Month: December 2015

Starra wailed, “Bluuch, I order you to tell me where my mother went, and give me the stone!”
Bluuch shook his head negatively and answered, “No, Princess Starra, Urquhart entrusted me with your stewardship. Your mother said I was to hold onto the Omega Stone. I will follow their orders, even if it means not obeying yours. Elder Piara left in the direction of the Endless Fen, but I lost sight of them. She’s in four good hands with Urquhart.”
Starra disagreed, “She’s traipsing off into the wilds of the Endless Fen to who knows where with a single guardian. I’m going to the Wandmaker. Bluuch, come with me and bring that cursed rock!”
Bluuch stood and followed Starra from the bartizan. Yathle, Loogie, Sharchrina, and Quunsch followed close behind. Starra proceeded directly to Gruusch’s quarters and knocked impatiently on his door.
Starra said, “Gruusch! Gruusch! Gruusch!”
Gruusch quickly opened the door and said, “Starra, I was not expecting to see you until later. You are upset!”
Starra said, “Get your Omega Stone. I want you to interrogate Bluuch!”
Bluuch’s prowess as a warrior was legend in Doug-less. Stories of his deeds filtered down to Gruusch and his comrades who served as Circle guards. There were three stories for every scar on the big four-armed warrior’s body. Young Gruusch replied, “Starra, I love you very much, but I respect Bluuch. Besides, the stones give me access only to other stone bearers. Your mother, the Wandmaker, Mender Fisher, and Ranger Jonna carry the other stones. What should I ask Bluuch?”

The Dream Master had described thoughts he’d gathered from prying into the Nameless Enchanter of Thynna’s dreams. There was a female quite important to the wayfarer, and she was a native of this world. Amica concentrated on the thought. Her visage shimmered and garments changed. The Dreamraider stepped from the shadows into the dim light outside Kilkenny Tavern. Passersby saw a tall beautiful overwhelmingly charismatic woman with long red hair down to her hips and a regal air about her. She wore a large golden necklace, torc, many-colored tunic, and thick coat, which was fastened by a brooch. In this guise Amica sauntered to the tavern door and entered. The patrons immediately made notice of the stranger in their midst with a harsh voice and piercing glare. Though she indeed wore garb worn by natives of this area, it was garb that was worn centuries earlier. In fact the Dreamraider projected the image of a legendary ruler who vanished on the field of battle centuries ago.
Breandan O’Gill sat on a roughly hewn barstool and asked the barkeep McKeon “Is there a festival in the village?”
McKeon answered, “Not to my knowledge. Her costume is certainly authentic. Looks like she stepped out of a museum.”
Breandan flowed, “Aye, old boy, and she’s quite a looker. I think I might investigate.”
McKeon scoffed but said nothing. Young O’Gill strutted over to the roughly hewn table where the sultry newcomer sat alone. Breandan had no luck. This night Amica was not in the mood for an amorous encounter. She brushed off young O’Gill and quaffed McKeon’s ale. Breandan sulked away and muttered colorful expletives. After a while the barmaid offered another round and Amica accepted. In the process she tapped the lass’s brain as to legends and lore of the area. The barmaid referred Amica to the village elder Bardan Culhane who sat in the corner telling tales. Amica sauntered over to the old man’s table. Several younger patrons sat mesmerized and took in the old man’s stories. Most of Bardan’s tales were indeed tall and amplified, but the Dreamraider knew many tales had some basis in fact. She was particularly interested in unexplained disappearances and mysteries. Like everyone in the tavern old Culhane had noticed the comely woman when she entered the public house. When Amica approached several youths stood and offered their chairs. Instead the Dreamraider briskly dragged a nearby chair across the floor and sat by the oldster.
Culhane cleared his throat and mumbled, “Are you a historian? A writer…?”
Amica responded, “Um… hardly. Why do you ask?”
Culhane blushed slightly and quietly responded, “I hope you’ll pardon my assumption. It’s just that your clothing is so authentic and looks better preserved than what I’ve seen in Celtic museums. Where are you from?”

