The Dark Corners of Impiltur, by Wynna Blackwing

Ostheim
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The Dark Corners of Impiltur, by Wynna Blackwing

Postby Ostheim » Sat Feb 20, 2016 8:55 pm

[OOC: As a note of courtesy, the Dark Corners of Impiltur tends to veer into Wynna's recollections of some of the more notable places she has been. This includes dungeons! If you'd prefer not to be spoiled for some of the cooler places in the module, you may want to skip certain sections, though I encourage reading after seeing them!]

[Though sparse at first, a number of copies of several tomes, apparently a series in the making, make their way about various book-sharing circles and places of scholarly interest around Sarshel and Songhall.]

An Introduction

On a lark the other day, I decided that I would sit within the Temple of the Triad in Sarshel for a few hours as I did my daily research. If you’ve never had the pleasure of visiting the place, I highly recommend it, if only to behold the painstakingly crafted statues of the Triad themselves, standing tall and just towards the back, their eyes seeming to never waver from their congregation. It was a quiet occasion that I chose, and I had a long time to reflect on the firm countenance of those statues, of the determined clergy that wandered the temple and tended to the needful.

Sarshel, and Impiltur itself, is a nation dedicated to their gods. It was Imphras Heltharn, the paladin king, who united the warring city-states after the petty horrors of the Interregnum, and it was his grandson that decreed that Impiltur would be ruled by not only a king, but a council of the wisest, most forthright paladins of the land. The Triad stand strong, always and forever as the goodliest of the divines, united in their efforts. Indeed, the Triadic faith may as well be the official religion of Impiltur.

One would assume, then, that Impiltur is a land of impressive compassion, piety and faith. A bastion of godliness and good. In certain respects, they would be correct.

After reflecting upon these things, I left the Temple of the Triad and walked the streets of Sarshel. I saw boarded up homes and weeds sprouting between the cobblestones. I saw hooded figures stalk about in the cramped alley-ways. I heard a woman shriek in the distance. If I walked towards the Docks that night, I’d have feared for my coin purse, to say nothing of my dignity. In one night, I reflected on the nobility of Impiltur, just as thoroughly as I reflected upon its decay.

And this was just Sarshel. If depravity could fester beneath the shadow of the Temple of the Triad, what could there be said about those forgotten places that no Triadic soldier has laid eyes upon in years?

Indeed, good reader, there is a darker side of Impiltur, an Impiltur that caters to the nefarious and the cruel. The horrific and the blood-thirsty. Dark forces that zeal in loss, madness and death. Cults, the undead, servants of the dark gods, hiding in plain sight or in the ruined places so thoroughly drenched in loss and insanity that they cannot help but be cursed.

Impiltur is a land that has seen fit to trudge along stoically into its Triadic future, beset on all sides by forces that would like nothing more than to see the whole edifice come crumbling down on its shaking foundation. It is a land that has tried its best to forget the horrors of the past, of petty lords and kings vying for supremacy as downtrodden peasants died in droves. But I posit that a land that has forgotten its past is doomed to repeat its mistakes.

That, however, is a tome for another time. These volumes exist to prove my argument, to shine a light upon the evils that some would prefer to remain hidden. I hope you’ll join me in exploring the dark corners of Impiltur, so that you might better appreciate the brighter ones.
Last edited by Ostheim on Thu Mar 31, 2016 1:26 am, edited 1 time in total.
Wynna Blackwing - Scholar of history, ruin delver, intrigue dabbler
Rannie Marrinson - Knight-Errant, Paladin of Sune
Teobald Grzywacz - Outentown peasant, ranger and adventurer

Ostheim
Posts: 251
Joined: Sat Jan 23, 2016 5:05 am

Part I, Maiden's Leap

Postby Ostheim » Sat Feb 20, 2016 8:56 pm

Go to Outentown on a cold night and have a drink in the tavern there. There aren’t any beds, sadly, but there are stories aplenty; in such a small farming community, it’s often the only entertainment the locals are liable to indulge in beyond the typical mongering of rumors and gossip. One of the most common stories you’ll hear is that of Maiden’s Leap, be it the tale or the place. The two need-not always coincide in the same tale, though they are, of course, linked.

Maiden’s Leap is the colloquial name given to the cliff-side to the north of the Mal Wash and Laviguer Road. Having been there a few times, I can describe it with some accuracy as a lonely, decrepit guard post that I’ve not had the pleasure of entering and a sunken, ruined stairwell that leads further down into a ruin buried by the elements and time itself. A cobble-road goes past the guard post, whilst the ruin itself lies just off the beaten path, just outside of casual view.

Curiously, there also seems to be a rock formation just off the cliff itself, a pillar of stone jutting proudly out of the Mal Wash. Adjacent to it, still on the cliff, is yet another rock, with what would appear to be hoof-imprints upon the stone. You may find these details to be frivolous, but I believe them to be important to the overall tale itself.

Which tale, though, is the question. Ask five commoners of Sarshel and Outentown of Maiden’s Leap, and you’ll have two shrugging in ignorance and the other three telling you different things. Rather than bore you, dear reader, with an exhaustive list of tales, I’ll settle for summarizing what is, in general, agreed upon.

At the site of Maiden’s Leap, there used to be a castle. In this castle was a king, or a lord, someone of power that had a very comely daughter, as such nobles tend to have. Visiting this castle was a man. A prince, a lord, another noble, a slayer of giants, the truth is thoroughly unknown and irrelevant. What matters is what transpired between this man and the lord’s daughter. Their names are the subject of guess-work and fabrication, lost to time.

Which is, of course, any number of things! But most tales, being fond of tragedy, seem to agree that this visitor was overwhelmed by the beauty of this woman, and simply had to have her. Infringing on the rules of hospitality and honor in the lord’s home, he gave chase to the poor woman, and either succeeded in defiling her (whereupon she escaped), or did not manage to corner her before she fled.

What happened next is up for considerable debate. Even the details I have just given are, at best, tall-tales. Until the work of scholars determines these things as fact or fiction, they remain as such. However, what is generally agreed upon is that the woman was flung, or flung herself, from the cliff on horseback, and was promptly turned to stone. The very same stone pillar you might see off the cliff.

What matters in this re-telling of folk lore is the tragedy inherent in it. No tale is spun from a void; it would strike this scholar as obvious that, in the distant past, be it the Interregnum or even before the Fiend Wars, some manner of tragedy befell that castle, those cliffs off the Mal Wash. And, most importantly, that the effects of this are still felt even today.

There are some vile, darker powers that feed upon the loss of such places, resonate with them and leave them cursed by their touch. Maiden’s Leap is one such place; each and every time I have gone within the halls beneath, they have been infested with all manner of revenants and sorrowful spirits, incoherent and babbling over some nameless tragedy. No matter how many times those ancient rooms are cleared of the vile dead, they are, without error, back again in force on the morrow.

How is such a thing possible? How, indeed, could it be so were this place not so thoroughly drenched in curse? But why? Who is responsible, and what can be done?

As always, these answers are not within easy reach. Half of the job of the scholar is to postulate at the best possible answers, and pray that the end result resembles the truth of the matter.

Maiden’s Leap is a place beset by tragedy, loss, and curse. Consider which dark powers might thrive in such an environment, might take root in such a place. Consider the tales in Outentown of Old Ramin, of the Festival of the Moon, of the adventurers who have delved into this place of tragedy and seen themselves the effects of what happens when a dark power is allowed to fester for too-long... seeping into an old place that none can even recall the true history of.

But even if history, records and people forget such things, dear reader, others do not. They feed off the residual darkness of our past and make nests of them. And since we cannot remember, or will not remember, such places are doomed to darkness until the light is brought to them once again.
Wynna Blackwing - Scholar of history, ruin delver, intrigue dabbler
Rannie Marrinson - Knight-Errant, Paladin of Sune
Teobald Grzywacz - Outentown peasant, ranger and adventurer

Ostheim
Posts: 251
Joined: Sat Jan 23, 2016 5:05 am

Part II, Thelnam

Postby Ostheim » Thu Mar 31, 2016 1:22 am

The winter has been a long one, dear reader. On my way to the fishing village of Thelnam, I passed a variety of farmsteads dotting the outskirts of Sarshel. The fields are barren and the stables are silent, though likely not empty; though, I imagine how the livestock feel as they are shuffled about every morn into the cold again. I wonder if they have grown to value the warmth of that interior, have learned to look forward to it after countless days of standing in the persistent Impiltur winter.

Yet, Sarshel carries on. The inns serve warm food and drink, and none seem to go hungry beyond those outside of even the most meagre of means already. Sarshel, like any great city, relies upon towns like Outentown and Thelnam to provide rich bounty for it, be it in Outentown’s plentiful farms or Thelnam’s robust fishing community. And though Outentown may very well teeter towards its own winter-related sorrows, rain-soaked Thelnam carries on as usual.

The fish care little for the chill, and I’ve yet to speak to a fisher who has had cause to complain. Unlike a farmer, their harvest is a persistent one, blessed by the watchful presence of the temple to Valkur, set into the great, hollow hill that Thelnam itself is built upon. Though modest, Thelnam has every reason to be prideful, secure in its usefulness and the work ethic of its community.

Would that that were all I could write of Thelnam. Though perhaps detached from the immediate hints of corruption and blight that Sarshel is not spared from, Thelnam has its share of dark corners, dear reader, corners that leer from without upon this sleepy village, where the gulls scream, the tides rise and fall, and on the winds, one may yet hear something more sinister.

I have prepared three tales for you, reader. Shall we?

The Vayaklya

It was on the shores of Thelnam’s Sound that I happened across a few fisherfolk who seemed to be on the verge of concluding their work for the day, their nets filled with gutted fish, and the sands beneath them covered in skins. A rank scent permeated the air with a thick miasma of hard work. If you’ve never been to Thelnam’s Sound, it lies just north of the Old Road that will take you to the village itself, down a small set of carved stairs into the cliff-side. Down below, you will find yourself on a beach where, if you come at the right time, you might watch the fishers at work.

I was not alone, and it was late at night. The rest of my group were exploring much like I was, though they took more interest in the ruined bridge that lay broken above our heads, leaving me alone with the fishers. Being of a curious mind, I decided to ask the fisher about the Sound, if he knew of aught of interest that I might write about.

Always ask about local legends, dear reader. You might learn something interesting, as I did that night. You might find a man or woman who will smile, knowingly, and lower their voice to a furtive, conspiratorial pitch to conceal their excitement at such superstitions.

