by Daniel Heck
By all appeareances, the control spell seems to still hold, and strongly enough for you to trust that nothing will go wrong. You instruct Bartleby and the bishop to go on ahead.
“Thousands?”
The goblin nods again, and something clicks within you.
“Your master said something about an army. Is the church forming its new ranks from the dead, or the soon-to-be-dead?”
“I was only told so much,” the goblin admits, “but, it does not sound good for Ambrosinia.”
Minutes later, you reunite with your good friend with mixed emotions, as the bishop removed the seal quickly and easily. Fedwick even looks at a tad healthier than you remember, for all the rest he’s acquired. You embrace, but hold off on sharing stories of what you’ve been through just yet.
As a group, you do what you can to stem this sect of Thomerion by escorting the bishop to local authorities, where they detain him on charges of attempted murder. Over time, the goblin becomes a worshipper of the sun god, and even works his way into society at large, becoming gainfully employed as a carpenter.
As weeks have passed in the process, however, the knowledge that something bigger occurs behind the scenes weighs on your heart and mind. Even as you keep the artifact that got you what you wanted, you can’t help but wonder where you would begin to help, should this supposed army threaten the peace of Ambrosinia as a nation.
You have revived Fedwick!
But is there more to the story?
Read through The Seal of Thomerion again to find out.
The auction has yielded you nothing.
There should still be time to find one on my own… but not much.
You ask around town, and learn that the best place to harvest pearls is Ethias Gulf, to the north, but can’t glean much more information than that. When you get to the gulf, you have no idea where to start, and no fishermen or other experts are around to help. After hours of hiking along the shoreline and searching by eye and hand alone, you find a few oysters, but they have long since been picked clean.
You camp alone halfway back to Whitetail, and spend the night staring at the stars from within your bedroll. You beg the gods for some kind of clue, and, as if in taunting response, you cross paths with some well-to-do women the next day, but their adornments contain specimens just shy of the required size. The rest of the six days your party allotted itself pass without improvement, and though you later attempt to meet the others nearby Argent’s compound, they are nowhere to be seen.
Cheer up, you tell yourself, as you flex your fists, your breaths coming in furious heaves, Maybe tearing some hair out will help…
Better opportunities await you. Try again!
Go back to the beginning of the auction, or…
Restart from the very beginning.
As you ponder, the bishop stands before you, his arms crossed, a cocky smirk on his face. You and Bartleby lock wordless gazes for a moment, in mutual understanding.
Together, you assault the bishop, who crumples to the ground under your combined weight. He struggles, but you sock him in the jaw, and he goes limp.
“That was easier than expected,” Bartleby comments as he retrieves rope from his pack.
“Don’t jinx us,” you mutter, while helping him secure the bishop’s arms and legs.
“We need to find a way out of here.”
You examine the chamber walls, and find the lever the bishop had used to lock you in, as well as an entire bank of similar switches, some newer or older than others. You pull them one by one, although only the very last affects anything. You hear gears and machinery creak and groan, and an entire bookshelf lurches outward and shifts to the side. Behind is a passage built into the earth.
With some effort, Bartleby hefts the bishop over his shoulder, and you proceed through a dimly-lit corridor, which ends in an overhead door. You open the panel, and emerge into a familiar space: the back of the abandoned warehouse. The stone altar stands just yards away, much as before, although the Impactium is nowhere to be found.
You point out a nearby wheelbarrow. “Let’s haul him in one of these,” you offer.
The implement makes going back to your hut far easier. Back in the core of town, you dodge or ignore the stares of multiple passersby, and so shift to taking the back alleys as much as possible. Once, the bishop stirs and moans, but you promptly reacquaint him with unconsciousness using the handle of your axe.
When he next wakes, you have tied him to a chair, and loom over him, glaring. He faces Fedwick, who still lay in his cot. His eyes widen in cognition, but he does not struggle.
That’ll show him a thing or two.
“Fine,” you grumble. “We track down Mikhail first.”
“Thank you,” Zander replies evenly, before retiring to his bedroll.
Bartleby takes over watch, but concerns about the sudden deprioritization of Fedwick disrupt your sleep, and the sun’s beams wake you far too soon. You need several moments to stretch out all the kinks in your back and neck.
“Poor creature,” you hear Bartleby say from a distance, “Would it be too much to ask that we take her with us?” You look up to see that the cleric refers to Mikhail’s horse, left behind in the commotion.
“I’m afraid so,” Zander counters, “Having to control the reins of two would slow any of us down.”
“But they’re not even ours to leave here,” Bartleby argues, “Do you recall that we rented them?”
You listen, and frown.
“This path is heavily traveled, and the barding denotes the possessor. Someone will find it and take it back.”
“You have more faith in the universe than I, then.”
A moment passes, while Zander ties the spare horse to a tree, and both men prepare their packs. The ranger chuckles. “Surprising to hear that, from a man of the cloth.”
Bartleby purses his lips, and says nothing.
