by Daniel Heck
The guard grunts, “You may pass,” and your group hustles your way through the rest of the crowd and into Koraxon territory.
After you put a little distance between you and the border guard, you ask, “What did you say to him?”
“The secret phrase,” he replies, “’Thomerion shall prevail.’”
“Bosom buddies indeed, the church and these brutes.”
You exhale, and wipe your brow. The capital city of Vartzog now lies only a half-day’s journey to the southeast.
As you trek, you look over your shoulder now and again, as the general populace begins to appear rather unsavory. A gang of stubble-chinned men compares the lengths of their daggers while leaning against some trees. Not long after you pass them, a cross-eyed gnome all in blue dashes past you, screaming and twirling about in full circles as he goes.
“Tell your fortune, gentlemen?”
You turn to find a fair-skinned, curly-haired human maiden speaks to you, smiling sweetly. She carries a black pack over her shoulder, rounded as though it contains a crystal ball.
“Good day, madam,” you chime, “We happen to be busy, but…”
“Your friend,” the woman persists, “You seek to save his life?”
You halt, and turn. “How… how did you know that?”
“And you,” she says to Crolliver, “Redemption will be yours. You can count on it.”
The youth blinks, and stammers, “…Re…really?”
“More detail for only five gold pieces,” the fortune-teller coos.
Bartleby says, “I don’t know if this is wise…”
You scratch your chin.
What do you do?
I hire the woman to tell my fortune.
I politely decline and move on.
You sleep fitfully that night, as your suspicions grow concerning the intentions of anyone you might meet from this point forward. By the time Bartleby wakes you, the sun has already risen above the eastern horizon, yet fog pervades your mind, and weariness swims in your bones.
“Bartleby,” you muse as you prepare to depart camp, “perhaps this was the wrong decision. Could we ever guess what Mikhail could be up to?”
The cleric pauses before answering, “It may not be within our power to act upon. We are two men, doing what we can to save one.”
Wise words, you reflect. Yet, not particularly comforting.
The rest of the journey to the City of Storms proves uneventful, although the black tinge of several patches of cumulus clouds in the distance puts you off somewhat. When you arrive, the distance between residences surprises you; your limited knowledge of the area hadn’t included its apparent evolution toward agrarianism. As you don’t know quite where to start, you approach a slender elf wearing a straw hat and tilling a turnip garden.
“Pardon us, good sir,” you grunt. “Might you have a moment to spare?”
“Good morn to ye,” the farmer wheezes, “How may I help you gentlemen?”
“Have you heard of a Demetrius Argent? We have learned he is in the area. Would you know where we can find him?”
The farmer scratches his temple and says, “Why, yes, in fact. I understand he’s to come out of hiding, to meet with the local council yet this afternoon. Something is to be discussed about ‘an impending doom,’ although I wouldn’t read too much into that.”
Bartleby asks, “Why not?”
“Argent has lost credibility with the locals as of late. Not sure if it’s age, or what, but at least a few of his experiments have not turned out quite for the best.”
You and Bartleby exchange glances.
“I think we shall still want to see him,” you reply.
“Now wait just a tootin’ minute!”
The sharp, high-pitched voice came from a nearby farmhouse. You see a portly woman, looking matronly in a plain white apron, hustle out from behind a hay bale and toward the three of you. She smacks the farmer on the tush with the bristled end of her broom.
“Helmina, now calm yourself,” the farmer chides, coughing.
“Argent never had any such intention, Natar!” the woman corrects, “A friend told me that the old coot plans to hole up with him, on account of that his life was supposedly in danger.”
“And you don’t think,” Natar counters, “that the city guards could provide him enough protection as is?”
“Oh, what do you know?” Helmina snaps, with a dismissive wave of her hands. She turns and sweeps a stone walkway.
Natar looks at you, straight-faced. “I love that woman,” he says. “I’ll just… keep telling myself that.”
Bartleby snickers.
“Either way,” the farmer continues, “What more would you like to know?”
Whom do you believe?
Natar. I ask him where to find city hall.
Helmina. I ask her where to find her friend’s home.
You retrieve flint, steel and a torch from your pack, but wait until you have entered the passage to create a light source, so as to avoid setting any foliage alight. Bartleby takes up the rear, as you lead the way.
The dampness here seeps into your bones, and the tunnel stretches on for what seems like an eternity, but soon, you see a faint light ahead. Before you lies a large, well-lit stone chamber. You extinguish your own light, and search the area.
“By the gods…” you mutter when you discover a sizable hourglass, its bottom half filled with shiny silver sand, secured by a horizontal peg into a nook within one wall.
“Look up there,” the cleric says, pointing out some kind of key, held in within the ceiling, but visible through a sheet of supporting glass.
You also discover two doors of ancient wood, one on each wall besides the one you came through. Within the far wall is a sturdy metal double-door, complete with a distinct keyhole.
A massive porticullis crashes down within the passage from where you came, causing you to jump nearly out of your armor. The sound of gears grinding meets your ears, and the hourglass slowly turns over, seemingly of its own power.
