry, never looking up as he shuffles across the sand.

There are twelve in all. A forlorn, hopeless snake slowly traversing the desert. The shuffling hiss of feet and worn boots the only sound except for the occasional rip of a page or muttered, incomprehensible stanza of madness. Some stare ahead into the shadow draped expanse, others stare only a few paces in front of their sliding feet. All gaze upon something unseen and unknowable to the curious adventures who they pass. None turn their gaze upon those onlookers.

Beyond the trudging band, another emerges from the strange light blooming from the ground not so very far ahead. The one seems different. Although covered in dust and grime, his clothes worn and travel weary like the others, and indeed like the adventurers, his gear still has the look of being maintained. Of being carried by someone who cares. Cares about appearance, despite the drying tears marking his dust coated face. Cares about keeping his armor oiled, his blade rust free despite the desert's best efforts to corrode both.

At first, Raseri and Luthael believe the figure is hurrying to catch up with the strange line of silent travelers, but then his direction shifts slightly. Soon it is clear he is hurrying to meet them at they approach the outskirts of another wide, deep canyon in the desert.

Once again the companions circle around the strange, perhaps deadly object, curiously placed in the center of their path forward. Once again their caution is rewarded as the incident passes without further trouble or bloodshed. Soon enough the odd formation disappears into the shadows as the travelers continue winding their way along the base of the ravine while the storm's fury howls overhead.

Time passes. Soon the end of the ravine approaches forcing a halt for a rest and to let the remainder of the storm pass.

Eventually, the never changing sky clears and the companions climb out of the ravine to once again gaze upon the flat plain of the never ending desert. Curiously, the desert in the direction of the storm's central path shimmers with a phosphorescent glow. The strange silvery green light adding a disconcerting set of shadows that stretch from the rocks and fungal formations.

Further ahead, even as the strange light of the storm begins to fade, Raseri and Ingryd spy another soft glow of unexpected illumination in the distance. They also spy a group of a dozen ragged folk shuffling slowly across the lonely expanse of the desert toward the party. Still several hundred paces away, little detail can be seen in the dim light of the Shadow Realm. It is impossible to know if the oncoming group has also spotted the bearkin, priestess and their two companions. For now there is no indication of alarm or wariness among the group, only a slow, steady plodding pace across the stone and shifting sands of the dim desert.

Quick clarifying question. Given that everyone failed the PER rolls, are you approaching the strange object or keeping your distance and working around it like the previous scene?

Also DW, is Corso ready to roll? Just making sure as I try to figure a way to bring him in sometime soon.

Ingryd leads the way around the fallen creature and soon enough it is slowly disappearing into the distance. A short while later as the path starts to dip into a low ravine, the wind begins to pick up. Off to the right of the path a boiling cloud of whirling dust towers over the landscape. Flashing of lightning crackle and rage within the churning storm. The crackle of thunder echoes across the distant dunes along with a low grinding rumble. The sound of the very earth being churned and eaten by the storm.

The wind grows stronger. The air along with more sand, ash, and grit being drawn toward the angry mass. Raseri and Gunnar can also feel the arcane energy being swept up into the storm, driving its power and fury more and more. Both fear the storms approach or what might lie at the center of such a phenomenon.

Fortunately, the ravine is an unexpected blessing. The wide, deep break in the land offers relief from the driving winds and the harsh, exfoliating sands. Climbing down into the depths, the shadows grow longer and darker, but the howl of the wind and the harsh stinging sand eases allowing for actual words to be heard and shared rather than simple, desperate gestures.

Midway along the bottom of the ravine, Ingryd calls another halt. Despite the wind still roaring above, the bearkin picks up the stark scent of death and decay. The tangy smell appears to be coming from a bulbous mound of scaly stone about twenty paces ahead. Easily half the bearkin's size, the odd formation seems to ripple and shudder in the wind.

Having finished the examination of the odd mushroon's and with Raseri eager to be on the move, the party sets out from the place of Sir Timothy's final fall. The tracks of the vampire lord and his traveling cadre lead in the same direction offered by the knight's final sign. Demise. A less than inspiring moniker for whatever tower, town, or other form of civilization to establish itself in the shadow realm.

Time passes. Exactly how much time is difficult to measure without sun, moon, stars, or other means of noting the passage of the minutes and hours. Distance is equally a challenge. There are few landmarks of meaningful note and the horizon never truly seems to change or reveal itself to be any closer than when you started. Still the tracks of the others are still visible upon the windblown ground as the path zigs and zags its winding way across dunes, around rocky outcrops, and down into various canyons or arroyos.

The deep canyons are the worst. The wind either howls furiously through the narrow depths, scouring flesh with sandy grit or the wind finally ceases only to leave the air feeling hot, thick, and utterly stifling to the point where all wish for the wind to return. Then there is the inevitable climb back out. A back and forth slog up steep slopes with fragile trails constantly on the verge of collapse.

Eventually, the monotony is broken when Raseri, breathing heavily after finishing another climb out of another canyon, spots something just off the path a few hundred paces ahead. The wind, having shifted around to strike her directly in the face, carries the scent of blood and gore. The strong smell appears to be emanating from a rather large oddly shaped out cropping of rock just ahead. Cautiously approaching the strange formation, it soon becomes clear that it is not rock after all. Instead it appears to be the remains of some large and foreign creature.

Pausing about sixty paces from the creature, all can see that it most closely resembles a crab in some ways. An outer shell. A quartet of legs on either side accompanied by a pair of large arms that end in a set of gore stained pinchers. Easily the size of an ox. The differences from its much smaller aquatic cousin being the pair of thin, fan-like antennae protruding from the ridge of shell behind the large triangular head with its own set of deadly looking mandibles. That along with the forest like fungal growth covering the entire upper surface of the big creature as if it were some kind of floating island wandering a sandy sea. It is a menagerie of specimens that line the hard exoskeleton. Squat and thick, long and thin. Green, brown, black, white, yellow, red, even a few shades of pale dark blue can be seen among the rubbery flesh. Some are shaped like a typical mushroom with stem and cap, while others more resemble a staircase topped with a twisted, knotted tree limb. Others are simply a strange bulbous mass. Many are now broken, crushed and slowly oozing their precious inner fluids into the dry thirsty ground. For it is quite clear that the large creature succumbed to a violent assault. Something or someone that managed to crush several of its legs and eventually shattered a large section of the shell near its insect-like head and puncturing the cranium in what was surely the killing blow.

Only one PER roll is needed.

Luthael begins preparing his ritual. As he works through the various forms and vocalizations he is momentarily relieved to feel his connection with Khors still intact. Whatever this place may be, it is not the magically dead world that he and Raseri encountered the last time they followed the Shadow Road to a strange and unknown place. However, his relief is somewhat short lived. For while he can feel the light of Khors and even still tap into the god's power, it is...different.

