The Stories of Dreschm

Arthenmyr's Wrath

We had wandered the mist-shrouded wastelands for what felt like days, though time was a concept that twisted and faltered in such a place. The thick, obscuring fog clung to us, leeching warmth from our bodies as if the very plane sought to sap our life force. Ion, ever the guiding light, hovered close, his gentle glow barely penetrating the dense gloom. Maligno, on the other hand, seemed at home in the darkness, his small, leathery wings beating silently as he darted ahead, scouting the way.
It was Maligno who first detected the change. "Dreschm, the air... it smells wrong," he muttered, his voice a low rasp. His impish nose twitched, and even from where I stood, I could catch the faint whiff of something acrid and foul. We followed the scent until the fog began to take on a yellowish hue, and the air thickened with a sulfurous stench that burned our lungs with each breath.
"This place... it reeks of corruption," Ion said, his voice tinged with concern. The Lantern Archon’s light flickered uneasily, reflecting his discomfort.
Soon, the source of the stench became apparent. We had stumbled upon a small dell, its boundaries marked by the sharp, acrid tang in the air. At its center stood a bone-white chapel, an unholy structure that seemed to exude malice. The chapel's walls were cracked and pitted, as though the structure itself had been seared by the acidic fog that swirled around it.
As we cautiously approached the chapel, our every step was met with a sharp sting. The fog here was not merely thick—it was toxic. The acidic mist ate away at our clothing and burned our skin, and I knew that lingering too long would be a death sentence. Yet, despite the danger, curiosity drove us forward.
The doors of the chapel creaked open as we entered, revealing a hollow, lifeless interior. The only feature of note was the fountain at its heart, a grotesque fixture that churned with a thick, bubbling acid. The liquid hissed and frothed, sending up clouds of poisonous vapor that mixed with the fog outside. It was a fountain of death, a perversion of anything holy that might have once been worshipped here.
And there, standing by the fountain, was a barbazu sorcerer
They were a twisted figure, his body scarred and burned by countless battles. His beard, a mass of writhing, snake-like tendrils, twitched with a life of its own. He glanced at us with eyes that held the weight of a thousand losses, a gaze that pierced through to the soul. There was no malice in his expression, only a deep, abiding sorrow—a sorrow that had curdled into something dark and terrible.
We spoke with him, though our words were few. Arthenmyr told us of his plan to end the Blood War, not through victory, but through the annihilation of all who fought in it. He believed that by spreading the toxic fog of his creation across the planes, he could bring an end to the endless conflict. His plan was madness, but in his eyes, it was the only way to bring peace to a multiverse that had long since lost any semblance of sanity.
We left soon after, our presence barely acknowledged by the broken devil. The conversation left a chill in my heart, a reminder that even those who seek peace can be driven to horrific lengths by despair and loss. As we exited the chapel and made our way back through the fog, I couldn't help but wonder if Arthenmyr's plan would ever come to fruition—and what the multiverse would become if it did.
But fate, it seems, has a way of twisting even the best-laid plans.
As we departed, we noticed the mist thinning slightly, almost imperceptibly at first, but enough to catch our attention. It was Maligno who first voiced the thought we were all beginning to suspect. "Perhaps... someone—or something—is countering Arthenmyr's curse," he suggested, his tone half hopeful, half wary.
We did not linger to confirm it, but as we left that cursed dell, I cast one last glance back at the chapel. The fog was not as thick as before. Whether by divine intervention or the natural resilience of the plane itself, Arthenmyr’s Wrath might not be as eternal as the barbazu sorcerer had hoped.
And yet, the thought of what would come if he succeeded still haunts me. A silence deeper than the void, an emptiness that no amount of vengeance could fill. As I write this, I cannot help but wonder how many more such tragedies we will encounter in our travels—how many more souls will be consumed by the darkness that seeks to engulf us all.