“Is this what Mikhail meant by passing Argent’s test?” you ask.
Bartleby nods, “Perhaps, although it appears no one will be granting us guidance of any sort.”
You examine the left door more closely, and note that it is locked tight, but has a peephole. Looking through it, you see a transparent tank of some sort, built into the far wall, which contains a lever. From the tank runs a tube that snakes along the side of the chamber and out the front, to form a funnel. You’re surprised you hadn’t noticed the funnel sticking out of the wall a few feet away.
Bartleby returns from the other door. “It’s locked,” he informs you, “But protects a ladder we could use to get at the key.”
“Anything else?”
“A braided metal cord runs into the chamber from underground, and ends in an enclosed box connected to the door lock.”
Braided metal cord? A memory resurfaces, something about an experimental form of explosive.
You look again through your peephole, which confirms what you’d thought: The wire Bartleby mentioned runs up and into this chamber, dangling loose.
“We need to get into here,” you command, “and light the fuse.”
“How do we do that?”
“This funnel… let’s start there.”
Bartleby looks through your peephole.
“Indeed. I think we could empty our waterskins into the tank, raising the lever in the process.”
You glance at the hourglass, already more than half-drained. Bartleby pours first, while you stay at the peephole.
“It doesn’t look good,” you say, “That only filled the tank about a third of the way.”
“Let’s continue trying anyway.”
You nod, trade spots with Bartleby, and begin pouring. You anticipate the click of a lever, a gear turning, something, anything, and hold your waterskin upside-down for ages to get every last drop out.
“Nothing?” you ask.
Bartleby�
�s face falls. “You were correct. We don’t have enough water between the two of us. It is not even close.”
“What now, then?”
“We cheat, and break down the door to get at the ladder.”
“Don’t you think Argent would object to that?”
“How do we know he is even here?”
“We’ve come this far. Where else would he be?”
The two of you still squabble when the final grain of sand hits the bottom of the hourglass. You feel magic overcome you, and everything fades to white.
Uh-oh...
“I would prefer to search for the pearl,” you declare, “Would you gentlemen know of any good sources by which to find such treasures?”
“Do not waste your time with standard jewelers,” Zander instructs, “for I have yet to meet one whose wares are of near the requisite size. I have, however, been told that, day after the morrow, the possessions of one of the collectors corrupted by the Black Rose will be auctioned off, and the proceeds are to benefit the merchants’ guild of Whitetail. She evidently had no living relatives to bequeath her treasures toward.”
“Sounds iffy at best,” Bartleby counters, “wealthy and well-traveled though she may have been. You might have better luck harvesting one yourself, if you can find a prime bank of oysters not yet picked over.”
“Neither plan sounds all that helpful,” you complain.
“Can you conceive a better one?”
You realize you cannot, and shake your head.
“That’s settled, then,” Zander says, “I shall take on the gryphon feather. You will pursue the abbot’s blood?”
Bartleby nods.
Zander says, “Before we part, decide which course you are taking, if you could. There is a reason I request this.”
You blink at the force in the ranger’s tone, and wonder to what he could refer.
What will you do?
I’ll attend the merchants’ guild auction.
I’ll attempt to harvest my own pearl.
“No rest for the weary,” you preach, “Nor solace for the weak. I shall volunteer to acquire a gryphon feather.”
Zander blinks at you and asks, “Are you sure?”
“Someone must do it.”
The others commend you on your bravery, which comforts you little. Upon further discussion, you agree that Zander shall pursue the abbot’s blood, which leaves Bartleby with the pearl.
The cleric says, “Let us meet again soon. Shall we convene just outside this cavern?”
You say, “In six days after the morrow.”
Your companions nod, and you part. You return to your hut to prepare some supplies, including several suits of warm woolen clothing. You look down once again at Fedwick, and note that he smiles slightly, and looks a little less pale than before. You ponder for a moment.
Are you dreaming of a cure, friend? Have the gods told you how hard we’re working to set you free?
You choose not to rest just yet. Instead, you trek southward until well after the sun has said its hellos to the moon. Just when you are at your weariest, fortune smiles upon you, for you discover a party of excavators on their way to the city of Bladepass. They refresh you on some of the inner workings of the mountain passages, and even lend you a primitive map. Among their ranks is a lute-carrying troubadour, whose melodies soothe you into a deep slumber.
The next morning, energy courses through your veins, and you feel like you could ride on the winds. But soon, as you travel, your ankles and calves scream for rest, as the inclining terrain challenges them with every step. When you reach the spot where the path breaks off into the wilds, you stare up at a vast cliff of granite with the heavy realization that the worst may be yet to come.
There it lay. You squint to see it, but a nest of straw, as big to you as a pebble at the moment, lay nestled, exposed within a tiny outcropping in the stone. You see in the cliff face beyond it some cracks that may make the area passable to a humanoid of your size.
You raise your chest, and exhale sharply.