For a moment the light of Khors feels muted, less than it should be. This is not entirely surprising given this is a realm where the blessed light of Khors has never touched a single eye or warmed a single stone. Yet as the first flickering flames begin to emerge upon the moldering remains, the fire still burns hot. But the flames do not have the purity of light usually associated with the prophet's shining god. No brilliant cleansing white fire. It is a drab, almost gray fire than begins to nibble at the dried bone and cloth of the late Sir Timothy Esterhaus.

And although there is clearly no moisture left in the desiccated body, the ghoulish flames hiss and pop and cackle like some demonically possessed feline attempting to keep a wolf at bay. It is a strange and unsettling reaction, one that neither Luthael, Gunnar, or Raseri can explain.

As the flames take further hold of the corpse a sickly brown, black and pale yellow smokes leeches forth from the burning body. Stinging eyes and burning throats, the malignant cloud clings to the ground even as the constant wind pushes it along. A twisting ribbon of smoke slowly stretching across the arid landscape. Where it touches the odd fungal shrubs and trees, they momentarily glow with a pale muted green light they fade, wither, and crumble into the dry soil. But with each flare of dying fungus, some of the smoke cloud is also consumed so that even Sir Timothy's ashes are not allowed to truly escape the confines of this terrible, desolate prison of despair.

After a quarter hour, Luthael's voice grows silent. Sipping water to calm his parched, dry throat, the prophet watches the last of the fire consume the last of the knight's mortal remains. Nothing remains except a few bites of melted and brittle metal. The fear of an undying soul animating the fallen knight can be put to rest.

Curiously, as soon as the last flame sputters out of existence, a handful of mushroom sprout to life upon the still warm sand and dirt surface. Yellow stems topped with a black top and spotted with and barrage of speckled red and orange dots. Within another handful of minutes the mushrooms cover the entire area where the corpse touched the ground. The mass of fungi offering a strange, sickly smelling memorial all it own to the fallen knight of Trombei.

Luthael and Gunnar tend to the body of the fallen knight. As they examine the area for lingering magic or other clues as to the man's sad fate, each recalls a few small bits of information that could be relevant.

During his constant pilgrimage across the lands of western Midgard, Luthael can't help but remember the Esterhaus name as it adorned the small, well kept temple of Khors in the southern city of Trombei. The memory stuck with the prophet because he was surprised to find such a well funded temple within a city so dedicated to Ceres-of-the-Harvest and who has so often found itself at odds with its southern neighbor where the High Patriarch of Khors still resides. Adding to the memory was Alyson Teoni, the young, attractive, and outgoing priestess of the small congregation. It was over a fine bottle or wine and warm rolls that Luthael learned of Baron Esterhaus' patronage of the temple after Alyson had saved the life of the Baron's third and current wife during the difficult labor of her third child, the baron's tenth. Since that time three years earlier, the baron has been most generous to the temple seeing to a variety of needs and improvements. While discussing the baron, the priestess shared the names of all eleven of the baron's children including the sixth, a Timothy Esterhaus. He was last seen when he left to travel east to fight the Mharoti during the ill-fated defense of Illyria against the Dragon Empire.

Illyria is where Gunnar is able to pick up a snippet of Sir Timothy's story. While researching a set of potential spell catalysts to accelerate to conversion of pure arcane energy into more directed electrodynamic force, Gunnar met a fellow scholar from that conquered Duchy. Yosef Petranovich was an elementalist who served in the Illyrian military during the Mharoti invasion. Wounded in the fighting, he still walks with a distinct limp that the healers could never fully eliminate. He occasionally spoke of the band of Trombian cavalry known as the Night Brigade who saved his life during the retreat after the Mharoti broke through the Griffoncrags. He mentioned one of the younger captains of the brigade, a Sir Easterhaus from Trombei, who like all the brigade rode a magnificent black charger and fought with skill and righteous passion. After he'd separated from the Night Brigade he'd heard the company was sent east into the Winewood to harass the flank of the on rushing dragon army. To his knowledge they'd never returned or been heard from again. Most believed the band to have been wiped out by the Mharoti.

As Gunnar studies the body now devoid of both life and magic, the wizard cannot help but believe there could be more to the tale of the Trombian Night Brigade than that told in the historical texts.

Shifting his gaze and thoughts away from the fallen knight, Gunnar focuses on the stone through which he and his companions just emerged. A minor residue of magic remains along with a faint moon and crown of stars symbol worn into a bit of flat stone. But little sign or link to the crossroads tower exists. Looking across the desolate landscape, the dwarf is slightly relieved to sense some traces of arcane energy drifting among the rocks and dunes. It is not a place devoid of magic like the one Raseri and Luthael encountered previously. But he senses little else to help them upon their current journey aside from a slightly stronger sense of magical energy dimly felt in the same direction as the sign points.

With a soft prayer to Thor, Raseri is the first to cross the threshold of the portal. Luthael, Gunnar and Ingryd follow in the priestesses wake. It is nothing more than a half dozen paces to penetrate the misty curtain, but as all step beyond the clinging damp grip of the mist it is quickly revealed a vast and unknowable distance lies along those precious footfalls.

The first thing noticed is the air. Hot. Stifling. Filled with a grit and dust that almost instantly irritates the eyes, throat and sinuses. The grime is driven by a wind that does not subside. Occasionally, a stronger gust rushes through snatching at hats and cloaks, driving the grit even deeper into armored crevices and other unwanted places. But when the burst passes the wind simply eases to its former constant drone.

The direction of the wind's path is easily known, for the scattered handful of scraggly pale gray shrubs and stubby trees dotting the arid landscape all lean noticeably like compass needles drawn toward true north. But not trees or shrubs as seen upon the fertile lands of Midgard, nor even it's most desolate and harsh deserts. A bit of quick investigation reveals these are some form of fungal growth with a thick outer rubbery layer protecting a softer, meatier interior.

The land itself is dry and broken. Massive fissures ramble across the area, some merely a feet spans deep and easily overcome by a short leap. Others drop into shadow filled depths and are a wide as a roaring river. Between these maze inducing canyons lie little more than sand, jagged fingers of stone and more sand.

All is lit by a twilight gray firmament that fills and empty sky. No moon. No sun. No stars. No clouds. Just a flat, blank, lifeless canvas of shadow offering just enough illumination to reveal to the few inhabitants the truly desolate nature of where they find themselves.

Turning back to the portal, it is, perhaps unsurprisingly, no longer there. Only a flat wind blown surface of stone remains. Just another of the many strange protrusions of rock that dot the surrounding area. More foreboding are the remains propped a few feet to the side of where the portal opened. A few scraps of cloth and leather armor still cling stubbornly to the bones. A pitted, cracked axe is partially buried in the sand a few feet away. The stone appears chipped and broken in several areas near the remains. As if an axe hand been driven into it again and again.

