Episode 26 - The Shademurk

General Summary

Episode XXVI

Ye Shademurk

A True Faerie Tale Recounting the Daring Exploits of Ki-Shun & Lightstrike the Epic

A Sword of Air Side-Quest

BY ALEX, ZACH & G POPS

(An Interlude)

Part 1

Jailbreak!

As Eberneb and his patrol of Svirfneblin escort Haji Baba and Zimlok to the topmost reaches of the Neblinhala crevasse for an audience with Chief Slibbenorbin, Mherren and Lightstrike are roughly gnomehandled to the Lockup at the end of the vertiginous Pickersbridge. The Deep Gnomes take Mherren to the deeper reaches of the prison, where perhaps the cells are more secure, and whence can be barely heard the plaintive moans of the incarcerated.
Lightstrike, meanwhile, is prodded down a side passage and, after being rudely stripped of his possessions, is shoved into a prison cell within a small room guarded by two ugly-looking warders, who are busy playing a card game and barely look up to acknowledge their new prisoner. There are only two cells in this chamber, and the only light source comes from a candle flickering upon the table at which the warders sit. Lightstrike sees his things being bundled into a burlap sack and tossed into the corner next to the guards.
“What are you in here for?”
The voice comes from the shadows at the back of the cell. Then a long, pinkish snout, then two beady eyes and a horned, scaly head.
“I’m accused of tomb raiding, I think. Or graverobbing, or something. I’m innocent, of course.”
“Of course.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m Ki-Shun. I wandered into these caverns by mistake, thinking them to be the way into the Morgrod of Qualimor. But I was ambushed and surrounded by a gang of these little men,” – he nods towards the guards – “… and brought here. They’ve never seen a Dragonborn before, I suspect. I think my appearance unnerved them. Folk tend to be scared of what they don’t know.”
“I’ve been to Qualimor! I know the way!” exclaims Lightstrike. “I even know the King! And the Queen! Why were you going there?”
“I’ve journey across continents to get here, all the way from Draconia, far to the south and east. I’m a monk, dedicated to Bahamut, the Great Dragon, a wise and powerful god who sent me on a quest to find the legendary Brambleblade.” “Brambleblade?”
“It’s an ancient Elven sword that the Elves used to drive Dragons out of their realms, many Elf-generations ago. That’s thousands of years ago! Bahamut is fearful that Tiamat, Goddess of Evil Wyrms, is plotting to return from her banishment to this world. The Brambleblade could help stop her in her tracks, for it is a powerful dragonbane sword. My research has led me to believe it is hidden in the Feywild, guarded by allies of the Elves, and so I need to consult with the Elves of Qualimor or Kagonost, persuade them of the righteousness of my mission, and find a way to that mystical realm so I can recover the Brambleblade and take it back to Draconia. As you can imagine, being holed up here is quite a nuisance! And what about you, my feline friend?”
“I’m Lightstrike! I’m here with my friends. We’ve tracked a Sun Priest called Elovyn Sorrowsong into these under-realms. We want to rescue her and find out what she knows about a magical weapon. You see, we’re searching for a legendary sword, too, only ours is called the Sword of Air. The witch, Baba Yaga, told us to find it and use it in some way to defeat a mysterious evil that seems to be growing in Yore, poisoning the forests and turning its people to demon worship and madness…”
Just then, the two cellmates become aware of another presence behind them. Turning, they see a raggedy Svirfneblin who has emerged from the back of the adjoining cell, and who is listening intently to their conversation from behind the bars. He is bald, his scalp tattooed, and a short, pointy white beard sprouts from his chin.
“I can get you to the Feywild,” he says. “If you can help me get out of here.”
Ki-Shun and Lightstrike look around simultaneously. “Who are you?” they ask in unison.
“My name is Knobberknocker. I’m from the Bottombottoms here in the Neblinhala – Ironhackers Clan. The lowest of the low, it would seem. I’m a mage – a talented illusionist and enchanter, even if I do say so myself – but Slibbenorbin and the Silverpickers don’t like magic-users. Heathens!” He spits on his cell floor in disgust. “They don’t understand my art. You see,” – he flashes a devious grin at Ki-Shun – “I’m just like you, in many ways: a victim of ignorance and prejudice. Now – can you get us out of here?”
