by Daniel Heck
“If the battle standard is any indication, we’ll learn more in Sungaze than we ever could here,” you postulate. Bartleby nods.
You hustle back to the core of Whitetail. You arrange for the rental of horses, and memories resurface from the only time you have ever visited Sungaze. Buffeted by coastal winds and edged by a pristine pink-sand beach, it struck you as having more than earned its moniker. As you ride along the northwest trail the next morning, you recall even more:
Tourists of all races have morphed Sungaze into a cultural melting pot, yet it manages its traffic well, under the leadership of the half-elven mayoress Titania Vermouth. While you never met her directly, a speech of hers stirred within you a call to action, even as you knew and cared little about the topic (poverty among the savage races) beforehand. At the time, you overheard an observation that she rarely leaves the area, due to extensive involvement in the affairs of her people.
Yet, as the sun hits its highest point on your first day of travel, an ornate carriage approaches, manned by a thin gentleman in black and pulled by a single white horse; as it passes you think you see Vermouth herself sit within it. Neither reinsman nor occupant acknowledges you in any way; the lady, in particular, seems to stare slantwise toward the woods. By the time you have processed this, the carriage is already well on its way in the direction from whence you came.
You glance at the cleric. Bartleby seems to think nothing of it.
Suspicion crawls over you. Whatever the reason for travel, a small entourage usually accompanies important authority figures, if only for protection’s sake. Time, however, is of the essence, and Vermouth might not appreciate being questioned by someone whom, to her, would just be a random hotshot with some fancy armor.
What do you do?
We continue on our way to Sungaze.
We turn around and catch up with the carriage.
After you place the eight of clubs, Saul deals the Jack of clubs, thinks for a moment, and places it immediately below the three of spades. The grid now looks like this:
He then deals the four of hearts. Only two spots are of much help.
Where do you place the four of hearts?
To the left of the three.
To the right of the three.
You bellow, “We have reason to believe the church of Thomerion is up to no good. You see, we came from Whitetail, where…”
The gate guard cuts you off with a snap of his fingers and a glance at the tower guards, who nock arrows in their bows and fire. You fumble to ready your shield, but pain overtakes you as you realize that one such projectile now protrudes from your blood-stained armor. You failed to see any of it coming.
Glancing to your right as you fall to your knees, you note that Bartleby got off easy, with a shot to the skull. You keel over and look up one last time, as a pair of youths in black and red robes exchange nods with the guards and saunter past the gate toward you. You can only wonder how and when Sungaze fell to their power, as the taller of the two bends over, holds out his hands while muttering something incomprehensible, and puts you out of your misery with a shock of violet energy. Perhaps, however, as a newly recruited undead warrior, you can at least carry their battle standard in the end.
Cruel fate has taken your life. Rise again!
Go back to the previous choice, or…
Restart from the beginning.
“If Argent is anywhere nearby,” you shout, “It doesn’t matter how we get to him. Let me at it!”
You grip your axe in both hands and proceed to where the ladder is concealed. With three furious chops, you bash a huge gap in the wood, then kick the hanging chunk of door off of its only connected side and step inside the closet. You feed the ladder out into the open, where your companions begin to set it up, but hear the voice boom once again, “You do not pass!”
Everything fades to white.
I wonder what will happen next…
It is morning. The clouds continue to gather as you embark upon the final leg of your journey to the City of Storms, but so far they retain any precipitation. The winds are even calmer here than at home in Whitetail, and an eerie stillness settles over the wood.
“Where is this compound located?” you ask your party.
“A passageway leads to it,” Zander informs you, “from a wooded outcropping just east of town. We are to recognize it by a gigantic boulder of gray and green.”
You arch an eyebrow. “How do you know all this?”
Mikhail smirks. “The elven community has a wide network of connections.” Even given your puzzled stare, he does not say more.
Several more hours of travel pass in silence, until you enter the city itself, which strikes you as even more sparse and agrarian than you remembered. Considerable distance separates each dwelling, and some have fallen into relative disarray.
“Hark!” a hoarse voice rings from nowhere, startling you. You look up at a grand oak, and there, a wizened male elf leans upon the wooded girders of a two-room house. His many wrinkles, you’d approximate, belie just short of three centuries of hard-earned wisdom. He gazes down upon you with twinkling green eyes.
“Good day, stranger,” Zander calls in return.
The wise man raps his knuckles upon some tree bark with enthusiasm, and says, “Haven’t seen folk like you around here in quite some time… what be your business here?”
He seems innocent enough, you think. You say, “We seek the assistance of Demetrius Argent.”
“Ah ha!” says the wise man, stroking his bald chin, “A friend of mine, he is.”
Your eyes widen, as you feel your chances of discovering a cure for Fedwick brighten.
He continues, “I take it you require his assistance? Many people seek him for his knowledge.”
