The Wrath of Thomerion

by Daniel Heck

  You shake your head, then scan the area a second time. “It’s hard to explain. But this amulet can supposedly transmogrify other things, or even itself. At this point, it could be very hard to track down.”

  Josephine nods. “It’s too bad, then…”

  You look up. “What is?”

  “Your friend, Bartleby. He knew quite a bit about magic and enchanted items.”

  A pause ensues. “I can… do this without him, you know. Many people don’t seem to believe…”

  Josephine lays a gentle hand on your wrist. “I believe in you, dear. Absolutely and truly. And believe me, I wish I could help you more.”

  Am I really that connected to his identity? you ponder. Then again, he was, after all, very well-liked by quite a few people.

  “Thank you, anyway.” You stand and exit.

  Write down the keyword GOSSIP.

  Where else will you try to gather information?

  I question local authorities.

  I ask members of the merchant’s guild.

  Considering that the amulet might have changed hands, having been unwittingly sold or traded at some point along the way, you decide to consult with the merchants’ guild.

  Here goes nothing…

  You ask around the town square, where hawkers sell their wares on a regular basis. It takes bridging a few degrees of separation, but eventually, via someone who knows someone who knows someone, you speak to an official guild captain. The slender blond human extends a hand.

  “Renquist is the name,” he says.

  You shake his hand. “Titania Vermouth,” you introduce.

  “Of Sungaze? It’s a pleasure. You had quite the impact on that community, one that echoes throughout the land.”

  Your cheeks flush and you smile. “I thank thee kindly.”

  “What can I do for you, Miss Vermouth?”

  You explain your need for the amulet, as well as its strange qualities. Renquist scratches his head. “There is one collector,” he says after a moment, “who was telling us odd stories about something on her mantle changing every other day or so. Now, keep in mind she’s quite the old crony, so this could be senility, or she’s just not remembering that she switches these things out.”

  You nod, listening intently.

  “But,” the captain continues, “if the item you describe truly can polymorph itself, maybe it’s getting bored from disuse. She’s unlikely to understand its true value, regardless.”

  Processing this information quickly, you ask, “Where does this collector reside?”

  “Her abode is built into the hillside a league or so northwest of here. Look from the main path for a hexagonal door and a whole swath of tulips in her front yard. You can’t miss it.”

  A halflling’s home…

  “I thank thee,” you conclude.

  Renquist adds, “Anytime,” and sends you off with a salute.

  That was quite informative…

  You hum a tune to wile away the short travel time, occasionally glancing up at the wispy clouds. The weather holds fair for this time of year, even as a chilling breeze whips the collar of your blouse.

  You start to sink into a peaceful reverie, when a steel-gray dragon soars past you overhead, in the direction from which you came. You couldn’t discern much detail about its rider, except to say that it appeared male and that he wore a dark mask.

  They certainly didn’t look friendly… you assess as worry creeps into your heart. Perhaps I should hurry this up…

  You double your pace, staring straight ahead. Soon, the collector’s door comes into view. Just outside, a stooped-over halfling woman with uniformly silver hair shuffles through her garden in bare feet. She notices you coming.

  “Good day, young lady,” she greets.

  You curtsy and reply, “Good day to you as well. I’m Titania Vermouth. I was not given your name, but I would like to speak with you, if I may.”

  “I am Mathilna. The children around here simply call me Ma. Come on in.”

  You smile at the charm of that nickname, introduce yourself in turn, then help her open her strangely-shaped door. Inside, there’s just enough room to avoid hitting your head on the ceiling, but you soon settle in and scan the area. Ma follows.

  “Can I get you tea?”

  “That would be lovely, thank you,” you say politely. The more time you spend in here, you reflect, the more claustrophobic it will probably become, since ‘collector’ seems hardly the appropriate term for her hobby. Glancing about at pile after pile of knick-knacks, parchments, utensils, pots, hides, clothing and other miscellany, you would not hesitate to label her a ‘hoarder.’

  “Is there something specific you’re looking for?” Ma asks. “I’m afraid that whatever it is, it’s not for sale. Too much emotional attachment.”

  You shudder, thinking as you must of your well-kept chests and neatly swept floors back home. The neatnik in you suppresses a sudden wave of nausea.

  Ma turns her back to you and shuffles through a side door, toward a sizable teapot hanging over a flame.

  You hear a soft ‘pop.’ As you turn toward the fireplace mantle where it seemed to come from, you could swear that a moment ago, a gigantic porcelain bowl sat where an aged book does now.

  You arch an eyebrow.

  Is that… the Amulet of Dragon Soul? In a different form?

  You wait patiently, watching the book like a hawk as you overhear the mild sound of Ma pouring tea from within the kitchen.

  After another couple minutes, just as Ma emerges with a loaded tray, the book changes to a brightly colored shoe right before your eyes, emitting another ‘pop.’ Ma doesn’t seem to notice or hear in the least.

  “I am indeed looking for something specific,” you belatedly answer, “although not necessarily to purchase it.”