Needing no further encouragement, Lightstrike has already conjured his invisible mage hand and taps one of the warders on the shoulder with it.
“What w’that?” says the guard, looking round, confused.
“Nuthin’. Now, c’mon, stop delaying. I said show yer hand.”
“There it is again! Summit just tapped me on me shoulder, I swear it!”
“There’s nuthin’ there. Now, show us yer hand! You’re just tryin’ to get me to look away, ain’tcha, so as you can switch yer cards.”
“You callin’ me a liar?”
“I’m callin’ you a cheat.”
“Cheat, is it?”
“Yeah, you’re a cheat!”
“Why, you…!”
The card game dissolves into a frantic scuffle, playing cards flying, as Lightstrike’s mage hand quietly lifts his and Ki-Shun’s possessions from where they were stowed in the corner. Meanwhile, Ki-Shun is busy breathing a viscous, black acid over the prison bars that separate the two cells. Next, he sets to work on the cell door as Knobberknocker steps through and Lightstrike gathers his things.
Distracted, the guards don’t notice the prison break until it’s too late. One of Lightstrike’s arrows lodges in the first warder’s thigh, as Ki-Shun leaps forward and pounds the other with a flurry of fists.
“Aiieeee! Hwaaah!” A well-aimed roundhouse kick knocks the guard out cold. Knobberknocker leaps on to the back of the first guard and wraps his arm around his neck to choke him. Ki-Shun strides forward and nuts the grappled guard square in the noggin. The guard slumps to the ground, unconscious.
“Quickly, now! Follow me!” whispers Knobberknocker. “We go down to the Ghute!” “To the what, now?” says Lightstrike.
“Wait. We should disguise ourselves first,” says Ki-Shun.
“Here!” Lightstrike throws him his hat of disguise, and within moments Ki-Shun resembles a nondescript, if slightly tall and scaly, Svirfneblin.
Lightstrike casts disguise self on himself, and soon they are scurrying across narrow rope bridges and down spiral staircases through the Neblinhala, Lightstrike quite forgetting about the predicament of his companion, Mherren, back in the Lockup.
At a steeply inclined, reinforced bridge Knobberknocker calls the Runaway, they pause in the shadows for a few moments as a group of Gnomish miners struggle to hold back a cart brimming with rough-hewn, gleaming stone.
Then on again, down, down through the bustling Topbottoms district and weaving through the labyrinthine Bottombottoms, over two more precarious bridges that resound with the hammers and furnaces of a nearby foundry, until finally they arrive at a deserted area at the bottom of the Neblinhala, where the cleft narrows like a funnel and a sturdy iron chain stretches taut across its width. From the centre of this chain another heavy chain hangs down, disappearing into the yawning darkness far below.
“Here we are!” says Knobberknocker, flashing another ambiguous grin. “The Ghute! This is where all the city’s waste gets taken to be recycled and brought back up as fuel for the furnaces and fertiliser for the mushroom caverns.
Before the companions can ask what he means by “recycled”, Knobberknocker is shinning nimbly along the chain and clambering down into the impenetrable gloom below. Dragonborn and Tabaxi exchange quizzical looks. Then, shrugging, Lightstrike follows suit. Confident in his monk’s acrobatic skills, Ki-Shun takes a flying leap for the vertical chain. Over-confident, as it turns out.
“Oof!” he wheezes, as he slams painfully into the chain and tumbles down, almost knocking Lightstrike off too as he plummets past him, and managing to arrest his fall a little with his slow fall monk’s skill. With lightning reactions, Lightstrike sticks out a hand and catches Ki-Shun by the forearm – just.
“Thanks,” says the Dragonborn sheepishly as Lightstrike heaves him to safety. Lightstrike just grins, and they shin down the rest of the way, only to find that the chain ends in mid-air.
“Jump! It’s not far!” comes the voice of Knobberknocker, some way below. Taking a leap of faith into the gloom, the two adventurers let go…
… And land inelegantly in a huge, foul-smelling compost heap. They wade through with stumbling steps, getting themselves caked in stinking manure and garbage, following Knobberknocker’s calls and eventually clambering down to join the Gnome.
