Book 2 of the Sword of Air Commenceth - Prologue and Episodes 38 & 39: Fateweaver & Ill-Met in Orlane
Sword of Air
Book 2
The Nineteenth Day of Eleint 2020, in the Nurian Era of Yore, during the Season of Löende – the Season of Waning Earth – and Ten Days Before the Reign of the Winter Queen of Qualimor.
Prologue
“Sing to me, O Muse, and fill this humble vessel with thine epic tale of lost legend…”
Kenneth the Skald
*
The Fellowship have barely escaped with their lives from the cyclopean deeps of Hvel-Runor. It has been a long and arduous journey. Only a month or so has passed since they descended from the Icespire Mountains to the town of Sparrowkeep, although somehow it feels like years have passed. Perhaps we can recall…?
At Sparrowkeep our four travellers discovered a bizarre monument in the shape of a giant, obsidian, upturned foot, which seemed to thrum with sinister energy. In the chapel garden of the Priest of Arden, Elovyn Sorrowsong, a glowing orb vibrated with unfeasible heat. And a famous cartographer and hedge wizard by the name of Grendelf Erandir was murdered by Glibbol’s roving band of goblins, under the leadership of a bugbear called Gobchuck, and the influence of a slippery individual calling himself Illintendo Sharpchin.
Dealing swiftly with the latter by imprisoning him, our heroes followed leads to the former into the ancient forest of the Old Margreve, which they found to be animated with some malevolent sentience. With Bloondar Toadhunter they rescued King Bloblingoop of the Gnomes of the Hidden City, even as his kingdom was ravaged by golems born of the very forest on which it depended.
They found their way to Gobchuck’s lair through secret underground caverns full of unspeakable horrors, where they met with Mherren the Malevolent, the cheerful Warlock of Demogorgon, and together they defeated their enemies at the Battle of the Bearded Man. Beneath the primeval tree, in a ruined Elven temple, they found a mysterious witch called Baba Yaga, who foretold of some monstrous evil coming to Yore, and sent them on a quest to find the fabled Sword of Air.
Parting with their comrade Tanueviel, who returned to Kagonost to bring news of the corruption of the Margreve, the Fellowship killed some predatory drakes, investigated nomadic Orcs fleeing the swamps on giant turtles, and travelled by skiff with a bunch of smugglers, including Šati the Tiefling (and sister of Sharpchin), to the Free City of Zobeck, where after a brief and entirely self-inflicted incarceration they became embroiled in a gunpowder plot by servants of the Cult of Orcus, Demon Lord of the Undead.
They travelled to an astral library upon another plane of existence, and upon speaking to the library’s custodian, Senuthius the Ageless, found that two demonic texts – the Shaghaspondium of Demogorgon and the Psalms of the Frog – were missing. They were assaulted by toad-like entities who had somehow located the hidden library, but they valiantly fought them off. Upon their return they delved into the sewers below Zobeck in pursuit of a Rat King they suspected to be at the bottom of all this, but upon finding him they realised this shadowy underground figure was in fact an ally of Baba Yaga’s and of the authorities of the city; his hold over the black markets of Zobeck was the only way to keep even darker forces at bay.
As the citadel of Zobeck exploded and the fires of Orcus’ minions raged through the city, our courageous heroes fled by ship for the Elven kingdom of Qualimor, crewed by a gang of friendly skeletons and two pirates, one of whom, by the name of Shurq Elalle, was also undead. They did battle with a group of harpies and Haji Baba fell in the river in a distinctly un-Grand fashion. Ambushed by a savage warband of grimlocks, captained by a duergar whose intellect devourers had enfeebled the minds of Mherren and Corazon the Pirate, they were subsequently saved by Beleriath of Qualimor and his Quali rangers. Their rescuers were suspicious of the half-orc warlock and undead pirate and crew, but the heroes gained the Elves’ trust by helping them defeat some marauding wild owlbears.
The Fellowship were led through the glamour that disguised the location of Qualimor, and were presented to the King, Eoneril Ostoroth. They found his begrudging favour by gifting him the Bloodstone of Orcus and Egg of Koschei the Deathless, only to discover upon further investigation that Eoneril’s mind had been corrupted by Aelar Capharath and his sinister sect of Shadowmancers, who had ill designs on power. Aelar restored Mherren and Corazon, but banished Shurq Elalle from Qualimor, proclaiming the undead an affront to nature.
After speaking with Sumnes Horineth, a falconer and friend of Elovyn’s; with Tanueviel’s estranged sister, Ashari Yaeldrin; with a battle-hardened monster hunter called Enna Nailo; with Tavis, a magical blacksmith; with Meriel, the Queen’s High Fist; with a flirtatious thespian mummer called Gilmoras; and eventually with the cloistered Queen Caerdonelle Mystra herself, whom they saved from assassination by a supposed Red Mask assassin, they discovered that Elovyn had been herself researching the Sword of Air, but had gone missing somewhere in the Galentaur Forest, according to a mystical vision Caerdonelle had by the magical Pool of Aelinbril. Grimly, they set out in the pouring rain to find her.
With the help of an Ent called Longroot Oakroot, they uncovered a secret entrance into a cavern network close to the grimlock settlement of Garzh-Nesh. They came to the entrance to the abandoned Dwarvish city of Hvela, where they succumbed to a puzzle trap that nearly saw Haji Baba lost forever to the Plane of Air. Beneath the city they found the catacombs which held the bodies of Dwarvish kings… and the cursed and mummified soul of an ancient Dwarvish hero called Duorik Ironside. Lightstrike salvaged his sword, which turned out to be the Cursed Blade of Idu Maagog, an immortal efreeti fire titan who was banished from this plane of existence long ago.
A patrol of Svirfneblin found our grave-robbing heroes, and took them to the Neblinhala where they were given audience with Chief Slibbenorbin, although Lightstrike was imprisoned along with a Dragonborn monk called Ki-Shun. As grimlocks assaulted the Neblinhala, the two prisoners escaped and were led by a duplicitous deep gnome wizard called Knobberknocker to a portal into the Feywild. Through the portal, they discovered that this fey realm had been blighted by a similar corruption to that which had sickened the Old Margreve. Fighting their way to the Ichor Tree at the heart of the Feywild, they found an Archdryad who was keeping Queen Caerdonelle captive, along with the Lost Egg of Koschei and a magical Elven sword known as the Brambleblade. Steadfastly refusing to fight her, the monk and rogue managed to dispel the curse by the sheer strength of their compassion, and received the blessing of the dryad, Prithvi. Returning to the Neblinhala, they gave the gnomish wizard and his pet umber hulk the slip, and Ki-Shun departed for Kagonost along with Caerdonelle and the Brambleblade.
Lightstrike the Epic met up with Mherren, Haji Baba the Grand, and that other member of the Fellowship whom nobody can ever remember and doesn’t really seem all that important, but might have been some sort of conjurer or something, and they escaped the pitched battle in the Neblinhala and fled through a warren of tunnels, following a young Svirfneblin guide called Fibblestib. He showed them the secret way to Nidlhammer, which avoided the duergar-infested tunnels but was rife with ancient traps and puzzles.