Zander speaks first, “We have two concerns, namely…”
“There is where you are at fault,” the man interrupts. Your face falls once more. “Not many know enough to come even this far in search of Demetrius Argent. In that I am impressed. But, I can tell you something about him you would never know, not until you reached the back of the compound in which he hides.”
You stand and wait, curious, for many moments. Bartleby clears his throat. Zander asks, “Ah… good sir, do you intend to share with us this supposedly valuable piece of information?”
“Supposedly?” the man adopts a look of genuine offense. “Not only is it truly valuable, but furthermore, one can expect to make at least a decent living guarding it.” He grins.
Mikhail rolls his eyes. Zander crosses his arms.
“We have gold,” you offer, excited.
Bartleby asks, “Is this necessary? Let’s move forward.”
The others’ stern gazes express agreement with the cleric.
“When it comes to saving Fedwick,” you bellow, “There is no price I would not pay!” You huff into your beard. After a moment, it sinks into you. You speak the truth. He is that important.
“Then,” says the old elf, “Make me an offer, young dwarf. But be warned, I am not cheap.”
What do you do?
I give in to my companions’ wishes.
I offer the old man five of my own gold pieces.
I try to persuade the others to pool their money.
Not one to be distracted by passersby, you quell your suspicions with the idea that even the busiest of mayors must have to meet with superiors every now and again.
“Staying focused on the task at hand…” you grumble to yourself.
“Pardon?” Bartleby asks.
You scratch your beard. “It is nothing…”
As the hours stretch onward, the number of travelers in either direction dwindles to near none. Once, a young man passes by in a hurry, stopping just long enough to cast a glance that implies he thinks you’re insane.
“Sir?” you shout, but he is gone.
Finally, you round the top of the last hill before the coast. Your position now affords a view of the majestic ocean, as well as of much of the
town of Sungaze, with no more than three-quarters of a mile to go before the front gates themselves.
The gates are shut tight, and multiple guards stand in each of two watch towers.
You and Bartleby exchange glances.
“Quite the welcome,” the cleric says, “for a tourist town.”
“Shall we speak to them?”
“I don’t see why not. We need to learn more.”
You close the distance, and beckon toward the gate guard. A stout human, he frowns and crosses his arms when he sees you.
“Halt!” he shouts. You both comply. “State your business.”
There are only two ways to explain it.
What do you say?
I cite our search for the servants of Thomerion.
I explain our need for an experienced healer.
You examine the cavern beyond the archway. Two other tunnels lead off from here, one to your left, and the other to your right. The ceiling of the one to the left is quite low, and may become lower within, but your torchlight doesn’t illuminate far enough in to tell for sure. The tunnel to the right, in comparison, appears easily passable; its width and relative smoothness invite you into the depths of its darkness.
Finally, as you raise your torchlight as high as possible, you notice some kind of nook, carved out of the far corner of the wall many yards above your head. A faint glow emanates from the nook. While you didn’t prepare for this trip to the degree that you have spikes, crampons and such in your pack, a quick inspection of the wall reveals just enough decent footholds and handholds to make you think you could both manage the climb.
Bartleby clicks his tongue. “Bizarre,” he muses.
“Where do you think we should go?”
“I have no preference,” the cleric says, “Except to say that we have time to explore, should divine providence choose to shine upon us.”
You nod pensively.
Where do you go?
We explore the squat passage in the left wall.
We traverse the wide passage in the right wall.
We climb to the nook in the upper corner.
You feel your brow twist into a frown, and your breaths get quicker and huffier.
“I cannot believe my ears,” you complain to the group, “We’ve come all this way, and the moment something positive develops, you think of your pocketbooks first. What else are we going to use our gold for? In truth, now?”
Mikhail sighs and massages his temples. Zander looks up at the old man and, in a diplomatic tone, says, “Pardon us for a moment.”
The ranger addresses you. “It’s hard to say,” Zander says, “We may need to pay Argent himself for his services. We must be prepared for anything. But frankly, this old coot isn’t what I mean by that.”
Mikhail grumbles, “I’ve run into dozens of these types before. Wrinkled, feeble, they can do little physical work, so they play tricks on passersby. They’re swindlers, to get more to the point of it.”
“So you don’t trust him,” you counter, “So, his information might be worthless, and we’re out a few coins. What more harm can he do than that? We move on from there, lighter in heart for having tried.”
Bartleby snickers. You wheel toward him.
“What is so amusing about that?”
“Lighter in heart?” he jests, “This, coming from a dwarf?”
You ignore this jab and give the argument one last heave-ho, “What do you say, gentlemen? I will pay you back at another time.”
Mikhail and Zander exchange wary glances, then a few words under their breaths. You can’t make the words out, but it doesn’t take long for them to come to agreement.
“No,” Mikhail says to you, “And that is that.” With pursed lips, he pulls his hood over his head. The two men march onward and begin to search for the passage to the underground labyrinth, leaving you and the cleric standing near the treehouse.