Yannuvia crushed a piece of sulfur in his left hand, uttered a harsh incantation, and sent a ball of fire into the passage. The Fire Blast Spell enveloped the felled Lurker and four three-foot tall pudgy whitish beasts. The creatures made no sounds as the Magick destroyed them. A secondary explosion sent flames back toward Yannuvia’s feet. Flames from the exploding Duoth bomb burned his lower left leg and Drelvish boots. Dark smoke billowed from the passage.
Klunkus and Morganne reached Yannuvia and saw the badly burned body of the Lurker and five smaller mounds of sizzling, burning flesh. Surprisingly the odor of burned toffee filled the passage. Other than the Spellweaver-Wandmaker, nothing stirred in the scorched passageway. Thick black smoke surrounded Klunkus and Morganne, and both Rangers coughed. Then Yannuvia shouted deafeningly, consecutively blurted four identical brief commands, and sent Firebolts repeatedly to the end of the passageway.
Boom!
Boom!
Boom!
Boom!
Incredible aftershocks echoed through the passage, and Yannuvia’s Magick split large fragments of stone from the end of the passage and blocked access to the final section of the corridor. Klunkus and Morganne stepped back from the irate spell caster.
Yannuvia raised his hands, pulled his pointed ears, and again screamed, “This day, I have seen my people killed, not by Drolls, Kiennites, and wyrms, but mute mindless blobs of flesh and unintelligent predators lurking above them on the ceiling. Why?”
Ignoring the burns on his leg, the Spellweaver-Wandmaker cursed and fired Magick Missiles into the remains of the Lurker beast and five Duoths.
“Wandmaker, they are dead. You have blocked access to the corridor. You are injured. We must retreat. Many more of them may be coming down the passage. I don’t think they are mindless! Obviously Magick touches the nefarious beasts. Just as obviously, they ally with monstrosities like the one that attacked us and killed Miclove,” Klunkus pleaded.

The way continued steadily downgrade for 233 paces and then the passageway narrowed and turned sharply upward and to the right.
“This looks promising. The passage turns away from the river and Aulgmoor. The narrowing passage discourages larger beasts. How much time do you require, Mender?” Yannuvia asked.
“I’ve never endured procreation,” Fisher answered.
“Endured? Isn’t it pleasurable?” Young Jonna naively queried.
“You sound like you dread it! Where’s your mate? How’ll she find you?” Joulie added curiously.
“I’m… Menders are different. I share my ilk’s common awareness, but my pain is my own. Each Mender suffers individually, just like you, she-Drelves,” Fisher replied stoically as always.
“Different strokes for different folks!” Joulie quipped.
Young Jonna looked to Yannuvia for answers, but the Spellweaver uncomfortably shook his head negatively, suggested they move forward, and nodded to Joulie.

Yannuvia asked, “Do you require anything more than soft soil, Mender?”
“Well, yes. Soft soil, a dark place, contact with the gray sun, potting soil with precisely mixed ingredients, privacy, and time,” Fisher rambled blankly.
“He doesn’t want much, does he?” Joulie quipped in frustration.
“And he says courtship and mating is complicated! Finding a life mate seems simple compared to confinement. I’m told it’s romantic. Is that true, Spellweaver?” Jonna interjected.
“You may see age in my eyes, Jonna, but I’ve only walked the world for thirteen years. You’re likely more experienced than I,” Yannuvia admitted.

