The Seal of Thomerion

by Daniel Heck

  We head southwest, per the serpentile line.

  We head west, via the circle.

  Thinking fast, you pull Titania through the first archway you see, and take shelter behind a large wooden structure within a tiny, dimly-lit room beyond. The clomps continue from the adjoining space, and you hear grunts, but as of yet, nobody has bothered you. You wait.

  In the several minutes it takes for the noises to subside, however, you notice that your pack and axe begin to feel heavier, and that the object you hide behind seems bigger and more ominous than when you first entered. You circle around to look at it.

  Before you stands a grand water clock. Its myriad mechanical features glint at you from within a tall casing protected by glass. You feel an eerie energy emanating from it, and upon a closer look, you note that the hands whirl about, counter-clockwise, at a rapid pace.

  “What’s happening to us?” Vermouth says at a high pitch. One glance at her explains all. She has shrunk to almost half her normal height, and her few facial wrinkles have given way to rosy cheeks and a flawless, fair complexion. If you were to meet her today, you’d guess that she’s about eight or nine years old.

  You glance at a partial reflection of yourself in the clock’s glass. Although as a dwarf, you have far more years on you than Titania, similar changes have occurred; your muscles aren’t as developed, and a deep scar from a wound you remember taking in battle has disappeared.

  “We need to get out of here, now!”

  You grip the girl by the hand and hustle clear out of the tower and into the streets. Bartleby is nowhere to be found. Looking over your shoulder as you hide behind boulders, you ask, “Are you all right?”

  Titania fights back tears, and says, “I… think so.”

  A consequence of your both growing younger hits you.

  “Miss, why are we here? In Koraxon? How did we even get here?” Your memories seem to have regressed along with your bodies.

  “I wish I knew,” she replies.

  Don’t let evil win. Read another path!

  Go back to the previous choice, or…

  Restart from the beginning.

  Second thoughts flood your mind. “If the disembodied voice is any indication,” you postulate, “It appears that Argent is somehow watching us. It might be best not to take shortcuts, after all.”

  “Then,” Bartleby asks, “What do we do first?”

  “Thinking backwards from the door with the ladder behind it, the chamber with the funnel is probably our starting point. The lever may have something to do with opening the door.”

  Zander steps towards your door and peers through the peephole. He invites Bartleby to do the same, whose face lights up as he steps away.

  “I’ve got it,” he offers, “Fill the tank with water from our skins using the funnel. It should raise the lever.”

  Zander counters, “The lever looks too heavy for that, and we might not have enough water to fill the tank. If instead, we use some of my spare rope,” he indicates his pack, “We could make a loop, snake the loop through the tube and pull the lever directly.”

  Bartleby says, “A ridiculous plan, if I’ve ever seen one.”

  “And just as likely to work, if not more, than yours.”

  You try to ignore your companions’ petty little competition, and to focus on deciding which option is more practical. Nevertheless, your breath escapes you in a frustrated huff. Decide!

  What do you do?

  We attempt to manipulate the lever with rope.

  We attempt to fill the tank with water.

  The wizard sits in the remaining chair, leans forward and speaks in a low voice, imparting an air of confidentiality.

  “I propose the following. I discovered, long ago, a quite miraculous potion recipe that, if I have interpreted the ancient texts correctly, should serve to both dissolve the Black Rose and heal your friend.” Argent says these last words directly to you.

  Bartleby asks, scratching his head, “How can it both destroy and cure?”

  “This particular mixture, when imbued with divine energy, serves to neutralize evil, whether that evil takes the form of an artifact, a disease, or anything else. It has thus been called the Bard’s Brew, since it is a jack-of-all-trades, of sorts.” You feel your face brighten, and you sit straight up in anticipation.

  “I must inform you, however,” the wizard continues, “That the ingredients are quite a challenge to come by.”

  Zander implores, “Can you help us find them, Demetrius?”

  Argent chuckles. “Given the circumstances you have just divulged, I would feel safest if I remain here. If you bring the ingredients to me, however, I shall mix them in correct proportion and in the proper order. One tiny mistake, and the entire recipe is ruined.”

  You wonder out loud, “What exactly do we need?”

  “Ah…”

  Argent stands, swivels on his heel and approaches his desk, from which he retrieves a small, dusty tome. He opens it to near the very back, clears his throat and reads slowly, glancing at you between each item:

  “Two ounces of the blood of a monk of the highest rank. A flawless pearl, at least an inch in diameter. And finally, a feather from a gryphon’s wing.”

  You arch an eyebrow, and look about. Excitement at having a concrete solution by which to cure Fedwick mixes in your chest with sober trepidation. Bartleby crosses his arms, and stares. All four of you take some final sips of tea, as this may be one of your last moments of true rest for quite some time to come.

  After another moment, Zander stands. “Demetrius, we shall do our best. We thank you for your hospitality and your help. If you’ll excuse us, our window of opportunity narrows by the day.”

  “Of course. Good luck, gentlemen.”

  The three of you retreat back into the outer section of the compound.

  “You do not know how truly you speak,” you say to the ranger.

