The Serpent's Cage

In the coldest and darkest fires of the hell plane, she waited in chains. Mindless and Soulless. Minuets had become like decades as the flesh trickled off her bones only to heal slowly as raw bloody scabs kissed by new flames and boiling at birth. Huge lurking Terrors of the underworld came to her each day and raped her immobile form. Her chains held strong as beast after beast tore into her and bathed her in their stink and heat. Her belly swelled again and again, as she gave birth once more, and as always she saw as the Terrors take her children and consumed their flesh and bones, roaring with laughter at the once mighty Princess.

When a Demon dies on the mortal plane, its spirit returns to the Hell Plane as it was before. Only the body remains and decays for the mortals to witness. But when the spirit is locked in the world of men, the body returns with no power, no rank, and no authority. Those who had ruled under her could only have dreamed of such sweet levels of revenge.

But they did not know what revenge was. She -the warlord princess of the demon lord Alhgarahn- knew revenge. And she would have it. The pieces were slowly fitting into place. The six drew closer together each day. Her mind had all the power it needed to complete the task at hand, and the pitiful shred of her tortured soul still floated around tormenting the blood of that foolish crafty Malvis. The thought of such a miserable human using his magic to create such a wicked fate for her made her blood run cold with rage. She let out a roar in the five tongues of the lower sanctum as a chorus of terror. Without any warning one of the chains that bound one of her six arms gave the slightest creak.

The roar attracted the attention of one of the largest and cruelest of the hulking Terrors. He saw she was awake and with a twisted smile paced his way towards her. His burned and twisted excuse for a phallice began to swell as he drew near her.

"Ahhhhhhhhh hyoouuu muuuzzttt beeee hhhunggarrryy foohhrr mooaaarrr mmyy zweeet phrinzheeezzz" His lipless mouth bleched.

He placed one huge hand around her head and began to twist. She felt her bones and muscles snap and tear as he began to force himself inside her. His laughter and smell flooded over her like a swarm of spiders.

There was a crack that sounded like thunder splitting a mountian, and a choir of voices joined together as Malixars hand tore free and found its home gripping the Terror's jaw. With a roar and a twist his mouth burst apart as she threw the lower half of his skull into the fires. He let out a wet gurgle of a shriek, but her now free hand had already found another grip on his fat hanging tongue. She began to pull. She began to laugh. She joined her voice to the choir of devils as the Terror was pulled inside-out. Guts and bones began pouring out of his broken frame. A fraction of her strength had returned.

The pieces were fitting into place.......

Break 10 - Mortan Osserfid

"An idea, like a ghost, must be spoken to before it will explain itself."

The smell was horrible in the sewers, even to the gnome's senses which had grown a certain fondness for the stench of decay that came with the ex-living.

As the half-orc drudged muck from his boots, only smelling slightly worse for the sewers, and Dmitri clawed awkwardly in the muck looking for a bit of magic hidden far below the room they were in, Mortan sat on a bit of ripped cloth from one of the now deceased barbarians' cloaks.

"...I can't believe you sold my body..."

The incorporeal remnants of the the white-mage-gone-mad materialized beside him once again.

"Well, what did you expect us to do? You couldn't be reasoned with. You could have been a powerful ally in life, so now it seems only fitting that you be useful in death. Your life and powers should account for something to fix this mess you've made, even if it is no more than the jingle of a few coins in our pockets. And now, because of you, I'm running around up to my waist in sewer filth looking for the dagger of a Demon-Princess-turned-God."

The ghost vacantly looked at him, through him, Mortan couldn't tell. It was stated in many of his old books that a raised ghost retained much of it's memory being freshly risen, and that that ability would fade over time without a fresh reminder of what it had lost. Mortan only hoped that the incorporeal entity would suffer that fate as quickly as possible.

