The Seal of Thomerion

by Daniel Heck

  “Hey, wart-face!”

  The words shock you as they escape your mouth. You duck back into the shadows and brace yourself as you hear the brute turn and stomp once in your direction.

  “Excuse me?” it grunts. “Who’s there?”

  You dash further around the tower, hoping to incite a game of follow-the-noise. “You heard me! Your mother wears army boots, and your father smells of cheap wine!” You make a mental note that you’re going to have to work on your skill regarding witty insults.

  “That may be true,” the orcblood shouts, “But what business is it of yours? Show yourself!” The guard now heads straight in your direction, having abandoned his post.

  Now three-quarters of the way around the tower, you see Bartleby and Vermouth rush toward the front door out of the corner of your eye. They make it in, just before you note that the rest of the orcblood band is on their way back from down the avenue.

  “Uh-oh,” you grumble. Loathing the idea of leaving your companions behind, you nevertheless dash away from the tower and into the core of the capital city, as fast as your legs can take you. In the name of self-preservation against overwhelming numbers, you can now do little but watch from a distance, and hope.

  For several minutes, nothing seems to happen. Then, you hear a blood-curdling female scream pierce the afternoon air. An indistinguishable body runs by one of the tower’s barred windows, then another in the opposite direction. The latter appeared to carry somebody else upon its shoulder. The guards outside the door look upward and murmur amongst themselves briefly, but soon rush into the tower, and it appears more clearly than ever that this was a fool’s mission.

  “Care to apologize yet?”

  The deep voice startles you; you whirl about to find that the original guard looms over you, and he swiftly punches you in the jaw. Your last instant thought before falling unconscious involves something about how persistence can sometimes make up for a lack of smarts.

  Better opportunities await you. Try again!

  Go back to the border guard, or…

  Restart from the beginning.

  You cross your arms and grumble to yourself, but admit that it’s too early and too dangerous to trust just anybody you run across. Further, you realize you may need what gold you have elsewhere in your quest.

  You glance up at the old man and tell him, “It seems I am outvoted. No offense intended, sir.”

  The elf smiles warmly, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “None taken. Good day to you all, and good luck.”

  He turns, shuffles toward the door of his treehouse, gazes at the horizon for a moment, and retires.

  Undeterred, your group hurries further into the wood. After a brief search, Zander declares that he has found the entrance, and you rush to join him.

  I’m sure his intentions were good…

  “A pair and a straight,” Saul says. “Just one point to go.” He turns over the four of spades, and places it in the last spot. The final grid looks like this:

  You have lost.

  I hang my head in defeat.

  “Nicely played,” Saul says, “even if you did get a little lucky.” He winks at you.

  As I said, I shall accompany you to Managhast. I’ll leave some lieutenants in charge here, although the way they play cards, perhaps I should think twice.”

  You chuckle. Saul and three strong-looking men stock a generous supply of food and water, and lead you through the desert and back into the temperate lands beyond, then to a small port village. There, a handsome, medium-sized ship lay in wait, docked and rocking on the waves. On its side is a wooden placard that reads ‘The Grand Titania.’

  “You do not normally captain your expeditions at sea?” you ask Saul, as the evening winds down into night.

  “I merely own the vessel,” Saul explains, “and occasionally oversee its maintenance. But do not interpret that as meaning it holds little value. A ship is, after all, much like a woman.”

  You smirk. “In that, if you give it some attention, it will love you back?”

  Saul laughs out loud. “In that you can’t live with them, and you can’t live without them.”

  You board, and suddenly notice how tired you are. As you retire to a small chamber under decks, a skeleton crew prepares to shove off, pressing through the night to arrive at Managhast by mid-morning.

  You awaken refreshed, if a little sea-tossed, and meet a fellow sailor near mid-mast. Curious, you ask, “What does Fort Remnon hope to accomplish on this expedition?”

  “This is an exploratory commercial venture,” he replies, “to gather fruits and other flora native to the area.”

  “From any specific tree, one that might, say, earn a specific title?”

  “Not of which I am aware.”

  You scratch your beard.

  So, even they don’t know about the Tree of Purity…

  The weather holds fair as the sun climbs higher into the sky, and soon, you see a broad isle poke its way over the horizon. Shaped like a crescent, its dense jungle wraps around an inviting bay, but the shore contains no man-made piers of any kind. A throng of short, shirtless humanoids chokes the land. They jump and point at you, and wield primitive weapons. Yet, the ship sails on.

  “What do you plan to do about them?” you ask Saul.

  “I am not certain,” he replies, “They’re unarmored, and should be easy pickings in a fight, although there are almost twice as many of them as us.”

  You arch an eyebrow, and ponder whether your companion could be called brave, or instead foolish.

  “I am open to your recommendation,” he tells you.

  What do you advise?

  We should initiate a full-scale attack upon the natives.

  Let’s wait until their intentions are clearer.

  We’re in enough trouble as it is down here, you think, with no need to risk more.