“This way! C’mon!” he says.
Ki-Shun, a skilled Monk of the Way of the Elements, summons a flame to guide their way, and is surprised to see that Knobberknocker is completely clean, unstained by the refuse. If he’d looked behind just then, he might have been even more surprised to see an immense Otyugh looming behind him and studying them closely with its tentacle-like eye stalk.
On they run, into a narrow, low tunnel through which Ki-Shun and Lightstrike have to duck in places to avoid bashing their heads on stalactites. The air is hot and close down here, and Ki-Shun conjures a cool breeze to stop them from overheating. The tunnel twists and turns, and eventually opens out into a large cavern with a stream running through it and a large, glistening pool at its centre. Knobberknocker is standing at the edge of the pool, swaying slightly, eyes closed, wafting his hands around and muttering under his breath. The shimmering waters begin to swirl, turning faster and faster until they become a spiralling whirlpool. As the waters begin to spin impossibly fast, and strange colours begin to permeate the growing vortex, Knobberknocker leaps from the edge and swan-dives in.
“Follow meeeeee!”
The two heroes shrug to each other and do as he says. The power of the whirlpool is immense, sucking them helplessly downwards, way deeper than they had imagined the pool to be. Just as they are running out of breath and panic is rising, their chests almost bursting, being pulled down deeper, ever deeper, they break surface and thankfully pull in great lungfuls of fresh air. How did they get to the surface?
But the question soon vanishes from their minds, as they take in their new surroundings. They are no longer in a cave, but a beautiful, verdant forest of dense undergrowth and twisting trees. It is dusk, the sun beginning to set over the leafy canopy, silhouetting a cacophony of flitting birds and large, unfamiliar, chirping insects. Huge, vivid flowers sprout from the bushes, their petals forming wonderful, geometric fractal patterns; strange fruits hang from branches; and unseen creatures silently disturb the thick vegetation all around them.
“Here we are!” says Knobberknocker from the side of the pool, his feet splashing in the water and his smile somewhere between triumph and malignance. “The Feywild!” “Cooooh!” sigh Ki-Shun and Lightstrike together as they doggy-paddle to shore, oblivious to the hint of malevolence in their guide’s unreadable expression.
“In some ways this plane mirrors our own,” he says. “It overlays it, if you will, as does the Shadowfell. But where the Shadow Plane is bleak and colourless, the Feywild is vibrant and teeming. But beware, it is not exactly benevolent. The fey who inhabit the Plane of Faerie are ignorant of mortal notions of morals, goodness or justice. They are curious and playful at best, and cruel and capricious at their worst. Fare thee well! I thank you for your kindness in releasing me from imprisonment. I go now to rescue your companions, and to deliver to Slibbenorbin what he has coming…”
And Knobberknocker dives back into the pool, which begins to swirl madly like the one in the cave.
“But… how will we know where to go?” calls Lightstrike to the receding bald head.
“Follow the setting sun! This place has a curious way of knowing!” calls back the Svirfneblin, before diving under and vanishing from sight with plosh.
Ki-Shun and Lightstrike exchange uneasy glances, and climb to their feet. They are happy to note that the clear water has cleaned the grime from their clothes and bodies.
In fact, they feel strangely fresh and invigorated. They turn towards the amber sun and begin to make their way into the dense forest. As they tread, a vague path is discernible before them, although they notice that if they stray away from the direction of the sun by even a few steps, the path soon vanishes, and they are surrounded by virtually impassable brambles and intertwining vines. There looks to be points of light hovering like fireflies amidst the vegetation, which are oddly compelling, but they dare not venture further from their course. So onward they continue, for what seems like hours, deeper and deeper into this strange fey forest so full of life and mystery…