After a lethal game of chess with an iron golem, and a near-burial in pouring sand for Haji-Baba, the adventurers happened upon a little-used passage to the Hlokeduin; an underground river that flowed from Qualimor to the Gasping Ocean. There they met with a banished Mind Flayer called Kla’rota, with whom they struck a tentative alliance after slaying his floating, tentacled Grell captors. He led them through the bioluminescent Myconid caverns of Meld-Sovereign Hgranathodh, where Lightstrike joined a mushroom circle, was scried upon by some sort of mind-corrupting evil eye, and awakened a curious divine rune upon his forehead. Eventually they sneaked past snoring hellhound guardians and emerged from the tunnels at the great duergar fortress of Nidlhammer.
Bluffing their way into King Moradin’s city, they soon found themselves being chased through the streets, but after a brief skirmish they were rescued by a very peculiar individual calling himself Ningauble of the Seven Eyes. This mysterious, hooded entity read their fortune and told them that after finding Elovyn they should seek egress from the Underdark by continuing ever deeper, rather than returning the way they had come and risk capture by duergar or dark elves, or worse. And so, the Fellowship made their way via a colony of flumphs and came at last to the great cavern of the Sunless Sea, above which was suspended the watchful hive city of Ilthe-Ba’Manza.
Sneaking around the edges of the dark and silent sea, they avoided voracious swarms of stirges and quippers, and came to the forgotten Dwarvish citadel of Runor, where they believed Elovyn to be held captive by a beholder called K’Varn, who had enslaved the duergar and elder brain of the illithids using something called a Yuggoth Stone. Luckily for our plucky adventurers, K’Varn had just returned from a chastening experience with the Spider Queen of Arach-Lluth, and so was in a weakened state. Pressing their advantage, the heroes slaughtered him, along with his fish-eating gauth servant, Varg, and his illithid accomplice, Xar-graata, only to be betrayed by Kla’rota. But they swiftly dispatched him too, and finally rescued Elovyn, along with her extensive research from the Noldothrond and elsewhere, and a decidedly odd Priest of Khors called Zellingar.
Meanwhile, Llolth the Spider Queen had arrived with her army of Drow to put an end to K’Varn and his plans. Running a gauntlet of arrows and siege boulders amidst the raging Battle of Ilthe-Ba’Manza, the Fellowship found their way through the bedrock of the spire of Runor, to a secret way behind the waterfalls that drained the Sunless Sea, and continued down, down, ever down, below the very crust of the earth. There they incinerated a colony of darkmantles and interrupted a shamanic derro ritual. After very decisively beheading the shaman and the azer he had summoned from the City of Brass in the Elemental Plane of Fire, they hurled themselves into a portal that opened into the slumbering body of Dagon, the God Below. Oh, and Haji Baba nearly got vaporised in molten lava enroute.
The Priest of Arden, Elovyn Sorrowsong, was taken and murdered horrifically by the Spirit of Razazel, the living Blood of Dagon, only to rise as an angel and reveal Lightstrike to be the chosen Runechild of Arden. She pledged to aid them in their darkest hour, and gave to her newly anointed paladin champion a holy amulet of summoning. The heroes found their way through the pulsing bowels and arteries of Dagon’s somnolent corpse to the beating black heart of the God Below. There they summarily defeated Razazel and her elemental guardians, and skewered the grotesque, alien heart as Ningauble had suggested.
As the mortal blow was dealt, the somnolent demon-god awakened in agony and broke through the very crust of the earth to soar into the skies above the Dragon Coast in a fit of decidedly melodramatic death throes. It is said simple farmers of Yore were driven mad by this unholy sight, and spent the rest of their days babbling incoherently about a gargantuan, rotted whale-monster who flew through the air above the Hinterlands and caused the very earth to tremble as it landed. Some even claim to have seen a peculiar little bird-man in a silly, pointy hat, who appeared in the sky when the whale-god fell, disappeared and reappeared, flapped his arms a few times, and then plummeted with a yelp to what must have been a very messy end on the jagged, rocky ridges of the upland peaks. But nobody believes that.
Nobody, except of course for us, dear reader. For we know that foolish bird was in fact Zimlok the Lightbringer, whose hollow bones and quick-thinking comrades saved him from an extremely squidgy doom. And now, as he warbles discordant sea chanties much to the annoyance of Haji Baba the raging druid, and Mherren Halfblood consults the prophecies and looks aghast at the blood-red comet streaking ominously across the early morning sky, and Lightstrike, Arcane Trickster and Runechild of Arden, eyes suspiciously the bald Priest of Khors who is now mending his torn, red robes by the crackling campfire and muttering to himself, we join our heroic(ish) Fellowship on what scribes shall write of and bards shall sing of as the Second Book of the Unlikely Legend of the Sword of Air…
Episode XXXVIII
Fateweaver
*
Emerging from their sheltered nook under a rocky outcrop, Lightstrike bounds up to the ridge above to assess their surroundings. From his high vantage he squints his keen feline eyes and soaks in an impressive, panoramic view that leaves him breathless and emotional after long, dark days spent underground. To the west the land drops away to a great forest that stretches as far as the eye can see: the Galentaur. To the east the land crumples into heather-clad foothills tufted with woodland, long-shadowed beneath the red-rising sun, and far beyond is the faint line of a road running north to south, and the hazy shimmer of the ocean. In the middle distance a few plumes of smoke rise from some kind of settlement, bordered by trees. To the south there is the immense carcass of Dagon, sprawled ingloriously across the ridgeline, his leaking black blood forming rivulets, then streams, then rivers, and beginning to form small, dark lakes in the valleys below. Lightstrike is sure he can make out distant humanoid figures congregating around these lakes, perhaps even bathing in them, but it is hard to tell. Notably, not a single bird call marks the dawn.
He rubs his eyes and looks to the north. There, the crater out of which burst the God Below. With us inside. What a ride that was. What an entrance. Wait. What’s that? Some moving shadows around the lip of the crater. Dark elves! The Drow are in pursuit! Hold on. They are shielding their eyes. The sun is too bright for them as it clears the horizon. They are retreating back into the crater! We’re safe. For now.
He leaps back down to join his companions.
“Civilisation. That way. Maybe we can finally go shopping!”
And they set out east across the barren Hinterlands of the southern reaches of the Dragon Coast.
*
Presently they hear the same melancholic voice they heard last night, drifting towards them with the fog that has begun to roll in off the ocean. An ecstatic song, melodic and intricate. Beautiful. Moving. Heart-breaking. And growing closer. Then – nothing. It goes silent, suddenly. Cut off.
“Strange,” says Mherren gruffly, Viper wrapped around his forearm in snake-form. “We’d best be careful.” And he hefts Bouldir from his back-sling. At his side, the Flaming Tongue of Maagog begins to shimmer with shifting, bloody patterns of eagerness.
The land funnels in and they begin to pass unsettling signs. Upon the ground are bleached, human-looking skulls, missing their jawbones and with arcane symbols etched upon their foreheads, placed intermittently as though marking a path. [These Guardian Skulls were the real source of the fog, and had you interfered with them something rather unpleasant would have happened to you – DM (foiled again).]
As the ground drops away the companions make out two hulking silhouettes ahead of them through the mist. Approaching stealthily, they notice the figures are standing before a rickety rope bridge across a small canyon, standing on either side of a large, smooth boulder, and arguing loudly in deep, gravelly voices.