He told me of the Vayaklya.

Upon the very beach that we stood upon, his companion busily bunching up nets for ease of transport, the older fisher was delighted to tell me all he knew of this creature, this beautiful monster that would appear only under the most specific of circumstances. Only after a thunderstorm, only at night, and only upon that very beach would one chance to hear the mesmerizing voice of the Vayaklya.

“Like the voice of Lady Firehair Herself,” the old fisher told me, smiling at what I could only assume his own approximation of such a sweet noise. And what better thing to do, when faced with such ambrosia for the ears, than to keep listening? Naturally, of course, that is where the story becomes more than what might be mistaken for the wind on a lonely shore.

When one listens to the creature’s voice for long enough, she will appear, rising from the water like a spirit from a grave, with a body as perfect and beautiful as its voice. It was here, of course, that I was unsuccessful in extracting more details from the man, for he himself had never seen it, and by my approximation, few have who have returned to tell of it. I encourage you to be creative in your imagining of the creature, dear reader.

From there, the story takes on a more suggestive element, one I was fully coming to expect given the lascivious smile on the fisher’s face as he considered his words. For a Vayaklya is not content with merely revealing itself to its audience, but to indulge in whatever they desire for the rest of the night. Inner peace? Some artifact of power? Somehow I doubt these things are what the good fisher had in mind, nor our monster.

Yet all good things will end eventually, and this holds true for the Vayaklya as well; and for the victim. For once it is sated at the crack of dawn, the creature will take hold of its slumbering and well-pleased prey in arms, and retreat back into the waters from whence it came. And who can say what happens then, dear reader? The fisher wondered aloud at this, a hopeful gleam in his eyes, at perhaps some hidden kingdom beneath the waves, where the Vayaklya and her sisters bring some lucky few into an underwater world of pleasures and wonder.

Myself? Bones are not uncommon things to wash up upon the shore, I have learned, and talk of missing fishers is not unheard of. Who can say how much truth is to be derived from such an outlandish tale? When the fisher left up the slope back towards his town, though, I could not help but see that persistent, yearning gleam in his eyes as he stared at the shoreline.

The Depot (ooc: dungeon spoilers!)

This site of our next tale is actually quite close to Thelnam’s Sound, just alongside the Old Road in fact. Anyone traveling along the road to Thelnam will have undoubtedly noticed the presence of a crumbling ruin nearly straddling the ill-maintained path, the remnants of an old tower having been reduced to naught but a shade of its former self. And though it is in perhaps better condition than many of its siblings dotting the landscape of Impiltur, one cannot deny the age of the place, overrun with vegetation both within and without.

Yet the place declines ease of access for weary travelers, who are better advised to continue towards Thelnam itself; it’s not uncommon to find the ruined entrance blocked by an abundance of heavy tree roots, and though this is frustrating to the average adventurer in search of easy loot, it’s a blessing in disguise for most simple travelers and merchants.

It’s not simply what is being kept out that matters, in most cases. One must also give pause to consider what is being kept in.

With that warning spent, I can safely tell you, dear reader, that I very rarely consider this thing, and happily delved into the ruin with my small group of like-minded adventurers. Inside, we found what I can only describe as the crumbling ruins of what appears to be an old depot, a warehouse of sorts that was built along the road to Thelnam or whatever town that was its progenitor. In an abundance of places, the ceiling itself had fallen to pieces, allowing flora and fauna to spill down and mingle with that which was crafted by man’s hands.

Yet we found nothing peaceful within.

Hunched in the central chamber, flanked by what I can only describe as ambulatory, ooze-like creatures that slithered and seemed ravenous for flesh, was a small, winged creature. Smelling of a horrendous, foul odor, it took to flight and hissed at our party, displaying its sickly green body for all to witness as it began to fling globs of acid in its defense. The oozes, too, seemed to suggest an acidic malice to them, with the stone itself underneath their slithering forms seeming to dissolve in their wake.

Naturally, I yet survive to write of this account; the creatures were slain in good order, the winged monster dissolving into ashes upon its deathblow. From there, it was a trivial matter to continue to search through the place, free of its malign influence, and to come to the conclusion that I have previously shared; old, broken storage crates and barrels littered the place, though nothing usable remained after centuries of neglect and looting.

It is not uncommon for such places to exist, remnants of troubled times. But for said place to become host to such bizarre creatures? It certainly begs the question of why, does it not? Yet, sadly, I am no wizard or expert in such matters. Guesswork might be made as to the things we fought and killed, but I somehow doubt any amount of that knowledge will reveal why it was there in the first place.

And why, dear reader, that I feel my hairs stand on the edge of my neck every time I pass it again.

The Bitch Queen’s Lost Pearls (ooc: dungeon spoilers!)

There are not many opportunities for relaxation or entertainment in Thelnam, not unless you are a fisher. And even for those noble fishers, there exists yet only a single watering hole in the entire village, a pub of sorts built into the domicile of one Yekov Seskyr. It is in his home and place of business that I currently write this, just next to the window facing the sea.

It was not always like that, though. Once upon a time, perhaps several years ago or more, some of the younger men of the village used to take rowboats out to a pair of curious islands just off the coast. If the hour were not late, I might even be able to see them from where I’m sitting right now. One of these islands is known as the Old Beggar’s Head, little more than a rock jutting out of the waters. Apparently it used to be home to savages, but I have yet to investigate myself; not when the other prospect was far more enticing for a woman of my interests.

The other island, a set of two very close together, is known simply as the Bitch Queen’s Lost Pearls. As I’m sure you’re aware, dear reader, an island does not earn this name without merit; the island seems to have attracted its fair share of misfortune, dotted with no less than six shipwrecks that I was able to count during my brief, disturbing time visiting that sinister place.

Have I your attention?

The fishers used to visit this island in abundance a few years back, doubtless to search and make merry near more elder shipwrecks. Yet something changed a few years ago.

My attention was garnered by a conversation I had with a young fisherman working on the coast, toying about with a small rowboat he had. He told me of the islands, though he seemed ignorant or perhaps naive about the truth of the reason why the island was no longer visited. Regardless, he told me of a vessel known as Selune’s Tears that had wrecked just a little over a year ago on the island. No survivors were known to have escaped, and none of the fishers of Thelnam were inclined to investigate.

I was dreadfully curious, of course, so I pressed until I was directed to good Yekov himself. He was quick to tell me of the Tears’ last journey, of how its captain, one Silverbeard Jones, was distinctly unwise to take his vessel out that fateful night. But he, much like any other fisher I questioned regarding the wreck and the island itself, was curiously tight-lipped and dismissive of my desire to visit the island.

Warning, in fact.

Yet when has that ever stopped me?

Not many days ago, I returned to Thelnam with a noble group of adventurers based out of Sarshel; the Highblade sisters, the vagabond warrior Anton, and the distinguished soldier Merney Valroc. We were organized half out of my insistent desire to visit the island as well as Miss Serace Highblade’s more noble wish to clear the place of any possible malignant influence. We went ahead and visited industrious Thelnam under a pounding rain that had many of its fishermen indoors for the day… yet not that young man who originally told me of the islands.

And he was more than happy, for a halanth or two from us, to loan out his rowboat for our use.

With Anton and Merney rowing us quickly, it was through the haze of the rain that the Bitch Queen’s Lost Pearls began to come into view; as stated, it is a pair of islands that may as well be joined in truth, with high-rising rock formations jutting forth into the sky. Marring the silhouette of the island, visible through the fog, were shipwrecks in abundance, their shadowed, ruined forms as distinct as the landscape itself. As we came closer and closer, details became more vivid and distinct, until finally we made landfall.

When one adventures, you begin to pick up a sense of sorts, a sort of feeling in the back of your head that tells you that you have entered a place of great evil and danger. It was this feeling that struck me, like a maul to the skull, when I beheld the raw abundance of makeshift graves that dotted our chosen landing site. All made of rotting plywood and mostly torn apart by vultures and the elements, the graves stood as an immediate warning against those too curious for their own good to turn back at once; naught but death awaited us further.

Most of the graves had writing on them, actually. Some with symbols, some with words; I found two graves belonging to both halves of poor Captain Elizabeth Killigrew’s first mate. Five-Finger Knuckle, too, was not lucky enough to escape the island intact. Captain Redeye had fallen here, unloved by his crew. In the center, taunting almost, was the grave of Silverbeard Jones, of the Selune’s Tears, whose survival must have been discarded as remote at best when the poor fishers of Thelnam learned of his boat’s fate.

What drove these poor sailors to such morbid depths, I wondered, as we explored the rest of the island, poking our heads into the rotting remains of the shipwrecks, most of them too weathered to even learn what names they carried. What had happened here? Was it the inability to escape, the lack of food? No vegetation exists on those islands. Not even the crabs seemed willing to come up from the beach. What had happened here?

We found out.

It was on the western side of the island where we found the wreck of the blighted Silver Sun. It was on that vessel that we discovered the unspoken reason for this island’s negligence and decay. For on that ship awaited us a squadron of fiendish, ravenous undead revenants, whose boney arms continued to work the strings of their bows as they sought to add us to their ranks. Luckily for us, of course, we were no half-starved sailors or over-curious fishermen. With Serace, we brought the might of Torm the True. With Gwendolynn, the might of arcana. Anton’s fists pulverized skulls, and Merney’s expert blade work felled many a walking corpse.

And I was there to document it all, of course. When we reached the captain’s cabin, a terrifying, maddened spirit awaited us, only to be silenced by Gwendolynn’s spellfire, our minds shielded from terror by the might of Serace’s faith in Torm. All was quiet, eventually, save for the wind outside.

How did this happen?

Some manner of struggle had clearly occurred, either before or after the ship was scuttled. Yet it did not appear as though the ship had been boarded from without… The answer, I think, lies in the cargo of the Silver Sun. A single coffin that was only slightly ajar as we came upon it, yet utterly empty when we opened it, having prepared ourselves for the worst possibility. Had something been slumbering within, something powerful enough to turn the poor sailors of the Silver Sun into deathless servants? Even after destroying that wraith, Serace was quick to caution us that it was rare that such spirits were permanently destroyed by such mundane means.

It would be back. And so too, perhaps, would those wights, those animated bones. Though we had survived, we lacked the means to permanently rid the island of the curse that had come with the Silver Sun.

