Episode 22 - Tales of the Deep Dark

Sword of Air

Episode XXII

Tales of the Deep Dark

As night draws in our friends hear the screech of an eagle overhead, and Haji Baba feels the runes upon her forehead glowing. In the space before her there materialises a semi-translucent scroll that contains Arianne’s report to Sumnes Horineth. It reads:
Alas, there is no trace of Elovyn; only sightings of Grimlocks in the Galentaur at night. Beware these creatures: they are neither cunning nor strong, and they are blind,but they compensate for this with supernatural hearing and smell, and can camouflage themselves well against stone.
The runic sigil fades upon Haji Baba’s head as the magical scroll crumbles to dust. Disappointed to learn nothing of the missing priest, the companions return to the Summer Palace to rest and prepare their spells for the adventure ahead.
After some investigation, Lightstrike confirms that the ring he took from the assassin in The Veil is indeed a ring of water walking. Intrigued, Zimlok spends time examining the ring they found in the Old Margreve and concludes triumphantly that it is a ring of pass without trace, a Druidic spell that will cloak them in shadows and muffle their footsteps should they need to remain stealthy.
And so, our heroes retire to their luxuriant beds, and all spend a restful night – all, that is, save Mherren, who tosses and turns in cold sweats as Demogorgon visits him again in his dreams.
“Mherren Halfblood,” the Demon snarls, some degree of urgency in his unnatural voice. “Bring me the Shaghaspondium, which was lost to me so long ago! We must keep it from Orcus! He seeks it – I know it! Should he find it he can prevent my ever returning to the mortal realm to claim my rightful place as Demon Lord of Mortal Souls! Worse still, he could use it himself to manifest in Yore and once more overrun the lands with his Armies of Undead!”
“Erm, okay,” agrees Mherren, and in his dream his voice seems timid and childlike before this flame-eyed, two-headed, tentacle-armed, gargantuan bestial horror. “Um… so I was wondering, er, where is it, exactly?”
“That is precisely the quest I have tasked you with, Warlock!” roars Demogorgon. “Find it!” And he recedes in a roiling cloud of black smoke, as Mherren awakes with a jolt, pasty and breathless.