“I sawed it first, Eryl. It’s mine!”
“You might’ve eyeballed it first, Dugg, but I laid me fingahs on it first. That makes it mine!”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yea– ”
“Excuse me, fine gents. I wonder if you might know which way it is to Astlav?” Zimlok sidles up to the two trolls with an inadvisably confident swagger.
“Huh?”
“What’s this, Dugg?”
“Looks like some kinda bird in a hat, Eryl.”
“Is it speakin’ to us, Dugg?”
“Don’t be daft, Eryl. Birdies don’t speak. They just squawk and sizzle. Any troll knows that.”
“You callin’ me a liar, Dugg? I swear it just spoke.”
“Erm… any chance we could cross your little bridge there? My friends and I are awfully tired, and it’s been days since we had a proper night’s sleep in a proper bed. We won’t be any trouble.”
“There it goes again. It is speakin’! Told you, Dugg!”
“Blimey, you’re right, Eryl! Well, jus’ when y’think you’ve seen it all, along comes a talkin’ bird.”
“What shall we do with it, Dugg?”
“Same as we always do, Eryl. Bash it and eat it.”
“Good idea, Dugg.”
Zimlok senses something is amiss. His charm offensive doesn’t quite seem to have had the intended effect. Nope. Definitely not – as a giant club swings down upon him.
“Hold!” he squawks, thrusting out his palms, and the troll stops mid-swing. And doesn’t move.
Zimlok saunters casually past, twirling an illusionary umbrella. “Good day to you, sir.”
Eryl, enraged by this magical assault on his partner, launches himself at the swaggering bird, but is suddenly overwhelmed by the need to scratch himself frantically, as Haji Baba infests him with lice and cockroaches.
She signals to her friends with an overcomplicated hand-sign that nobody understands.
“That means let’s go,” she sighs.
They hustle on to the bridge, past the mossy boulder that was the subject of the trolls’ dispute. Lightstrike pauses, and gives it a kick.
“Ouch!” says the rock.
He kicks it again.
“Do you mind?
And again.
“There’s no one in! Go away!”
Another kick.
And a bald, wrinkly head pops out from one end of the rock, followed by two arms, two legs, and a tail. The creature wobbles unsteadily to his feet, supported by a long, gnarled staff. A tortle!
“Hello, I’m Jo– ”
But this is no time for introductions.
“Follow us!” exhorts Lightstrike, and they hurtle across the bridge. They are almost halfway across when they spot savage, bestial faces leering at them through the fog on the other side. Hyena-headed, long-fanged, faces daubed white: the hunters of the Bleached Skull tribe aim their crossbows and snarl.
*
“Gnolls!” cries Mherren. And before anybody thinks to parlay, the red mist of battle descends, and the still air explodes with crossbow bolts and magic.
Zimlok leaps on to Lightstrike’s back and thundersteps them both to the gorse bushes behind their foes on the far side. Lightstrike fells a gnoll Flesh Gnawer with a single devastating sneak attack, and decapitates another with his boomerang.
[Gah! You thwart their cool pack attack feature! That would have made dog food of you all! – DM]
Mherren repeatedly throws Bouldir and misses every time, much to the chagrin of Flame Tongue, who is itching to taste blood.
“Pick me!” it rasps in his mind. “I thirst! I thirst!”
But Mherren pays it no mind and perseveres with his magic hammer.
And misses again.
Zellingar unleashes a series of devastating fireballs at the gnolls, which Zimlok tries to emulate, but he miscasts badly and induces a surge of Wild Magic that causes him to start hurling insults at everybody and anybody.
“Hey, stinky-butt!” he shouts at the nearest gnoll, who looks round with a confused expression.
And Zimlok tries another fireball, this time immolating himself thoroughly as the spell backfires and consumes him in a white-hot conflagration.
“…” he says, as he stands there crisp and smoking.
Meanwhile, Haji Baba flies into a barbaric rage and hurls herself mouth a-foaming at the troll who, now recovered from his momentary infestation, has lumbered on to the bridge behind them. They are trapped. The druid swings wildly with her spear, opening a few nicks and shaving his legs here and there, but is then pulverised by one lazy smash of his club. She staggers to her feet and flings herself at him again with a blood-curdling berserker yell, spittle flying, lips contorted horribly, while Zimlok, still smarting, sits on the opposite edge of the canyon, feet dangling and swinging as he chomps on some illusionary popcorn.
“Ooh, that was a nasty one,” he sucks his teeth and winces as another ponderous swing sends several of Haji Baba’s teeth flying into the reddened mist, and continues to chew on his popcorn, occasionally hurling the odd token stone just in case he gets accused afterwards of not helping out.
As the last gnoll flees into the fog, and Dugg awakens from his temporary paralysis, Zellingar calls a warning out to Haji Baba. “Fire in the hole!” [Aww – I never got to use the trolls’ regeneration ability (thwarted again!) – DM.]
Babs takes a running leap away from her combatant, and sprawls on to the bridge to clutch on to one of the slats, just as the centre of the bridge and the troll upon it, explode in a ball of flame.
“Not very subtle,” Zimlok tuts in disgust at Zellingar, beneath his breath. “Bit of a one-trick pony.”
Lightstrike reaches out for Haji Baba, who has slammed into the wall of the canyon and is now dangling precariously by a broken slat above the rocky precipice. Their fingers meet, and the rogue-paladin hefts his diminutive comrade to safety.
Who narrows her eyes at Zimlok.
“Wha’?” he shrugs.
She doesn’t trust herself to reply with grace.
As Mherren shakes Bouldir against his ear, listening for clunks or rattles, Lightstrike sifts through the bodies of the fallen and finds a bone blade hewn from a femur, its hilt hollow and carved with runes [1d4 slashing damage, and casts vampiric touch for 2d6 additional necrotic damage on a critical hit – DM]. There is nothing much else of value. Their crossbows are primitive, their quarrels poorly fletched. Their spearheads are mounted crudely and bound with vines. They carry a few hunks of half-rotten meat, and some ivory tokens bearing the sign of Yeenoghu, the Beast of Butchery.
“Is that what that is?” coos Lightstrike.
“Yes. Yeenoghu is a gigantic Gnoll Lord who rules the Death Dells of the Abyss. The Gnolls hail from the deserts of Ku-Amlaka, far to the south in furthest reaches of Nuria, where they terrorise communities in great roving packs – but a few isolated tribes have claimed territory in the outlands of Yore. It’s strange, though; they don’t usually stray so far south of the Howling Hills,” says the tortle. He speaks with an elderly croak that makes it seem unlikely that his was the voice singing so tantalisingly through the mist. “Something must have either drawn them here… or driven them away.”
“Who are you?” asks Haji Baba.
“Oh, I’m so terribly sorry. How very rude of me. What with all the killing and explosions I quite forgot my manners. My name is Jo’deh. Jo’deh of the Moot. I am a Fateweaver. I spend my days walking the Songlines.”
“That was you we heard singing?” asks Lightstrike.
“Yes, that was me. I have travelled these lands far and wide, following the geomantic ley lines that lay like a web of divine arteries across this planet.”
“Ley lines?” Zimlok scoffs, and receives such a dirty look from the others that he shuts his beak and pretends to find something very interesting under his armpit.