And we did not elect to stay after nightfall, dear reader. Such a thing seemed… a very foolish idea.

We found the Selune’s Tears after a quick, cursory check when we were through with the corrupted Silver Sun; the boat itself was a lonely wreck, devoid of undead or living alike, completely empty. It somehow seemed an anti-climax to behold the boat that had lured me there in the first place when standing so close to the horror that was the Sun. Yet even that boat stood as a reminder of the dead that had come to this island, unable to escape the ever-present threat the undead represent.

We left soon after, fighting against the dwindling light of Lathander to make good our escape. Yet there was just enough light to spy the words on the graves, even still, and the last one I laid eyes upon before clambering into the boat were, perhaps, the most telling of them all.

‘This lot is empty. We saved it for you.’

Perhaps. Or perhaps such places merely await the right heroes to permanently vanquish such evil.

Ah, but dawn is breaking outside, just over the horizon of the sea. Soon the fishers will be out again to catch their bounty, and Thelnam will continue to persistently march through this long winter of ours, heeding not the shadows that are cast from darker places skulking just out of view.
Wynna Blackwing - Scholar of history, ruin delver, intrigue dabbler
Rannie Marrinson - Knight-Errant, Paladin of Sune
Teobald Grzywacz - Outentown peasant, ranger and adventurer

Ostheim
Posts: 251
Joined: Sat Jan 23, 2016 5:05 am

Part III, 7th Mirtul, 1363

Postby Ostheim » Sun May 08, 2016 5:56 pm

[Written in both Common and Easting.]

It was the day of first spring rains on that seventh of Mirtul.

What a curious string of emotions I felt as I heard the first pattering of raindrops upon the window outside when it started, nestled warmly in the lovely home of a friend. I am no great lover of the rain, or the showers that typically accompany Mirtul and the early months of the year; at the very best, the noise produces an ambience of thoughtful musing most beneficial to a scholar, supposing she is in doors and warm enough to appreciate it.

Appreciate it I did. ‘Rain?’ I thought to myself. ‘In Sarshel?’

What a rare treat. What a reprieve from the constant, torrential downpour of snow that the Frost Maiden has seen fit to barrage us with. My friend and I quit the home at once to enjoy the change, feel the touch of something else upon our cheeks. To see the snow beneath our feet start to ebb away.

It was not a great change, dear reader, but it was change. It was the start of something new, finally, a sign that Spring, perhaps, would be here soon in earnest. That the farmers of Outentown could let their livestock frolic again, plant their seeds for a harvest, that the roads between Filur and Sarshel might once again be easily traversed. That a little normalcy might, finally, return to Impiltur after this long winter.

Yet I doubt I have ever felt a greater chill in my heart than on that day, one to make the Frost Maiden imbued with an envy that would rival the Bitch Queen’s. No earthly weather could ever hope to match the cold that comes when man is face to face with an evil unfathomable, shocking and depraved in all senses, possessed of an utterly cruel, alien mentality that cares nothing for propriety or decency.

This was the horror of that seventh of Mirtul, a day that should have been a sigh of relief, but will be remembered as a shriek of terror.

It began with a tremor in the earth. We felt it as we walked down the alleyways into South District, saw it on the faces of the common folk, the Warswords and the nobility alike; a dread born from ignorance of what was to come.

We hurried our steps, dear reader, past the Temple of the Triad. That noble bastion of safety, serenity, and contemplation. That place that I have described in loving detail once already, in the prelude to this tome.

Go back and read it again. I’ll wait. Read it twice, if you must, commit the mental image to your memory.

The roof, to our reckoning, was the first to go. There came a deafening noise of screeching wood and violence as a blast ripped it apart from within, darkening the overcast skies with a sinister orange glow. There came a scent of brimstone and sulfur, stomach-wrenchingly powerful in magnitude, a miasma of death wafting from a building that had only mere minutes ago stood as a place of boundless compassion.

The crowd grew quickly, dear reader. Though I was among one of the first there, bearing awful witness to the events transpiring, I was not the loudest voice or the one imbued with any real authority. Those accolades belong to the others who came, who nobly took charge to correct the heinous wrongs that were being committed. I would say that I was simply pleased to be there, to witness history in the making, but that would be a lie of the foulest measure.

It does not please this scholar to commit this to writing.

From the great blast, came debris. It rained down amongst us, crashing loudly into the snow. The noise was terrible, a whistling that foretold a swift death without any time to react, or the dreadful sight of those not so lucky suffering that same fate. Sarshel had been turned into a abbatoir in a matter of moments.

When it ceased, we were left to tend to the fresh dead, or prepare our minds and bodies for the horrors that were surely within the burning Temple. For we knew that innocent souls must still have been within, and that inaction would only doom them to a death of unconscionable suffering.

Only one man managed to escape those walls; the Lawkeeper of Tyr, stumbling forth from the morgue and calling upon his God to ward the exit behind him, lest the horror within follow out into the streets. Swiftly convinced of the necessity of dismantling those wards to affect our entry and rescue of those trapped within, however, did he provide the means for us to bear witness to what he only barely was capable of speaking of.

Demons.

Dear reader, it is at this point that I urge caution in proceeding. What I describe hence is not for the faint of heart, but something that, for the sake of history, must be recounted in exacting detail lest Impiltur forget itself once again. I have made it my duty as a scholar to, so long as I breathe and stand, ensure that nothing again be forgotten. So much has been lost to time.

When that duty forces me to recount and describe such horror, however, even my resolve nearly falters. Yet it will not. Can not.

Girdled with the knowledge of what awaited us, we entered. I was but one among many, grimly carrying my crossbow and quiver of bolts into battle, my person protected by little else than hardened leathers. I had no idea what to expect. Greater men and women strode ahead of me; Artemis D’Assanthe, the Dawnbringer of Lathander, ever compassionate. Kelda Adler, Adorned of Ilmater, who must have seen those still trapped in the temple daily. Merney Valroc, the brave and resolute hedge knight, who entered for no reward or promise but that of aiding those within. Abigail Beaumont, the Kingfisher bardess, a woman whose haunting melodies might one day give a voice to this awful day. The Eastern savage, Jun, who would not dare flee from a fight even against such horrific creatures as those promised within.

These were but few among many brave heroes and heroines.

Try to picture the image again, of the place I described in the introduction. Cherish it. For what we found inside was but a depraved mockery of that serenity. The heat was scalding; brimstone and the scent of smoke was thick in the air, mingling freely with the smell of burning meat. The statues of the Triad had been toppled, defaced and utterly ruined. The fountain waters ran red with crimson blood and ichor.

A maddening, horrific scene in itself. Yet the creatures that hunched and shambled through the ruin were far worse. Dripping with blood, sporting spindly, razor-sharp limbs made for mutilation, these creatures stared upon our entry with red, glowing orbs upon a horned, snout-like visage. How could such a thing move without hurting itself, I wondered madly, when my mind tried to make sense of what I was seeing. Yet I shudder to ponder further at the anatomy of a creature that begs not to be defined.

Somehow, those ‘lesser’ demons were not even the worst of it. For where the Triadic banners used to hang proudly, something else, something hulking and terrible to behold now stood where those same banners now hung tattered, lording upon our entry like a demented noble.

My body reels at the thought of that creature, dear reader. My dreams were filled with its visage, its massive form and leathery wings, its hooked claws and charcoal-colored body. The total lack of empathy and boundless, monumental cruelty evident in its expression and eyes as it surveyed the fruits of its terrible labor.

We did battle. Prepared for war as we were, experienced adventurers one and all, we stood a chance when the noble and peace-loving clergy of the Temple did not. I lost track of how many of the creatures we fought, the shouting and blood curdling screams of violence that both we and the monsters issued forth. Of survivors, there were precious few. I will not sully their noble memories by recounting any further upon the remains we found.

No one deserves to die as they did.

When slain, the creatures shrieked their fury as they dissolved into ashes and smoke, sent back to the Abyss from whence they came. Soon, all that remained was their leader, and the battle we waged against it was enough to shake the walls themselves. Yet we were unprepared to deal with such a horrendous defiance of sanity given flesh, and it was only by the power of Ilmater invested in Kelda the Adorned that we managed to force the creature to flee.

Was that what it wanted? I don’t know; I hesitate to speculate. Perhaps the creature only remained briefly to witness more death and destruction before it departed, and our timely arrival simply prevented further bloodshed within those walls.

Deprived of our terrible quarry, we set about clearing the rest of the temple of malign influence. It was during this that we found the Abbot of Tyr, Haron Aulenbryn, set upon by yet another of the creatures. We were too late; stricken low by wounds not even holy blessings could heal, the brave, noble Abbot expired in the arms of Sister Kelda. His final words were fitting ones; an entreatment of nobility and justice, and to correct the wrong that had been wrought on that day.

I pray that we find the strength necessary to do right by his legacy.

The rest of the day was a blur, dear reader. Of violence and chaos as we chased the creature forth from Sarshel as it wrought a path of wanton destruction in its wake. Of slain commonfolk and brave Warswords who tried to bar its path. Yet nothing we did harmed the creature save for the most holy and arcanely imbued amongst us.

On the road outside of Sarshel did the creature take flight, nearly crippled by a powerful spell wrought by the wizardress Gwendolynn Highblade. Yet it was not enough; nothing was enough, and it was with heavy hearts wrenched with sorrow and anger that we witnessed the creature fly into the stormy night.

Returning to a Sarshel that was now crippled, frightened and desperate, a Sarshel robbed of the most noble place of goodness it could ask for. I remain in a Sarshel at this time of writing that fears to step outside, where the businesses remain locked, and the streets linger deserted.

And still it rains. The waters of life mingle freely with the blood of our fallen, and no amount of rain seems capable of squelching the scent of brimstone that hangs heavy in the air. Some wonder if this is the end of times; a reckoning against Impiltur, a sign of displeasure or weakness from the Triadic Gods who have defended us.

To these people, I say look to history.

Seven hundred years ago, dear reader, a man by the name of Sarshel Elethlim lived. He led an army of the Triad that broke the back of the demonic hordes that sought to lay waste to Impiltur. He is the man whose namesake city has now witnessed the coming of another demonic threat. In this time of great struggle, calamity and change, I say that we must not give in to panic and despair. I say that we must pick ourselves up from the snowy, bloody ground, and draw our blades.

I say that we look back to the example Sarshel set, and gird ourselves for conflict. That we show these creatures who cowardly sought to slay us from the shadows that we have not forgotten the legacy of our country.