*

Having risen and eaten, the companions make their way back to Tavis’s smithy, where he is already toiling hard over the anvil.
“Ah, you have returned,” he smiles through a haze of steam. “I have had word from Queen Caerdonelle. If you still require the armour, I can let it go for three hundred gold.”
Mherren tries on the decorative breastplate and finds it to be a perfect fit. Well satisfied, he pays Tavis and the friends bid the blacksmith farewell and travel across the Yanta Silme to the Sylvan Port on Tol Laire. Haji Baba unfurls the folding boat, and all are surprised when Lightstrike, itching to test his ring of water walking, pads out across the surface of the water in leopard form with a rope between his teeth, and proceeds to tow them across the bay to the small island of Tol Dru. Local street artists simultaneously swivel their easels with coos of wonder, ripping down their canvases for fresh ones and hurriedly sketching the bizarre sight of a water-walking leopard drawing a rowing boat behind it.
Tol Dru is a verdant, conical isle, sparsely inhabited by swarthy, tattooed Elves who closely resemble the Kagonesti of the North. They pay the Fellowship little attention, variously scrubbing and wringing out washing or preparing simple meals as the four friends make their way to a humble but pristine temple at the top of the rise. Within its cool interior they find a Wild Elf, robed in forest colours, who is cleaning and arranging incense upon her altar. She turns to the newcomers and introduces herself as Qai-letha, High Druid of the Wild Isle.
“We are guests of the Summer King,” says Lightstrike. “When we spoke with Her Majesty the Queen, she told us we could find Elves of Kagonost upon this island. We seek an Elf by the name of Tanueviel. Do you know her?”
The Druid looks pensive. “The name is familiar to me,” she says, and calls out to another Elf, who is busy in the shadows of an adjoining room. “Ashari, I wonder if you can spark my ailing memory? Where have I heard the name Tanueviel before?”
This other Elf, who is dressed in similar robes, carries an armful of parchment scrolls, and somehow has a vaguely familiar appearance, suddenly drops her burden and turns pale with shock. Her mouth gapes and her eyes widen as scrolls roll in disarray at her feet.
Eventually she finds her voice: “That is the name of my sister! I have not seen her in decades. I was brought to Qualimor as a young girl when I showed promise as a mage, and I have not seen my sister since then.
“We are here as envoys for the Kagonesti, but in truth our communications are sporadic at best. The Wild Elves of Bor Nyster are reclusive and cagey, even with the Moon Elves here in the Galentaur.”
“Could you get a message to her for us?” asks Lightstrike (who has reverted from beast-form). “We would dearly love to see her again, and her skills as an archer and tracker would benefit us greatly. Could you send as eagle?”
“I will arrange this,” Ashari assures him. “Return in a few days’ time to see if there is word.”
The adventurers thank the two Elves for their help and proceed by leopard-power to the dark maw of the Durmarthgrod, a vast cavern that recedes into blackness and leads down into the depths of the Underdark.
Upon the rocky shore and nestled up defensively against the vertical wall of the Pel Lammothramba is the hulking, dour tower of Barad Aegtûl. Here they are greeted by grim-faced, heavily armoured Elves who admit them to the tower after they speak the name of Enna Nailo, the Deep Purger of whom the Queen had spoken.
The guardsmen escort the Fellowship through the corridors of the tower and knock briskly upon a heavy oak door, which creaks open to reveal a stocky Halfling woman with braided fair hair, a bodice of banded mail and a long dagger sheathed at her hip. She invites the friends inside and beckons them to sit, herself taking a seat upon the floor, where she begins to expertly wrap the handle of her notched battle axe with fresh leather strapping.
“Yes, I can tell you something of the Illithid,” says Enna when the companions elucidate their purpose. “Blessedly, we have not had to deal with their kind for many years, but I have seen them with my own eyes – and fought them.
“They are truly creatures of horror – mauve-skinned, robed levitators with four squid-like tentacles, rumpled, brain-like craniums and circular fanged mouths like lampreys’. They are physically weak, but intelligent and manipulative. They do not eat food as we do, but instead sustain themselves on the thoughts and mental energies of others. They communicate telepathically, and they dominate and enthrall other species with their psionics, using them to their own evil ends.”
“We saw Grimlocks in the forest,” says Lightstrike. “And a Duergar, who unleashed a brain pig upon us that devoured my friends’ minds.”
“These are grave tidings,” replies Enna, her brow furrowing. “Of late we have had only a few raids from The Deeps. The Purgers have sighted few Duergar patrols and we have seen nothing of the Drow – only a few bands of Grimlocks scavenging in the forest above. We thought perhaps they had retreated deeper underground, or they had some kind of internal struggle to deal with that took their attentions from Qualimor. But if Illithid are present in the Deep Dark once more, then that is…”
She trails off, fingering the shaft of her axe distractedly.
“What more can you tell us?” demands Haji Baba, her growing trepidation eclipsing her manners.
“Do they use magic? How did you escape with your life? Could you draw us a map?”
Enna stirs from her reverie. “I fear a map would not help you much. There are many twists and turns in the passageways in the Underdark. You would do better to follow your senses – and keep them sharp. I would not head down Cirith Lumbule, Pennalag or Undulavi, either. That would be many more miles of travel beneath the earth, and some of the descents are long and difficult. There is a ravine to the north-east. You can find access through some caves at its base, if you look hard enough.