“Yes, kenku. Ley lines. Mock not what you are too small-minded to comprehend. Long ago, in the Nameless Time, even before the Age of Dragons, there was a cataclysmic impact upon Shenn, when a black comet slammed into the world. This impact sent fragments of the comet out to be strewn all across Amarthaur, and these formed a web of power that was imbued with divine magic by the Elder Gods following the Great Struggle of the Khorian Era, in an effort to save the First Races. Sadly it was not enough, and they had to enlist the aid of the Lords of Hell to repel the demons that had spilled into the material plane after the Ascension of Khors.
“The Immortal Pharoah, Nyarlathotep, who had betrayed Khors, was chained by Asmodeus in the First House built by the Witch-Kings of Azath, and held there by the immense power of the Elder Gods, who channelled their energy along the ley lines to this central point. These threads of divine power are still the source of magic on this planet, but we Walkers of the Songlines know more. For they are in fact a passage to the divine, and by walking and singing my spirit slowly leaves my body and transgresses to the heavens to be united with the Great Tortle. When my time finally comes, which is not so far away now, for I am very old, even for a tortle, my body shall fall but my spirit shall continue to sing.”
“And where are you going?” asks Mherren, entranced. “Except for union with the Great Tortle an’ all that, I mean.”
“I am on my way to the annual Tortlemoot in the Festering Marshes. Every year, we wandering elders gather to exchange news and wisdom, and to share our harvest of the Songline energy.”
“We’ve heard something bad is living in those swamps,” says Mherren. “The Urzin have fled, and things in that region are… mutating.”
“It’s gross,” confirms Lightstrike. “Really, like – yuk.”
“Well, well. That is interesting,” muses Jo’deh, his face crinkling. “Most interesting, yes.”
He rummages around in his shell for a moment. In fact, it becomes a little awkward as our companions wonder if they ought to look away and afford him some privacy. But then he produces what looks like a shiny, black rock.
“This is a shard of Yuggoth,” he pronounces. “Recently it has begun to speak. And I fear this means that the blood comet portends what has been told. The Dark Planet draws near. The time of the Great Old Ones is nigh. One of them has already made your… intimate acquaintance, if I am not mistaken. The Demon cults grow bolder. Orcus plots his return, as does Graz’zt, and the Demogorgon” – here he looks pointedly at Mherren – “and Tiamat” – looking to Zellingar. “They seek to benefit from the coming chaos. They shall revel in the slaughter and carnage, and look to find their own place in the new order. Yes, the fragment sings its own song. A song of darkness, heralding the new age of the Great Old Ones. Unless…” He looks at each of them in turn, thoughtfully.
“What do you mean it sings its own song? It just looks like a stupid rock to me,” says Haji Baba.
Jo’deh lobs the rock to her. It is cold and strange to touch. It is neither metallic, nor mineral. But… something else. And it is heavy. Far heavier than it looks. She just saves her fingers from being crushed as its unnatural weight sends her hands to the ground.
Zimlok chuckles.
“Take it with you,” says Jo’deh. “It only brings discord to my own song. Still your mind and listen. It will lead you to the lodestone in the Ebon Mire. But beware. Its aura is oppressive. It will steal your breath, haunt your dreams, twist your thoughts, send you ineffable alien thoughts and dark visions of twisted aberrations. But there, at the lodestone, the Ophidian One spawns. I have seen...”
He gazes wistfully off into the distance. Everybody follows his gaze, squinting, but there doesn’t seem to be anything there except for some gorse bushes and a few rocks.
“Seen…?” prompts Lightstrike, but Jo’deh doesn’t seem to hear. Zimlok gets bored and starts trying to balance pebbles on his beak.
Snapping out of his reverie, Jo’deh leans on his stick now, and beckons to the druid.
“Would you like to know your fate, Haji Baba?”
“H- how did you know my name?”
“I am a Fateweaver. It is my business to know. Would you like to see?”
Unsure, she nods mutely. Jo’deh places his hand upon her forehead and closes his eyes. At first, nothing. But then a warm, pulsing energy begins to course into her.
In a strange monotone Jo’deh enunciates: “You, Haji Baba of Kagonost, shall unite the fractured ancestries of the Eldar and lead the forces of good, and evil, against the Shadow.”
“Coool,” says Lightstrike. “Can I?”
Jo’deh smiles. “Of course, Lightstrike, Holy Paladin of Arden.” And he lays his hand upon Lightstrike’s rune, which glows with a soft, white light. A moment passes, then – “You shall recover the Seventh Soul Shard of Arden, that is kept safe in this world by the Avatar of Mael, the Lost Elder God of the Oceans. And you shall be the one to wield the Sword of Air, for Arden’s blessing protects you from its irresistible curse.” [Yes, I forgot the bit about the Soul Shard. Consider it retconned – DM.]
“Awesome,” says Lightstrike with a broad grin.
“And you, Zellingar son of Nibenay?”
Zellingar nods solemnly, and steps forth with trepidation.
“Hmm. You face a stark choice, I’m fear. Either betray your faith and follow your despotic father into madness and narcissism, or betray your father and steal the Elixir of Fire to release the Jewel of Takhisis from its living prison.”
Zellingar steps away, averting his face to hide his emotion.
“And you. Zimlok of Kara-Tur.”
“That’s Zimlok the Lightbringer, actually. I’m a great wizard.”
“Yes, of course. Would you like to know your fate?”
“Well, er…” Zimlok looks around at his friends’ expectant faces. Gosh – I hope he says I’m important. What if… He gulps. “Yeah, you know me. I’m up fer anything, me. Bring it on, I say.”
And Jo’deh lays his hand upon Zimlok’s beak, which is kind of embarrassing, before closing his eyes and pronouncing: “You shall exact revenge on the Wyrms of Baal’s Mockery. You shall be the Bane of the Chromatic Conclave. You shall stand before Tiamat and deny her once her bargain is fulfilled. And you shall find the Key to the Azath.”
“The key to the what-now?”
“The Houses of the Azath were magical living prisons built from the remnants of the comet by the fabled Witch Kings, who exceeded even the power of the Red Wizards in their sorcery. Many of the Azath Houses are now lost, or buried beneath the sands of time, but their waning magic still holds dangerous immortals, such as Koschei the Life-stealer, the Scale-tipper, the Deathless One. He is said to be incarcerated somewhere in the Dun Emnon Wastes, which were devastated by the wild magic of the Red Wizards during the sacking of the Seven Cities in the third century. But the Black Pyramid, at the Lost City of Feirgotha in the Stoneheart Mountains, was the First Azath House, which kept Nyarlathotep, the Immortal Pharoah, bound for centuries, and that is where lies the Sword of Air. Or at least, that is where it lay last. You shall reveal the way inside.”
“Well, then. Bane of the Romantic Conclave and Key to the As If, eh? I’d thought as much, though I didn’t like to say.” And Zimlok struts away, head bobbing with egotistical pleasure.
“Yeah, really cool. A superhero janitor,” whispers Haji Baba to Lightstrike, who sniggers and causes Zimlok to glance over with a paranoid look. Lightstrike clears his throat and straightens his face.
“And last of all you, Mherren Halfblood. Come.”