The party sits and eats, but, once sated, Zander scans the land. Just as predicted, footprints stand out where Mikhail’s weight crushed the wet grass, although you hadn’t anticipated their southward bend. The ranger emphasizes that other clues factor in as well. You’ve mounted, and are about ready to depart from the path and into the prairie when the cleric pulls you aside.
“One wonders,” he mutters, looking over his shoulder, “whether that disagreeable brute has had some influence on Zander over time.”
“Mikhail?” you clarify, “Until now, he seemed harmless, at least.”
“If the world were ruled by that kind of disorder,” Bartleby comments, “We’d all be dead.”
The two of you turn and stare at the horizon as Zander leads.
The travel is smooth for the next half-day or so, although the ranger frequently orders you to halt, and reassesses the trail more often than you feel comfortable with. At this pace, you think, the elf will get to wherever he’s going one heck of a lot faster than you.
You shake your head for lack of answers, and breathe deep.
“What’s this?”
Far ahead, you see an encampment of about a dozen tents and bedrolls, inhabited by a cluster of rough-looking humans and elves. Several busy themselves with skinning and tanning hides of various sorts, although one sees you and waves his arms in a frantic beckon.
“They need our help,” Zander declares, pressing forward.
“And, whatever happened to caution?” you grumble to yourself.
“Here we go again,” Bartleby mumbles.
You both follow the ranger, who meets the trapper halfway.
“You blokes,” the man barks, “wouldn’t believe what happened just a short while ago. A crazed elf in a hood, it was. He just waltzed right through here, knocked me off my horse and rode off with it!”
Mikhail… the Black Rose…
“We can get it back for you, sir,” Zander offers, “In what direction did this elf ride?”
“I was shaken by the fall,” the trapper admits, “and by the time I stood again, he had alread
y disappeared.”
“By the gods…” Bartleby says.
“Did anyone else see where the bloke went?” the trapper asks his companions. Some ignore him, while others shake their heads and shrug.
“Mikhail’s bound to stay one step ahead of us now,” you observe.
“We shall do our best to find him,” Zander asserts. Bartleby uses a minor spell to heal the trapper’s bruises, and in return receives a mottled fur pelt.
“In case you get cold out there,” the trapper says with a smile and a wink.
This lifts your heart. Almost as soon as you leave the encampment, however, Zander’s face falls.
“What is the matter?” you ask.
“If Mikhail was indeed on horseback,” the ranger theorizes, “we may now be at a loss. Look.” He indicates a broad patch of mud, from which extend many different trails of hoofprints. Upon a closer look, two paths seem the freshest.
“Might an established civilization lie anywhere nearby, Zander?” you ask. “Something to give us a clue?”
“Only Bladepass, which lies further southward,” he replies. “I believe heading westerly would lead to Vagrants’ Canyon, while to the east, we would meet the spot where the mountains cut through the prairie.”
You scratch your head in confusion, as you know little about these lands or those that inhabit them.
What do you advise?
We should follow the westbound prints.
We should follow the eastbound prints.
“Let’s accomplish as much as we can,” you order, “by going in as two pairs.”
“To be safe from breaking Argent’s rules,” Zander says, “I propose we allow your group to finish your business, while the other waits outside. Whom shall you go with?”
“Bartleby,” you reply. The cleric nods his acceptance. “Keeping you two together will help you focus on the Black Rose.”
“’Tis fair,” Mikhail concedes, with a smirk.
Zander guides you and the cleric toward the entrance, built as it is into a large boulder and largely hidden by a curtain of moss.
And so it shall be.
“What are you going to do to me?” he asks.
“This is not about what we are going to do,” you answer, “This is about what you will do for us.”
“There will be no dealing,” Bartleby says, “You will remove the Seal of Thomerion from this dwarf,”—he indicates Fedwick—“or face the consequences. Then, you will rot in prison for your evil deeds.”
The bishop closes his eyes for a moment, and sighs, resigned.
He glances up at you, but seems to look through you at some random thing in the distance. “I will do as you say. But for that, my hands will need to be free.”
You nod at Bartleby, who posts himself by the closed bedroom door, his sun talisman palmed and at the ready. Only then do you untie the ropes binding the bishop, your nerves on edge.
He stands as if weighed down by something invisible. He shuffles forward, and scans your dying friend from head to toe, with folded hands. Several moments of silence pass.
The bishop whispers, “My disciple.”
You and Bartleby exchange wary glances.
“If our army cannot have you, then no one shall!”
Before you can react, the bishop incants a mystical word. A pulsing, purple blast of energy jolts from his outstretched hand, and hits Fedwick full on. Your friend’s body convulses wildly, and the scent of burning flesh pervades the air.
Shouting like mad men, you and Bartleby take revenge, the cleric’s divine energy blasts doing most of the damage. Red-faced, your pulse ready to send your heart through your chest, you throw the bishop’s body to the ground, draw your axe and hack his head clear off. The undead army’s loss serves as little consolation. Your rage gives away to despair, and you kneel by Fedwick’s side, your tears evaporating when they hit the still-hot, very dead remains.