Part 2

Dances with Wolf

After some indeterminate length of time, an odd and unexpected noise reaches Lightstrike’s acute hearing. It is the sound of music. The jolly refrains of drums, flute and fiddle. And it is strangely infectious. It grows louder as they proceed, and KiShun begins to nod his head and tap his huge taloned feet in time with the upbeat rhythms. Then, they part the undergrowth and see before them a most curious sight.
In the middle of a clearing, three ghostly instruments hover above the ground. They are the source of this delightful music, for certain, and yet nobody appears to be playing them. Drumsticks beat, a bow caresses the viola’s strings, and the flute pipes out an impossibly catchy melody – but there is not a musician in sight.
Around the instruments are two figures, dancing in incessant circles, twirling round and round upon a path of what look like white pebbles or twigs. One is humanoid, with goat-like legs and curving horns upon his head. The other is a wolf, dancing upon his hind legs. The two dancers jig around with enthusiastic fervour, around and around, sometimes linking arms and spinning around each other, other times leaping and waltzing and pirouetting with great verve and agility.
Before Lightstrike can stop him, Ki-Shun pushes through the bushes and, following an irresistible urge, joins in with the dance. Round and round he goes! Oh, he’s never had such fun! “I’ve never had such fun!” he calls out to Lightstrike, who looks on with horror as he notices the unmistakable look of distraught desperation behind the apparently gleeful smiles of the two dancers. And those aren’t stones and twigs on the floor… they’re bones!
But he too is feeling the beguiling pulse of the music, drawing him in, enticing him with its mesmerising rhythms. He remembers a trick he saw Haji Baba use once, and stuffs his socks in his ears. It’s not perfect, but it muffles the music enough that he can resist – for now. He nocks an arrow and fires at the drum. His aim is true and it bursts the drumskin, silencing the beat. The ghostly drum dissipates like a vapour, swirls around for a moment or two, but then begins to coalesce once more. Realising there isn’t much time, he runs into the clearing, slicing the fiddle’s strings with his dagger and jamming its hilt into the end of the flute.
Silence. Ki-Shun snaps out of his reverie, a look of dumb confusion on his face. The two dancers collapse to the ground, unconscious, and the two heroes haul them off into the forest before the instruments can reform and start up their merry magical music once more.
Ki-Shun manages to revive the satyr with some healing salves.
“Oh! Thank goodness! Thank you! Thank you!” says the satyr after a few blinking moments regaining his senses. “I thought we were going to die dancing!”
“What was that?” asks Lightstrike.
“A pixie trap! A Dance of Death! They lay such evil traps for their own amusement, the horrid little creatures!”
“But I thought pixies were nice?”
“Hah! Not from round here, are you? Pixies are nasty, frivolous little pranksters with no regard for the suffering they cause. They’re baby-stealers and murderers! They turn good people to stone and enchant others with their beauty or their music before leading them willingly to their deaths… just for their own entertainment!” He shouts this last accusingly into the impassive forest, before collapsing into sobs.
“Do you know anything about an Elven sword hidden in the forest?” asks Ki-Shun hopefully.
“I fear I do not,” says the satyr sadly. “But there is a great tree at the heart of the Feywild. It sustains the whole forest, weaving its fey magic. The Dryad who protects the tree knows many secrets, so they say. Perhaps that would be a place to start?” “Which way is it?” asks Lightstrike.
The satyr chuckles. “Follow the setting sun,” he laughs. “It is the only path that mortals like you can perceive!” As he climbs unsteadily to his feet and scoops up the still-unconscious wolf in his arms, he says: “I must away to help my friend here. I wish you well on your journey!”
And he trots away, leaving the monk and the rogue blinking into the still-setting sun and realising that, although they have been travelling for hours, no time at all seems to have passed, for the sun is no lower in the sky than it was when they set out. Once again, they shrug to each other and set off into the eternal twilight of the Feywild…