Suddenly Yannuvia realized they were not alone.
A voice entered their minds, “Little Spellweaver, are your hands tired from the boot cleaning?”
Following a loud splash, two large tree roots dangled by them in the babbling waters.
“A tree herder! How did you get here?” Yannuvia asked.
“I wanted to meet the youngsters who sought the experience of seeing the Lone Oak. I tend the Lone Oak, among other things,” the voice answered.
A massive old tree with uprooted roots sat by them. Well, not actually sat, but dangled its thirsty roots in the refreshing waters. The tree herder had only yellow leaves, though they were all manner of hues of yellow. Its truck had such a wide breadth that two adult Drelves would have difficulty reaching around the circumference. Kirrie glanced upward and noted the tree herder was about seven Yardley paces high, or 21 feet in other measurements.
“I know you! You are Old Yellow! I’ve heard the Teacher and Rumsie talk of you! You are amongst our greatest allies. How’d you get to the stream? The path is too narrow. How’d you pull up your roots?” Yannuvia rattled.
“Questions, little one. Too many questions! I do what tree herders do. Old Yellow is not my name, but it’s a moniker I accept. Lots of worse things one could be called,” the tree herder’s voice echoed into their minds.

The path meandered through the deep woods and eventually opened into a clearing where a small brook babbled before a handsome cottage. A small dragon sat on the thatched roof of the cottage. The beast was about three cubits (ten feet) long. Orange scales covered its body from the tip of its short snout to the end of its barbed tail. The creature growled menacingly as the two walkers approached.
“Its alright, Crusher, he’s with me,” the boy said as they crossed the
small clearing and approached the door.
The little dragon stretched, relaxed, and resumed its pose on the
rooftop.
“Crusher is…was my mother’s familiar. She still waits for my
mother’s…return. She won’t leave the house. She doesn’t have much
worth. About all Crusher can do is produce a gooey substance with the
sweetness of honey, and she can only do that once a day. Her spittle is really only defensive. Its gooeyness slows an attacker tremendously. I collect the goop and sell it to Oslar Hill. But Crusher looks fierce. That keeps the vermin away from the house,” the youth informed his elderly guest.

Ravenna did not detect the next pressure trap- the loose stone another twenty feet down the passage- sleep gas filled a twenty foot area of the passage. Ravenna shared the natural resistance to Magick common to elves, but the sleep gas was not Magick- it was a poison. Ravenna, Spech, Foutte, Firiniel, and Knuth fell asleep. Knarra and Selyag watched them closely. None developed labored breathing. The gas cleared in a few minutes. Roscoe yawned three times but no one else was affected.
Knarra went to Knuth and awakened the assassin with a Cure Poison Spell. She in turn revived Ravenna, Spech, Foutte, and Firiniel. The characters were groggy but otherwise no worse for wear.
Knuth muttered something about a heavy footed elf. Ravenna’s keen ears heard the remark and turned red. She muttered expletives in elfish that only Firiniel and Knarra understood.
“Do you get the feeling that somebody doesn’t want us or anyone else coming this way?” Rabe noted.
“That’s exactly why we must keep going,” Knarra urged.
Knuth found the fourth trap. It was fifty feet further along the passage and was another pressure trap; he triggered the trap.
A ten by twenty foot high door opened on the right side of the passage, and a mummified giant armed with a two handed sword lumbered into the hallway. Rotting rags wrapped the sixteen foot high creature. An overpowering stench of death filled the air.
The mummy ripped the enormous blade through the air. Rabe and Tyllmon parried the blow with their shields. Arrows fired by Firiniel and Ravenna did not harm the abomination. The fighters’ blades did little more than raise a moldy cloud of dust. Knarra and Roscoe knew that mummies were not affected by cold, poison, or charm spells. Knarra cast “Harm” and Roscoe cast “Fire”- both spells were extremely effective against the mummified giant. Roscoe cast a second “Fire” spell. Knuth lit a torch and threw it onto the moldy rags that covered the mummy- the combined fires consumed the monster. The air in the passage was now very foul. All members of the party started coughing. Everyone experienced chills and weakness.
“Disease! We are afflicted,” Roscoe moaned.
Knarra reached into her robes and removed eighteen phials. She uttered an incantation and touched her staff to each phial. The clear liquid changed to amber.