It is in the darkest corners of Impiltur that the greatest threats hide and strike us from. I hope you will do all you can to help bring such places into the light.
Wynna Blackwing - Scholar of history, ruin delver, intrigue dabbler
Rannie Marrinson - Knight-Errant, Paladin of Sune
Teobald Grzywacz - Outentown peasant, ranger and adventurer

Ostheim
Posts: 251
Joined: Sat Jan 23, 2016 5:05 am

Part IV: Faces of Impiltur - Artemis D'Assanthe

Postby Ostheim » Mon May 16, 2016 11:49 pm

[Written in both Common and Easting.]

Forgive me, dear reader, but I feel the need to digress for a moment, if you’ll permit it.

I am a scholar of history, as I’m sure you’ve surmised by now. So far I have concerned myself with places and events most succinctly, but what of people? Certainly I have made mention of them as I have written of such grisly places as the Bitch Queen’s Tears, of such horrific events as the Seventh of Mirtul, and doubtless I will continue to do so as I commit these things to paper and papyrus. But do the heroes and heroines simply deserve passing mention? Are they not too part of history?

Places, ruins and and blackened city streets alike, require people to build them, to see them, to document them as they fall to ruin and decay. An event that transpires without watchful eyes to commit them to their memory may as well not have happened at all. These things are still important, doubtless, but far more so are those they affect. The scholars who document them, the readers and explorers who digest them in their pursuit of knowledge.

Perhaps you picked up this tome to read of some terrible, crumbling place forgotten by all but the ghosts who still inhabit it. You shall not be disappointed, dear reader; if that is all you care for, then I encourage you to read ahead. But if you would like to join me in commemorating the people who plowed the depths of these places, and had a hand in these dark tidings and events, then look no further.

I would not deserve the title of historian if I allowed my contemporaries to be forgotten - it is on the backs of their labors, hardships and sacrifices that I am permitted to commit my research and publish my findings. It is in their honor that I begin upon the first of, I hope, many sections of this volume that detail snippets of their lives and deeds.

And though Impiltur has its share of darkened corners that I dwell upon, I find I must begin with a woman of the light.

Who is Artemis D’Assanthe?

One might think it neatly impossible to discuss High Dawnlord D’Assanthe without calling to attention that very fact inherent in her title, for Miss D’Assanthe is a woman of Lathander through and through, a priestess of the Morninglord blessed with the power to channel His divinity. I have yet to meet such a person who did not hold in their heart a deeply-seated obedience and devotion to their deity, and Artemis is certainly no exception. I could not hope to speculate on the mental discipline and quality of spirit these divine servants must cultivate, to become reservoirs of such divine blessing. Somehow, some way, they manage, bringing miracles into our world on behalf of their Gods.

Of course, not all Gods are as righteous, compassionate and focused as Lathander. For as many divine servants of the goodly Gods exist, there are just as many of those who would use the power of their dark Gods to torment and murder on their behalf. We of Impiltur must then consider ourselves quite lucky to be graced by the presence of those who bring to us the powers of the Triad, of Sune, and, indeed, of Lathander, to name a few.

Quite lucky indeed to have a woman of Miss D’Assanthe’s caliber here in Sarshel, especially in the wake of the Seventh of Mirtul. And of better representatives of Lathander’s faith, I should struggle to conjure up names, for Artemis is possessed of a youthful vitality, righteous spirit, and a devotion to compassion and goodliness that firmly establishes herself as a woman whose godliness cannot be questioned.

If these are the qualities we can come to expect from those who worship and hold true to Lathander, it makes a scholar wonder where the nearest shrine to Him is.

Artemis is, of course, a woman of faith - more than once I have passed through the city square at around dawn and borne witness to the half-elf standing proudly before a crowd, sermonizing the virtues of her God. Throughout all of these sermons, the few I have seen, I have noticed a trend towards a singular theme; that of determination. To those afflicted by this persistent weather, she urges persistence. To those who would abandon their dreams in the face of adversity, she begs for refusal to submit. Always does she stress the perfection of the self, to find strength inwardly.

It is a stirring message, dear reader, and one that she applies to her own endeavors. A woman of Amn, Artemis has taken a profound interest in the betterment of the humble merchant and craftsman alike of Impiltur, urging cooperation between the two trades so as to promote commerce and bring prosperity to our country. Take a drink or two at the Sailor’s Star over the week, doubtless you will hear more than one conversation between a merchant and their supplier, men and women who owe their cooperation to Artemis’ interest in their trade.

Yet for all of these boons afforded to the commonfolk of Sarshel and Impiltur, of her sermons and keen eye for commerce, Miss D’Assanthe is no stranger to dealing with the more sinister, blighted corners of Impiltur. A stalwart ally of adventurers and explorers, this scholar has witnessed the Dawnlord more than once out on expedition, be it near Vlasta, into the Earthspur Mountains, or dealing with ill tidings closer to home.

Do you recall, dear reader, when I wrote of those terrible, whistling harbingers of death that fell from the sky when the great demon within came into being on the Seventh of Mirtul? Miss D’Assanthe herself was stricken by one such falling piece of debris, laid low by a foe she could not possibly defend herself from. Wearing naught but a dress and girdled with little more than resolve, she weathered that terrible blow and rose again regardless, her friends and allies calling upon their magic and blessings to restore her.

Much can be said about a servant of the Divine, of the courage and advantages they are afforded over a common man. But even such a person must surely balk at that pain, at the realization of helplessness that led to it; there was not a thing she could have done to anticipate that blow, and no amount of blessings can suppress such a feeling, such doubt and morbid realization of mortality.

Artemis D’Assanthe was among the first to enter the temple, but minutes after she was hurt. I doubt I need further elaborate.

From all of this, however, one might assume that I write of a woman who is simply larger than life itself, regardless of how many falling bits of rock she is hit by. And though I have little but kind and frankly admiring things to write of Miss D’Assanthe, I would be negligent in my duties as a scholar not to write too of a time when even she has been bested by the evils and darkness that linger hidden.

For most, such a besting would means the end, a dark and grisly fate forgotten in some old place, waiting for explorers to stumble upon their bleached bones. It is well, then, that Artemis is imbued with such friends and allies that refused to cosign her to such a fate.

She has naught but a jagged scar along her cheek as proof. And though it must surely remind her of her own mortality each day, at the very least she remains alive and well to appreciate it. Not all are so lucky.

One might expect that she received this wound from a most fiendish undead revenant, some terrible beast that defies explanation to fell such a stalwart woman of Lathander. The truth, however, is somewhat less horrendous.

A gnoll. A powerful gnoll, to be fair, one imbued with dark powers from some monstrous deity, but a gnoll none-the-less. Naught but a grim reminder that even a well-known creature, a blight upon the landscape that is the bane of many a farmer or frontiersman, can be as dire a threat as any demon or sinister wraith. A reminder that no matter where one goes, whom one faces, caution and prudence must be forever kept in mind.

But even those can falter in the face of ill luck. It is those people, adventurers and those who travel to the places this scholar does, who run the risk every day of death in a forgotten place, victim to misfortune.

That Artemis D’Assanthe escaped that day with but a scar is a blessing, for certainly Impiltur would be a much darker place in absence of her vital presence, in absence of the words and teachings of the Morninglord that she carries with her, and most certainly in absence of that light she carries with her when delving into those crumbling places most foul. I heartily encourage you, dear reader, to stop and listen the next dawn you should happen to see High Dawnlord D’Assanthe at sermon. You may just hear something you like.
Last edited by Ostheim on Fri Apr 07, 2017 11:44 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Wynna Blackwing - Scholar of history, ruin delver, intrigue dabbler
Rannie Marrinson - Knight-Errant, Paladin of Sune
Teobald Grzywacz - Outentown peasant, ranger and adventurer

Ostheim
Posts: 251
Joined: Sat Jan 23, 2016 5:05 am

Part V: Of Depravity and Miracle

Postby Ostheim » Mon Jun 06, 2016 2:32 am

The winter stretches on. Even the early rains of spring do not seem quite up to the task of finally ridding Impiltur of the icy grip of the Frost Maiden. As I sit here in Outentown, staring out the window, all I see are fields of the whitest snow, for the rain and familiar fall of heavy flakes may as well be interchangeable at this point. Perhaps She feels indecisive, coming frequently back to remind us of Her stranglehold on the country lest the water wash all traces away.

No sign of the farmer’s fields or the cattle’s grass. It is, as usual, a thoroughly discouraging sight for any farmer, in this community of farmers. Yet on this day I cannot help but feel a certain sense of distinct relief for the evenly packed snow out there, for the way it conceals all traces of what was once there. In this sleepy farming village, perhaps that is not quite as appreciated.

Suffice it to say, though, some things, some battles and bloodied trails are better rendered immaculate; to serve as a reminder of horror, bloodshed and misery for only but a short time before it is buried and forgotten yet again, better suited for innocent observation.

It is but a temporary relief. A scholar seldom forgets, and a better one will ensure few have the excuse to do so. Like an unpleasant blemish upon the face, one can but look away from the mirror to sleep better at night. But the knowledge remains. So must it be for this tale of depravity and bloodshed that I feel compelled to share, of a place of chaos and images offensive to all civilized folk. Where once wild souls respected and enshrined He who upholds all balance of nature, monsters had come and, in their perverted, inhuman minds, brought naught but corruption upon corruption.

This is a tale of what happened on the Fourth of Kythorn, 1363. A tale of three factions, three gods, and the people and monsters that fought and died for them.

It was from happenstance that I first heard of the plight of the Grove of Silvanus within the Wood of Tusks, a stretch of forest in the southern Uplands close to the Royal Road. Though it has traditionally been a place of worship to those who respect the Old Ways of the balance and nature, contemporarily it is more well-known for being a place best avoided. The goblinoids that dwell there care not for anything but their own twisted and monstrous agenda, murdering travelers and woodsmen with a carelessness that bids we civilized folk be forever at war with their ilk.

With such squatters calling the woods home, little wonder then that the rumor spread that the Shrine to Silvanus, His grove, had been thoroughly desecrated by their monstrous hands.

Most woodsmen and women I have come to known have held a deep and profound respect for the titular Oak Father, Silvanus, the Lord of Nature, though their truer devotion often lies with another God. Such cannot be said for the woodswoman Aleira Nemesk, one whose companionship I have come to appreciate on the road and in the wilder places; a capable guide and friend, many a ruin or place of interest has been found by me in her skilled company.