Jo’deh places his hand on Mherren’s scarred brow, and Mherren feels the warmth stream into him. But Jo’deh remains silent. For a long time he says nothing. Too long. And then, looking bewildered, he releases his hold.
“In all my days I have never seen such a thing! In you… the Thread of Fate is broken! You are master of your own destiny! I saw many paths. Some bright. Some dark. But the thread did not run through them. You are bound to no fate. The Norns have no power over you. But this is dangerous, yes. With such choice, such open potential, you could tear up my weave and change everything! Everything! You must be equipped. You must have knowledge. Come. Again, come.”
And this time Mherren feels something more than just warmth. He feels knowledge. Ten thousand years of history course into his dumb orc-brain as he receives the Transmission of the Ages…
[Please refer back to the lengthy world history you will no doubt have by now studied in great depth and detail. It can be found in digital format in the World Codex on Sword of Air’s World Anvil, filed under Myths, Lore and Legends of Yore → The Transmission of the Ages. It’s also in the exhaustive appendices to this document (Apx.4, p.65). No excuses, now. There will be a test, and anybody not scoring above 40% will be chained in Acheron for countless eternities of unbearable agony. There will be a sticky gold star for anybody scoring full marks – DM.]
When Jo’deh finally releases him, Mherren collapses in a heap of intellectual exhaustion. Lightstrike quickly revives him, as Jo’deh thrusts a crumpled map at Haji Baba. “This map shows the paths of the Songlines. It should serve you well on your travels,” he says.
Meanwhile, Zimlok is savagely attacking the Fragment of Yuggoth that still lies inert on the ground. Fire bolt! Magic missile! Aganazzar’s scorcher!
… Nothing. Not a scratch.
“Let me have a go,” says Lightstrike. “Divine smite!”
Still nothing.
He throws Whisper, but it bounces off harmlessly. Not a quiver.
“Okay, my turn,” says Mherren, and unleashes a devastating onslaught of agonising eldritch blasts.
Nope.
“Aithindée!” he hollers, and strikes it again and again with the flaming sword of Maagog.
Haji Baba tries a thunder wave.
Then they hear mirthful laughter from behind. Jo’deh is leaning against his staff, chuckling away.
“There isn’t a substance on this planet as tough as that,” he says with a kindly, indulgent smile. “After all, it isn’t of this planet. Only stellar impacts or the highest sorcery can blemish it. But it’s been fun watching you try.” And he shuffles off, still chuckling.
*
The autumn afternoon is drawing to a close as our companions approach the outskirts of the settlement Lightstrike had spied from atop the Hinterland peaks. Far off in the distant sky to the south they spot a merchant skyship sailing eastward on the high winds. The night seems to draw in earlier than it should, and soon they are making their way through creeping twilight in a miserable drizzle that seems to come out of nowhere. They join a trail that passes through fields of half-rotted crops, which fester in black, brackish waters and are long past harvesting. Sinister crucifix scarecrows glower at them from the gloom. Shortly they come to a road tracked by cartwheels, and pass an eerily creaking, swinging sign that reads: “Welcome to Orlane”.
They pass ramshackle houses, some seemingly dark and empty and in disrepair, others with the glow of fires and torchlight behind flicking curtains. The Fellowship get a distinct sense they are being watched. The few individuals they see out in the streets wrap their cloaks around them and hurry past, eyes averted. A curious child watches them from behind a low fence, but is called in abruptly by her mother, who sounds slightly panicked and slams the door as soon as her daughter is safely inside.
Eventually they come to a large inn decorated with sheaves of wheat along its eaves. At one time it was white-washed, but much of its paint has peeled away. A sign picturing a wheatsheaf and a pitcher of ale hangs lopsidedly over the doorway.
“Well, this looks like a nice spot,” says Zimlok cheerily, and heads inside.
They are greeted by a darkened taproom dotted with unfriendly, taciturn faces. Few of the patrons are seated together. All watch in silence and turn their heads to follow as the six companions make their way to a table in the corner and pull out painfully groaning chairs.
“I know this town,” says Zellingar. “It used to be a thriving place. Good, fertile soil. Hearty, friendly people. Whatever has happened here?”
“Well, no matter. We need sustenance. And a proper bed for the night,” says Haji Baba.
“And ale,” says Mherren, and gestures for the innkeep to come over.
As he approaches, they look around. The other patrons have returned to hushed conversation, or to staring forlornly into their tankards.
All except one.
In a shadowy recess, a lone figure studies them intently with an eye that glints beneath a wide-brimmed hat, pulled low over his brow.
*
What malaise has taken hold of the remote community of Orlane?
Who is the stranger in the Golden Grain Inn, and why is he so interested in the Fellowship?
And will there be any good shopping outlets in town?
Find out in the next nail-biting episode of…
The Sword of Air
*
Experience
Trolls x2 3,600 Bleached Skull Gnoll Hunters x2 200 Bleached Skull Gnoll Flesh Gnawer 200 Gnoll Pack Lord Escaped! Story Award (Vantage & Fateweaver) 400 TOTAL 4,400 Per player 1,100Items
Gnoll bone blade (1d4 slashing damage + Vampiric Touch 2d6 necrotic on a Critical Hit) Shard of Yuggoth Map of the Songlines Transmission of the AgesEpisode XXXIX
Ill-Met in Orlane
*
Turns out Kilian Gade is indeed a friendly soul, a big man with a shock of curly, amber hair, whose shop is an unlikely hodgepodge of armoury, apothecary, jeweller, and hardware store. When they enter, he is hammering some white hot metal upon an anvil, sparks flying, steel ringing, but on seeing Gideon he puts down his mallet and embraces him warmly.
The companions have a mooch around, Zimlok picking up anything and everything and studying it intently.
“Quite a selection you have here,” says Haji Baba archly.
“Yes. I used to just do herbs and hardware. But recently I’ve had to take on some other folks’ businesses. Like the blacksmith, and the jeweller,” says Kilian. “They’ve either left town or… well, they’re not quite themselves these days.”
“Could you do anything with these?” asks the druid, producing the iridescent fragments of flail snail shell that they had salvaged from the Underdark. “We want them working into shields.”
“I can certainly try,” says Kilian, studying the exotic material with fascination. He seems to reach a conclusion. “They’ll be ready by morning. Anything else?”
“Yes, I’ll take this,” says Mherren, his massive, scarred head already jammed into a great, closed helm with huge, down-thrusting horns.
“And I’ll have this,” says Lightstrike, gloating over a wickedly curved temple sword with a jewel-encrusted hilt and golden scabbard [1d10 + STR slashing damage – DM].
“Do you have any interesting herbal remedies?” asks Haji Baba.
“I have healing potions. Two greater, two superior… and this one – a supreme healing potion,” says Kilian. “Made by druids of the Duskmoon Hills. Very high quality. Hmm. Let me see now. I have a concoction of mugwort, aloe and mistletoe.” He shakes a small bottle of clear liquid. “It’s a healing tincture and tonifier. And this…” – a pouch of vibrant green herbs – “They call it Sage of the Gods. Very potent. Makes you see things clearer. With more wisdom. Oh, and these poultices. This is a Salve of Fire Resistance. This one’s a Salve of Fortifying. And this vial contains a Potion of Loosening. Causes knots, chains and restraints to unravel and slip off. Bought it off a skyship captain. This is my last in the Speciality Section: a Root of Elasticity. Makes you gelatinous. Just for a short time.”