Don’t let evil win. Read another path!
Go back to the warehouse, or…
Restart from the beginning.
“We followed the signs,” you remind the others, “If the healer we seek isn’t here, where would he be?”
Grindle says, quivering, “Just about anywhere else, I’m beginning to think.”
“We’re turning around,” you order, “We can handle it. Trust me.”
Bartleby and Grindle exchange incredulous glances.
You push past your cowardly friends and hold your chest out high in realization that you may be getting somewhere. No small wonder, then, that you don’t see the lithe, black-skinned body hiding within a nearby alcove until it has already leapt out and knocked you to the ground. The others try to pull him off you, but you are pinned there long enough to gaze into the crazed eyes of a dark elf, as well as hear the insane cackles emanating from somewhere within its gaunt throat.
“I got one,” it shouts to no one, “I got one!”
The elf struggles against your companions’ grips, wrenches one arm free and spits two more words’ worth of arcane gobbledygook in their direction. A deluge of ice shards as wide as the passageway blasts forth from its hands, enveloping Grindle and Bartleby. When the area clears an instant later, they stand before you encased in clear crystalline prisons, able to move their eyeballs but nothing else.
“Wait,” you beg as it turns back toward you, “Is there nothing we can do? We will leave in peace, if that is what you wish!”
It intones, “You shall come with me, or your friends will die.”
It seems you have no choice. The elf beckons you to follow, presses a hidden button, and a door opens near the back of the alcove. Beyond, the elf secures you in a tiny, filthy cell, and tells you something along the lines of being released only if and when the Church of Thomerion pays it a thousand gold pieces for its troubles. It appears you have somehow come between this savage headhunter and his employer, and are now deeply involved in the very conflict that put Fedwick in danger in the first place.
It feeds you mush on a twice-daily basis, and there is little to do but count the nicks in the primitive cell bars, through which others have evidently attempted to escape before you. You duplicate this effort during the first nightfall, but find the cell’s integrity far stronger than you would imagine. If Grindle were here, he could pick the lock, but you don’t see another friendly soul for an entire day, then two, then three more days. You attempt to negotiate with the dark elf when it passes by, but it ignores every word you say. You realize you have little control over the situation, and far less hope of ever returning to save Fedwick.
I suppose, you reflect with your back to the hall and your head in your hands, it makes sense that a druid symbol would serve as a warning, as much as anything else.
Your travels cease here, but don’t give up.
Go back to the previous choice, or…
Restart from the beginning.
Thinking better than to indulge in an unwinnable bidding battle, you ignore further action regarding the chest, taking care not to exclaim or raise your hand again, until finally…
“Sold! To the lady in blue!”
The girl claps her hands, squeals in joy, and bounds up to the stage to pay for and claim her prize. As it is almost as big as her, you wonder how she will get it home, let alone how she will get it open.
Let’s see what else they’ve got…
Anxiety rises within you as the crew presents a few more nice items, including an ancient shield you would be interested in using, outside the immediate context. You hold fast, however, pursing your lips. You wait even longer for gemstone collections, necklaces, anything related to or that might contain pearls. The very last item is a jewelry box of ornate tinted glass, but the auctioneer clarifies that it is being sold as-is, which is to say, empty.
I growl my displeasure.
“Let us head west, if only because we shan’t have to stare into the sun,” you propose, squinting.
“Fair enough,” Zander says.
At fi
rst, confidence swells within you, as the tracks appear straight and purposeful. The descending terrain, however, begins to dry out, and the farther along you trek, the more impatience builds within you, until you’re convinced that you’re stuck in a wild goose chase.
“The trail has faded,” Zander grunts, “We may have lost him.”
“You waste our precious time dragging us out here,” you shout, “and now all you can say is that you’ve ‘lost him’?”
The ranger’s eyes widen. He says, “Listen to that.”
“To what?” Then it hits you. You hear intermittent pounding and cracking, the sound of rock being struck. You glance in the direction from which it comes, and note a sturdy-looking wooden bridge, hanging over what must be Vagrants’ Canyon. It stands about two hundred yards away.
“Do not underestimate me, friend,” the ranger preaches to you. A scowl twists your brow, as Zander calls out, “Hullo! Show yourself!”
The pounding halts.
“What is that on the other side?” Bartleby asks.
As your party approaches the bridge’s edge, the mass the cleric had noted becomes clearer. The tracks have led you to a badly mauled, bloody equine corpse. You shudder in horror.
“Who, or what, could have done this?”
“I suggest we leave,” you say, “Or we could find out first-…”
Your unfinished sentence proves prophetic, for a ten-foot-tall troll bolts out from underneath the bridge and scoops you and Zander up into the air, one of you in each hand, before either of you can draw a weapon. Bartleby screams and runs, leaving the creature free to smash your skulls together and combine the insides. You’re sure to serve as a tasty meal or two, if not also a midnight snack.