Upon hearing my accounting of the Grove, gleaned from passing gossip, my eternal source for all things mysterious and occult, my friend was understandably incensed at the prospect of a shrine to her God being so thoroughly defaced. Perhaps it also did not aid the situation that Aleira thoroughly detests goblinkind and their ilk; I can only imagine the extent of her righteous fury at the news.

For such a friend, this would have been enough; lucky, then, that it also served my interests to wish to see this place for what it was now, indeed a darker corner of Impiltur than it once had been. To yet again point you all, my dear readers, to the places of godliness and purity that fall by the wayside as unfeeling monsters encroach upon our lands.

Yet this would be different from a usual exploration of a ruin or place; for we knew from reports made that the goblinoids there were as thick as the trees, locked in battle over the site with a clan of the atrocious and abominable feathered-creatures known as kenku. What these birds coveted, I do not know; perhaps they wished to take the shrine for themselves, to offer the broken grove to their own twisted gods, now the site of two vanquished deities.

I gathered my friends and companions, heroic adventurers and skilled combatants to a man; all of them were as eager as I to put this menace to the sword, for their own reasons. To Jerek and Kelda Adler, both bathed in the divine glow of Ilmater’s divine energy, it was enough to drive out the hated hobgoblin enemy, Impiltur’s ancient and implacable foe. To the hedge knight Merney Valroc, friend of both myself and Aleira, it was enough to aid us, and to add further victories to his growing reputation as a budding Warsword. To the elven woodsman and keeper of balance, Celith Galiner, it was enough to purge those goblinoids from a place most holy to the balance he keeps, a purpose he shared with the druidess Elis who would later come to our aid.

To the enigmatic Gwendolynn Highblade, it was enough to test her magical prowess against what was assured to be the goblins most powerful arcanists as they rallied to defend their stolen home. To the beautiful and charismatic Abigail Beaumont, whom I am pleased to call my close friend, it was enough to aid me, to have another victory against Impiltur’s foes worthy of song.

With our supplies meticulously selected for the task, our equipment readied, and our purpose clear, we set out for the Wood of Tusks from Sarshel. A highly skilled team of adventurers of diverse skill, perfect for the difficult task ahead of us. Not only would we face fanatical goblinoids scrambling to drive us from their profane site, but we would have to ever be vigilant for ambush from the beastly, cowardly cunning of the kenku.

We were worthy of the task, dear reader.

Barely.

We entered the wood from the south, Jerek commanding our formation and directing us all to our tasks with practiced efficiency. Almost immediately we heard a bellowing war-cry emanate from deep within the woods, echoing off the trees that had been marked by the sign of their foul God; perhaps it was His deranged insight to His followers that foretold our arrival on that afternoon. It was not long before we stumbled across our first combatants, hobgoblin scouts that preferred to stay and fight to the death rather than flee to their comrades. These were creatures wholly devoted to their sickening faith, and fought with a zeal that matched their natural ferocity.

But no amount of ferocity could hope to stand against our skill, our tight-knit efficiency. This running battle against the foe was a constant testament to the importance of preparation, planning, and discipline… and even though those were almost not enough, regardless, they are what ultimately won us the day.

We pressed deeper and deeper, harassed by the hated kenku that hid in the trees, occasionally dropping down behind us to stab and to shoot, never once fighting us man-to-man if they could help it. The hobgoblin foes were well-entrenched and numerous, yet they were steadily brushed aside by our persistent attack.

We did not reach their main camp unbloodied - a terrifyingly lethal trap nearly killed Jerek of Ilmater, only for his noble and dedicated wife to promptly restore him to fighting condition. Aleira was knocked out by a persistent arrow fire, kept alive only through Kelda the Adorned’s efforts; this would not be the last time noble Nemesk would suffer from her hated enemy today. Yet despite these foibles, the goblinoid main camp soon fell to our efforts.

Archers, warriors, and shamans alike were killed as they struggled to defend themselves from our attack, interlopers in a wood that gratefully accepted their corpses. The shrine laid before us, sequestered away within a cave set into a cliffside.

We knew the worst was yet to come. That the stiffest, most terrible resistance from our goblinoid foe would lay within. Yet we had no way to prepare ourselves for what we found inside that cave and squatting before that thoroughly defaced shrine.

Standing before the shrine, where a pool of sickly crimson blood sat in raw defiance of the grove’s original, pure purpose, was a creature. A group of hobgoblins stood as its vanguard, snarling gutturally at us in hatred. Yet we paid them little mind as we entered; all our eyes were on that creature.

That abomination.

Where do I even begin, dear reader? Is this not proof positive that even creatures of our ‘normal’ world are capable of creating monsters that rival the terribleness of even the great daemon of Seventh Mirtul? It seemed to struggle to even properly exist, a shambling monstrosity of raw muscle and claw, what was once perhaps a bugbear or a hobgoblin was now something far, far worse, twisted into a shape unthinkable to any but a goblinoid’s deranged mind and the horrific guidance of their dark God, the titular ‘High Chieftan’ God Maglubiyet.

It was His burning-eyed visage that stared upon us, carved into the monster’s skin itself. Ten or more feet tall, bristling with exposed muscles, clawed appendages and misshapen hair… from its back, mind-numbing, utterly alien shapes writhed. This creature was either the product of random experimentation or the result of a truly wicked, unknowable mind.

It shrieked hatred and insanity at us, dear reader, and with that guttural roar did the enemy come upon us. With spells, blades, bolts, arrows and divine blessing did we do battle. The cave quickly became an abattoir of righteous bloodshed as goblin upon goblin fell before us, until finally even that great, twisted thing that pretended at life too fell before our combined might. Even now the image of that creature writhing on the floor in its death throes continues to haunt me.

With the monster slain, the shamans who sculpted it from flesh dispatched, our holiest began the process of consecrating the shrine, ridding it of the terrible influence that Maglubiyet’s followers inflicted upon it. It was the druidess Elis and Aleira who contributed most keenly to this act of purification, coaxing the gentle power of Silvanus back to where it belonged. The crimson water was pure and untarnished yet again.

Yet while we waited for them outside, we felt the eyes of many upon us. We made great haste in our departure, unaware how fraught it would be with danger.

Suddenly, we were ambushed on all sides by foes as we sped our way through the trees, heading east and out of the woods. Hobgoblin archers, kenku assassins, all seemed unwilling to simply allow us to escape with our victory unsullied by hardship. It was here that Aleira fell yet again, punctured by sustained arrow fire as she attempted to seek cover during our exodus. Yet this time, Kelda could not fully heal her wounds, and her life was only kept by the faintest of strands, her tenacity of spirit refusing to yield the final inches necessary for her death.

It was out of the woods proper, carrying Aleira’s broken form with us, that we were set upon by a fiendish and organized ambush of kenku, who slipped from every shadow possible in their final effort to lay our party to waste. They very nearly succeeded; more than half of our number fell before their blades and arrows, unable to fight back under the onslaught. It was only sheer luck bestowed upon us by Tymora that we suffered none killed at that point.

Eventually, painfully, we slew them all to a bird; standing atop the many feathered corpses were Merney Valroc, Gwendolynn Highblade and Jerek Adler, resplendent in the power that Ilmater provided him. Our victorious withdrawal had become a thoroughly bloodied one. With my aid, Merney carried Aleira along the many miles towards safety while more than half the rest of us hobbled along. The second ambush we all feared never materialized.

To here, Outentown, we went. To the humble domicile of one Brother Garrmir of Ilmater. It was here that the final act of our bloody drama unfolded.

It was here that, by what I can only describe as an act of the Broken Himself, that Aleira Nemesk held onto her life when death beckoned so soothingly. Was it the way Kelda composed herself and bid the Broken care for her in her suffering? Was it our prayers to Him for mercy that bid Aleira hang on? I can not say. All I can say for certain is that I witnessed a miracle to cap off our day of fighting, fury, terror and mayhem. That I saw a holy woman entreat her God for mercy, and that mercy was given without qualm. That I saw a woman who should have died from her wounds… survive.

Even now as I write this, I am with her. She’s feverish, trembling in her cot, but stable. We tend to her needs and keep her on this side of life and death’s coin. She will survive.

On a day so fraught with danger, of madness wrought only by the likes of followers of the darkest powers and gods known to these realms, it is the plights of those faithful of the goodly faiths, of Gods like Ilmater the Broken and Silvanus Oak-Father, that have won the day. We worship, we pray, and we are heard, dear reader.

And together, I think, we shall continue to win, even when the darkness seems so absolute.
Last edited by Ostheim on Fri Apr 07, 2017 11:44 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Wynna Blackwing - Scholar of history, ruin delver, intrigue dabbler
Rannie Marrinson - Knight-Errant, Paladin of Sune
Teobald Grzywacz - Outentown peasant, ranger and adventurer

Ostheim
Posts: 251
Joined: Sat Jan 23, 2016 5:05 am

Part VI: The Temple of Istishia

Postby Ostheim » Sat Sep 24, 2016 4:54 pm

[OOC Note: This entry represents an area not in the game, but of my own creation. Feel free to read without fear of spoilers.]

It's been a while, dear reader. Shall we leap right into it?

About a month and a half ago, I received a letter from a man in Arn's Cove, a fellow who shall remain nameless. He had information for me that was of utmost interest, primarily concerning the proposal of delving into a new ruin that I had not seen yet; as I'm sure you can imagine, such things tend to entice me. Arn's Cover is quite a ways off, though, up towards the northern coast of the Barrowlands, many days away from Sarshel's cold climate.

I regret that things aren't much better up in Arn's Cove, dear reader, nor near the Old Water. The bite of winter remains scathing and terrible; the plants wither, the bones of animals and men alike litter the roads, picked entirely clean. Sarshel is a bastion of good luck compared to many smaller villages and places. The Triadic Chuch of Impiltur has undoubtedly poured many hundreds of gold pieces into the securing of provisions to ride out this calamity, and for that I can only thank my own Luck Maiden-given fortune that I live in a city with such benevolent leadership.

Would that the other thaedars were not so far, so remote or even, with this weather, impossible to get to. I shudder at the thought of how many lonely villages have become entirely barren of life by this date, smothered by the grasp of the Lady of Frost. Luckily, Arn's Cove is not one of them.