Here goes nothing.
You round a corner, and find the entrance to the cave system, precisely where the map indicates. After you enter, though, the document’s details become far less helpful. The passage seems to squeeze in on you from all sides. You push, hurdle, and scrabble your way through and around piles of rock, and at one point nearly slip into a crevasse, regaining your balance at the last instant. You wipe your brow, and wonder whether you may have gotten turned around at some point.
Finally, after passing a swath of stalagmites, you see light ahead. The tunnel opens, and you no longer feel so choked when you step out into open air and breathe in the sky’s purity.
True to what you suspected from a distance, the nest lay untended. A circle of straw as broad as an outhouse stretches before you. It supports a single egg that could feed a family for a week, bone-white with purple specks across its surface. Brown feathers with white highlights poke out of the nest in several scattered locations.
You consider the situation.
Since I need to be sure the feather is from the gryphon’s wing, a direct confrontation is in order.
A mischievous thought strikes you. Gryphons raised in captivity make superb mounts for knights, thus their eggs are worth a pretty penny on the market. You could not only cure Fedwick on this quest, but ensure a more than comfortable retirement for the both of you.
What do you do?
I take the egg from the nest.
I shout at the top of my lungs.
You glance at the cleric, who frowns, but nods. Gritting your teeth in reluctance, you say to the bishop, “We accept your proposition.”
“A wise choice,” he seethes, drumming his fingers, “You will not regret it. But, seeing as how you are new, your loyalties may need a little… tweaking. First,” he holds out his hand, and glances at the key you used to get in.
You hand it over. “I shall return,” he says.
The man manipulates something hidden behind books, you hear mechanical whirrs and groans, and the metal door opens once again. Watching you carefully, the bishop slips out, and the door closes and locks itself behind him.
“What could he mean by ‘tweaking’?” Bartleby muses.
“All I know,” you reply, “is that Fedwick’s life is still in our hands, not those of the church.”
You realize you now stand in the exact center of the floor’s gigantic Thomerion emblem. The eyes of the skull seem to gaze straight past you, at something upon the high ceiling, but following them reveals nothing of import, beyond a dusty lantern hanging from a rusted chain.
“What if we used that to burn this place to the ground?” you muse.
“You grasp at straws,” the cleric says, “The circumstances require patience.”
You throw your hands in the air. “Yes, but…”
A loud creak meets your ears once again, the door opens and the bishop reenters the study.
“Have you readied yourselves?” he asks.
Neither of you say a word.
“Thomerion shall prevail,” he mutters as he raises a slender, unadorned wand. You feel light-headed for a long moment. As you look up, the bishop appears to you as nothing less than a good friend, someone you should help. Shock that you ever thought anything else ripples through you, and you humbly appeal to your master for your initial orders.
Over the next full day, church authorities shuttle you and Bartleby about from place to place within the city, where you perform tasks ranging from setting traps and barring doors to inflicting the Seal of Thomerion itself upon innocent victims, all while keeping as low a profile as possible. As the sun sets, you retire to a cot within the secret catacomb, thrilled to your core about the good your work will do for the church.
The next morning, the reality of the situation sets in, as the mental fog imposed by the wand’s magic gradually lifts. You hadn’t paid attention, for instance, to the fact that the bishop houses you in the equivalent of a dir
ty prison cell, barely fifteen feet square. As you twiddle the threads of the robes provided you, guilt floods your heart.
You turn to find Bartleby brooding. The bags under his eyes belie a loss of his usual composure.
“What have we done?” he asks as he holds his face in his hands.
You reply, “We didn’t know what we were doing, my friend.”
A goblin outside the cell barks, “Master is meditating! He requires silence!”
You wait several moments for him to pass, before whispering,
“We’re now penned in by the likes of that creature?”
Bartleby replies, “It begins to feel as if this quest will end up doing more harm than good.”
An idea strikes you.
“Not necessarily,” you offer, “If only we could use that wand for ourselves.”
Bartleby turns his head, and looks at you with a smirk, as the life flows back into his face.
“Superb!” he blurts, “But, how would we go about attaining it?”
What do you do?
We attempt to bribe the guard to help us.
We attempt to break out of the cell.
You hold the wand out over the bishop’s head once more, and intone, “Thomerion shall prevail.” The bishop opens his eyes, and sits up. “What are you all doing here?” he shouts.
As you wave the wand more, you tell the bishop that you are his close friends, and that he ought to do your bidding. “After all,” you assert, “nothing else has ever been true.” The bishop smiles at you. “What can I do for you?” he says with a pleasant lilt.
As you guide him out of the catacomb and toward your hut, the goblin asks, “So, you are to heal a friend?”
“Yes,” you respond tersely.
“Of the seal of Thomerion, I presume?”
“Yes.” You walk some more, focusing straight ahead.
“I warn you, good sirs,” the goblin continues, “you make but a tiny dent in the larger picture. Thousands more share your friend’s plight.” You hesitate, and turn. The goblin nods.