  You take a last glance at the rubies, tempting as they are. You descend, with little fanfare or difficulty.

  Bartleby asks, his arms crossed, “So, nothing of interest is up there?”

  “Oh, nothing that doesn’t probably have another trap rigged within it.”

  As you look around once more, you ponder your other options.

  We take the squat passage.

  We take the wide passage to the right.

  “A pair and a straight,” Saul says. “Just one point to go.” He turns over the four of spades, and places it in the last spot. The final grid looks like this:

  You win!

  I pump my fist in celebration!

  “Let’s wait a while,” you advise.

  “Fair enough.”

  As you approach Managhast, the expressions on the natives’ faces change from hostility to something else entirely. Their eyes widen and their jaws hang slack. They stare at Saul, who stands at stern, with one foot raised and propped against a railing. He may appear picturesque, but to this degree?

  The moment the ship runs aground, the vast majority of the natives fall prostrate, their hands extended in Saul’s direction. Your companion scratches his head and looks at you in amazement.

  “What in the…”

  “You have come at last!” rings a deep voice from behind a tree. A crew member extends the boarding ramp, and you follow Saul down it to meet a tall, muscled fellow with mud smeared on his cheeks and forehead. He uses an ornate staff to assist him as he walks, upon which several small bells jingle with each step.

  “It has been our legend for centuries,” this shaman explains upon seeing your quizzical looks, “that one day, the embodiment of the yin and the yang, the strong and the humble, the zealous and the selfless, would descend upon our isle and rid us of all pain and suffering. He is to have dark hair and white clothing…”

  Only now do you realize that Saul wears the same shirt, pants and cloak he had on yesterday.

  …and, most distinctly of all, only one arm.”

  You reel in shock. Saul laughs.

  “But, good sir, you m
ust be mistaken. I am merely…”

  “There is no mistake. You are to come with us.”

  Thinking quickly, you interject, “If you need your messiah to rid this island of pain, why not eat of the fruit of the Tree of Purity?”

  “It is all-powerful, yes,” the shaman replies, “but the gods shall strike down any who harvest it. Those of us who have done so reap temporary benefits, but soon attract all kinds of dangers, from quicksand to sterility, to discovering one’s source of water has been poisoned, or even being struck by lightning.”

  “Mere superstition,” a sailor grunts.

  You scan the colony once more. Still and silent, their worship of your companion appears so complete that they wait for him to speak before even so much as raising their heads.

  “Saul,” you whisper as you nudge him. “They might just believe whatever you tell them.”

  A moment passes before Saul looks back at you, and then it hits him. His face lights up, and he booms, “On behalf of the gods of Managhast, of all spiritual entities responsible for creation of this land, and of your very ancestors, I decree that the Tree of Purity shall be, now and for eternity, safe and moral for all.”

  The shaman grins and claps his hands in joy, then turns to his men and translates the words. The throng stands, whoops and hollers.

  “Ask them if they can lead us to the tree,” you instruct.

  Within moments, you find your target. From a distance, it appears much the same as the adjacent trees, but soon, you notice that a bluish sheen envelops it. Small pulses of magic shoot across it in a distinct and predictable rhythm, like oxygenated blood to a humanoid heart.

  A native lends you a small basket, into which you shake several dozen large, purple berries. You direct your fellow sailors to gather as many as possible, to help those in need back on the mainland.

  “If I’d known this was here,” Saul comments to you, “we would have braved this island long ago. These will fetch a pretty penny.”

  “Your sister never told you about it?”

  “We have not been close for many years, after I broke the familial dedication to the town of Sungaze by leaving for a military life. I am surprised she sent you my way.”

  “Perhaps this can prove to her that military life is not always about death and destruction.”

  Saul nods. “Perhaps,” he says, as he turns to continue gathering.

  Am I to convince him of that, you wonder, or rather, myself?

  The shaman invites the lot of you to a noontime feast, but as tempted as you are to partake, you politely decline, for the sake of expediency. You re-board the Grand Titania after helping convince the natives that Saul will return one day. You shove off, your spirit buoyed by the knowledge that you have left an entire civilization satisfied, with the tools to help them help themselves when adversity next strikes.

  This turned out to be about more than just one person, after all.

  Since it will take several more days to travel back to Sungaze, you begin to wonder whether Fedwick still clings to life. The sea, desert and prairie all blow by in a flash, as your rush to salvage his spirit drives you forward despite exhaustion and exasperation.

  Carrying the basket as carefully as possible, you hustle through the streets of Whitetail and burst through the door of your hut, to find the attending cleric still on duty, even if asleep.

  You press a hand to Fedwick’s chest, and feel it rise. You are in time!

  You use a mortar and small bowl to crush the berries, and mix them with water from your basin. As you pour the solution down Fedwick’s gullet, the color begins to come back to his cheeks. Suddenly, he sits up and launches into a wild coughing fit. Your smile couldn’t be wider. You embrace him.

  “Brother,” he grunts, “What happened?”