"...The dagger? Yes... It was found on a historical dig, uncovering remnants of a very old fortress to the north. Master Turillian kept it under lock and key in his study...but once I laid my eyes upon it, I had to study it closer. He could sense the evil in it. He was much wiser than I. It's song was like silk ropes that pulled me in...So I stole it, for the sake of knowledge...or so I told myself. I brought it down here to the sewers. I made a secret chamber in the deepest bowels of the city where I could explore the ancient magics inside the weapon in peace. It was down here that It took its full hold on me. Even the words of my Sword-Brother did nothing to hinder my adamant thirst for power. Gods I was a fool..."

Mortan's ears perked up. Maybe the white mage's words could prove useful information here.

"You were indeed a fool! A weak willed fool clinging to a power you could not understand."

"...Well, once the voice started telling me of its plans, I had no will left of my own to fight it. I thought if I was the one to complete the ritual, then the powers she promised would be left to none by me. She said the blood of six men would mark the six stones. She told me once the seal was broken she would have her body back, and claim back her six ancient weapons. I see now that the ritual was a farce and nothing more than a lure for the likes of you and your friends. Great powers were at play, and like a game of strategy, all moves were planned far in advance. Your friends were part of the game just like myself. We are all playing against a foe that we cannot predict..."

"What foe is this? Are you referring to the black mages that have gained control of the city? The ones hiding their rituals in these sewers?"

"...Of course, the sewers. While I was down here I noticed the increased activity of the black brothers. They came and went in droves, seeming not to know of my presence, or the location of my secret chamber. It would appear I'm not the only one who turned to the undercity to hide my plans. I can only assume the shift in power is related to their activity here. I'm sorry to say I saw little else before I fled the city in an effort to begin the ritual..."

...And back to the Gharlamaal Be Damned fake ritual! But, secret chamber? Here? The thoughts of hidden magics made the gnome's eyes glaze. But also, it seemed that while his memory lasted, they had a guide.

"What can you tell me of what lies ahead, mage? What is that large gruesome noise down the path ahead?"

The mage made a gesture that looked almost like a shrug.

"... I couldn't tell you what that noise is. To the east of us is the catacombs, and further ahead is the Silth Pits. It's the heart of the sewer system. I've never been there..."

"AHA!" Mortan's attention was momentarily diverted as Dmitri yelled, pulling from the muck some sort of golden coin.

When Mortan looked back to where the ghost had been, he was gone...more than likely once again sulking in the Ethereal Plane.

Break 9 - Mortan Osserfid

Fueled in the Fires of the Undead...

Mortan crouched over one of the corpses in the broken stone circle, doing as he had done countless times before; willing into the body a sense of life that would animate it accordingly to do his bidding. But unlike every time before, it didn't work. The life force came easily enough, but focusing it into the body seemed similar to pouring water into a sieve. It flowed out of the body and somewhere deeper.

The grey-souled gnome had a moment of fear that Gharlamaal had forsaken him entirely, but trying once again, the power was still there and indeed seemed to flow stronger than ever before.

Retreating to his packs, he removed the black and white mask that marked Gharlamaal's praise and, returning to the body, placed the ceremonial adornment over his face. A flash of black and white overtook his vision then, bleeding into grey as it knocked him face-first into the corpse, and seemingly further and further below; To lands no living had ever tread; To the lands of the dead.

There, far below, beckoned a large object made of molten and shadow and hope. A closer look revealed it as some form of forge.

"...This is the Etherforge. The dead are not created, nor destroyed. The dead are reformed. This is the tool that one would use to do so. Champions and guardians are needed in one's world to walk the path of the world's woes. This is one's tool. This is My tool. One should use it wisely..."

Mortan's face twisted in confusion.

"How does one do this, my Lord? How may I use this creation to further Your Divine Grace?"

"...One's world needs a champion of undeath to defeat those who would disgrace My teachings and distort them to their own views. One will show the world My true power! One will use this forge to create the guardians he will need to defend himself against what is to come. One will become my Prophet of the Etherforge. One will learn to use the Etherforge to reshape the souls of the undead to the forms that will best show My strength. One will not disappoint! One will choose wisely..."

With the final word, Mortan found himself being pulled inside the Etherforge; Into a limitless place of pain and suffering, but also solace. Of burning and rest.