You stand, stunned. You feel as if your values have been questioned to their core, as if teamwork just doesn’t mean what it used to. You turn, and stare, morose, into the green expanse of the forest floor.
The sound of tinkling metal meets your ears. You glance over your shoulder to see Bartleby counting coins. Your heart lifts.
“Shall, say, fifty gold be sufficient?”
You step toward the cleric and slap a grateful hand on his shoulder. “You are a saint!”
“Don’t let it go to your head,” Bartleby says, his tone serious, “But I changed my mind because I begin to see within you things I would never expect from a military man. One sees such waste of life, the cavalier use of conscripted flesh as meat shields, in the thick of it all. I cannot help but think sometimes that one such person is to another no more than a tool, a mechanism by which to reach an end goal.” The cleric pauses, and smiles at you, “Perhaps I was mistaken.”
You smile back. For a moment, pride swells in your chest, then you think better of it, and clear your throat.
“Well, just don’t think your quest partner’s going soft on you,” you mumble.
“I won’t,” Bartleby says with a chuckle. He finishes counting, puts the money in a small burlap sack, and hands the sack to you.
You turn toward the old elf and wave the sack.
The man shakes with excitement, and says, “Would you toss that up here? My body isn’t as young as it used to be, and I prefer to avoid climbing the ladder when I can.”
You exchange glances with Bartleby, who shrugs. Worse things can occur than if the old elf were to just run off with the gold. You take two steps closer to the treehouse and shove the sack just high enough into the air, from where the old elf snatches it with surprising agility.
He opens the sack, and counts and admires the coins, holding one at arm’s length now and again, then reeling it in to within a few millimeters of his ancient eyes. He squints and winks, ponders and examines, and mutters an ‘ooh’ or ‘aah’ every few seconds.
You clear your throat, and shout, “Good sir, that information?”
“Oh, oh, yes….” the man splutters, “We did make a deal, didn’t we? Well, I stand here on divine authority…” with this he adopts a mysterious tone, “…and thus swear to you the following is true: Demetrius Argent, even if found, will only grant one request to each party that finds him.”
You scratch your beard, and process this information.
“Go on,” Bartleby requests.
“You said, as I recall,” continues the elf, “That you have two concerns with which you need assistance. You will need to choose one, and dismiss the other, or else incur Argent’s wrath.”
Your eyes widen, and your pulse quickens.
“And believe me,” the elf says, “You wouldn’t want to do that.”
Bartleby shrugs again, and says, “The solution seems simple enough. We split into two groups of two, and each make one request.”
“Very possible,” says the elf, “But Argent will watch you. If at any time or in any way one party interacts with the other, he considers them to be one party, together. These are his rules. I know not why he enforces them.”
“Is there anything else we should know?”
“Only that challenges await you. I wish you luck.”
“Thank you, sir.” The two of you wave pleasantly as the old elf retreats into his treehouse.
Your party reunites near the supposed entry point, and you inform everyone of what you have learned. Zander adopts a look of intrigue, while Mikhail crosses his arms and stares at the ground.
The ranger asks, “Therefore, if we are to believe that crony, the question becomes: Do we split the party, and if so, which task do we present?”
You grumble, “The Black Rose has already done its worst work. I should think saving Fedwick would take higher priority.”
Mikhail looks at you. “Do not be so sure.”
You frown. “Pardon?”
Mikhail nods. “I just noticed that parts of your skin are beginning to turn black and flake away. Feel it. A bi
g patch is right here.” He indicates your upper neck, and indeed, as you run your fingers over it, you can tell something about you is changing.
Zander clears his throat. “We may have neglected to mention that the two collectors who were corrupted by the power of the Black Rose were dwarves. It appears your exposure to the artifact, even just by proximity, has also begun the same process.”
“By the gods,” you shout, “But… but why dwarves? From among all of us, why only me? How is that even possible?”
Zander replies, “Panic will not help. Only action.”
You push back against a wave of fear. Without yourself around in a coherent form, Fedwick’s existence would make little difference. Yet, saving both you and him at once seems ideal.
What do you do?
We form two groups of two that cannot interact.
We remain one party, singly focused on finding a cure for my transformation.
Wary of your need for self-protection, you reluctantly admit to yourself that you will have to do without, or perhaps brush up on your hand-to-hand skills when you get the chance. You present your axe as potential collateral, and pat its handle with affection.
“He’ll take good care of ye, Ol’ Rusty,” you speak to it.
“A beauty, she is,” the fisherman says, taking it gingerly and examining the blade. “She would cut right through any of the saplings in my neighbor’s field.”
He smirks, and you cross your arms.
“That is,” he stammers, “Uhh… if I were to use it for that purpose.” He stares at the ground, but holds your axe close to his chest.
The fisherman leads you several hundred yards along the shore, until you reach a battered wooden canoe. Several of its planks have warped, the mooring hook hangs by a thread, and it contains only one oar.