Dendradis

Our journey brought us to Dendradis, a city like none other we had encountered. High upon the impossible heights of the Spire, where few dared to tread, the city of the rilmani stood in stark defiance of the multiverse’s natural laws. Dendradis, a lattice of metallic towers and bridges, stretched vertically along a deep fissure in the Spire’s surface. The air was thin, almost too thin for comfort, and the ever-present hum of the Spire’s energy resonated through every stone and metal beam, a reminder of the strange forces at play here.
Ion floated beside me, his light dimmed to a soft glow, as if in reverence for the sacred nature of the place. Maligno, ever the trickster, flitted about, his wings making the barest of sounds as he inspected the intricate rilmani constructions. The city was a marvel of architecture—its towers twisted and curved, interconnected by bridges that seemed to defy gravity. The rilmani moved about with an air of purpose, their metallic skin gleaming in the light that filtered down from the distant sky above.
As we wandered through the city, I couldn’t help but marvel at the view. From the high bridges, the world below seemed distant and surreal, a patchwork of colors and shapes barely discernible through the mist that clung to the Spire. The rilmani, ever enigmatic, paid us little mind, their focus seemingly directed inward as they went about their tasks. I wondered what drove them—what purpose they saw in maintaining this vertical city, in binding themselves to the Spire so completely.
It wasn’t long before curiosity got the better of me. The rilmani spoke in hushed tones of something entombed within the Spire, a secret they guarded fiercely. But secrecy only fed my determination to uncover the truth. With Maligno’s help, I managed to slip past the rilmani sentinels, my small stature and nimble fingers serving me well. Ion hesitated at the threshold, but with some coaxing, he followed.
We descended into the depths of the Spire, the air growing colder with each step. The hum of the Spire intensified, vibrating through the stone as we neared our goal. And then, in a chamber deep within the Spire’s core, we found it—a massive corpse entombed in the rock, a figure of unfathomable size and power. Its form was obscured, half-merged with the stone, but the energy that radiated from it was palpable, a force that seemed to bend reality itself.
Maligno, for once, was silent, his usual mischief replaced by a rare moment of solemnity. Ion hovered nearby, his light flickering as if in contemplation. Without hesitation, I reached out and touched the cold, unyielding surface of the corpse. A jolt of energy coursed through me, a sensation unlike anything I had ever felt before. We left Dendradis soon after, the memory of the corpse’s power lingering in my mind. The corpse’s identity remained a mystery, but its power was undeniable.

Destiny Point

The day we reached Destiny Point, the air was crisp, almost tangible with the weight of divine purpose. Ion led us along the winding path to the Glass Tarn, its soft light almost blending with the golden glow of Venya's fields. Maligno, flitting nervously, muttered about the perils of drawing too close to anything imbued with such overtly good energies, but his complaints fell on deaf ears. We were all drawn to the tarn, especially when the spit of land, Destiny Point, came into view.
Destiny Point jutted out into the tarn like an accusatory finger, daring anyone who stood upon it to confront their own fate. I felt the pull before I even set foot on the islet—an inexplicable tug deep within me, as though my very bones yearned to uncover something hidden from even myself. Ion floated by my side, his usually serene glow flickering with some unspoken anticipation. Even Maligno seemed less agitated as if subdued by the gravity of the place.
As we approached the water's edge, the tranquility of the tarn mirrored the sky above, reflecting constellations I had never before seen. I couldn't shake the feeling that the stars themselves were watching us, perhaps waiting to deliver some cosmic judgment. We sat in silence for what felt like hours, lost in our own thoughts, before Ion finally broke the quiet.
"We stand upon a nexus," he said softly, "a place where decisions ripple outward, shaping futures we may never witness."
Maligno, ever the cynic, scoffed. "Futures are for the deluded. The past is what we should fear, for it never forgets."
His words gave me pause, and I found myself staring into the depths of the tarn, wondering what might lie beneath its surface. I felt a sudden urge to cast something into its depths, to offer a piece of myself in exchange for some glimpse of what lay ahead. But something held me back, perhaps the fear of what I might learn.
We set up camp on the spit, positioning ourselves where the water lapped at the shore and the sky began its nightly transition from dusk to night. I took particular pleasure in the constellations as they emerged, their ancient patterns slowly revealing themselves in the darkened sky. Ion’s light dimmed to a soft, ambient glow as he observed the sky, while Maligno sulked in a corner, clearly uninterested in the celestial display.
The night was calm and still, save for the occasional rustling of the water and the distant cry of swans. The constellations formed a panoramic tapestry, and as the hours passed, I couldn’t help but feel the pull of the place—a quiet, profound sense of something greater just beyond reach. We stayed up through the night, watching the stars shift across the sky, until the first light of dawn began to creep over the horizon.
As the day broke, the tarn’s beauty remained undiminished, though the cold bite of the morning air reminded us that we were still in a realm far from the warmth of our home. Maligno had grown silent, his usual chatter replaced by an unusually reflective mood, and Ion seemed to radiate a deep contentment, as though the night’s watch had somehow enriched his own celestial nature.