On the other side of the spot where the portal once existed, a cross crafted from a broken spear shaft has been driven into the sandy soil. Hanging from the cross is a battered and sandblasted shield. Scratched into the surface of the otherwise unadorned shield is the word "Demise" and arrow pointing off into the distance followed by "20 miles." Beneath the helpful notice another set of words is etched upon the metal. "If you are reading this, may Khors have mercy upon your soul. Sir Timothy Esterhaus."

Lastly, Gunnar is the first to spot the tracks. Little more than rough divots in the windblown sand and a few faint scuffs upon the harder, stone-like dirt. The tracks appear to initially lead in the same direction pointed out by Sir Timothy's dubious directions.

Hi all. I will move things forward and through the portal with my next post. I'll try to get to that either over the weekend or on Monday or Tuesday. Just wanted to take a moment to address the questions from Gunnar and Luthael.

I will also loop DW in once you all are on the other side and traveling through the land of forgotten hope.

Trantortellian tips his head toward Luthael. "I thank you for your offer of aide." He says floating backward a few paces. "But I receive all I need from Her Imperial Majesty and such transactions as that already conducted by your companions." His hand gestures to take in Raseri and Gunnar. He then turns to the whirling portal.

"The way will remain open for one rotation of the tower. An hour to your current mortal reckoning." He begins to rise upward into the shadows and spire of the odd tower. "You have elected to journey through the Land of Forgotten Hope. A difficult journey. Many have failed to traverse its forlorn, winding ways. I wish you strength and luck in your trial."

With a final whir and hum Trantortellian and his platform slowly fade into the darkness and shadow leaving only the sounds of your own breathing and gear to rustle and rattle in the silvery light of Sarastra's moonlit tower.

Nicely done Gunnar. You also gain Inspiration for coming up with a memory and sacrificing it.

Hopefully the website wonkiness will settle down soon. Not sure about everyone else, but it's been a real challenge logging into the site the last several days.

Trantortellian tilts his head toward the dwarf after Gunnar steps forward announcing his readiness and willingness to provide the memory required for passage. The platform once again hums and groans as the guardian moves into position before the wizard.

"Intriguing." Trantortellian says with obvious curiosity and interest. "It is rare for a dwarf to travel the Crossroads. Rarer for them to voluntarily give forth payment. Rarer still for one with such a disciplined mind as a wizard." As they did with Raseri, so the mechanical arms and hands reach toward Gunnar and embed themselves into the skull of the wizard. "Let us begin."

The dwarf's stoic features quickly begin to shift and change from wariness to concern...pain...and fear as the memory floods his consciousness. Once again Gunnar swims in the dark, confining depths of the great underground lake. The levithan lashes at the wizard's always wayward halfling companion. Yet, his honor and hope in the halfling's ability to survive drive him onward. Push him down and down until his strong hands clasp the collar of Scrams' armor. Once again, his lungs burn as he kicks toward the surface. His hope that perhaps this time his friend has learned a lesson about gemstones glowing in the dark places of the world.

But as his rises toward the shimmering surface of the lake, Scramsax in tow, her eyes two white orbs in the murk filled with their own light of thanks and gratitude. But as the memory fades so to does the hope it embodies. Will his sacrifice and that of the others truly make a difference? The halfling will never change. She will ever refuse to learn from her mistakes. Ever draw Gunnar and the others along in her wake of foolishness and greed. Always put their lives in danger for another shining bauble or bit of coin. Without hope and the heroic deed it inspires there is no chance of a change for the better. Without hope, what will fill the small void now opened within the wizard's mind and heart. Bitterness? Apathy? Anger? Self pity?

Time once again becomes meaningless within the strange constantly shifting walls of the tower. Eventually, Trantortellian releases Gunnar's sweat-soaked head. Raseri, Luthael, and Ingryd are all there in a moment to support the disoriented and momentarily weakened wizard.
Instead of keeping the vial filled with a glittering gold and sky-blue liquid, the guardian shifts over and places the vial into a previously hidden opening near the central portal. Moments later the opening within the arch glows with a soft silvery radiance. The stone becomes a whirling mist. The smell of dry, desolation gasps forth from the opening. A barely visible path stretches across the bone dry sand and stone toward a dimly illuminated horizon.

Gunnar, you have the same two checks to make. The first is a DC15 Fortitude Save. If failed, you take 1d6 ⇒ 6 damage as you twitch and jump during the process causing extra harm. No damage on a success. The second is a base DC10 Concentration check modified by any damage taken from failing the Fortitude save. On a success, you pass on the memory and gain a level of exhaustion. On a failure, you pass on the memory along with an additional memory. This loss is severely draining and disorienting and you gain three levels of Exhaustion.

"Everything? Well, such would be impossible to know, but I shall certainly share all that I was able to observe during the short time they were in my domain." Trantortellian says, slipping the gleaming vial into some hidden cache within his platform.

"Where to begin. Let me start with physical descriptions." He holds up his two hands, seven fingers extended. "There are seven in all traveling together. Three halfling thralls overseen by their vampiric lord. Three shadow fey, one belongs to the Nightbrook Court." He pauses, frowns as a finger scratches just below his gemstone eye. "The other two, I do not know to which Court they owe allegiance. Both seemed rather wary within the tower and adamantly refused to bargain for passage. Instead they left that task entirely to their undying traveling companion. The final member of the group was a human. Plain. Rather battered and worn looking, but still hail. Although his breath stank as did his travel stained clothing. Fear and despondency rose from him like flies from a corpse. However, there remained a hidden strength. I do not think his few travelers noticed it, but I discerned it's presence as I observed his watchful and taunt nature."

A pause. Trantortellian adjusts his platform with a hiss and whir placing him slightly higher within the chamber. "The vampire lord was typically stern and taciturn. Common enough traits among such creatures. Booked little discussion. Despite long days of travel his indigo cloak with its crimson and gold border was immaculately clean. A thin rapier hangs at his side reeking of magic and blood."

"The thralls were simply that. Beneath notice. Vessels to feed, cloth, and serve their master." He lips turn downward, his expression disdainful and sour. "Attempts were made to pass off their memories as suitable payment to Her Imperial Majesty. They were not successful. What value do such pathetic and single minded creatures offer? Very little."

"Little was said within my presence, but I discerned tension between the fey and the undying one. An alliance, but stained. Tense. And I did not ascertain its purpose or goal other than perhaps the fey are acting as guides of a sort, for they selected the gateway through which the party eventually passed." Trantortellian tips his head in momentary thought. His eye alights on the middle portal. "I believe the fey from Nightbrook mentioned something concerning a treasure and how his mistress claimed some ownership over such goods. The others seemed somewhat dismissive of the matter." He shrugs, knowing little more. "They did not linger longer than necessary to select their route, pay the toll and depart." He points at the middle portal to indicate the one they used.