Back above, Mortan awoke with a scream on his lips as Grath kicked him awake. Judging from the pain and likely bruising already on his side, this was not the first of such kicks.

"Hey, awake now? Thought you were... What wrong with your face?"

At the half-orc's odd words, Mortan felt his face to find the mask completely disappeared. He quickly scanned the area to find it nowhere in sight.

"What do you mean my face?..."

Just then, Mortan caught a reflection of himself in the blade of Grath's sword. His face had become a copy of the mask; half dark as night, the other as pale white as bleached bones. As he continued to watch, the colors disappeared into his skin and a smile spread on his face.

"I am fine now, my sharp-toed friend. Leave me be now to finish my preparations."

The gnome turned back to the corpse as Grath shrugged and walked back to the rest of the party, finishing packing up their equipment and the body of the mage for transport to the great city of White, Red and Black magic.

Mortan steadied himself and this time, instead of channeling the energy into the corpse directly he sent it down-down-down into the Etherforge, forming and reshaping as he willed before returning the energies to the corpse in front of him.

The new Etherforge Prophet smiled. This was something different, and he liked it...

Strangers in the dark (serious this time)

Its been several days since I received the letter back from Inlakes. It did nothing to cure my need/want for what lies at the end of this rumor or myth. To say the least sleep has not come to me as easily as it has before. When i do my dreams are filled with strange men wearing dark cloaks that cover their faces. They stand in a circle of 13, all have identical robes, a black velvet witha trim of dark purple, On the top of the hood is a stitched symbol of an eye placed on the center of an open book which is on top of what looks to be a sword. When i enter the room they all turn to face me. I get the urge to flee but my legs dont allow me to, either does my curiosity. The circle then fans out and makes two rows of six with a main at the end. I continue toward the center of the room, as I pass, a cloaked figure draws a glowing sword from the inside folds of his/her robe. As the point of the sword touches the floor as sound of spoken words can be heard, in a tongue i have yet to decipher. As I turn to look at the rescpective figure I notice that their lower faces became visable, all of them had small goatees, some had scars and bruises. As I reached the last man, it was obvious he was the leader, his robes were pure purple with black trim and the insignia on his hood was glowing, there seemed to be no stitching at all. As I got to him he reaches into his robes and pulls out... I have no idea, everytime it gets to that part I wake up... What are these dreams? Hopefully they'll have more information at Andesine. Hopefully.

Balance

The road to Andisine had not been an easy one. The headstrong determination of Dmitri and his companions to head through the Grey Wilds had not gone exactly according to plan, to put it mildly. Still, just like he'd thought, they had made it through alive and, in the end, none the worse for wear. While the thought of death along this path they were walking was still present, brooding in the back of his mind, Dmitri felt somehow vindicated, strengthened in purpose every time they made it through another conflict unscathed.

Andisine was not much further; after the confrontation with the fallen mage of Liet, things had been relatively smooth. By night, they huddled inside the safe confines of the tent (and it was a true stroke of luck that it had been purchased, though really Dmitri couldn't say who had spent their silver on it by this point), and by day they trudged wearily, warily onward. And so, this night, just like the others before it, they settled within their shelter, despite the cold, wet winds outside.

And, unlike most nights, Dmitri dreamed. It was in this dream, the usual nebulous landscape with nothing of note happening, that he saw her. Dmitri saw, for the first time in his life, his mother.

The familial curse was strange, in some ways. While he had constant interruptions from his relatives, there was a sort of block on the recently dead, almost as if they were still trying, futilely, to get through the seal that had been placed by Malvis so long ago. In the hundreds of years that they could speak of, no one appeared to any of the Maltavis clan sooner than a generation, more usually two or three, from the time of their death. Dmitri knew this, but could not deny seeing her there, knowing her face. Ylena, slight of form but radiant with her own energy, reached out her hand, beckoning him to follow her through the landscape of his dreams.

With a shrug, he did. The path wound and spiraled, with his mother's form always just ahead, urging him further. Through shadowed ravines and up half-formed hills, he followed, always just out of reach of her light. He trailed her down, deeper, through a canyon whose walls towered above him, almost losing sight of the gleam around a sharp turn, and knowing, somehow, that he would be lost here for good if he let that happen.