Echolost

The journey to Echolost was one of the most harrowing we undertook. Deep within the earth, where no tunnels lead and the crushing weight of stone suffocates even the most intrepid explorers, lies the closed cavern of Echolost. We were fortunate enough to find an elemental willing to guide us—a massive, lumbering creature with a patience borne from millennia of slow, unyielding existence. The elemental led us through winding paths, past layers of stone older than time itself, until we reached the sealed realm, a place where sound becomes more than mere vibration in the air.
Echolost was vast, its cavernous expanse seeming to stretch beyond the limits of sight. As we entered, the first thing we noticed was the strange, otherworldly quality of the echoes that filled the space. They were not the simple reflections of sound we were used to, but complex, intertwining reverberations that chased one another endlessly across the cavern. It was as if the very walls were alive, murmuring secrets from ages long past. The echoes had a presence, almost a sentience, that was both fascinating and unsettling.
Our guide left us there, its task complete, and we were left alone to explore this forgotten place. Maligno, ever the curious imp, fluttered about, trying to discern the origin of the echoes. Ion, on the other hand, floated silently, his radiant glow dimmed to a soft, contemplative light. I myself was drawn to the Wall of Echoes, a flat, black expanse on one side of the cavern that absorbed any sound made near it, only to release it again at some unpredictable moment in the future.
During our exploration, Maligno's curiosity nearly got the better of him. Spotting what he thought was a still pool of water, he flew over to it with a delighted cackle, ready to dip his claws into its surface. But as soon as he touched it, his mischievous grin turned to a look of horror. The so-called "water" was not liquid at all but a basin of fine, pale dust that clung to him like quicksand. The imp screeched and flapped wildly, struggling to free himself as the dust tried to pull him deeper. Ion and I rushed to his aid, managing to pull him free just in time. Even after we rescued him, Maligno shuddered at the memory, the fine particles still clinging to his wings and skin, a reminder of the dangers lurking in Echolost.
We spent hours, maybe days—time seemed to lose all meaning in Echolost—listening to the voices that the Wall emitted. Some were clear and immediate, while others were faint whispers that seemed to have traveled across eons. Amid the myriad echoes, one phrase caught my attention, seemingly out of place in such a surreal environment. It was a simple, everyday sentence: "Lena, did you make sure to lock it?" The ordinariness of the phrase juxtaposed with the alien nature of the cavern struck me deeply. The thought that such a mundane moment could echo eternally in this forgotten place was comforting or did the phrase have some sort of deeper meaning?
Before we left, we each decided to leave our own messages for the future. Maligno, with a grin on his mischievous face, whispered a riddle into the wall, something cryptic and playful that would surely confound anyone who heard it in the years to come. Ion spoke a prayer, a benediction for those who might find themselves in this forsaken place, wishing them the strength to persevere through the darkness.
As for myself, I leaned close to the Wall of Echoes and spoke a warning, a fragment of knowledge that had gnawed at me since our travels began. I whispered, "Beware the silence, for in it lies the end of all things." The Wall absorbed my words, leaving only the faintest trace of sound in the air, and I wondered when, if ever, those words would be heard again.