No one really knows how much time passes under the watchful glowing gaze of Trantortellian's gemstone eye. The eldritch light gleams bright from the stone even as Raseri's head glows with the buried light emitted from the instruments burrowed beneath the flesh of her skull. One of the vials along the strange fae creature's mechanical arm slowly fills with a shining quicksilver liquid. The half-elf's living eye remains closed, his face frozen in a rictus of macabre concentration as the priestess opens her mind and memory to the shadow dweller.

All is silent except the soft hum and whir of Trantortellian's platform and occasionally adjusting arms. Except for Raseri's occasional cries and rapid breathing. Except for the slosh and gurgle of Ingryd's flask the gentle rattle of Gunnar's shifting armor and Luthael's own pounding heartbeat.

Eventually, the vial is full. Trantortellian's fingers and arms retract with a hiss, whir, and clack. His mortal eye opens as the other dims. A pointed tongue moistens dry lips as he breathes a deep, savoring breath. The creature bows his head in acknowledgement of the completed transaction.

"A most...interesting and robust...payment." The custodian of the tower remarks. His head twists to gaze at Luthael. "I believe the payment was made to secure an answer to your inquiry. What do you wish to know of those who visited this place prior to your entry?"

Inspiration to Raseri if she doesn't have it already.

Trantortellian's gemstone eye glows with a brighter light as Raseri resolves which memory she will share for Luthael's question. The platform hums. The half-elf construct slides closer to the priestess, its mechanical arms articulating out and forward. The tips of the probing metallic digits at the end of each arm begin to glow with the same eldritch light as his eye. Glancing at the oncoming 'hands' Raseri can't help but notice the small openings within each metal fingertip, and the needle like tips of steel protruding from the center.

The creature tips its head in thought at Raseri's question. "It has been long since I attended the Court. I am not sure of how the rituals and passing of such things may or may not have evolved." The mechanical hands rise and fall slightly as another arm containing a rather large syringe and set of vials attached to a rotating spindle. " Fortunately, Her Grace has insured that I am not dependent on such ephemeral practices or limited due to a creature's natural resistance to the aetheric forces of nature. I am able to draw the necessary blood sacrifice and offered memory through more...direct methods." A slight pause, then he shrugs his shoulders slightly. "Most have spoken of some level of discomfort, but as to whether this is due to the extraction process or the loss of the offered memory itself, I cannot be certain. A few have made more strenuous...objections, but those are most often associated with a wish to pass through the first portal."

Trantortellian settles in only a foot away from Raseri. The mechanical arms and hands placed at the side of her head while the third arm containing the syringe angles toward her arm.

"Are you ready to begin? Please concentrate on the memory you with to share...it is important to maintain your focus else you provide more than you may have intended."

There are two checks to make. The first is a DC15 Fortitude Save. If failed, you take 1d6 ⇒ 6 damage as you twitch and jump during the process causing extra harm. No damage on a success. The second is a base DC10 Concentration check modified by any damage taken from failing the Fortitude save. On a success, you pass on the memory and gain a level of exhaustion. On a failure, you pass on the memory along with an additional memory. This loss is severely draining and disorienting and you gain three levels of Exhaustion.

Gears whir and the internal systems supporting the elf whine as the platform lowers closer to Raseri. The half construct, half elven gate of Trantortellian focuses on the cleric. His lips purse in thought.

"The payment depends upon what is being purchased." He says. A hand flashes toward the arc and then toward Luthael. "Passage or information." The platform hisses as it tilts toward the middle arch. "Passage through the crossroads and into the Lands of Forgotten Hope, will require just that. A memory of hope or dream that provides the will to succeed where others might fail or give up. Such is the cost for passage set by Her Imperial Majesty."

More whirring, hissing, and humming as Trantortellian swings toward Luthael. The real eye gazes for several seconds upon the travel worn prophet of Khors. Eventually, the custodian looks away the gleam of the gemstone eye nearly matching with sparkle in his other.

"For information on those who have passed previously, held in confidence by only myself and She Who Watches, I offer a choice. A memory of love or great happiness...or...a secret. A secret, which no other knows, kept hidden out of fear or shame or spite." He raises his hands, bows his head. "What do you choose?"

"Indeed." The half-elf replies to Raseri once again nodding his head. "Although since your companion spoke of the middle path, less of a physical sacrifice is required."

Trantortellion then turns to Luthael, his gemstone eye burning a bit brighter. "Justice." The word slips from his lips as if he'd just bitten into an overripe apple. "A noble concept. However, I have often found it to be rather easily manipulated and twisted to a variety of other pursuits. Revenge, power, greed, lust. All pursued under a guise of Justice."

The platform hisses and hums as it rises a hand span into the air. Trantortellian's mechanical arms clack and click. The creature smiles.

"Yet, it is not my duty or place in the world to judge yea or nay to those who pass or those who may follow in pursuit. That duty falls to the wisdom and whim of Her Grace." His living arms gesture toward the mosaic moon in the center of the floor and then point upward into the darkness above. His eyes follow. "I merely exchange proper payments for passage or services rendered." A pause filled only by the soft hum and whirl of whatever mechanisms power Trantortellian's existence. "To answer your question would be a service beyond my normal duties. I am willing to offer this service, but what memory do you offer in exchange for that of my own?" He adds leaning forward slightly. One metallic hand clacks lightly upon the platform, its four mechanical digits ending in a series of pointed needles and nodes that glitter in the eerie aethereal light of the chamber.

Placing a hand where a heart may have once resided, the strange creature known as Trantortellion bows his head to Ingryd.

"I have memories of imbibing in such beverages." He says looking up to gaze at the bearkin. "Alas, at this time, I no longer partake. I am compelled to accept only certain forms of gifts in order to facilitate passage to what may lay beyond the portals."

Again the creature bows its head. This time toward Gunnar and Luthael.

"I am the twenty second custodian of the Hall since its creation by the Grand Heirophant Iluvandunil laid its foundation under the guidance of Her Celestial Majesty, Queen of Night and Magic. What I was or what I will be are of little consequence for I am now the Caretaker of the Crossroads and serve only Her Glorious Will." A pause as Trantortellian's eyes take in each of you, head tilting slightly to the side as if puzzled. Eventually its attention turns to Luthael.

"Long has it been since any have traveled the Pathways Less Traveled. Strange to have so many who are not of the blood seek to do so within such a short span of times passing. They were ignorant of the price of passage, but paid in the end. As for which pathway they followed, I cannot say, for who besides the Weavers or Her Celestial Majesty may know how the threads of a soul's destiny are woven into the fabric of the world." A hand waves toward the center arch. "They paid and passed into Despair. Where that led them in the end...I do not know."