I traveled with companions, who will also remain nameless, but anyone who knows me passingly well will not have to guess very hard or often. That I have such good and loyal friends is a constant source of encouragement for me; I highly recommend them, dear reader. We ran into certain troubles along the roadside, but nothing we could not handle. Strange and monstrous beings are making alliances out of desperation; the winter affects us all, even those creatures we would prefer frozen to death.

Arn's Cove is a smaller town, possessed of a singular tavern, charmingly labeled the Soiled Spectator. Like the more proximate Thelnam, it survives off plentiful fishing and trade along the Easting Reach. I would judge that it was a more conventional and organized village than that place closer to Sarshel, but then again, it has clearly benefited from its location. We did not stay for very long; enough time to meet with the fellow who wrote to me and then quickly set out for the Old Water.

It was here that he explained more of this place we were bound for; I shan't get into the specifics of why he was there to begin with or why he was interested in going back. Suffice it to say, we all had our own investment in the venture. He spoke to me of a ruined place surrounded by cliff-sides, practically invisible to casual observation if one were to simply walk over towards the specified point on the coast of the Old Water; they would find only rocks and sheer cliff-faces, and a yawning drop into the Old Water itself below.

We had to go a bit further down and walk along the waterside, which was predictably miserable and cold. The Gods made leather boots for a reason. Still, it was more than once that we were forced to press ourselves against the cliff walls, lest we be swept away by the currents. Not an experience I'd recommend to just anyone.

It was after a final sharp turn, still pressed against those jagged rocks, that we spied the place. The ruin was set into the cliffs, and much like we were doing, it appeared to almost be hugging those rocks for dear life on the assumption that it would simply fall into the water for good if it didn't. Above us was a natural ceiling of rock and stone, though not a very wide or impressive display of such; it was enough to conceal the ruin beneath, but nothing more. In short, it was a natural cove of sorts that would be the pleasure of any smuggler to stumble upon.

But someone else had found it first, and had dedicated it to their God.

Pillars rose freely from the water, weather-beaten and discolored from time and the elements; more than a few of them had already seemed to crumble into unrecognizable pieces, long since swept away. Others stood stubbornly against the inevitability of erosion and decay, reaching up for that rocky ceiling above. They formed a sort of gate-way, it seemed, or a place for boats to lead themselves over towards the entrance to the interior of the ruin itself. Perhaps in some distant, far-gone year, these pillars had held torch sconces to accomplish just that purpose.

Most impressive was the statue that was embedded into the cliff-side, staring out at the cove. Like the pillars, time had not been kind to it; though it was clearly humanoid, nothing else could be made out of it, though I have my suspicions. Just underneath this rock-trapped statue was the entrance, a cavern that led downward. Water flowed freely down the slippery incline into the depths of that place, filtered out again via methods both natural and unnatural.

We descended with care. Down below, we found ourselves in a thoroughly flooded area, the noise of rushing water persistent in our ears. The irrigation of that place was a work of genius architecture, or the men and women who had built that place had been very meticulous in their building so as to ensure no excess water was capable of flooding to lethal degrees. To be surrounded by water was very clearly the point of this entire place, after all.

Age and decay, however, were fickle mistresses. Many areas were entirely flooded, areas we could not hope to traverse in safety. Other areas had broken apart to reveal tunnels, though I am not convinced that those were not carved more recently.

The cavern we descended through quickly gave way to yet more examples of sentient architecture; we stepped into a grand hall that was entirely water-logged. Ruin was everywhere you looked in this place, but it was plain to see that those who had built this place had intended it to last the rigors of time and the elements. We stumbled upon plentiful burial barrows in that place, sarcophagi that were embedded into the stone floor below so as to be entirely immersed into the water. Of designs we found precious few, for though the stonework remained in most places, their faces were nothing if not unseemly; erosion remains an unappeaseable foe for any architect.

While this might all sound very interesting to you already, I understand that this is a tome designed to educate you, my dear reader, about the many manifold servants of darker powers that exist in such places. This ruin was no exception; for within that area, we found a wide assortment of fiendish, amphibious frogmen, the creatures known as the Kuo-Toa.

These creatures are nothing short of monstrous, possessed of alien minds that have long since dispensed with notions of charity or mercy; from what watery caverns they emerge from, I hope to never find out, but it is no secret that they make frequent forays up to the surface to raid and torment those who live upon the land. It had seemed that, in this ruin, we had stumbled upon a place they were now calling home. In truth, we later discovered, they had tried to convert it into a place of worship.

Traps and more awaited us as we stumbled through the dark, water-logged tunnels, fending off occasional assaults by their trident-wielding warriors. More than once we came across more powerful examples of their kind, who had forged dark pacts with darker entities, capable of wielding a mockery of divine magic against us. By this point, however, I was able to deduce that we were likely within a very old and ruined temple, a place dedicated to the ancient primordial of water, Istishia. Had it changed hands across the years, perhaps to pirates dedicated to the Bitch Queen, or sailors who paid heed to Valkur? The statue outside had, perhaps, worn many faces over the centuries.

But I am confident its true face was that of Istishia. That day, we ensured that whatever dark power the frogmen wished to interpose upon that holy place would not come to pass. It was within a final room, full of sacrificial treasure and worshipful monsters, that we found the ancient chapel where the old priests must have proselytized. Now it was a cruel mockery of proper worship, given over to the designs of those creatures who felt the need to appease their own dark gods.

It was a terrible battle that followed, their head priest wielding powerful and painful magic that electrified us and empowered its lesser subjects. With but a few savagely powerful strikes, however, one of my friends was capable of felling it in mere seconds, turning what might have been my final delving into a rout for the beasts.

Tragedy followed soon after, however, but that will remain a personal and untold one. What I had come to find from this place had been destroyed in that last battle, an act of utter spite that left me weeping openly out of frustration. Tensions were high between us, but we soon quit the place in good order, having at least destroyed the frogmen that were squatting within. At the very least, I have my memories of that place, of a remarkable flooded ruin that has stood the tests of time and still remained to dazzle these eyes of mine with its architectural splendors.

Perhaps something will crawl up out of the waters again to claim that place for its own some day, but I will not be there to see it. Such places attract the holy and the unholy in equal measure, where the persistent battle of faith and worship shall continue on until the end of our world.

But perhaps someone will come along and stop them, too.
Last edited by Ostheim on Fri Apr 07, 2017 11:44 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Wynna Blackwing - Scholar of history, ruin delver, intrigue dabbler
Rannie Marrinson - Knight-Errant, Paladin of Sune
Teobald Grzywacz - Outentown peasant, ranger and adventurer

Ostheim
Posts: 251
Joined: Sat Jan 23, 2016 5:05 am

Part VII: The Witch's Parable

Postby Ostheim » Fri Nov 04, 2016 3:28 pm

Parables are a wonderful thing, dear reader. What better way to instruct on a point of lesson than to do so with a story? I find myself most fond of the ones meant for children, for they tend to be less solemn and of a more fantastically grim bent for whatever reason. To instill ethics through a healthy dose of appreciable fear is a potent tonic for any youth, and often times the explanation required at the end is a telling way to reflect as the teller of the story. Did you get it all right? Was it told well?

Was the point made, whatever it was, in a way even a child could come to appreciate and apply to their daily life?

Every legend or myth, every dark tale told by the camp fire on the road, these all tend to be parables, for no one wishes to hear a dark-hearted story with no moral at the end. Let there always be a point, I would say. Something to remember and consider.

You know by now what I am. I am no spinster of fictional tales, but a reminder on your bookshelf that something is amiss in your nation. Incomprehensible forces work in the shadows and the northern reaches, plotting and conspiring to undermine this country built on the ideals of justice, compassion, and humility. As a scholar, I will not waste my time on fabrication.

So you might be pleased to know that the parable I have for you today is one not made up, but a tale firmly grounded in truth. And know, of course, that I would not waste your precious time, dear reader, with a tale that did not promise grim portent.

For if we were reduced to deriving our lessons purely from fiction, that would be a sorry state of affairs indeed. Let reality give its own moral.

I shall preface that most names in the following account shall not be provided. Save for the identities of my companions, all names have been changed.

Not very many days ago, I called upon my good friend, Merney Valroc, at his new home in Sarshel. A staunch ally to the last, I would have been truly remiss to spurn his request for aid that day, a request that brought us out towards the far-flung Whitsome Bridge.

Rumors of hobgoblins or undead, perhaps? Nothing of the sort. He was seeking a magical helmet, which had, by rumor, been lost by an influential noble of the area. He had a mind to return it to them in order to curry favor, a tactic I can appreciate entirely. He asked, as an aside, if I knew well of the noble in question.

I did, dear reader, know quite a bit. A scholar worth her salt does not endeavor otherwise, and of this man I knew. I knew of his past as an adventurer and I knew of the misfortune of the loss of his dear wife Zolora in recent years.

I would not feel fettered at the idea of helping such a man.

Thus fortified with the notion of a good deed for the day being done, I set out alongside him, chattering the day away as we slowly reached Whitsome Bridge. There we met the third member of this tale's heroes, and very near and dear friend of mine, Aleira Nemesk.

Merney had done his investigative legwork already; we were bound for the west, past the hamlet surrounding the bridge. Wary eyes watched us as we went; I like to think they were wishing us well.

It was there, apparently, to the west that the noble had, in his younger and more adventurous days, lost his helmet whilst fleeing (sensibly) from a gang of trolls. The creatures are truly miserable to deal with, even when prepared; they smell horrid, shamble about in a most uncanny fashion, and killing them is a project in itself. Always carry a torch.

Not long into our exploration did we smell the scent of smoke upon the wind; we were in a narrow valley of sorts between crags, and our noses led us south to the water's edge. It was here that we heard the first mocking titter of the Witch, though she did not reveal herself at first, it was telling that her voice carried so far and so well.

Perhaps we should have known then that something was amiss.

We found her soon enough, standing proudly in a most humble of domiciles. Not a wall to be had, yet some of the accommodations one would expect of a home. She bid us approach, trudging through the frigidly cold water to her beach-side home.

Balbala was her name, and she had not had guests in some time.

She was an inquisitive sort, incisive and domineering in her posture, every action and motion undertook with a coy hunger in her eyes. This was a creature that was much like a spider, seductive in her promises and words, yet yearning to catch the barest hint of weakness in order to strike most effectively.