Neumannus

I remember our journey to the hidden realm of Neumannus with a clarity that defies the fog of time. In it place where everything moves with purpose and precision, and the very air seemed to hum with the inevitability of time. But amidst that endless sea of order, we found something different—something secret. It was a place known only to those who dared to whisper its name: Neumannus.
The factory was unlike any other, some 100 feet in diameter, bristling with smokestacks that belched dark, oily smoke into the nothingness around it. The factory that spanned its surface jutted out on either side, a monstrous contraption of metal and stone, where the inevitables—those tireless enforcers of cosmic law—were born. It was a place we were never meant to find, a place no living being should ever set foot. But we found it, thanks to a construct whose motives remain as obscure to me now as they did then.
The entry to Neumannus was a secret in itself—a hidden door that led us into the heart of the factory. Inside, the noise was deafening, a cacophony of clanging metal, hissing steam, and the relentless ticking of gears. The air was thick with the acrid scent of oil, and every surface seemed to vibrate with the pulse of the machines. We crept through those labyrinthine corridors, careful to avoid the watchful eyes of the inevitables, whose very existence was anathema to anything that strayed from the path of law.
Though the mold chambers—the mysterious rooms where the inevitables took their first breath of existence—were within our reach, we dared not enter. The risk was too great, and the consequences too unknown. Instead, we found a small, shadowed alcove, where the noise of the factory was slightly muffled, and we could speak without fear of being overheard.
It was there, amidst the mechanical heart of Mechanus, that we fell into a deep discussion, one that has lingered with me ever since. We pondered the origins of Neumannus, questioning who could have built such a place and for what purpose. Was it truly an instrument of order, or was there a hidden agenda, something even the inevitables themselves did not understand?
Our conversation wandered to the paradox of planar layers—how they could be infinite in their scope, yet somehow finite, contained within boundaries that defied reason. Ion, with his glowing optimism, saw it as a sign of the multiverse’s endless possibilities, while Maligno, always skeptical, suggested it was simply another cosmic trick—a way to keep us all in our places.
Finally, we spoke of the gods. What made them different from us? Was it their power, their followers, or something more intrinsic? Ion believed in their inherent virtue, seeing them as beings of pure light and goodness. Maligno, on the other hand, argued that gods were nothing more than the most powerful tyrants, ruling through fear and worship. And me? I wasn’t sure. Perhaps the gods were just as malleable as the minds that created them, shaped by the beliefs and fears of those who worshipped them.
We stayed there for what felt like hours, lost in our thoughts and theories, but we knew we couldn’t stay forever. Neumannus was not a place for living beings, and we were bound to be discovered if we lingered. So we made our way out, retracing our steps through the winding corridors, slipping through that same secret door, and back into the relative safety of Mechanus’ broader, more predictable cogs.