"Do you understand the price that must be paid?"

Gunnar feels magical energy flowing through this entire place. The mosaic, the tower, even the very air tingles with a breath of power. The mosaic certainly contains an abundance of this power. This does not surprise the wizard. Especially as Raseri mentions it is likely another dedication to Sarastra, once Countess of Thorn who was occasionally known as the Purple Rose of Thorn long before the Retreat.

Entering the space all feel the weight of power in the air and the niggling prickle of being watched. Luthael feels the difference most of all as the ever present comfort of Khors becomes muted. It is not a directed or malignant effect. Merely one god offering respect and deference to another as one would remove one's hat or boots upon entering the home of an equal.

As everyone steps into the chamber, the moon at the center of the mosaic begins to glow with a soft silvery light. The hum grows louder. Eyes cast about for the source. It is Luthael who spots it first. A platform descending from the above.

As the moonlight intensifies, three thorn riddled vines within the mosaic each also begin to glow with a soft greenish-violet light. Each leading to a difference closed arch.

The first vine leads to the closest arch. The vines crawl from the floor, up and around the barricaded opening. At the top of the arch the vine ends in another rose, this one a crimson red. As the light grows, all can see figures impaled upon the thorns of the vine. Each held in a state of perpetual agony and suffering all appear to strain and strive to climb further up the vine to reach the prized rose at the top.

The second vine leads to the middle arch. Again the vines split and wind from the floor up the sides of the exit only to meet again at the top. This time the peak is crowned by a near perfect mosaic of a yellow rose. This time those trapped upon the thorn bow their heads in forlorn despair. Hope is shattered as they dangle and hang upon lost dreams for the remainder of eternity.

The final vine leads to the farthest arch. It splits and rejoins at the top in a pure white rose. Here, all sit at the base of the vine, never setting forth upon the treacherous climb. Instead, all are shown turning away in fear from the power and possibility gazing down from above.

The hum comes to a slow stop. So to does the platform. It is revealed to be some kind of mechanical carriage for the large and rather grotesque thing occupying its upper surface. It is an amalgamation of flesh and clockwork mechanisms. An elven head with one living eye and another crafted of a single cut sapphire sits atop a barrel like body that hums and hisses as a half dozen limbs slowly extend and contract like a spider stretching from a long winter sleep. Two of the limbs end in hands that clasp together as the creature tilts its head in greeting. The other four end in a variety of curious or frightening instruments.

"Welcome travelers to the Hall of Paths Less Taken." The creature offers in a slightly high pitched voice carrying the sing-song lilt so common among elven folk. "I am Trantortellion the custodian, guardian, and administrator of the Hall." An arm waves toward the three arches. "Which path do you wish to follow?"

The hour passes slowly as the symbols upon the tower make their whirling journey around the tower once again. At the appointed moment all are ready. The moon fades to black. Darkness and shadow reign supreme. A thin thread of silver marks the entrance to the tower.

Taking a long, deep, steadying breath, Raseri is the first to press forward. The door, which has the solidity of specter's shroud, fades open at her initial touch. A narrow corridor leads deeper into the tower. The wall has the same daetheral look as the outer wall of the tower, but without the circling stars. It is a void black shadowscape lit by a pair of eldtrich lights located just inside the entrance at floor level.

As the priestess steps forward another pair of lights slowly begin to glow with the same purple energy. As she walks forward more pairs alight, illuminating a path forward. Gunnar, Ingryd and Luthael follow the priestess inside. After the prophet passes through, the door lingers open for a few more moments and then slowly fades from existence. Nothing remains but the strange whirling wall of the tower and the pathway of dim lights leading forward into the darkness.

Moving along the path, Raseri glances to the side and suddenly stops. The walls have somehow given way and now the priestess finds herself walking along a narrow, smokey bridge that crosses a vast void. Looking downward there is no light, nothing that would indicate a floor or any kind of bottom somewhere in the darkness below.

The eldritch lights continue to light the way forward across the void. Raseri hurries onward down the illuminated path. She doesn't bother to look up. It is the same as below. And endless darkness. Cold and empty.

Time passes. Although how much or how little, it is impossible to tell. Eventually the path comes to another arch. This one is open and more dim, eldritch light flows from beyond the opening. The light illuminates some kind of circular hall. Stone. A blend of black and white marble checkers the outer section of the floor. An elaborate mosaic covers the center of the room. The moon held in the center of a blooming purple rose. A soft hum emanates from the room. It is the only sound anyone has heard within the tower aside from their own heartbeats and rattling gear.

Gunnar looks into the room. Spots several dark drops tarnishing some of the white marble on the floor. His brows furrow in concern. Blood. Old, but still fresh enough to feel a slight bit of tackiness.

"Half a day, maybe a little longer." Luthael replies to Gunnar's question as he gives the former campsite a thorough look. The prophet's adventures had truly developed a keen eye for such things as how long a campfire's ashes retained their warmth, or how quickly wind and weather could erode tracks, or, unfortunately, how long the smells of a makeshift latrine could linger. The rain made a true estimate difficult, but the site was still 'fresh' in the prophet's mind.

It was also a jumble of tracks. Mule. Human. Halflings. Definitely more than one of the small folk. And elf. The prophet guesses at least eight, possibly ten. At least one is injured and bound judging from the shuffling gate and the partially washed away blood stains dotting a patch of rock partially sheltered from the recent rain.

In the same spot that he finds the blood, he finds a pair of tarnished copper coins partially buried in the gritty soil. Taking the coins, Luthael can immediately tell they are old. Ancient. The profile on the coin is elven. Female, but not that of the current Imperatrix in Dornig. Elven script circles the elven beauty. The back is stamped with some ancient coat of arms with a winding thorn riddled vine ending in six roses. The vine wraps itself around thin sword blade all is cradled in a crescent moon and topped by a row of twelve stars.

Pondering the coin, the prophet suddenly recalls seeing similar coins before. He pulls out one of the coins shared with him by the prospector's son. Same profile, same stamp on the back.

Raseri joins Gunnar nearer to the shimmering tower. Like the dwarf, the priestess at first doesn't spot any way of entering the strange building woven from the very fabric of creation. But as she observes, she notices something strange. It is difficult to see at first due to the very shimmering and ephemeral nature of the building, but once spotted, becomes easier to see and follow. Beneath the initial layer of the tower wall, the priestess sees a map of the constellations. The stars slowly spin a drift around the tower as if it were some sort of odd reflection of the night sky that isn't guarded by storm clouds. A brighter light flickers and dances across a stretch of the wall. It is the moon. About a quarter full. A short while later as the stars continue to circle, the moon appears again. Waxing toward full.

