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"I know very little of the art of ritual magic. Very few people left in the world would have any experience with such magic. But you ask for a bowl made of mithril, so I must assume that you know something of the practice. Even still, I, unfortunately, do not have such an item for you. But if I come upon one or if Baerwynnd has such an item, I shall hold it for you. Before the end of things, I suspect we shall see each other again."
Deep within the recesses of Niyut, Viosil shudders at t he thought of the dark magic the oracle wields. The blood of fire is evil... I felt it in the dwarven catacombs and I feel its presence even now... it corrupts you and burns me to ash...
The druid peers through the eyes of the hobgoblin as he approaches Sivantanpisil. Weary of life and of death... not tired... I long to feel the wind in my face and the sun upon my back... if this is the afterlife, I do not wish it... Listening to Gruskorb tell him of Querkus, the necromancer leans forward in his chair. "My knowledge is of the flesh and the energies that reside within. I know little of the mortal soul other than what is commonly known amongst the wise and arcane. Selefahn, the Herald, is said to have dominion over the departed souls of all sentient beings. He escorts them back to the ether so that they may join with it and be made again. Perhaps Selefahn has abandoned them or perhaps it was they who fled from the Lord of Bone. Which, if either of those, is the truth, I do not know." Sivantanpisil continued his discussion with the hobgoblin, "Few elves live in this area, but those who do... and certainly all those that pass through our lands... find the seclusion of the old forests of Kragenwood to be most like their homelands to the south. I suspect he once resided there." From Querkus' description that Gruskorb conveys to the wizard, Sivantanpisil is able to guess the location of the druid's grove. "It is not far from where I intended to send you when rested. I shall set you as close to there as I am able."
"I am not an expert in the ways of the greater spirits by any stretch of the imagination. I stay clear of them at all costs. There are many temples dedicated to them in Haemil, should you find the city intact. Perhaps someone there could help you find an answer to aid you. A priestess of Amus may be a good start." Tapping the staff to the ground, he continues, "Who knows what corrupted souls... or the innocent, contributed to this staff. If possible, we shall attempt to harvest the essences when the time comes."
"Muahaha!" Siv roars with laughter. "Well played, my young half-orc friend. But I shall not wield such a staff, except to aid Baerwynnd. It is not mine and I do not wish to have such a vile thing. My hope is to see its destruction before it is all done." Rubbing his face with his hands as though he is trying to shake himself free from an overwhelming fatigue, he looks across the way at Malthazir. "Evil power, even wielded with the best of intentions, can corrupt oneself... given time." Sivantanpisil rises and walks over to the elf, placing a hand upon the Stormborn Robe. "You have found wondrous things in this broken world, but be cautious... and curious. For all magic is power, even the least amount in a mundane thing may prove valuable," he continues as his eyes transfix on destroyed optic of the wizard. Then, turning back to the oracle, he retakes his seat. "And the smallest trinket may be your downfall. I'll give this a good read and add it to my library," he concludes as he takes the book on constructs from Niyut along with an ethereal essence in exchange for his necromancy essence.
"I see you have been successful in recovering Stoorjian's staff! I wish I could say my battle has gone as well. The city has been destroyed although I was able to save some of the inhabitants. Little hope is left here. I shall do as you request and join Baerwynnd in Talanor. I would ask you to travel further, however... to Haemil and find Rhykal the Hazard of Conjuration. She can restore the teleportation circles between the towers. I believe it may be the only hope for you to reach all of them in time to aid Baerwynnd and save our world from destruction." He bows and extends a hand toward Niyut asking for the staff. "To be honest, I was not entirely convinced of its existence within the catacombs build by Stoorjian. I, myself, never ventured there. He was a dark and terrible master of the tower in his days. The way was surely dangerous, and I thank you for your courage. I shall take the staff and aid Baerwynnd. But presently, how may I aid you?"
"Well done," he says to Garidan. "Susinct and to the point, I like it. But, I can't leave these poor souls to be overrun by the spawn of Kiravor." Sivantanpisil continues to carefully track the progress of his minions at the gates. "I would presume that Talanor is besieged in a similar fashion as Pyrae?" the necromancer speculates, but continues without waiting for a response. "Right... Then if I can't go to Baerwynnd's aide, I shall have to send aide with you. My apprentice is dead, so he won't serve you well..." Turning to Niyut, he confronts her puzzled look, "I'm sure you'll speculate whether he's dead and raised by my hand, but I assure you, the Shaping took his life and his body." A loud crash beyond the gate followed by a roar that made even the hairs on Truk'tosh's head stand on end, grabs Sivantanpisil attention. "Time is up, death approaches! Enter the tower's crypt and retrieve the Staff of Stoorjian. It shall serve Baerwynnd well." With a deafening crash, the city gate is crumbles and the swarm of undead rushes forward. Behind them a figure upon a winged creature takes to the air. Sivantanpisil flies down to the doorway and draws a large red gem from a pocket within his robe. Setting the gem in the depression above the door's arch, the door begins to move to the right as though the entire interior of tower was spinning. Above the low rumble of the grinding rotation of the tower, you hear a shriek high in the air above. "GO!" shouts Sivantanpisil as he launches himself into the air. The doorway opens, and you smell the dank, musty air release from inside the tower. A short hallway leads to a dark chamber beyond. The grinding does not stop, and you can see that the doorway will begin to close momentarily.
"I would love to hear your tales and give you my counsel sitting by a warm fire and sipping spirits from Avenell, but Pyrae burns tonight and I am needed to defend her. Speak quickly! We have little time," he orders looking back to the city gates where the undead continue to fight among their ranks.
"What does Bærwynnd know of this Shaping? And what counsel could I provide"?
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