  “Let’s not hurry things along too much, dearie,” Ma implores, as she sets the tray down and hands you a teacup. “I’d like to get to know you. What do you do? Where are you from?”

  You sigh, exasperated.

  I’m not here to make friends.

  Two ways to get what you need strike you, and you find you can barely weigh them while making inane small talk. Nevertheless, you could question her about the item and use a firm hand to get her to lend it to you, or instead just play along, hope for another distraction and sneak it out of her home.

  What do you do?

  I take a persuasive tack.

  I try to steal the item.

  Surely the authorities would know something about the location of such an important object.

  You track down the local sheriff and ask about the item, holding back little.

  “It used to belong to the royal family,” he explains, “until Prince Wyver II misplaced it.”

  You reel in surprise. “Misplaced it?”

  “Indeed. They never did track it down, despite the efforts of a number of investigators. My understanding is that King Wyver is quite busy, but shall I take you to see Queen Roghet? She may be able to address your needs and answer your questions.”

  “That would be greatly appreciated.”

  You stroll toward the castle, where a stately female dwarf in luxurious white silk already stands near a rampart, looking across the moat upon you.

  “Miss Vermouth,” she calls.

  “Good day, your Highness,” you call back, punctuating the greeting with a curtsy. “Forgive me, but is there no way we can meet more directly?”

  You hear the high-pitched wails of a petulant child. The dwarf hauls a young boy, his face flush with tears, up to shoulder level, where he pounds violently on the queen’s head and back.

  “As you can see,” Roghet explains, “I rather have my hands full at the moment.”

  “I WANT A SCEPTER! LIKE DADDY HAS!” Wyver II screams, “WHY CAN’T I HAVE ONE? WHAAAAAH….”

  “You know the bargain,” the queen patiently reminds him, “if you find where you left the amulet, you can have your own scepter. It will be sm
aller than your father’s, but nonetheless…”

  You clear your throat. “That amulet happens to be what I’m looking for as well.”

  Wyver II abruptly stops the crying and bashing, then takes on a sheepish look as he heaves and slows down his breaths.

  “I have to tell you something,” he squeaks.

  Roghet frowns, then sets him down.

  “What is it? What did you do?”

  “I… didn’t lose the amulet. I snuck it out of the castle.”

  Roghet’s mouth hangs agape. She shoots you an exasperated look, then turns back to her adopted offspring. “What did you do with it from there? And keep in mind, if you don’t tell me, I might really give you something to cry about.”

  “No! Not… the spanking paddle again.”

  “Not yet,” the queen comforts, “Just tell me.”

  “I sold it… to an old lady. She lives in a hole north of here. Her yard’s full of tulips.”

  Roghet exhales and holds her chest. “Thank you,” she says, “for being honest with me.” She and Wyver II embrace.

  Meanwhile, you wait patiently.

  “Titania,” the queen asks. “We’ll pay you handsomely if you were to go retrieve this amulet for us.”

  You agree with fervor, upon the stated condition that you need to use it for something before returning it. Exhausted and bruised, the queen does not question further.

  “AND I WANT A DRAGON! I WANT TO FLY A DRAGON! WHAAAHHH….”

  Roghet leads Wyver II back toward the throne room. “You know that you’re too young, and besides, Daddy doesn’t like dragons…”

  “WHAAA!”

  You leave the scene, thankful despite your motherly instincts that you and Bartleby never created one of those brats.

  *shudder*

  Your ears perk and your eyes dart about for an instant, scanning for any backup the stranger may have brought with him. Sensing none, you nevertheless shout, “Celestine! Galumnuk! Someone’s here!”

  Before the others have awoken, the figure dashes off into the shadows. You think you saw via a brief glint of reflected firelight that he wore dark robes with red trim and may have carried a metallic talisman.

  Servants of Thomerion… are already onto us?

  You shake your head and remind yourself to neither panic nor make irrational assumptions.

  Could have been anyone who’d lost their way…

  Your elf friend rouses but does not stand, instead kneeling with a yawn. “Titania… what’s the matter again?” Galumnuk follows only with a brief raise of his head and an unintelligible grunt.

  “I am sorry for waking you,” you state as tension slowly drains from your core. “Whoever it was left us to our business after all.”

  The others soon return to sleep. But by the time the orcblood is ready to switch places with you, you offer to watch alongside him, for your suspicions have translated into insomnia. Despite irritated eyes and a swimming head, you can’t help but let questions swirl within your soul, not the least of which includes a second-guessing hesitance to take on the kind of danger that others have taken long before in your name.

  Write down the keyword DANGER.

  Let’s get some more rest while we still can…

  Thinking proactively, you draw your dagger and rise.

  “I repeat, who goes there?” you whisper, louder this time, extending your weapon into the dark night.

  The silhouette merely stands there.

  “Leave us alone!” you demand. “We are heavily invested in an important journey. If you cannot explain your presence here, leave, or we shall be forced to defend ourselves.”

  Titania! you think, when did you become such a violent soul?

  “Thomerion shall prevail,” the man mumbles.

  Adrenaline and the threat of that name surge you into action: you take three large strides and with a guttural grunt swipe at the robed figure, only to find that it instantly disperses into the air via a cloud of red mist.