Part 3

Swamp Hag

After some time – or no time at all – the verdant forest begins to give way to marsh, through which it becomes increasingly difficult to pick their way. The brackish waters through which they splash grow deeper and more viscous, turning black and oily and insulting their nostrils with a terrible stench of rot and stagnancy. The plants around them look increasingly sorry and limp, and the trees look more and more gnarled and twisted. Our heroes begin to feel weary and decide to stop for a short rest.
When they set out again, they realise the trail has gone and they are lost. The birds are gone, and the only sound is the gurgling bog and the incessant chirping of hidden crickets. The setting sun has been obscured by a thick, grey mist, and they realise they are lost in this drab and seemingly endless murk.
“I have an idea!” exclaims Lightstrike, and he nimbly shins up a tree to get a look over the canopy. Sure enough, the sun is veiled in fog, but a few miles in the distance he can see an enormous, bare-branched oak towering over the rest of the forest like a grim shepherd over his sheep. It is a dark presence, more than two hundred feet tall, its trunk perhaps forty feet across. This must be the tree the satyr spoke of! But whatever is it doing in this horrible swamp? It’s supposed to be the heart of the forest…
Lightstrike descends the tree and they decide to head towards the giant oak that he saw. They make their way with increasing difficulty through the goopy black ichor, finding it harder and harder to pull their feet from the sucking, thick, black mud, eventually deciding to take their chances swinging through the treetops. Ki-Shun has a couple of near-slips, but the firm-footed wereleopard darts from branch to branch with ease. Occasionally he climbs up above the canopy to make sure they’re still on the right path, and soon they are nearing their destination.
Then Ki-Shun spies a light glowing amidst the trees below. It is flickering like firelight, and as they get closer, they realise it is the light of a homely little cottage, nestled at the side of a stagnant, black pond. A few crows hop about on its ramshackle roof, and occasionally a shadow passes the lit window from within. They decide to investigate…
… As it turns out, not particularly subtly. KiShun hammers loudly on the door as Lightstrike hangs back in the shadows.
“Hello? Anybody in? Hello?” he clamours.
And the door creaks open, just a crack. A green-skinned face pokes around the door – the visage of a beautiful female with striking violet eyes and hair like fine seaweed strung with reeds. Her hands are delicate and slightly webbed.
“Can I… can I help you?” she asks nervously as she eyes over the large dragon-man standing before her.
“Well, I hope so,” says Ki-Shun. “My name is Ki-Shun. I’m from Draconia. Very pleased to meet you! Oh, and this is my companion, Lightstrike.”
“They call me ‘the Epic’,” says Lightstrike as he emerges from the shadows. “We’re looking for a magic sword. Have you seen one?”
“You’d best come in,” says the green woman, and opens the door with a welcoming gesture. “I am Anahita. Welcome to my humble dwelling.”
Inside is a homely little room with a log fire crackling cosily. She offers them comfortable seats and sets about making tea.
“There is a sword I have heard of,” she says as she bustles about clinking china cups and banging cupboards in the kitchen. “But not since the Shademurk took a hold of the forest…”
“Is that this horrid smelly bog we’re in?” asks Lightstrike.
“Yes, but it hasn’t always been like this,” says Anahita, passing him a cup of steaming tea. As her fingers brush his, Lightstrike is disturbed to notice the scratch of long fingernails and rough, gnarled hands against his skin, although he can see no long nails at the tips of Anahita’s soft fingers. He looks suspiciously at his tea and turns to warn Ki-Shun as Anahita scurries back to her kitchen.
But before he can open his mouth, a hideous hag appears out of thin air in front of Ki-Shun and takes a swipe at his neck with her wickedly curved, yellow claws! Ki-Shun throws up his hands in shock, just managing to block the strike in time, although the crone inflicts a nasty gash across his forearms.
“Anahita!” shouts the Dragonborn. “Where are you?”
But as Lightstrike looks into the hag’s eyes, and sees the same violet hue regarding him, realisation dawns.
“You are Anahita!”
“That is how I used to be!” cries the hag. “But this is what I am now!” And she launches another attack, this time against Lightstrike. But the arcane trickster is too quick for her, and dodges acrobatically out of her way.
“Was it the Shademurk that did this to you?” demands Ki-Shun.
“We can help you,” says Lightstrike, and a look of confusion momentarily crosses the grotesque, scowling face. But only for an instant, before Anahita leaps again at Lightstrike with her jagged, slashing claws. Again, he swerves out of danger, and persists: “We can help you. Please listen! We can help restore this place. Restore you to what you were. To what you should be.”
And Anahita’s will breaks. She collapses to the floor with a great, wracking sob.
“Oh, what have I become?” she wails. “It’s true! I used to be a water nymph, an immortal spirit of the Feywild. But then this terrible blight came, took hold of the Brambletree and spread its disease outward into the forest. Its malignant black ichor corrupted my heart and stripped me of my eternal life, transforming me into this wizened, hateful creature you see before you!”
“What is the source of this sickness?” asks Ki-Shun.
“Alas, I cannot say. But it has befouled all it touches. The immortal inhabitants of this realm have been touched by Death. They succumb to terrible diseases, or their spirits break, or their minds crack and they descend into madness. Eventually, they die. It won’t be long before I follow them, I’m sure. This fetid ooze – its source is the tree. We call it the Ichor Tree now. Outward it creeps, consuming the Feywild acre by acre, obscuring the eternal sun. Eventually it shall all be fallen to Shadow.”
“You say you know of a sword. Where is it?”
“It is hidden within the Ichor Tree. Or it was. It was protected by Prithvi, an Archfey whose soul was bound to the Brambletree. She was a wise and powerful Dryad – Steward of the Brambleblade and Guardian of the Feywild. She has guarded the Elven sword for millennia. It was entrusted to her by the Elves and she has kept it safe for them beneath the tree’s roots, lest dragons ever return to the Elven lands of Yore. But I have neither heard nor seen her since the Shadow came. What has become of her, I dare not surmise. She has either fled, or she has succumbed to the Murk like the rest.”
“We seek this blade you speak of,” says Ki-Shun. “When we find it, we will rid the Ichor Tree of its curse and return the Feywild from Shadow. This we promise, if you would only let us go unharmed.”
Anahita, grasping on to the glimmer of hope, nods weakly from the floor, and the two heroes leave her hovel and resume their journey to the heart of the Feywild…

Part 4

The Ichor Tree