  “’Tis a long story,” you reply.

  Your overwhelming joy leaves you oblivious to all else, as meanwhile, mere kilometers away, near the northern gates, a convoy of undead skeletons approaches, armed with swords and commanded by a handful of wizened necromancers. At their head is an orcblood general, the hatred in his heart soon to set the entire Ambrosinian capital aflame.

  You have revived Fedwick!

  But is there more to the story?

  Read through The Seal of Thomerion again to find out.

  “Titania did say these people weren’t going to be friendly,” you remark, “so shall we get the jump on them?”

  “I was hoping you’d say that,” Saul replies, with a smirk. To the crew he shouts, “Men, ready your spears! On my mark!”

  All but two sailors, one reserved for manning the sails and another that steers the ship through a tight arc to the right, arm themselves accordingly and shuffle toward stern. A fire burns in their eyes. Saul stands behind them, shielded from potential harm.

  As the Grand Titania cuts ever closer to the shoreline, you start to see a change on the faces of the natives; a few look past the sailors, at Saul. Their eyes widen, and they drop their clubs and staves.

  “Wait, wait…” you splutter, “wait a minute!”

  “Now!” Saul orders.

  Your corps lets loose a deadly volley, but many of the primitive men dodge the spears, while a few jump behind trees, so few attacks hit their mark. The ship runs aground with a lurch, and the sailors press into the throng, drawing daggers and swords. With a mighty swing, one pierces the heart of a native, who collapses. The other targets, however, prove themselves capable adapters. They disarm, trip, and employ other backhanded tactics that compensate for their shortcomings in weaponry. Soon, two or three of them have surrounded each of your men, and some of the latter have already fallen.

  The tide turns, you think, as your short legs cause you to straggle behind, and I’m not here to fight, ultimately.

  You dash across the shoreline and around the battle, and look over your shoulder as you penetrate the jungle beyond. The natives seem to not have noticed you, but one small problem still plagues you.

  Where in this land can I find the Tree of Purity?

  You search among acres upon acres of wilderness, pushing aside huge branches and sloshing through damp undergrowth as you go. An eternity seems to pass, but no one plant stands out among all the rest. You take a moment to think things over, and estimate you haven’t even covered a fifth of the island’s land mass, when it hits you that the surroundings have become eerily quiet. Either all battle at the shoreline has ceased, or you have long since traveled out of earshot.

  Then, the trees start to move. They seem to rise at a slow but steady pace, and you begin to think your eyes play tricks on you, until you look downward.

  You’re sinking into quicksand.

  “Help!” you shout, flailing your arms. You sink even more rapidly, then remember that panic will make things worse, and breathe deeply. You look about, and see little recourse. Almost a half-circle behind you, a thick vine snakes outward, which you grab and start to pull upon, but by now, you’re up to your waist in the sand, and the vine snaps off near its base, unable to take the strain.

  You holler for assistance once again, but no one comes. The brown menace consumes your chest, then your arms and neck. Although you take one last breath knowing just how close you to came to success, the earth consumes you whole, knowing in turn just how far away you are from home.

  Your quest has ended... or has it?

  Go back to the previous choice, or…

  Restart from the beginning.

  “We shall decline,” you say to the woman, “but wish you good day.”

  Crolliver frowns and asks, “Are… are you sure?”

  The woman’s face falls, but she thereafter shrugs, turns, and sits in the dirt beside a ragged beggar. The two of them have begun conversing casually by the time you leave the scene.

  You note the youth’s morose look as you trek, and argue, “Shall we look at it this way? Perhaps the gold we saved will come in handier than any form of knowledge.”

  Crolliver ignores you, stoli
dly marching forward.

  Fortune-telling is a scam anyway. We move on,

  You think for a while, during which time Crolliver makes it out of the temple entirely.

  “It’s just as well,” you conclude.

  “He left something behind,” Bartleby says, while heading toward the prayer box. He leaves you musing near an altar, your arms crossed.

  The parchment the cleric retrieves is barely larger than your hand, yet he pores over every word for several long minutes.

  “What is it?”

  “See for yourself.”

  You rejoin Bartleby, and inspect the script over his shoulder:

  May the victims of Thomerion find solace in this gesture, a symbol of peace and harmony in a world of discord, and may the gods forgive my transgressions, as I seek to repent.

  “A prayer,” you remark, “and little more.”

  “Not so,” the cleric counters, as he turns the parchment over. The obverse contains row after row of hieroglyphs and ciphers. A strange curlicue in the lower-right corner punctuates the message.

  You scratch your head. Bartleby smirks, and clarifies, “Magical scroll paper. In fact, while I know only some of this language, I can say with reasonable certainty that the spell contained herein can be used to inflict the seal of Thomerion itself.”

  You smack your forehead in amazement. “Does it,” you ask, “have the power to reverse such an effect already in place?”

  “I’m afraid this kind of magic doesn’t work that way. But, this definitely counts as something that the church would want back.”

  You now know how to set the trap; the question left is where.