“As for the Illithid – they deplore magic; they think it – uncouth. I myself escaped through a combination of luck and, I suspect, my being unusually stubborn of mind. Perhaps the gods were smiling on me? I know not. But I found a squeeze hole down which to flee. They could not, or would not, follow me. My comrades were not so lucky. I suspect they are now either brainless husks, or Mind Flayers themselves, for it is told that the Illithid multiply by placing leech-like parasitic tadpoles in the nose, ears or eyes of their victims, which devour their brains from the inside and attach to their brain stem. Eventually the unfortunate soul is transformed into a new Illithid, and so the cycle of horror continues.
“They live in complex, hive-like structures, and are beholden to an Elder Brain, which is the central hub of their network of minds. These Elder Brains are powerful, I must warn you. I would not dare go near one even with a small army of Elves. Their psionics are lethal, and even more so from within their own lairs. Tread carefully, if go you must.
“Occasionally a renegade Illithid is produced that is not shackled so tightly to the Elder Brain, but this is unusual. These renegades tend to be more powerful than their brethren, and strike off on their own to found a new hive. There is not much more I can tell you. Guard your minds. Be brave and strong of will. But stay wise – know when it is prudent to hold back, or to retreat. I hope you find this priest and survive to tell the tale. May the Twins speed you to a safe conclusion, or if not, then to a merciful end.”
She shakes the companions grimly by the hands, and gifts them a pouch inscribed with arcane Elvish runes. “This is a self-replenishing pouch of dust of tracelessness,” she says. “It will disguise your trail in the wilderness, and will erase all sign of your passing from caverns and interiors by making them appear derelict, dusty and undisturbed. Take these also: a potent healing potion, and an anti-inflammatory ointment fortified with Druidic magic called Blue Aloe.”
She folds them into the heroes’ hands and gives them a long, sad look as they turn and leave. They are escorted back to their boat, where Lightstrike transmogrifies again and tows them to the eerie Port of Spirits on Tol Hrivé, where they moor their craft and journey through silent cemeteries of fallen Elves to the Winter Palace. There they are met by a tall, solemn, dusky Elf in plate armour and chain mail, a long sword in a scabbard at her side.
“I am Meriel Quaremar, the High Fist of Qualimor,” she says. “The Queen has bid me ready your horses. This way, if you will.”
As they follow her to the royal stables, Meriel speaks of the King. “He should be readying himself for the Reign of Winter,” she tells them. “He has preparations to make for his spirit walk to the First World, where he gathers himself upon the Inner Plane of the Feywild. But the Queen’s Mummer reports that the King is – distracted. He spends all his time locked inside his chambers. Gilmoras’s spies – the King’s servants – say that he is besotted with something – an artifact of some kind. This is most unsettling news.”
“Is it the Bloodstone that we gave him?” asks Lightstrike.
“I believe that the Shadowmancers of Barad Quali have the Stone of Orcus,” says Meriel. “No, I believe it is something else, although I know not what.”
“And what of the Red Mask who tried to assassinate Caerdonelle?” inquires Mherren.
“Did you extract any information from her?” echoes Haji Baba.
“Unfortunately, we did not. She was found dead in her cell this morning. No sign of exterior wounds. No trace of poison. Our physicians suspect there was some kind of arcane binding upon her heart that triggered upon her incarceration, but they cannot be sure.”
Arriving at the stables, Meriel presents the Fellowship with their steeds. There is a black stallion called Lia for Mherren, a sleek, white horse for Lightstrike called Sariel, a dun-coloured pony called Sable for Haji Baba, and a glum-looking mare called Mabel for Zimlok.
“Mabel can be temperamental, but she is loyal once she gets to know you,” reassures the Fist.
She offers our heroes a ship to carry them to the Thorduin, but they graciously decline, preferring instead to make the folding boat into a larger sailing craft and to travel once more by leopard-power across the Aeardolen. They make their way up the steep, slippery and treacherous, rough-cut staircase behind the torrent of the Lanthir Rhûn, and follow the path beside the river, past the Isle of Ngwan that echoes with the howls of shadowy wolves – and possibly worse – and out into the gloomy, overcast skies above the Galentaur.
Mounting their horses, they find a little-used trail that leads north and east, but soon it is obscured by heavy rains. Lightstrike studies closely the faint clues of trodden blades of grass and disturbed soil, and leads them onward. His notion is sound, for after a few hours they arrive at a great cleft in the earth, a hundred metres across and with precipitous edges that drop away into unfathomable darkness. Following its edge to the east, they look for a likely route down, but there is none forthcoming.
All of a sudden, a great rumbling sound booms through the forest, like the cracking of heavy branches tinged with an unearthly, distressed, groaning wail. Lightstrike goes to investigate, and is most perturbed when the very tree he is peering around uproots itself and he is thrown to the ground a few metres away. The rumbling was not coming through the trees, but from the tree itself! He can make out features, like a crude face, but its bark looks decidedly unhealthy, and oozes a putrid yellow sap-like substance from pustules that have cracked and infected its skin and sprouted from it unsightly clumps of yellow, parasitic fungi.
Just as the Rogue is about to cheerfully introduce himself, the immense Treant bends its great trunk and pummels the ground in front of him with its heavy, bough-like arms, leaning in close and parting Lightstrike’s hair as it opens its mouth wide and bellows in his face.
Lightstrike gulps, and backs nervously away on all fours. “Er, guys,” he whispers. “I thought Ents were supposed to be friendly…?”