“I’ll take the lot,” says Babs. “Plus some dry rations.” [Forgot you’d asked about herbs. Through the magic of retroactive continuity, consider these yours – DM.]
“And I’ll just have these,” says Zimlok, holding two coils of hempen rope.
Everybody glances round at all the incredible wares in Kilian’s shop – all the shining weapons and armour, the jewellery and expensive gem settings, the tack and harness, tools and implements, foodstuffs, animal traps, baskets and vessels, fishing and camping gear, perfume and smelling salts, and bottle upon bottle of exotic herbs and spices.
“Yup. Just these,” says Zimlok, and burps loudly.
“That’s quite a haul,” says Kilian, whistling as he tots up the bill. “And some speciality work, too. I can let you have it all for two thousand gold. I’m throwing in the rope for nuthin’. And you can have two sheaves of arrows and crossbow quarrels at cost.”
“Would you consider this as payment?” asks Haji Baba, producing a huge, sparkling diamond from her knapsack.
Kilian inspects it expertly with his loupe.
“You gotta deal.”
“So what exactly did you mean by people not being themselves any more?” inquires Haji Baba with her customary feigned disinterest.
“Well, just that. They disappear for a week or so, then suddenly they’re back, at least some of ‘em. But they’re not how they used to be. Less talkative. Less friendly. Like there’s something off. Bertram at the Golden Grain – he went that way. Same with Constable Grover. His lackeys, too. There are others. But those who don’t disappear – they’re right as they ever been. Take the mayor, for instance. Ormond is a fine fellow. Always done right by me, at least. And Gideon here. He’s been watching the Golden Grain. I’ve been keeping my eye on those half-elves next door.”
“Half-elves?”
“Aye. They go creeping around at night. I’ve been watching them, skulking about. Up to no good, if y’ask me.”
“We might just pay these half-elves a visit, then,” says Lightstrike. “They can’t possibly be as sneaky as I am.” And he melts out of the room like he was never there.
The others take their leave of Gideon and Kilian, and follow Lightstrike in darkness to a lowly, lightless hovel with a low-gabled roof. They try front and back door, but both are locked. The rogue clambers up on to the roof and squeezes headfirst down the chimney.
*
Half a tabaxi head pokes out of the bottom of the chimney and glaces round. There is nobody here. Softly he drops into the cold hearth, a cloud of dry ashes billowing around him. Looking round, he finds some papers on a table, and a locked box in an alcove. Among the papers is a map of Orlane, crudely drawn, with an X marked over several buildings. There is also a scrawled list:
Grover
Allard
Onfre
Bertram
Carpenter
Blacksmith
Jeweller
Farmers
Misha?
Abramo?
CULT?
The rogue pads over to the box and jiggles the tumblers with his masterwork lock picks. In a few seconds he has it open.
… And is immediately knocked out by cloud of noxious sleeping gas.
“How’s it going in there?” Haji Baba calls through the keyhole. “Lightstrike?… Lightstrike?”
Nothing.
“We’d better get in there,” she says.
“No problem,” says Mherren, who promptly shoulder barges the door. The door splinters with a resounding crack that echoes through the silent neighbourhood. Somewhere a dog barks.
To his dismay, Zimlok finds himself picked up, bundled under Mherren’s arm, and his beak used (rather disrespectfully, to his mind) to crowbar the door open.
“Very subtle,” says Haji Baba witheringly, and stalks inside. Only to immediately pass out as she enters the floating gas cloud.
Prudently, Mherren covers his face with a rag before entering. He finds Lightstrike prone on the floor, the box spilled open beside him. A letter has fallen out.
But before he can read it, Mherren too passes out cold. [Ah! It’s moments like this a Dungeon Master lives for! – DM.]
Zimlok, being too clever by half, walks around the perimeter noisily smashing all the windows with this staff. Amidst a cacophony of breaking glass, howling dogs, and crowing roosters, he congratulates himself on his foresight, and steps inside the freshly ventilated building. He takes a moment to make a quick quill-and-ink sketch of his comrades lying unconscious on the floor, before proceeding to unhook a large cauldron of fresh, cold water, and pour it over them.
Coughing and spluttering, Haji Baba drenches Zimlok as a reflex. Once they have all come round, they gather and read the letter:
Dorian and Llywillan,
Much has happened in my life since we fought side by side in the Troll War. I hope, some time, to have a chance to talk with you about the many pleasant things.
My purpose now, sadly, is to ask – nay, beg – my courageous comrades to aid my people in a time of dire need. I cannot even describe to you the danger that threatens Orlane, for I know not its true nature. I do know that, unless it can somehow be stopped, this evil will consume my little village and its families. We will vanish without trace into the dust of history.
A sinister force it at work here, and it is made all the more frightening by the fact that its true nature is concealed in a web of fear and suspicion. I plead with you, come to Orlane, lend your skills to revealing this menace, that it may finally be destroyed!
Your comrade,
Zakarias Ormond
Mayor of Orlane
“Perhaps Kilian’s suspicions are mislaid,” says Lightstrike.
“It would seem so,” says Haji Baba.
“Well, we’d better get this place cleaned up a bit,” says Mherren, wearing a lilac pinafore apron he found Demogorgon-knows-where, and going round the place with a cockatrice-feather duster.
[Cue cleaning montage.]
But their endeavours come to an abrupt halt when they realise all the windows are irreparably smashed. It is then that Babs catches a glimpse of a shadow moving across the roofs over the way.
She signals to her comrades with a complicated series of elaborate gestures and low whistles. When they look at each other nonplussed, she says in exasperation: “There! There’s somebody out there! After them!” And off she sprints.
“Why didn’t she just say so?” asks Lightstrike.
“I dunno,” shrugs Mherren.
“Beats me,” says Zimlok.
And off they go after her.
*
As warlock, rogue and druid dash through the streets, Zimlok swings up to the rooftops in a series of impressive, wire-aided, air-running leaps in the style of the Wushu mummers’ plays he used to watch as a chick back in Kara-Tur.
Two shadowy figures dart along the rooftops ahead of him, but with a few well-timed jumps and trampoline bounces he is soon alongside his quarry on parallel rooftops. He looks over with what he hopes is an intimidating snarl.
(The fugitives wonder whatever this weird little constipated bouncing birdman wants.)
Seeing they are losing ground, the two figures jump down and make a run for the lake.
Lightstrike is hot on their heels, and as they dive in he rubs his ring of water walking and skims across the surface, closely monitoring their submerged, rippling forms illuminated by the moonlight.
Then Haji Baba swan dives in, transforming into a tiger shark in mid-air and propelling herself like a missile after her prey. Mherren turns Viper into a frog, and with a determined ribbit the quasit takes the plunge, too.
As the two fugitives reach the opposite bank, they dive down deeper, disappearing into the murk and out of sight of Lightstrike.
But Haji Baba is on their tail. As she gains on them, they dislodge an underwater drainage grate and escape up the pipe, which gradually slopes upwards in what must be the direction of the mayor’s residence.