After a short while, the full moon appears drifting along the wall of the tower. That is when the priestess sees the door. Flowing along in the wake of that silvery moon, the seams of the opening a thin silver filament drawn in the wake of the orbs passing. After a few minutes, the moon looses its fullness. Begins to fade to black as it passes around again. The doorway is closed until eventually darkness reigns under a new moon. A single dark shadow passes along the moon's path. This time the priestess once again notices a opening. This one marked by a void dark sliver of cold and emptiness. Soon enough it passes and the whole cycle continues.

Raseri estimates the entire cycle takes about an hour to pass. She's no way of knowing which door those they follow may have taken.

Further down the trail toward the shimmering tower, it is easy to spot the remnants of a recent camp. A fire ring of blackened stones sits in the center of a half dozen makeshift log stools cut from a nearby fallen pine tree. Plenty of boot and hoof prints still mark the ground despite the heavy rain. There is even a small half full sack of beans sitting nearby having either fallen from a pack or been tossed aside for some unknown reason.

Searching the area a little further, Ingryd discovers a pair of pack saddles along with bits and bridles that would easily fit the two mules still carefully watching her and her companions from the dense thicket of trees back along the trail. The gear is stored in a dugout near a patch of rocks and tress. Covered by a thick tarp, there are more sacks of beans, flour, and other rations along with some cooking gear, water flasks, and tools one my expect any miner or prospector to carry if setting up a small operation in the mountains.

Luthael proves to be right. As soon as everyone backs away and moves on down the trail, the two creatures quiet and return to munching of the prolific grass and brush. Although seemingly uninterested in the party, the two mules still keep a wary eye. It's almost as if they expect someone else to arrive and both eyes and ears are constantly shifting between the trail back out of the valley and toward the tower where everyone now gathers and congregates at the campsite while Ingryd searches and Gunnar examines the ley lines.

Observing the tower and ley lines, Gunnar quickly realizes the two are actually one. The dwarf realizes that it is an amazing feat of arcane wizardry that stands before him. Somehow, the ancient elves woven the very essence of the ley line into a physical manifestation as they so often used to do with trees and other flora within the halls of their great cities. But rather than patiently shaping branch and bark, they managed to shape and constrain the very ephemeral essence of pure magic. It is a wonder plain and simple. One that offers a sense of awe, but also angst. For entering the tower means they'll instantly be stepping foot into node of power and whatever intersection of paths and shadow roads happen to inhabit this place. Gunnar is certain they've discovered the Portal of Dreams.

Glad you all enjoyed it. Sorry my posting rate has been a bit slow lately. Work has been a real time, energy, and creativity sink. (I definitely don't recommend trying to run a small science-oriented non-profit org in the US right now.)

I'll do my best to keep things rolling as best I can, but things may continue to be a little slower paced then they have been in the past.

It had been a long, difficult journey into the mountains and Oscar and Bert welcomed the respite from the constant work. The two mules didn't linger when the master had their servants remove the pack saddles and released the two animals leaving them to their own whims while they did whatever it was they came here to do. The mules didn't really care. There was plenty of grass, water, and cover in the valley. Winter was coming but the truly cold weather was still several weeks away. Plenty of time to enjoy the peace and solitude of the high country.

That is until another band of adventurers come hurrying into the valley. Armed and stinking of violence and trouble. It is Oscar that first recognizes the priestess and she makes a rather feeble attempt to sneak up on them. The mule snorts and flicks an ear, his brown eyes reflecting a lingering flash of lightning as it streaks across the sky.

"I recognize that human." Oscar mutters under his breath as he stands there slowly chewing a mouthful of meadow grass. "She's the one was always hanging out with The Halfling." Those last words are filled with a blend of menace, fear, and complete disgust as if the poor animal had just stepped in a pile of biped-muffins.

Bert's ears fly forward, he eyes whirl to take in the just-as-not-sneaky dwarf and robed male human trying to use the big bearkin as some sort of moving cover. What'd they take them for, a couple of pathetic goblins or maybe a pair of sheep. Even those mutton heads back home could have spotted this gang coming up on them. Shoving the lack of forest prowess aside, Bert bobs his head up and down.

"Aye. You're right. That's the dwarf and other human all the reports have mentioned. The bearkin as well."

"Quincy was a good lad. A real donkey with a future ahead of him until he got tangled up with that lot."

"I'd heard he was just a couple of months from retiring to a farm somewhere. Had it all arranged."

"It's true. Then he got summoned the The Halfling and it all went to utter #$^%!. Dropped from a tower roof into a witch's layer being attacked by a dragon. Bloody hell, what a way for a lad to go."

"It was quite a turn out at his memorial. Quincy had a lot of friends."

"That ain't the half of it. He was a union hauler. They've black balled the whole gang. I even heard there's talk of putting a contract out on The Halfling. Ain't the first time she's done wrong by one of us."

The two mules continue to stare at the approaching adventurers. Their tails flipping back and forth as their manes riffle in the wind.

"Well, what are they doing here? Thought they were way south."

"Word in the stables is they've got one of them blinky rings that'll whisk a body across the world in an instant. Another reason the union's pissed. They hate teleporting. Cuts the whole business model of hauling stuff about."

Oscar whistles through his teeth, snarling at the ever closer group. "Damn! What're we gonna do. I don't want to be accused of crossing the line or working with a bunch of black listed goons."

"It'll be fine. Just play it cool. Maybe they're just looking for the others. The ones who brought us up here and went into the creepy elf tower. We're lucky, they'll just ignore us and go right on by. Follow my lead, but whatever you do, don't let 'em get a saddle on you or a bit in your teeth."

*CRACK*

The sound of the branch snapping beneath Raseri's foot echoes like the snap of a crossbow. The mules heads bob up and down.

"Hee HAWWWWW!" The one on the left throws back its ears and flips its tail as it paws the ground with a heavy hoof. Both animals then take a few steps backward, deeper into the trees and away from Ingryd and the rest of the approaching party.

Dropping deeper into the valley the fury of the storm seems less severe as the surrounding hills brunt the worst of the winds and lightning. However, the rain still gathers and what was only a short while ago, a happy little stream, trickling its way along the center of the valley is quickly growing into a storm fueled, raging torrent of water sweeping aside fallen logs, shrubs, and anyone foolish enough to get within its reach.

Although the path Gunnar follows also ran along the edge of that little stream and is now several feet under water, it did not appear to actually cross the stream. Simply moving a bit further away allows the dwarf and his companions to circumnavigate the most treacherous parts of the flooded creek and still approach the shimmering ruin. All are still soaked by rain and smaller creeks flowing off the surrounding hills to fuel the torrent cascading down the valley's center.

Still a few hundred yards from the ruin, a flash of lightning reveals a pair of forlorn looking pack mules huddled near a tightly grouped grove of pine trees. There the animals wait out the storm nibbling on a few patches of grass as the water drips from the trees onto their backs.