Lip of Purity

We had heard tales of the Lip of Purity, that mystical place on the slopes of Mount Clangeddin where the river of Abellio meets the brink of the unthinkable. It was said to be a place of unparalleled serenity, where the rushing, chaotic waters of the river were calmed by the very laws of nature before tumbling off the edge of the plane. Maligno scoffed at the idea, dismissing it as another one of those metaphysical riddles that mortals loved to ponder. Ion, with his usual optimism, saw it as a symbol of perfect order, where even the wildest forces could be brought to heel by the purity of law. As for me, I simply wanted to see it with my own eyes.
We made the trek through the Peaceable Kingdoms of Arcadia, traversing the lush, ordered plains of Abellio. The beauty of this place was undeniable—a realm where the very grass grew in neat rows, and the trees stood tall and proud, their branches swaying in perfect harmony with the wind. But there was something about it all that felt stifling, as though the land itself disapproved of any deviation from its rigid laws.
Eventually, we reached the river, a sparkling ribbon of water that wound its way down from the mountain. It was peaceful enough at first, a gentle current that mirrored the calm and order of the plane. But as we followed its course, the river began to quicken, as though it sensed the impending precipice. The water frothed and churned, casting up sprays of mist that glittered in the light of the perpetual sunset that bathed Abellio in a warm, golden glow.
Then, we arrived. The Lip of Purity.
It was as if the world itself had taken a deep breath and held it. The river, which had been raging only moments before, suddenly became as smooth as glass. It spread out, its surface mirroring the sky above, a perfect reflection that made it difficult to tell where the water ended and the air began. We stood at the edge, where the water seemed to hover for a moment before plunging over the brink into the vastness beyond.
I gazed out at the vista, my eyes tracing the line of the horizon where Abellio seemed to end, and I could see the faint shimmer of Buxenus below, the second layer of Arcadia. And there, in that instant, my understanding of the multiverse was upended.
An edge to an infinite plane, a center to another—how could it be? Maligno muttered something about the absurdity of it all, but even he seemed unnerved by the sight. Ion, ever the optimist, suggested that this was simply a reminder of the mysteries of the multiverse, that we mortals could never fully grasp the nature of existence. But I, I could not help but feel a gnawing sense of unease.
The Lip of Purity was more than just a place of calm amidst chaos; it was a paradox, a contradiction that defied the very laws it was meant to symbolize. The river’s tranquil surface mocked me, for beneath that calm lay the truth—an infinite plane should have no edge, no boundary, and yet here it was, as clear as the water before me.
We stayed for a while, watching the water as it spilled over the edge, disappearing into the depths below. Ion suggested we meditate, to find the peace that the Lip of Purity was supposed to offer, but I couldn’t bring myself to close my eyes. I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were standing on the edge of something far more dangerous than a simple waterfall.
Maligno, perhaps sensing my unease, flitted over to the edge and peered down into the abyss. “It’s all an illusion, you know,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant. “The multiverse is full of them. This edge, that center—it’s all just a trick of the gods, a way to keep us guessing.”
But I wasn’t so sure. If the Lip of Purity was a trick, then it was a masterful one, for it had sown seeds of doubt in my mind that I couldn’t easily dismiss.
We left soon after, the Lip of Purity retreating behind us as we continued our journey through Arcadia. But the memory of that place stayed with me, a lingering question that I couldn’t answer. How could something be infinite yet have an edge? How could the planes themselves be so vast, yet so confined?