But she had been gorged all too recently, perhaps. In that first meeting, we were simply curiosities, not prey. After some teeth pulling, it was revealed to us that she knew well of the helmet and the story surrounding it, yet still she remained coy and illusive, merely pointing us in the direction of the thing.

With a warning, of course; she asked if we were familiar with hags and trolls. Naturally, we all were, for none of the three of us could be described fairly as novices of adventure. Balbala nodded and smiled coyly at us, informing us in her perpetual lilting voice that we would only have our prize if we pried it from the possession of two such creatures.

I need not inform, dear reader, that our trust of the woman was perhaps lacking. But what other choice had we? Our britches were already wet, and trudging back to Whitsome Bridge would not satisfy. And so we traveled along the water's edge to the place where we would find these two miserable, ugly specimens.

Was it a trick? Was Balbala going to spring upon us with her harem of trolls? We were on our guard, in a way of knowing that we had spent some time with a woman we could never hope to trust.

No tricks, though. Not yet. We found them soon enough, and more or less as described by the Witch herself; a weeping, raging hag, hunched over on the coast's edge. She was not pleased to be witnessed by us, and despite her monstrous visage, did not yet resort immediately to conflict.

Soon enough, the troll appeared as well, behind us and keeping its distance. This I found peculiar, peculiar enough to alter our strategy. For what does one usually do with such creatures? One kills them.

I was not in a killing mood that day. I spoke to the wretched hag instead, spoke to her and attempted to coax her story out of her. It began with a name.

What is your name, I asked the hag? Even a hag must have one.

'Zee... Zo...' it began to sputter out, in its off-putting, screeching voice. I was struck by that point by an overwhelming sensation of poignancy. As it struggled to recall its own name, I ventured to provide it for her.

Zolora.

Emphatically, it nodded, and not with the sort of vacant demeanor one uses to agree to get the other to stop talking. This was its name in truth, and it knew it, knew the implication of my saying of it. It began to look terribly angry, angry at its sorry fate.

What had happened to the noble's dear wife? It appeared as if I had found out. The troll, it informed me, was too one who had vanished from the noble's employ, a trusted bodyguard provided for his dear wife. Yet the way the troll shrunk and stared at us, utterly silent...

Even a troll must have a feral courage.

Regardless. How had this happened? I did not have to think on it long; recent company spoke for itself. These two pathetic creatures, who had by the hag's own account once been human, had been changed into their present forms by vile magic of the Witch's making. The helmet was nowhere to be seen, but at this point we were less worried about it and more over the perversion of normalcy at work.

Interestingly, when I asked the hag of how it had happened, of why she had vanished, of her husband the noble... she was not humble nor yearning for her departed husband.

She raged. Sputtered, clawed at the sand beneath us, begged for us to kill him.

Curious, I thought. Had he conspired with the witch to be rid of her? Nothing I knew of the man implied such a darkened heart, yet I knew I would need more information, information from a source that was not burdened by terrible change.

We quit the place and returned to Balbala, who received us with a coy understanding that blood was not, in fact, on our hands. Not yet. The time for coyness had ended.

It had been a matter of love, she told us, and of revenge most deserved, a revenge that she took upon herself to dispense in the most vile of ways. It was the love she had for the noble, who called upon her frequently for the advisement only a witch could provide in matters arcane, and to patronize her brews to better his odds in the field. It was this love that made her act.

It was love for the woman, Zolora, that made the noble care for her and never once suspect aught could ever be amiss with her dedication and heart. Even as he adventured, even when he supped on the drinks she prepared for him. Twas love that made him act the way he did.

It was love for a bodyguard that made Zolora poison her dear husband's wineskin, love for him and love of wealth that she reckoned would be better off absconded with. It was love that made her act with such sinister, self-serving intent.

It was love for this bewitching woman that made the bodyguard spurn the loyalty of his lord and betray his trust, to conspire with her and plan to flee together to some far off place. It was love that made him act as a coward does, opportunistic and clutching at hidden blades.

Balbala was quite forthcoming with us. Could she be trusted? We did not believe so; though one could, perhaps, feel empathy for her actions, for her anger at the vile selfishness of Zolora and her cowardly lover. But to cosign them both to an eternity of pain and misery?

That was not for her to decide. We bid her change them both, to end the curse she had placed upon them both. Though I was hesitant and wary of the woman, I felt no desire to have blood on my hands that day.

She agreed to end the curse. Was she scared of us, or simply weary in what her actions had wrought? I do not know.

Aleira, at this point, left us for a time. Together with Merney, we remained in the Witch's company for a while, until Lathander had set beyond the horizon. We did not trust her, but a desire for proper justice and more had overwhelmed our senses of self-preservation.

She did not act against us. I believe she was tired of all this, and simply wanted it to be over. I remember looking back at her as we left her company a final time, but I cannot for the life of me know for sure what her expression was supposed to convey.

Regardless. We found them again. Two humans on the beach, inert and staring mindlessly at the darkened sky above. Though they were very much themselves again, their minds would never be. In a way that they had never been in their past lives, they were now innocent in the purest of senses.

We led them away, making a cursory check for the blasted helmet that had set this all off. Nothing. We went back to where Balbala made her camp, leaving the two in a safe place.

Aleira had beaten us there. Though I admit to a certain mortified and angered reaction at first, let it not be said that the ranger protector of Outentown is not a woman of strong conviction. Though Merney and myself were willing to let a vile witch, perhaps, continue to exist, Aleira was not so accepting. For who could say what would befall the next person to run afoul this woman of unhinged arcane power?

We found her feathered with arrows, my dear friend standing above her and solemn in her deed. I have grown to accept that moment as being necessary.

Still lacking the helmet, we elected to turn the camp inside out for a few minutes. Lo and behold, a magical helmet was indeed soon found, tucked away and hidden by the Witch herself, who could not bear to be so far apart from the man she had pined for, the man whose misfortune in love had spurred her to such depravity herself.

The victory felt hollow, I surmised, as I stared again at the two people clutching at one another. One could not even be angry at them anymore for the treachery they had hoped to enact.

If there is one person you can hope to feel affection and sorrow for, dear reader, let it be that nameless noble lord, whose only crime was to love a woman who lusted only for his wealth, and was willing to kill to get it.

If you have been paying attention, I am certain you can already tell what the lesson here is of this grim parable, dear reader. But for the children sticking their noses in this tome full of dark portents, I shall explain it for you. Truly, of course, this is a parable they would appreciate.

And considering recent events in Songhall, I sincerely believe we can all stand to hold this lesson close to our hearts; Lady Sune needs the help. Over the recent months I have spent here, I have come to know this truth most aptly, and I thank the luck bestowed upon me by Tymora for my fortune in this matter.

'Tis a simple lesson.

If you intend to love, this scholar humbly suggests that you do so prudently. A love well-forged will stand the test of time, keep you afloat through the worst moments life can dare to throw at you. But a love ill-advised?

That shall be your ruin.
Last edited by Ostheim on Fri Apr 07, 2017 11:44 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Wynna Blackwing - Scholar of history, ruin delver, intrigue dabbler
Rannie Marrinson - Knight-Errant, Paladin of Sune
Teobald Grzywacz - Outentown peasant, ranger and adventurer

Ostheim
Posts: 251
Joined: Sat Jan 23, 2016 5:05 am

Part VIII: Faces of Impiltur - Merney Valroc

Postby Ostheim » Sun Feb 26, 2017 5:28 pm

How things change in a short while, dear reader. Flicking over the pages of my previous work, 'tis hard not to keep thinking that simple thing. Winter still held us in its uncaring grasp, demonic presences sought to bring the lands to ruin. Love still held a meaning to me, rather than being some cruel jape, prone to being annihilated by uncertainty.

But at least some things have improved, even if it all seems dark for me right now. I still have you all, don't I? And I still have someone else in my life, a man whom compels me to write this next iteration of my work. A man I would feel earnestly lost without, all the more so. Without further reflection upon our circumstances, I will simply get to the point.

Who is Merney Valroc?

I will start by saying this - even a man who seems simple at the first blush will doubtless surprise you if you take the time to truly know him. By all outward perception, Merney Valroc is nothing further than a sellsword, one who has lent his blade and prowess to many a grim task in this often grim land. One of many mercenaries who would disappear into a host of such like-minded soldiers, bought by the highest bidding noble.

Make no mistake, dear reader - in many respects, this is precisely what Merney Valroc is. He is mercenary, soldier, killer, and murderer.

Do I describe some blackguard, then? A nameless soldier, destined to die on some muddy battlefield, fighting for a cause no more complex than his own need for bloodshed and coin in his pocket?

No. I describe but one face of a man I have grown to love and adore as a brother to me. I describe a mercenary, but also a caring family man. I describe a soldier, yet a hero who has bled for this nation for no other reason than to help those he loves. I describe a killer, yet a compassionate soul who yearns for affection, and gives it freely to those who are worthy of his loyalty. I describe a murderer as equally as I describe a man who would, without thought, lay down his life to save a kinder soul.

Merney Valroc is a hero to this nation, dear reader. The slaying of the wyvern of the mountains. The dispatching of the creature within the Velvet Chantry. The defense of Sarshel itself, hacking away at the ankles of the demonic prince. All of these things he has committed himself to, but none so much as the help he has given me in the pursuit of a goal that would liberate Impiltur from a deep, life-threatening woe.

He has been as an anchor to me, a rock to cling to in the endless wave of woes that have come my way since arriving here in Impiltur. When I lost my first job, working for noble Samere, who wished nothing more than to protect me from the very same hardships I would plunge forth towards, Merney was there to keep me sane, keep me ambitious. When my patron who set me to so many important tasks, gave such sound advisement, appeared dubious of my capability, Merney was there to make sure I did not lose hope, to help me prove myself.

When love threatened to unravel so many times, it was Merney who kept me from giving into despair.

Make no mistake, dear reader, I am a biased source. I know this man, I know his hardships, and I know his secrets. I know the troubles of his past that have blossomed into such horrid demons that plague his thoughts today. I know what makes this man tick.

Yet I must write this, still, to give insight into another perspective on the Butcher of Vlasta. It is only demons and monsters that are cruel and evil without purpose, and those souls so corrupted that they cease to resemble anything goodly. Was there a point to Merney's slaying of that young man? No, and there can never be one for an act so heinous. There can only be the aftermath, the punishment and, with hope, the redemption.