Dmitri charged around the corner, and almost barreled headlong into the man standing there. It was hard to make him out, precisely; all at once, he seemed young and old, vital and atrophied. The only truly clear feature was the red robes he wore, emblazoned with the crest of Gamasen. The man seemed to smile at Dmitri's baffled stare, and spoke.

"Dmitri Maltavis. It is good of you to have come this far to speak with me. Now, please, I ask you to let me speak; this form of communication is a terrible drain, especially as I have to make it...shall we say, 'concealed'. My name is Father Terrilion, a priest of Gamasen in the capital of Andisine. You, and your friends, are coming here. This is known to me, and doubtless to some others. Likewise, your quest, and challenges, are not unknown to me; Gamasen has spoken to me of them, and I know the trials you will face.

"But Dmitri, there is another calling for you as well. Andisine is in upheaval. Nicolas has fallen, leaving only Devinar and Carolinus to manage the city. Devinar has taken it to his advantage, and Carolinus is not able to bring such an unbalanced scheme to equilibrium. Gamasen has followed your path, granted you powers and, of course, the odd bit of help once in a while; oh don't look surprised! Surely you didn't think that all those miraculous happenings were completely random, did you? Regardless, all things balance for we who wear the red, and now...now, Dmitri, is when your help is asked. Increasing power demands increased responsibility, and it has been told to me that this task is partially yours.

"You are fated, my son; for what, precisely, I can't say. Gamasen has not deigned to share the outcome of your struggles with me. Still, I can see with my own eyes that you have the ability to change things, especially with your companions at your back. You, and those you travel with, have the opportunity to help restore the balance in Danmier. You are an unknown factor, and stronger than anyone gives the lot of you credit for. Come to Andisine, Dmitri. Find the cause of Nicolas' disappearance; restore him to his position if possible, but, above all else, help restore the balance to magic in Danmier. If Danmier falls to one faction, it will not be long before the rest of Macinar follows.

"Find what you can. Seek me at the temple of Gamasen when you're ready, and I can help further you along your path; there's more to the mysteries of the Red God than self-serving spells from a pretty book, after all. Find your way here, learn, and help us set things right."

The vision faded, and Dmitri felt an inescapable pull backwards. He felt picked up off of his feet, as if by some coursing wind, and was propelled backwards, faster and faster, until, with a jolt, he found himself awake. He sat up with a gasp, looking around the inside of the tent, finding everyone else asleep still. Dawn was hours away, but he couldn't help thinking that he saw a bright glow fading just over the horizon.

swords

Kade pulled out 'his' sword. The fragment of a dead god that somehow was meant for him. He stood at the top of a pillar of stone, looking down as the others dealt with the dead mage, and speculated what it all meant. This vaguely shortsword shaped object was not weighted correctly for anything that would be used for actual battle, but it was his. So it was his, he started working the forms with it until the others were ready to leave this desecrated place.

Lost in Darkness

For weeks now the streets of the silver city have been left cold and dark after nightfall. The magic lanterns that once filled the capitol with a warm and enchanting glow have remained lifeless crystalline prisons to a once needed illumination. Those who walks the streets at night are few, blessed with bravery or cursed with ignorance.

Darkness seems to hold up the walls that separate rich from poor. Without light they are impassible. In these weeks of empty streets, and walls painted with shadow, some of those brave enough to walk in darkness have seen a rare and beautiful sight.

Soaring at magic speeds, a lone pulsing ball of light streaks through the alleys and past the windows or Andisine. It's presence illuminates for a moment, returns life and beauty to this once great place, then in the next moment it is gone.

It sheds a light that does not warm. It sheds a light that heals, and a light that taste like music and sounds like hope. Each night it flashes to life, weaving and dancing from wall to wall, as thought it was searching. Searching for what it once was. Searching for the key to unlock the mystery of the darkness. Searching for its friend and master, yet he is not there. But it searches none the less. A lone light of hope in a city buried under it's own tipped scales.

Here, then gone.