Elshava

Elshava, with its spiraling streets and ever-expanding shell-like structures, was unlike any city I’d ever encountered in my multiverse travels. Maligno had insisted that we visit, drawn by rumors of hidden treasures and forgotten knowledge nestled within the nautiloid city's twisting paths. Ion, ever the voice of reason, agreed, arguing that we could learn much from a city where sea met sky in such a precarious balance.
From the moment we stepped onto the island of Elshava, I felt a strange undercurrent, as though the very streets beneath our feet were subtly shifting, guiding us deeper into its mysteries. The mist that hung over the city never quite lifted, shrouding everything in a pale, ghostly light that made it difficult to distinguish buildings from one another.
We spent days wandering through the spiral streets, the crunch of crushed shells underfoot becoming a familiar sound. I found myself captivated by the city’s architecture—the buildings that resembled enormous shells and sea creatures, the way the spiral of the city seemed to pulse with a life of its own. But it was the temple of Deep Sashelas that truly drew me in.
Maligno was the one who managed to get us an audience with the temple’s keepers. I still don’t know how he did it—probably some impish trick or deal I wasn’t privy to—but somehow, we found ourselves before the Fisher King himself. I could feel his gaze piercing through me, as though he could see into the very depths of my soul. For a moment, I was certain he would turn us away, but then, something flickered in his eyes—a recognition, perhaps, or a hint of pity. He nodded and granted us access to the sacred Pool of Deep Sashelas.
The pool was everything I had imagined and more. Set in the center of the temple, it shimmered with a light that seemed to come from within, its surface perfectly still, like a mirror reflecting the infinite sky. The air around it was thick with the scent of salt and something else—something ancient and unknowable. The keepers instructed us to approach the pool one at a time and warned us that the pool would show us only what we were meant to see, nothing more, nothing less.
Ion, in his radiant light, was the first to step forward. The pool’s surface rippled slightly, and I watched as Ion’s light seemed to sink into the depths, illuminating something far below. I could see the tension in his form, the way he hovered just a bit higher, as though whatever the pool showed him was something both wondrous and terrible. When he finally stepped back, his light dimmed, and he whispered something under his breath—something about duty and sacrifice that I didn’t quite catch.
Maligno was next, and as soon as he approached the pool, the water bubbled and frothed, as though agitated by his very presence. He peered into the depths, his eyes narrowing. Whatever he saw, it brought a wicked grin to his face, but when he stepped back, I noticed his tail was twitching more than usual, a sign that something had unsettled him.
Finally, it was my turn.
I approached the pool with a sense of dread. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but I knew it wouldn’t be anything comforting. The water was cold as I knelt beside it, and I could feel its chill seeping into my bones. I stared into the depths, and for a moment, nothing happened. Then, the water began to swirl, and an image began to form—an image of endless, empty darkness.
At first, I thought it was simply the void, the space between the stars that I had glimpsed in my travels. But this was different. This darkness wasn’t the absence of light—it was the absence of everything. A yawning chasm of nothingness that stretched on and on, swallowing everything in its path. And in that moment, I felt something crack within me, a fissure opening up in the fragile veneer of my mind.
I tried to pull away, but I couldn’t. The pool held me fast, forcing me to stare into that abyss, to confront the inevitability of my own undoing. And then I heard it—a voice, faint and distant, as though it was coming from the far side of that void. “Dreschm,” it whispered, the sound echoing in the hollow spaces of my mind. “In the end, there is nothing for you.”
I don’t know how long I stayed there, staring into the pool, but when I finally managed to tear myself away, I felt drained, as though a part of me had been left behind in that darkness. Ion and Maligno were waiting for me, their expressions a mixture of concern and unease. I didn’t tell them what I had seen—I couldn’t. How could I put into words the vision of nothingness, the terrifying certainty of what would one day unravel?
We left the temple in silence, the weight of our visions pressing down on us like a shroud. The mist outside seemed thicker, the streets narrower, as though the city itself was closing in on us. I could still feel the chill of the pool clinging to my skin, a reminder of what I had seen, what I could never unsee.

Pillar of Skulls

In the shadowed depths where the air smells of ash and the very ground pulses with malevolence, lies a monument to war and death—a towering mountain of skulls, stretching endlessly into the red-tinged sky. The Pillar of Skulls, they call it. Each skull, a trophy, a marker of some long-forgotten battle in the Blood War, the eternal conflict between devils and demons. Some of the skulls were massive, as large as a fortress, while others were no bigger than a fist. Time had not been kind to them; many were cracked, weathered, and fused together in grotesque formations, their empty eye sockets staring blankly into nothingness.
It was here, in this place of death, that I found myself, accompanied by my loyal companions—Maligno, the sly imp, and Ion, the ever-glowing lantern archon. We had come to this place with caution, knowing full well the dangers that lurked here. The Pillar of Skulls was guarded by osyluths—Bone Devils—whose loyalty to their infernal queen was absolute. They were not to be trifled with, but we had no choice. There was something I needed to do.
The three of us crept carefully along the edges of the pillar, sticking to the shadows cast by the mountain of bones. The air was thick with the oppressive weight of centuries of death, and the occasional rattling of bones shifting in the pile made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. I could feel the watchful eyes of the osyluths somewhere nearby, but we were fortunate enough not to cross paths with them directly. They were focused on something else, something that would soon prove to be a fatal distraction for others.
As we moved deeper into the labyrinth of bones, I found myself drawn to a particular skull—a skull no different from the thousands around it, yet somehow distinct in its familiarity. I reached out, my fingers brushing against the rough, weathered surface of the bone, and spoke "Xyrosk" softly, almost reverently. The name echoed in the stillness of the hellish landscape, swallowed quickly by the oppressive silence. There was no response, of course. Just the cold, indifferent silence of the dead. But still, I had spoken the name. That was enough.
Nearby, Maligno hovered nervously, his beady eyes darting around for any sign of the Bone Devils. Ion, ever the vigilant protector, cast a soft glow that illuminated just enough to see by without drawing too much attention. We didn’t speak much—it wasn’t a place for conversation. Instead, we lingered for a moment longer, the weight of the place pressing down on us, before deciding it was time to leave.
But as we made our way back, the sounds of battle echoed through the air. We turned and saw them—a group of adventurers, likely treasure seekers, who had been less fortunate than us. They had wandered too close, too openly, and the osyluths had descended upon them like vultures on a carcass. The battle was brief and brutal. The adventurers stood no chance. In a matter of moments, their bodies lay broken and lifeless at the base of the pillar, their souls destined to join the very monument they had sought to plunder.