  The cleric lays a hand on your shoulder. “Fedwick may live yet,” he offers, “if we each pursue one ingredient and agree to convene here later.”

  Nothing guarantees one’s safety when travelling alone, but it seems you have little other choice. As for which choice is best for whom, you’re aware of a monastery somewhere to the northeast, but you would need help to find it. A pearl of the required size is exceedingly rare around these parts, but not unheard of. And gryphons… you groan as you recall… one can find their nests all over the southern mountains, but they’re not known for their cooperation with humans.

  Which potion component will you seek?

  The abbot’s blood.

  A sizable pearl.

  A gryphon feather.

  Your chest tightens as your only tangible contact with the Church of Thomerion begins to fade into the distance beyond.

  You utter a primal roar, rear back with your axe and unleash a mighty swing at the nearest zombie, which connects at the base of its neck. Its head, still groaning, bounces off a gravestone and lands in a thick patch of thistles. The remaining zombies close the distance with alarming speed. One envelops Bartleby from behind, its claws closing down upon him in a vicious bear hug.

  The cleric reaches over his shoulder, hooks the creature by the armpit and throws it across himself, body-slamming it into the cold ground. He pins it there with one hand, extends his sun talisman and concentrates. An instant later, a piercing beam of energy blasts forth from the item and incinerates the zombie’s skull.

  “Impressive, friend,” you marvel.

  “One to one, now,” the cleric counts. “Care for a tie-breaker?”

  You chuckle, and just as you turn around, a zombie sinks its teeth into your arm. Pain crackles through you, and you grit your teeth. “Let’s finish this,” the cleric says.

  You retreat a few steps, as Bartleby closes his eyes and clutches his talisman. White light coalesces around it, and forms a halo so vivid you can see little else. Suddenly, the halo bursts out in all directions, radiating in a wide circle that smashes in
to each and every enemy. Their charred, broken remains now litter the ground around you.

  “Show-off,” you grunt. Bartleby laughs. More undead begin to break through their caskets, but more slowly this time.

  “This could be endless if we let it. Let’s just get that lackey.”

  Bartleby nods. You rush through the remainder of the graveyard, hurdling gravestones, but halt abruptly, as two dozen zombies now stand in a rough line ahead, spanning the property’s entire breadth. More catch up from behind. Your heart beats a mile a minute, and doom settles into your soul. Crolliver has disappeared entirely.

  “Do what you did earlier,” you order, “Do it again.”

  Bartleby hangs his head, and shows you that the talisman itself couldn’t stand the impact of the explosion. It sits in several dark, splintered pieces within the cleric’s palms.

  “Oh,” you mutter, “Oh. Oh, my.”

  The undead close in, and you chop a few more up, but as the blade of your axe gets stuck in the backbone of one, the creature twists about, wrenching it out of your grasp. Before you can retrieve it, other zombies pile onto you and the cleric. You collapse under their weight, and your skin burns from their bites and powerful punches. As you meet your end, you wonder aloud what could have been done differently, if only fate had granted you a second chance.

  Cruel fate has taken your life. Rise again!

  Go back to the previous choice, or…

  Restart from the beginning.

  “Time is of the essence,” you assert once again. “We may need to part at this time, if we are both to accomplish what we desire.”

  Zander frowns. “I thought,” he grumbles,“that we were a team.”

  You stand, stoic. “We were.”

  The ranger retrieves his bedroll and pack, and begins to walk. “Good luck to you, then.”

  “Would you help us in one small way,” Bartleby calls out, “How do we find Demetrius Argent, once we arrive in the City of Storms?”

  Zander remains silent, and continues forward.

  “Come,” you plead, placing a hand on the cleric’s arm, “We’ve upset him. It’s of no use.”

  “But, I don’t think we can…”

  “Someone in the area will know something. It is guaranteed.”

  Not to worry…

  Your instinct tells you this can’t end well. “There’s just too many of them!” you shout. You and Bartleby run toward the graveyard entrance, just avoiding the grip of two zombies. The whole of them pursue you at first, but soon straggle behind, tripping over their own tatters and fighting amongst themselves. You stop to catch your breath.

  “We need to find our way back to town,” you assert, “From there, we should develop a secondary plan.” Bartleby nods his agreement.

  While tromping across the grasslands, you grasp at whatever ideas flit through your mind. Reporting the incident to the authorities seems logical, but since you’re unharmed, strikes you as rather secondary. You investigate the Pig’s Foot Inn and Tavern after all, but at the late hour at which you arrive, only a few discombobulated drunkards and a blind beggar remain at the tables. The bartender shouts his last call.

  “Perhaps we should call it a day,” Bartleby suggests, “and reconvene tomorrow morning.” You nod your agreement.

  “Now that I think of it,” the cleric continues, “why don’t you stop by the temple of the sun when it’s convenient? Perhaps something about the spiritual surroundings could inspire us.”

  Feeling your heart lighten, you accept Bartleby’s invitation, and shake his hand. You part, and while slowly returning to your hut, you acknowledge the information you’ve gleaned so far with a sober heart: What could have been so important about the Battle of Bladepass that it haunts Fedwick and me to this day? You fall backwards onto your bed, and stare at the ceiling’s irregular texture for many hours.