She (now back in halfling-form) and Viper follow their wet footprints to a hatch in the top of the pipe. Haji Baba pushes against it, but it won’t budge. She pokes through the slats with her spear, and as she cranes her neck upwards her mouth and nostrils fill with a steady stream of pouring sand. (Which brings a cold shiver of recollection.) Luckily she still has her goggles of keen sight on, or it would be in her eyes, too. As the sand drains to a trickle, she finds she can lift the hatch. An empty sandbag slides away as she pokes her head up to find herself looking into a dark, empty room. Empty, that is, except for abundant expensive furnishings, upholstered furniture, noble-looking framed hanging portraits, an excess of fine ornaments and candelabra, and two sets of wet footprints leading away.
Viper hops up across her shoulders and off her head with a wet slap, as Haji Baba scrabbles up, legs kicking in mid-air as she hauls herself panting into the lounge. Then she turns into a spider and follows the frog.
*
Meanwhile, Zimlok, Mherren and Lightstrike are creeping up the front drive. They split up to scout out the perimeter of the manor house.
Lightstrike climbs up on to the roof with silent ease. Mherren hears the distinct snuffle and pant of a guard dog, and messages Zimlok to warn him.
“Don’t worry. I got thi– ”
Zimlok rounds a corner and comes face to slavering face with a massive, growling mastiff. Desperately he pushes against the door next to him, but it’s locked. As the dog leaps, Zimlok blinks…
… And reappears on the other side of the door, to the frustrated whine of a confused mastiff.
Mherren is spider climbing up the wall to join Lightstrike, but half-way up the incantation fails and he falls, barely catching himself by the fingernails on an upper storey windowsill, legs a-dangling.
*
Haji Baba, scuttling on eight hairy, segmented legs, spots a shadowy figure creeping up the stairs before her. It’s bandy-legged and… feathered, and… wearing a stupid, pointy wizard’s hat!
She clings to the ceiling and scuttles past Zimlok as he tiptoes exaggeratedly along the corridor, back flattened to the wall. Low voices emanate from a room up ahead.
Suddenly Zimlok gasps audibly, and very nearly screams out loud, as a bat swings down from his floppy brim. The bat grins. Viper.
The voices stop. “What was that?” comes a whisper.
“Oh, probably just Bones making a racket again. That dog’s about as much use as…”
“Anyway. You were saying, Ormond?”
Zimlok presses his ear to the wall and eavesdrops.
“I think you’re right about the clerics. As much as it pains me to say it, for they are holy and righteous people, there is something not right about them, not right at all. As though they’re putting on an act, somehow. And Grover. He’s… distant. I think that weasel-petting hermit has something to do with it. Ramne has no right to be in that old watchtower, disused or no.”
“We think it could be something more.”
“Go on.”
“We haven’t caught any of the kidnappers yet, if that is indeed what is happening. In fact we’ve seen nobody prowling the streets. But we’ve seen Misha go to the ruin of the Foaming Mug. At night. And folk are knocking late at the Golden Grain. They press their fingers to their lips. Like this. It smacks of a cult. Perhaps the followers of Nephthys are up to their old tricks again?”
“Perhaps. Nephthys… the Whispered One. Yes, perhaps. But don’t rule old Ramne out. He’s a strange one. Oh, there goes Bones again. Look, you’d better go check there’s no one lurking.”
The two half-elves slink downstairs, only to find – to their great surprise – a kenku in a wizard’s hat, noisily brushing himself off in the hallway.
“Oh! Hello. This must look bad, I’m sure. Yes, I’m sure it must. I’m awfully sorry to intrude. I mean, I’m not intruding. I mean, well I am intruding. But I’m not an intru-der. Well, I suppose I am an intruder. But the nice kind of intruder, if you follow me. I’m not here to make any trouble. You see, your dog took a disliking to me, and I had to let myself in or get savaged to death. And getting savaged to death wasn’t really the way I’d envisaged my evening going, you see, so I let myself in. And, well – here I am. Zimlok the Lightbringer, at your service.”
And Zimlok folds into a deep bow, doffing his hat, and wondering where in Seven Heavens that bat got to.
The half-elves stand there gawping for a few moments, not quite believing their eyes, as Zimlok continues to prattle on, before one finds the wherewithal to call up to the mayor.
“Ormond! You’d better get down here! There’s a funny-looking bird in your parlour.”
Zimlok looks around in confusion before realising with a forlorn sigh that the half-elf must be referring to him.
Descending the stairs in dressing gown and slippers comes a portly man who looks as though he was once made of sterner stuff. There are scars on his balding scalp and across his cheek, and his broad arms and barrel chest are not those of a man who has lived a life of luxury.
“What is the meaning of this?” he demands.
“Well, I was just explaining to these fine gentlemen here that I got into a little predicament with your guard dog, and had to let myself in,” says Zimlok, offering the mayor his most charming and deferential smile. “My name is Zimlok the Lightbringer. Perhaps you have heard of me?”
Three blank-eyed expressions suggest otherwise.
“Ahem, well, anyway, I and my associates have been visiting your fine town, and we discovered something that we thought most urgent, something you ought to know right away.”
Ormond looks at him expectantly.
“Sir,” pronounces Zimlok importantly. “There are vagabonds lose in your town. Thieves. Night owls. Ne’er-do-wells. We chased them into the lake.”
“We?”
“Hi there,” says Viper, turning into quasit-form and dropping down from a chandelier to lay languorously across Zimlok’s brim.
“Good gracious!”
“Hi,” says Haji Baba, stepping out from the shadows as she morphs back into hobbit-form.
“Help!” comes a desperate voice from outside, followed by more angry barking and snarling.
The mayor scoots one of the half-elves off to investigate with an irritated gesture.
Shortly he returns: “Um. There’s an orc dangling from your bathroom window, mayor.”
Ormond sighs. “One of yours, too I suppose? Thought as much. Go get a stepladder.”
Soon Mherren steps in with the half-elf, scratching his neck and looking rather sheepish.
“Are there any more of you?” asks Ormond, exasperatedly.
Zimlok looks up and smiles weakly.
Another sigh. “Check the roof.”
*
A few minutes later they are all sat round in the mayor’s lounge in awkward silence. A single candle flickers and sputters. Ormond elects not to mention the open hatch, the mess of wet sand, and the soggy drain-water footprints across his plush Xiatianese carpet.
“Well? These – swimming vagabonds?” asks the mayor eventually, when it becomes apparent that Zimlok is not inclined to continue.
“That would be us, Ormond,” volunteers one of the half-elves, who has long, damp, fair hair tied in a topknot, and faintly sylvan features, with high cheek bones and slightly slanted eyes.
“You two… are the vagabonds, Llywillan?”
“I think so, sir, yes.”
“These people broke into our home and smashed all our windows, and then they chased us across town,” says the other.
“I see, Dorian. But, just to be clear, you two are the – vagabonds, in this scenario?”
“I believe that is what the birdman is trying to tell you, sir, yes.”
“Explain yourself, then, wizard. Give me a reason not to have you arrested and thrown in gaol right this instant.”
Zimlok’s beak works, but nothing comes out.
“We were following a lead given to us by Kilian Gade,” says Haji Baba. “We’re trying to get to the bottom of all the strange goings-on in this town. He said he’d seen two half-elves padding around suspiciously at night, so we thought they might be something to do with it. We didn’t know they were investigating things too.”