Temple of Radiance

It was Ion's idea to visit the Temple of Radiance, perched like a delicate crown on a spit of rock amid endless, sun-dappled waters. I remember my initial reluctance, the gnawing doubt that a creature like me—twisted by the depths and shadows of the Underdark—had any place in a sanctuary devoted to the god of the sun. But Ion insisted, as he often did when he believed a place held something important, something transcendent, that we needed to see.
Maligno, with his usual blend of sarcasm and curiosity, fluttered at my side as we approached the temple. The imp’s tiny wings beat softly against the warm breeze that rolled off the water, his crimson skin glowing faintly in the perpetual daylight. He muttered to himself about the folly of exposing oneself to the blinding light of Pelor. And yet, even he seemed subdued by the grandeur of the temple, its open-air arches framing the sky as if the heavens themselves were a part of the architecture.
Ion, as always, floated ahead, his luminescent form shining in harmony with the sun. For him, this was a homecoming of sorts, a return to the light that had always been his guide. As we entered the main chapel, open to the sky and filled with the pure, unfiltered radiance of the sun, I felt a strange sensation—a warmth that seeped into my bones, not unlike the heat of a forge but infinitely gentler, soothing the ever-present chill that gnawed at me.
We spent hours, or maybe days—time seemed irrelevant here—wandering the temple grounds. Ion engaged in deep conversations with the Radiant Guardians, their armor reflecting the sun's brilliance in ways that made my eyes ache. They spoke of duty, of light, and of the endless struggle to protect what was good and pure in the multiverse. Maligno, for all his grumbling, seemed fascinated by the sheer audacity of the place, a structure so open and exposed yet so filled with an unshakable sense of security.
It was while exploring a quiet corner of the temple, away from the main throng of pilgrims, that I encountered someone I never expected to see again. Korrim, an old companion from my early days of wandering. A dwarf, as sturdy and resolute as the mountains of his homeland, but with a mind as sharp as a steel trap and a heart as warm as the hearth fires. We had parted ways long ago, after an expedition that nearly claimed both our lives. I had assumed him lost to the endless turmoil of the planes, but there he stood, as solid and alive as the day we met.
We talked, and though our words were mundane, filled with catching up on old times and sharing tales of our respective journeys, there was something more—an unspoken acknowledgment of the paths we had taken, paths that had somehow led us both to this place of light. He had come seeking peace, a respite from the battles and the bloodshed, and it seemed that he had found it here. For a moment, in the light of Pelor, the harsh edges of our pasts seemed to soften, the weight of our shared histories lifting, if only slightly.
Before we left, Ion insisted we take a moment to watch the sunrise—or rather, the closest thing to a sunrise in this eternal day. As the sun moved higher and higher in the sky, casting long shadows across the temple, I stood beside my old friend, with Ion and Maligno close by. I felt something I had not felt in a long time—a sense of calm, of belonging, if only for a fleeting moment.