  The next day, you breakfast on flatbread and a large orange, splash your face with water from your basin, and turn to assess Fedwick once again. Paler than yesterday, he seems at once both peaceful and in complete conflict with the world.

  We’ll figure this out, you reflect. Even if it doesn’t make sense.

  A knock sounds. At your prompt, the now-familiar attending cleric enters and bows. You leave Fedwick in his care once again.

  The sight of the sun temple’s marble archway punctuates your uneventful walk. At the apex of the arch, a golden face radiating beams in twelve directions watches over all who pass under. As you enter, you note the white altar standing between two alcoves. A single brown-robed someone kneels within the shadows of a pew and prays quietly.

  Bartleby emerges from an alcove. “Quite glad you could make it,” he says, clapping you on the shoulder. “I wasn’t sure if the dwarven gods would frown upon your being here.”

  “Oh, they probably do,” you jest. “But, what now?”

  “The sight of the Impactium, as well as its aftermath, got me thinking,” Bartleby muses, “What if we could lure those responsible for Fedwick’s suffering to us, instead of the other way around?”

  You scratch your beard. “In what sense?”

  “Fight fire with fire. Take something valuable from the church of Thomerion, and set a trap to catch those who want that item back.”

  “You would stoop to their level?”

  “Believe me, I had the same misgivings. And yet…”

  At that moment, the robed worshipper stands and exits the pew. He approaches the church’s prayer box, and deposits therein a slip of parchment. Limping, he passes under just enough light to expose a face you recognize, marred by missing patches of hair and a gigantic bruise that disfigures his left cheek.

  You tap the cleric on the shoulder. “Bartleby,” you whisper, “That appears to be Crolliver.” The youth does not turn, but shuffles toward the entryway without a word, and is now almost out of the temple.

  This low-level lackey now paints a pathetic picture. At the same time, your experiences in the graveyard are still fresh in your mind.

  What do you do?

  I take revenge for being attacked by zombies!

  I have mercy and offer to heal the man.

  Let’s call it even. I let him leave the temple.

  “Let’s head this way,” you decide, pointing to the tilted arrow by the strange curve. Your trek quickly reveals the meaning of the rune. The woods open up into a valley, through which runs a rushing river of considerable width. You glance downstream, and note its many curves.

  Bartleby approaches the bank, his boots squishing in the damp grass, and squints into the flow. “The river must be high from the recent rains,” he observes, “and, someone constructed a path of stones here.” Looking closer, you see them too; their jagged surfaces lie a couple feet under the surface.

  Grindle chimes, “Anyone up for fording the thing?”

  You remove your pack. Hoisting it above your head, you take the lead, and slip navel-high into the liquid. The cleric lifts the halfling onto his shoulders, and the two of them take up the rear. The river chills you to the core, and you sneeze, but maintain your footing. Each step requires you stop and reassess your balance, as you must throw your weight against the current. About eight steps remain, then seven, now six.

  Bartleby notes, “We’re almost there. No turning back now.”

  At that moment, a gurgling growl meets your ears, followed by a sharp snapping sound. You whirl to your right, to find a crocodile swimming in your direction. It licks its scaly chops and flaps its jaw at the sight of you, while its short legs pump to close the distance.

  Grindle shouts, “Go! Just go! Hurry!”

  Instinct takes over, and you shove forward, only to slip and send yourself face-first into the water. You lose your grip on your pack, and the river claims it as its own. You burst back above the surface, gulp for air and tread water. Grindle tries to swim his way between you and the beast, while Bartleby fumbles to ready his sun talisman. You’re now on your back, and the weight of your axe pulls y
our head into the depths.

  The halfling stabs at the creature, but his momentum carries him too far forward, and he loses control, sputtering and struggling to breathe. The current carries the small one too far away to help, and his shouts of distress disperse into the autumn air.

  The cleric focuses for an instant, gripping his talisman with a shaking hand. A burst of white energy erupts from it, but sails over the crocodile’s head, scorching a patch of cattails on the opposite bank.

  “By the gods,” Bartleby shouts, “I never miss!”

  Your flailing has closed the distance between you and safe ground, but the crocodile cuts you off. It knocks you to your side with a forceful leap, and its jaw clamps down upon your torso. Control of your limbs disappears into the icy blue, along with copious amounts of your blood. The cleric approaches with a shout, but retreats when the creature glares at him, his face marred with a look of fear and abject horror.

  Your last thoughts run along the lines of how every man, even a friend, has a point where he must save himself above others. Perhaps you should have thought of that far earlier.

  Your quest has ended... or has it?

  Go back to the previous choice, or…

  Restart from the beginning.

  Exhausting yourself doesn’t sound all that entertaining right now, and yet, better to err on the safe side, you reflect, by designating someone of size and strength at least equal to those of the druid.

  “Bartleby,” you call, “Would you mind taking this one?”

  “’Twould be my pleasure,” the cleric intones with warlike fervor, taking his place on the far side of the stump arena. He points at Darby, and winks cockily. You sit among the growing throng of spectators.