“You see, this whole thing has been a big misunderstanding. We thought you were the bad guys. And you thought we were the bad guys. It’s really very funny when you think about it,” says Mherren.
A pregnant pause.
Then Ormond bursts out laughing. And everybody else joins in. The dismal room is filled with mirthful hysterics.
“Well, that is a relief,” splutters Ormond finally. “I suppose you’d better tell us what you know.”
Lightstrike proudly thrusts at him the soggy letters he found at Llywillan’s and Dorian’s.
“Erm – those are ours,” says Dorian.
“So they are!”
“And that’s all you’ve found out?”
“We only just got here.”
“Well, at least we’re on the same page,” says the mayor, and bursts into fits of belly laughter again.
This time the accompanying mirth is of the polite variety.
“Look, here’s the thing,” he says when he has recovered himself. “Good people have gone missing. Some never return. Those that do are taciturn and aggressive. They keep themselves to themselves. Whole families, in some cases. Others have left out of fear, of their own accord. I’m at my wits end. Orlane is going to the dogs. Traders stay away. The crops have rotted. And there’s nothing I can do about it. There’s not a single damned clue, apart from what my two friends here have found, and that is precious little. I still say Ramne needs talking to, and so do the clerics at the Temple of Geb, much as it pains me to say it. There’s something happening at the Golden Grain, I’m sure. And at the Foaming Mug, too, by the sound of it. I’d appreciate any help you can give. There will be a reward in it for you if you can rid this town of its troubles. And I’m prepared to overlook your little – transgressions. Now I must retire to bed. We’ll talk more in the morning. At Kilian’s.”
*
Somewhere at the outskirts of Orlane, the undergrowth parts and four hyena-headed humanoids with white-painted faces peer down upon the sleeping town.
“You smell ‘em, boss?” asks one.
“I smell ‘em all right,” nods another, larger one. “I smell ‘em.”
*
Elsewhere, and at the same moment, more undergrowth parts and a half dozen pairs of violet Elven eyes look across at the outlying farmsteads of Orlane.
“Are they here, Malice?” whispers one from beneath a black hood.
“Yes…” says the one named Malice, a wicked smile spreading across her shadowed face. “I do believe they are…”
*
And padding amongst the crooked gravestones of Orlane’s cemetery, another, solitary humanoid figure moves catlike and silent. It pauses. Sniffs the air. And purrs a satisfied purr…
*
The next morning our companions awaken after a sound night’s rest at the Sleeping Serpent. Zimlok is busy dry-heaving into a bucket.
“There was definitely something in that salad,” he groans miserably.
“Well, my pie was lovely,” says Mherren.
Zimlok is about to reply, when the bucket calls to him again.
They go to wake Jo’deh and Zellingar, who have taken separate rooms. Jo’deh can be heard snoring soundly, and doesn’t stir when they knock, so they decide to let him be. But there is only silence from Zellingar’s. Concerned, they enter to find his bed in disarray and the window flung wide open. Zimlok, still feeling rather queasy, tries a sending spell, but there is no answer. Perhaps it is due to his delicate condition, but another surge of wild magic suddenly courses through him.
“You’re looking particularly dapper today,” says Haji Baba, taking a second glance at the wizard.
“Oh, am I?” says Zimlok, his belly gurgling uncomfortably. “Thanks.” And he flashes her a glinting smile so charismatic that Haji Baba almost begins to see why some people like him.
Almost.
*
They head down to Kilian’s to meet the mayor and the elves, and to pick up their flail snail shell shields. And very fine they are too, riveted and bordered with gleaming Elven steel. The most beautiful flail snail shell shields you’ve ever seen. Not that you’ve probably seen many flail snail shell shields, if you’ve even seen one flail snail shell shield. But you haven’t, because these flail snail shell shields are one of a kind. Or rather, four of a kind. Four fantastically flashy flail snail shell shields, shuitable for the very bravesht of heroesh.
Our noble Fellowship immediately set about putting them to the test. Zimlok summons a magic stone and pitches it baseball-style at Lightstrike. It strikes the very centre of the shield, whose psychedelic colours shimmer mesmerizingly on impact, and the stone comes racing back towards Zimlok, clonking him square between the eyes and nearly knocking him out cold.
As his eyes cross and his vision blurs he sees two little people circling round his head, tweeting.
“Well, they work,” says Haji Baba.
“Ahem.” Mayor Ormond clears his throat from inside Kilian’s shop. “If you’ve quite finished…?”
*
Will our heroic Fellowship be able to solve the dark riddle of Orlane?
Who stalks them from the wilderness?
And will any of this lead them any closer to finding the elusive Sword of Air?
Find out in the next darkly enticing episode of…
The Sword of Air
*
Babs’ Drugstore Supplies
Greater healing potion 2 doses. Imbibe. Heal 4d4 +4 hp. Superior healing potion 2 doses. Imbibe. Heal 8d4 +8 hp. Supreme healing potion 1 dose. Imbibe. Heal 10d4 +20 hp. Tincture of Mugwort, Aloe & Mistletoe 1 dose. Imbibe. Heal 6d4 +6 hp & gain temporary +1 STR bonus for 12 hours. Sage of the Gods 1 dose. Apply to eyes. Advantage on checks to detect illusions, shape-shifting, charm effects, or to determine creature type. Salve of Fire Resistance 1 dose. Apply to skin. Salve absorbs 10d10 hp fire damage before wearing off. Washes off in water. Salve of Fortifying 1 dose. Apply to skin. Hardens the skin to grant resistance to piercing and slashing damage (i.e. half damage). Potion of Loosening 1 dose. Splash over 10’ sq. area. Webs dissolve. Knots unravel. Chains, straps and other restraints untie and fall off. Entangling or restraining spells fail, and non-magical doors unlock. Root of Elasticity 1 dose. Ingest. Your body and gear becomes a single gelatinous mass. You can elect to elasticise all or part of your body, such as a limb. Examples: You can flatten and stretch up to 3x your normal length; you can pour through keyholes or slide under doors; you can make mêlée attacks at a 15’ range.Items
4 flail snail shell shields +2 AC bonus when carrying (prohibits use of two-handed weapons -1 penalty to Stealth checks (due to iridescent shimmer). Spell attacks vs. shield bearer are at Disadvantage. Shield bearer saves vs. spells at Advantage. If a magical attack misses or the bearer saves, roll 1d6: 1-2: Single-target spells are reflected on caster using caster’s stats. Multi-target or AoE spells fail. 3-4: No effect. 5-6: Creatures within 30’ (including shield bearer) roll DC 15 CON save or suffer 1d6 force damage (a successful save halves damage). Horned great helm +1 AC Temple sword 1d10 + STR slashing damage Hempen Rope 2 lengths of 50’ Dry Rations 12 portions Quarrels 20 Arrows 20Experience
Investigations 400 TOTAL per player 100You have been watching…
(in order of appearance)
Haji Baba the grand
Played by Aneta Lincova
Lightstrike the Epic
Played by Zachary Linc-Kelsall
Mherren the Malevolent
Played by Alex Linc-Kelsall
Zimlok the Lightbringer
Played by Dan Kelsall
…And Literally Everyone else in the World
Played by G Pops, AKA The Dungeon Master
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