The lich picked up the blade.
“I’m going to skewer you with this, assassin. I would never been able to gather the ingredients to form the blade. I would have never been able to steal the bones of my family from the foul cleric that slew them. No user of Magick will oppose me!” Achymm roared.
The growls of the dueling dragons filled the cavern.
The zombie moved toward Gervet.
“Look at your hand, cold one, where you grasp the blade,” Tigarn said coolly.
The lich heard the loud sound of the sword hitting the stone floor of the cavern. His right hand was gone! It was just bones to begin with, but now it was gone!
“Did you place Holy Water in the mixture?” the lich howled angrily.
“Don’t be silly! Why would I weaken my weapon with a conscience? The Death of Magick can’t grace the hand of a spell caster. Are you not a spell caster?” Tigarn said.
The lich howled again.
Tigarn and Gervet threw cloaks of invisibility over their bodies. The lich interrupted the Death Spell that he started. He couldn’t see the assassin and didn’t know where to direct the spell. He quickly started a Detection of Invisibility Spell. Achymm wasn’t quick enough. Tigarn scooped up the Death of Magick and ripped the blade through the air. Achymm’s bones shattered. The lich became the Death of Magick’s first victim.

As the sun reached its pinnacle in the sky, he heard the distinct
click-clop of a hooved beast behind him. He turned and caught
a glimpse of an approaching wagon which was drawn by a gray
long-eared creature. A robust plainly dressed man was seated
upon the wagon. The wagon was laden with luscious fruits and
vegetables. The farmer looked quizzically at the youth. The young
sorcerer clutched the staff that he carried as the peasant began
to speak. This enabled the youth to understand the speech of the
wagon rider.
“Where are you off to, stranger?” the rider asked.
“To the mountains,” the youth answered.
“Do you have business with the Dwarves?” the rider questioned.
He added, “A man must be ready to barter with the greedy little folk.
I don’t see anything that you carry that would interest them.”
“I do not seek Dwarves,” the youth answered.
He did not want to admit that he was not familiar with
“Dwarves.”
“Then you must be seeking Lyndyn. I can carry you part way
there with old Roscoe’s help,” the huge man jovially replied.
The youth did not understand why the “man” was so friendly and
why he would offer his help.
He kept up his guard as he answered, “Who is Roscoe?”
The farmer roared and laughed. “Roscoe, my lad, is my mule.
Where are you from?”

Trya was alone, and the feeling was not a good one, but then again
she had experienced few good feelings since she had been taken from
castle Lyndyn. She again thought of her family; wondered of their
well-being, and wondered if there was any chance of deliverance.
Could she hope for rescue? Her thoughts snapped back to her present
situation when she saw the door swing open.
She saw him standing there. His position was unmistakable.
He was the most dominating figure of a man or at least a manlike
being that Trya had ever looked upon. Unlike Izitx, this Draith had
facial features that actually revealed some measure of feeling. His
skin was more of ebony and the eyes seemed a warmer green. His
hair was likewise darker than that of the other Draiths she had seen.
His eyes and ears were unique to his type. They were almost elven
in appearance; in fact that was what she had instantly noticed about
his face. He stood even taller than his predecessor and was more
muscular and youthful. As she looked at him, in addition to fear, she
noted a more subtle thought had entered her mind; the thought that
he was, in a very different way that she was accustomed to thinking,
incredibly handsome. His eyes met hers, and she turned her head
away. She heard the door close and there were heavy footsteps as
the Draith Lord entered the room. He wore extremely ornate robes
and carried a large scepter. His voice filled the room with a very
soft melodious inflection. This differed from the booming words of
Izitx.
“You are beautiful. Except for the paintings that I’ve seen of
my mother, you are easily the loveliest woman that I’ve ever looked
upon. I know that you are frightened, but I assure you that no harm
will befall you. I shall attend to that. You shall be the first queen to rule over the whole realm the World of the Three Suns.”