Hurrying past the cavern, Gunnar leads the way along the ridge and down into the valley. Reveling in the power of the storm the dwarf continues the pursuit of their quarry. The destination at the other end of the valley is shrouded in shadow by the dark gray skies and rapidly approaching night until a jagged cascade of lightning fills the sky in an arcing display of nature's power. Fanning across the sky in a spider's web of electricity, the powerful release of energy causes hair to rise and armor to spark among the suddenly very, very small mortals as they race onward.

In the brilliant light of the electrical majesty, all can make out the outline of ruins at the far end of the valley. Such architecture once filled the whole of Western Midgard. Tall, thin towers seemingly spun and woven out of stone and living trees, grace a circular structure that practically grows from the surrounding landscape. Even from this distance it is easy to spot a few of the embellishments and decorations that adorn most elven structures. Such building exhibit a fragile, delicate beauty and they are often able to withstand the worst that storm or enemy can throw at them. But even for an elven structure, the sight ahead appears different. The walls appear to shimmer and ripple. A trick of the flashing light? Perhaps. But even as the light in the sky dims, the walls continue to ripple like mirage images upon a desert.

Then, in a moment, the lightning fades and the keep disappears back into the shadows and behind curtain of rain now pouring down from the storm clouds. Gunnar estimates the trails general course and quick enough nods with assurance. Their quarry made for the keep and the ley line emerges within those rippling walls.

Having readied themselves the band of heroes continues the long grinding hike into the rugged mountains. Although not nearly at tall as the mighty peaks of the Cloudwalls or the jagged, glacier coated mountains of the far north, the Wild Orzu Hills offer their own barriers to those wishing to delve into their secrets. They are indeed wild. Trails are few and mostly made by deer or other wild creatures. Overgrown in the lowlands and treacherously unstable when in the highlands, the going is slow and tiring as travelers must constantly be wary of rockfalls, foot grabbing vines, and, of course, a wide variety of hungry and occasionally cleaver predators. In addition, their location on a northern peninsula caught between the cold air of the north and the warmer air riding up from the southern plains means the weather can change quickly and often.

Such is the case as wizard, bearkin, priest, and prophet tackle the winding trail up a barren, bleak, rocky ridge toward the source of power felt by Gunnar and Raseri. The wind picks up and the sun is soon blotted out by towering black clouds that fill the air with prickly menace. As children of the storm god, both Gunnar and Raseri easily predict the brewing storm. Both are proven correct.

A the party finally reaches the top of the ridge, the skies erupt in a fury of lightning and thunder. Mighty arcs of incredible power streak through the sky and occasionally down to the ground. Each accompanied by an ear splitting rumble of thunder. All quickly agree that the best thing to do is get down off the ridge. A plan starkly punctuated when a blast of lightning strikes a lonely fir not more than a thousand feet from where the group stands. The crown of the tree bursts into flame and for just a moment it looks as if the bolt of lightning tries to arc back up into the sky but instead it dissipates as the stricken tree burns.

Moments later rain begins to fall. Drops as big as a queen's coin splatter upon the ground, and heads. Looking ahead, Ingryd sees the rough trail taken by their quarry. Another winding route down the back of the ridge into a long highland valley. Both priestess and wizard sense the ley line lurking toward the far end of the valley.

With the rain pummeling the trail and the wind raging along with the storm, Ingryd somehow spots a narrow opening tucked not far from the trail. A natural cavern could provide cover and respite from the storm, although those they pursue appear to have continued on having outrun the change in weather.

Luthael: Hope you have a great trip.

The evening ends with the final incineration and burial of the halfling's corpse along with a rather drawn out and difficult discussion with the young Morgan over being told to turn back. Unwilling to give up on being part of his father's rescue, the lad argues vociferously to stay. However, teenage doggedness and wiles are nothing to those who have faced demons, sorcerous chipmunks, and wicked hags. Eventually the boy is forced to admit his defeat and agrees to not turn back to Nargenstal, but instead return to the mining site in case his father should escape on his own and come looking.

Eventually, the remainder of the night passes uneventfully and soon enough the eastern horizon begins to brighten and a nearby robin heralds in the new day. The morning dawns cool and crisp. A wind blows steadily out of the west smelling of salt and rain. All fear the autumn may finally be exerting its influence and the rains will soon arrive.

Not wishing to waste time or what remains of the good weather, the band of heroes set out as soon as it is light enough to see within the shadow-drenched eaves of the forest. Morgan, along with an unusually quiet Scramsax set off for the mine. The halfling clearly more interested in the cache of coins and baubles the prospectors had discovered more so than the missing miner himself. She'd all too quickly and eagerly volunteered for the rather menial task of seeing the boy safely back to the mine. In an instant the two vanish in a puff of foul smelling magical smoke, teleporting back to the crossroads not far from Katerina's temple.

For three more days Luthael, Raseri, Gunnar and Ingryd slog through the dense forest following the thin thread of ever fading trail. Upwards into the mountains it climbs. Over ridges, across streams, into and out of valleys. It is an arduous journey and by the end all are bug bitten, dirty, scratched and scraped and tired.

As the third day comes to a close, there is a reward of sorts. Climbing up a zigzagging trail the group comes upon a small flat patch of ground covered in tall grass fed by a spring emerging from the rocks. A mule stands in the patch happily grazing. A set of empty pack saddles lie tossed among the rocks and scrub trees, the provisions apparently used up or otherwise not needed.

There is another sign. The trail is no longer obscured. Beginning at the little glade, prints, spore, and many other signs of their quarry traveling up the trail are clear and easy to follow. Either the magical means of hiding the trail are exhausted or they no longer fear pursuit. Either way it is a boon for those tracking, for it is easy enough to see that several of the pack animals still travel with the group as do at least one prisoner judging by the various tracks and evidence left along the trail.

Finally, both Raseri and Gunnar feel the growing presence of a strong ley line. It's powerful flow emerging onto the surface before it disappears back down beneath the mountains. Such a manifestation could easily house a portal or other gateway to allow easy access to the Shadow Roads or other realms.

The candles burn lower and lower until each only consists of a short stub of wax and sputtering flame. The prophet of Khors asks the final question. The spirit churns and whirls within the circle of dimming light.

"Into the mountains to the Portal of Dreams. Follow the Shadow Road to the land of Forgotten Hope and emerge below Malithorn's Claw. There the Jasmine Pass will lead to the hidden palace and the Tower of Ten Thousand Blossoms."

As the final word emerges from the spirit, the first candle hisses and splutters out sending up a tendril of drifting smoke. Luthael quickly dismisses the halfling's fallen spirit and sends it back into the waiting embrace of death as the other candles wink out. The spirit howls and struggles against the flowing tide of power that opens and draws it back into the nether realm.