I believe Merney Valroc deserves this chance - I hesitate to commit to writing something such as this, about something so current and prone to the fickle strands of chance and fate, but I see it as the best way to reveal the depths of this man's soul, to expose the intricacies behind his eyes. To give reason where there is seemingly none.

It is not my place to transcribe all that I have done with the aid of this man, nor to detail his life's personal details. Instead, I will offer an argument about him, and by extension, all soldiers.

There is not a man I know who is more damaged by life's simple cruelties than Merney Valroc, but he is unique only to me and those who are intimately knowing of him. His situation is not; his is the lot of a soldier who has done too many difficult things in the pursuit of purpose, who only in recent times came upon a purpose that was truly worthy of his good heart.

The damage was already done, however, as it is for so many blank-faced soldiers and mercenaries who return to their families and friends after the campaign, the adventurer who finally shambles back into their home village after countless delvings into dark places. As it is for many who are forced to grimly face simple horrors as man slaughtering man, or even more depraved happenings that defy simple explanation.

They will tell themselves that they were doing what they had to do. That it was him or someone else. That he could not save that fellow when the monster crept forth from the dark. That if he did not kill, someone would kill him.

Guilt, dear reader, is a powerful thing. It fogs the mind with regrets and thoughts that linger in the past. Some happy few can look past it, or are so self-possessed that they refuse to let it shackle them. Some can manage. Most, and this is a fact that goes unsaid all too often, cannot. It is when guilt is combined with another simple facet of life, that of pride, that we come to view with more clarity men such as Merney Valroc.

You cannot ask for help. You will not drag them down with you. You are stronger than this, and you will prove it to yourself, and to everyone. You will not be a burden. You have killed, so why let yourself wallow in this grief? It is beneath you, yes? You proved your strength, so why is it that this feels so crippling, a foe you cannot face with a blade?

And so on. Make no mistake, this is not a situation unique to any one man, any one friend of mine. This is a simple reality, a truth that some simply must contend with. They have seen such horrors, been forced into such trying circumstances, that they do not always ask for help until it is too late. Until they have, in some cases, lost themselves in the only thing they know they can do best. When in the heat of a moment, it becomes simpler to reach for the blade than to use your tongue.

It becomes reflex, in those darkest hours, when your mind retreats back to the guilt, to the self-pity that whispers in your ear that you are good at only one thing, and that thing is taking lives.

So what is there to do? Do we kill these people, treat them as mad hounds ready to bite us and spread disease? Or do we try to help them instead, try to see the signs that are all but screamed, yet unspoken?

Do we offer them a chance at redemption, at proving to them that they are, in fact, better than the steel they carry?

Merney Valroc has proven to me, time and time again, that he is worth that chance. He has given me so much, dear reader, carried me through such hardships, and I make no small claim that those of you reading this owe him so much without even realizing it. Yet despite all of this, despite all his heroism and selfless acts of extraordinary daring and prowess, none of that matters compared to one simple fact.

Though he is a killer, he is still just a man. Not a creature. Just a man, with a family, with friends, with aspirations, and saddled with the burden of guilt.

Like any one of us.
Last edited by Ostheim on Fri Apr 07, 2017 11:45 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Wynna Blackwing - Scholar of history, ruin delver, intrigue dabbler
Rannie Marrinson - Knight-Errant, Paladin of Sune
Teobald Grzywacz - Outentown peasant, ranger and adventurer

Ostheim
Posts: 251
Joined: Sat Jan 23, 2016 5:05 am

Part IX: Foehammer's Vigil

Postby Ostheim » Fri Apr 07, 2017 11:43 pm

[OOC: The following entry describes a dungeon that is in the game. Read only if you don't mind it being spoiled, or have already been there.]

Such a whirlwind life can be. It seems my life changes drastically from edition to edition, so much so that I question the intelligence in my continued mention of it. If nothing else, it serves as a perhaps amusing analogue to actual history itself; ever changing and shifting as fortunes come and go.

So I suppose it's more out of interest to cease embarrassing myself that I will quit that, dear reader. Please try to withhold your tears, I know how much this will hurt. Somehow we must endure, however. To help us through this process of weaning you from the gossip mill that is my life, I have visited a new place for us to examine. With hope, that is the actual reason why you're reading.

This account begins with a trek that I and several of my fellows undertook into the mountains, ostensibly in pursuit of a certain gate underground that simply could not be busted down with raw strength alone. I fancy myself as something of a proficient finesser of locks and obstacles, but sadly there's little even I can do when one finds the heavy gate barred from the other side entirely. Disappointed, though sufficiently impressed by the plentiful vistas our mountain adventure provided, we went back the way we came and towards a ruin we had passed by along the way.

Of course, I was beside myself at the prospect of passing such an opportunity, though it was tempered by the fact that I had passed this very same place up in the past and could do so again. It's never wise to get too distracted on an adventure, dear reader; you start ending up places that you'd prefer you hadn't.

This time, however, we decided to venture forth as a sort of consolation prize. I was all too happy to indulge.

The ruin is, from its very sight itself, a former religious complex of sorts, set along a narrow pass in the Earthspurs. Once upon a time it had been walled off quite formidably, leading me to deduce that it had likely been erected during the Fiend Wars or shortly after, a time when such outposts were required to be well-defended lest they fall to otherworldly foes or their vassal monsters.

A splendid, if now decayed round rotunda caps the roof of the ruin, granting the place a distinctive profile that can be seen from a long distance away assuming the Earthspurs afford you such line of sight. Not too far from this ruin is yet another, much larger ruin known as Tregorian's Gate, which once belonged to a noble family of the same name, which perished during the Interregnum. It is possible that these places were constructed at around the same time, or that this walled religious compound was constructed to better defend it.

Perhaps time and more research will shed light on these theories. Regardless, we ventured inside, finding little adventure to be had by simply staring at the place.

Luckily, we found a fair bit within, which I shall get to once I've had my fun describing the architecture.

My religious compound theory was swiftly confirmed by the initial sight of the interior; a well-sized foyer greeted us, with walls inscribed with faded murals that spoke of a definitive Triadic influence. Flora was growing in abundance through cracks in the ground, including well-sized trees that must have been a century or two old. The bones of the less fortunate littered the ground in various places, some more elderly than others.

Further within, we found our first definitive sign of Triadic making; the faded banner of Torm, the True, still hung from the rafters of the decayed place, underneath which a thoroughly damaged altar lay. Whether it had once been desecrated or defaced could not be discerned readily, though it would not surprise me. What is clear is that time had worn away such signs entirely.

This larger prayer chamber, similar to the old congregation chamber of the Temple of the Triad in Sarshel, led out to several other hallways and rooms which we investigated. Old offices, studies and barracks were found. It's always painful to stumble across ruined bookcases and old tomes, dear reader, so you can imagine my displeasure at finding many of those. All rendered illegible and prone to falling to dust at the merest touch, these books had been tossed aside in droves, in some cases torn apart in a hasty rush.

It was clear then that this place dedicated to Torm had not simply been abandoned. More likely it had been sacked, and sacked by those who had little use for knowledge.

Of course, the place was not empty, too, though I hesitate to attribute the place's initial fall to the creatures we fought within. Scuttling on many legs, like a perverse cross between a spider and one of those insects you read about from Calimshan, that can kill with but a sting from their elongated tail, these things were the size of large dogs, only far less agreeable. Horrid tentacles spilled forth from their maws, which produced terrible screeching notes. To call it singing would not be far from the truth, but no normal ears were intended to hear these awful choirs; they were painful to perceive, dear reader, akin to the worst headaches imaginable.

We fought them all the way through the ruin, down the stairs and into the cellars beneath. I would assume that it was from the many holes in the earth we passed that they initially invaded the ruin.

Below, things were more confined and narrow, lending the screeching an even more dire pitch so as to torment our progress all the more. Yet we progressed, past decayed store rooms and down below, to where a queer humidity seemed to hang. The walls became distinctly less man-made, waxing more natural with more than a few signs of halted construction.

We quickly discovered the source of the steam and heat, in a visually spectacular way; at the lowest point of the ruin, we beheld an underground lake, though it was more of a hot spring than anything else. Though the steam made it difficult to breathe comfortably, it was clear that the former Tormtar builders had made themselves at home, erecting pillars and benches for their aesthetic and practical needs. The place was a curious meld of the natural and the constructed; what use had they seen here, I wonder, in such a choking atmosphere?

My only guess is that the Tormtar saw value in it as a way of testing their endurance and ability to withstand unpleasant conditions. Considering their renowned resilience in the face of adversity, this would not surprise me. Perhaps they conducted prayer there, by that lake of steam, so as to feel closer to their God, all the while testing the limits of their bodies.

We left there in short order, back to the main hall where we had passed another way down. Taking that route, we discovered what I consider to be the most intriguing find; a vault. A vault indeed, for there was something precious kept within that had withstood all invasion by the terrible, scuttling invaders.

And that was a tomb. Sixteen sarcophagi laid within, arranged in a perfect circle before a ghostly pool of steam, with each lid depicting a warrior with sword and shield at the ready. Time had been kind to these sarcophagi; only dust marred them, though despite my efforts, no names were found inscribed upon any of them.

My companions found this curious, and even unseemly. Some seemed to lament that history would never remember these warriors who had been laid to rest in that place. It would be, as one said, as if they had never done anything of note at all to deserve the honor. What good is honor if it's not remembered?

I had a different perspective, though. It reminds me of a friend I had who lived here in Sarshel, who died in its defense when the Daemon Prince returned. Like those who were entombed at that place, she was a follower of the True, a woman who bled and suffered in her service to Him, yet never hesitated to draw steel when it was time to.

Like those who dwell forever in that tomb, I shall not name her, though recognition is certainly hers for the sacrifice she made. What is more important, though, than her or any of us, is the fact that that sacrifice was made to begin with. More often than not, we owe our continued lives and comfort to the deaths of men and women who are willing to lay down their lives for the right cause. Whether they do this out of devotion to a God or out of a sense of goodness, or any combination, is irrelevant.

That they do it at all, however, is. And in doing so, they transcend the need for honor and glory, even in death. The measure of a true hero or heroine is that sacrifice, uncaring of who remembers their names after they are gone. The woman I refer to is a hero. And I am confident those in that tomb are, too.
Wynna Blackwing - Scholar of history, ruin delver, intrigue dabbler
Rannie Marrinson - Knight-Errant, Paladin of Sune
Teobald Grzywacz - Outentown peasant, ranger and adventurer


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