  Now, there stands nothing.

  Merely an illusion, you reassure yourself as you let your pulse calm, meant to scare us.

  You glance dubiously over your shoulder, at your sleeping companions. They have barely stirred.

  Yet, how did its caster find us?

  Have we really given that much opportunity in so little time?

  You cross your arms, stare into the starry expanse, and frown.

  Merely an illusion...

  You point to yourself as the candidate to go in first, and Celestine indicates her approval, making an ‘O’ with her pointer finger and thumb.

  Pushing hard with all your muscles to counter the crushing water pressure, you grab a hold of the ship’s edge and haul yourself underneath. It takes a few more minutes of searching, but soon, you encounter a huge patch of bright blue youth herb, each long leaf of which has two gorgeously intertwined fronds.

  You grip a fistful of the stuff, but its unnatural slipperiness keeps you from tearing it away.

  Either that, or the surroundings have laid claim to it and don’t want to give it up, you think.

  You try once more. This time you get some to come free, but as your arm rears back from the effort, your clothing snags on an outhanging nail. As you yank at it, your right leg entangles in a deeper patch of seaweed. The more you struggle, the more scraped and bruised by contact with coral and wood you become, and the more panic and fear conquer you from the inside out.

  On top of it all, you feel the spell’s expiration warning sign, and your gills start to revert.

  You shout and beckon toward Celestine with your one free hand, who closes the distance quickly, but as she carries nothing but her bare hands and can’t seem to unsheathe your dagger, she suffers as much trouble getting you loose as you did from the beginning. She points toward the surface to convey that she’ll get more help.

  By the time militiamen arrive with tools, however, seawater has filled your lungs, and your spirit has become just another piece of random flotsam among the surf.

  Cruel fate has taken your life! Rise again. Return to the previous choice, or start over from the beginning.

  You point toward Celestine as the diver to go in first. She flashes you a thumbs-up.

  Your elf friend has a little trouble at first: her flowing hair keeps getting in the way, but she slowly swims her way to the back end of the ship, examining clumps of plants, approaching each to within inches of her face as she goes.

  She knows what we’re looking for, far better than I do, anyway…

  “Ouch!” she shouts.

  Eyes wide, you gesture for an explanation, but soon enough, your worries are answered. An octopus bigger than your entire body spurts from underneath a ship plank with several tentacles wrapped tightly around Celestine’s arm.

  Drawing your dagger as quickly as the water will allow, you push ahead to meet her. Celestine struggles mightily, exhaling large jets of bubbles and cringing with every sting, as more suction cups claim space on her skin. You hack and stab at the creature, but it fails to back down for what seems an eternity.

  Finally, as dark blood oozes from its eyes and body, murking your field of vision, and just as you both feel the breathing spells’ expiration warning sign, the octopus retreats. You hightail it back to shore, where you both flop yourselves upon the sand, exhausted.

  And, with nothing to show for it…

  Celestine gasps and half-chokes as the crawls onto her back, griping, “I’m not thinking this is what I signed up for.”

  You nod in agreement. “We’re going to have to try something else.”

  After resting for a short while, you find Fedwick and outline a plan to search the river after all.

  Write down the keyword OCEANS.

  Oh well.

  You find your way back to Whitetail, at times examining the shield as you travel. Its six huge spikes glint at you in the midday light. With practice, you learn that they are magically rigged to fire at any target you choose upon recit
ation of a command word etched into the shield’s back, then regrow at dusk each day.

  Very, very interesting…

  You find Galumnuk exactly where you had hoped. As usual, he kisses your hand in greeting. You blush.

  He then displays a huge blade: the Sword of Dragon Lore.

  You grin and tousle his hair teasingly. “You got it!” you proclaim. “I hope you didn’t have to go through too much.”

  “Was easy. Threaten quartermaster with knuckle sandwich.”

  Your smile disappears. “Uh…”

  “What wrong?”

  “We’re going to have to talk about your diplomacy skills. Perhaps sometime very soon.”

  The orcblood shrugs, then glances around. “Where Celestine?”

  You put a finger to your chin. “I was about to ask the same question.”

  “Hi, guys!”

  The cheerful female voice came from the east. Your elven friend bounds down the street toward you, her neck gartered with a tremendous gold chain, to the end of which a perfect sapphire is attached.

  “Is that the Amulet of Dragon Soul?” you ask, “Good job!”

  “I’ve been using it on the way here,” Celestine huffs, catching her breath, “All I have to do is visualize what I want it to do, but it seems to have the limitation that it can’t transform living things.”

  You wince.

  That’s just going to have to be okay.

  The next step, you all come to agree, is to track down Thomerion’s possessed.

  “Where we think he strike next?” Galumnuk inquires.

  “Maybe he already has or is doing so now. I vote that we take to the skies one more time.”

  Upon hiring some dragons to scan the land from overhead, you see in an open clearing many miles toward Noblehorn a steel-gray dragon, who guards the area as a pale-skinned, masked human performs some kind of strange ritual on foot.