Moments later all is silent and quiet until eventually a frog croaks and the crickets once again begin to chirp in the autumn night air.

The spirit churns and hovers over the body now draped in a layer of smoke-gray frost. The prophet of Khors speaks again, the command of the spell resonating in the cold, night air, compelling the spirit to answer.

"My liege is Lord Rothollow, Baron of the Twin Spires, Knight Commander of the Seventh Brigade of his Imperial Majesty's Twilight Fusiliers, Devout Blade of Shimmering Path, Third Circle."

A tendril of smoke pokes at the circle enclosing the spirit within a material cage. A crackle of energy bursts, the tendril draws back. The spirit slithers and churns.

Luthael asks another question. For several long moments the spirit ponders a response. All remains quiet beneath the forest canopy. Only the sound of the heroes own breathing and the occasional rustle of gear or fabric breaks through the unnatural silence. The prophet's lips begin to part, to demand an answer, but the spirit finally replies.

"Upon my departure from mortal life, I departed with my liege lord from the town of Nargenstal. We journeyed to the Tower of Ten Thousand Blossoms."

Luthael's voice rings out strong and true into the chill, dim, evening air. Yet the words of his questions barely echo beyond the confines of the circle and the burning light of the candles. Hearts beat, lungs pull in air as the spirit hangs there in silence following the prophet's first question. Finally, it answers.

"I died giving my life essence to my liege and lord master." The spirit answers.

The second question is asked. The spirit's form churns and whirls during another pause, though not as long as the first. "I wished to please my lord and serve him well. Thus I would be blessed with the Grace of the Twilight Emperor and be reborn into the Halls of the Returned."

By the time the spirit finishes its answer the candles have burned down further leaving just over a third left on each taper.

Three questions left.

The sun slips further into the west as the body and space is prepared for Luthael's holy ritual. The circle is marked upon the loamy soil. Candles placed to mark the cardinal directions upon which Khors light shines each day. Two other candles are placed within the circle, one to the prophet's right, one to his left. The marker of the spirit and void where Khors grand orb shines, the second for the dark underworld where spirits must pass after leaving the mortal realm.

Prayer are spoken. An offering of incense begins to drift upon the evening air as the sun sets. In the east the moon rises in a crescent, the evening star twinkling almost within the bounds of the moon's tilted cup. Somewhere nearby an owl hoot's the beginning of the night's hunt.

Morgan watches all with rapt fascination, careful to maintain his distance. Curiosity is one thing, but after the encounter with the wraith, he's little desire to see another spirit up close.

Ingryd peers into the evening twilight, her eyes gleaming golden whenever they flick back toward the candlelight. Every so often the rustle of her sleeve is heard followed by the soft sound of someone sipping from a flask. Communing with spirits is a thirsty endeavor.

Gunnar considers potential questions. Spirits are always tricky and time will be to the ghost's advantage. The doorway to the spirit realm can only be held open for so long, even by a god's prophet. Wizard and priestess consider options, checking with Luthael when he pauses his prayers.

Finally, all is ready. Luthael's voice takes on a tone of command calling forth the unknown spirit of the fallen halfling. The air grows still, becomes cold. The candles flare but Ingryd notices their light barely reaches beyond the edge of the holy circle. The night sounds of the forest fade until only silence is heard beyond the creak and rustle of robes, armor and gear as those gathered shift and breath and wait.

The air grows colder. With each syllable of prayer, Luthael's breath forms a cloud about his face as if it were suddenly midwinter. Again he calls upon the spirit. And again. After the third time another mist begins to form within the circle. Trickling forth from the halfling's nose and parted lips like a release of rancid, black pipe smoke, it begins to swirl and coalesce just above the corpse.

It's shape is nebulous, roughly the size of the halfling, but ever shifting in form like a cloud churning in a storm. The candles have burned over halfway down to the ground. Streams of wax trickle forth from the circle's edge. The spirits arrival signals another drop in temperature. Morgan's teeth chatter as he looks at the frost gathered around his own water canteen.

A voice. Bland, devoid of life, devoid of interest in mortal machinations. It is heard, but not heard. Emanating from the spirit, but neither fully physical or psychic. It grates on the living soul. Chills like ice slipping beneath a shirt collar and rolling down a bareback. It desires only one thing, to be free of that which brought it here. To return from whence it emerged.

"I am here oh scion of Khors. Your god drags me from the realm of death. I know you not, yet you bind with the light god's power. I wonder why."

Go ahead and ask your first question.

Ingryd and Gunnar set about digging a preparing a suitable burial for the dead halfling. A difficult task given the numerous roots from the surrounding trees and an abundance of rocks lying just beneath the forest born soil. The lengthy task gives Luthael plenty of time to ready himself to the arduous task of calling a spirit back from the realms of the dead if only for a short while.

As he digs, Gunnar ponders the strange, foreboding image tattooed upon the halfling's shoulder. The one he'd copied into a journal earlier. A spark of knowing lurks at the edge of his memory. Elusive and ephemeral for a time. But as is often the case, a little physical labor frees the mind and soon enough he is able to grapple the slippery memory.

Young Morgan drinks from the bearkin's offered flask. His eyes grow wide as the strong liquor hits his throat like Ingryd's sledgehammer. Swallowing the honey brew he gasps, coughs, and nods his thanks with a smile as a warm glow flushes his cheeks a few moments later.

Soon enough attention turns back to the body. The deceased halfling lying upon the forest floor. Gunnar's cursory inspection reveals little except for the pair of puncture wounds located just at the base of the dead halfling's neck.

A more complete examination by the wizard garners little else. Whatever items of value or personal interest to the deceased have been removed. His shirt, pants, a pair of worn boots and under clothing are all that remain. A few battered leaves of pipeweed burrowed at the bottom of a shirt pocket would indicate he was a smoker. The stained teeth and strong smell of stale smoke corroborate the assumption.

The dwarf does discover one curiosity, a tattoo marking the halfling's shoulder. An eight pointed star set upon the forehead of a grinning skull surrounded by an Ouroboros hungrily eating its own tail.

Trapped within the Fist of Odin, the wraith cannot escape its final demise at the hand of the heroes of Nargenstal. Fire, hammer, force, and lightning combine to unravel the undying spirit's existence upon the mortal plane once and forever.

After a few moments, somewhere in the distance a bird chirps to the evening sun. The last dying echoes of Raseri's thunder and lightning fade into memory and all is calm and peaceful once again within the dim eaves of beneath the forest's canopy.

A few feet away, the miner's son stares wide-eyed at where the vile shadow died. His body quakes with shivers. The bone-chilling cold of fear much stronger than the lingering warmth of a late autumn day.

Wraith is destroyed. Combat over.