The Box (Part X)

Posted on October 14, 2013 by R. Richardsson

“…get a grip, rider…”

The elfin words rebounded off of the walls around him, forced backwards by the spell he had previously placed on his companion. The words trembled with fear, something that he had not known was possible in his companion, and were spoken by the lips of one who was no longer sure of himself.

It had been only a few moments since the gaping maw had been inches from his face. He could still smell the foul odor it had breathed onto him, coating his senses with its rotten promise of death.

He walked in long strides, the only sound from him being the soft whisper of his robes as they rustled with each step, following the path that the smaller creature had taken. The creatures were visibly agitated, but he had already expected that they would be.

“…gods…”

A sinister smile slowly placed the evil on his expression when he heard the single word prayer spit out by the elf.

It wouldn’t be long before the creatures swarmed in on the one he had scented as the intruder in their tunnels. The ruse had been easy enough. They had expected him to place wards against the dragon’s fire, but they knew very little about the nature of his magic. He had drawn the knife across his palm in the beginning of the ritual and spread his blood on the back of the elf’s armor.

Later, during the ‘show’ of silencing each of their loudest parts, he had enchanted the blood sigil with a scent that would drive any nearby predators mad with rage. It had worked sooner than he had expected, but then, he hadn’t thought of the Destrachan being the first creatures to come within range of the scent.

From what he knew of the creatures, they were more suited to the deeper regions of the underdark, where sounds were a precious commodity and smells got you killed. It was curious that they had wandered this close to the surface. More curious still that they hunted this close to a dragon’s lair.

“…give me strength…”

The desperation in the voice of the elf amused him. He had seemed so strong, so capable. And yet, the panic in his words betrayed him. It was the sound of one who had just realized how utterly alone he truly was. The words were of one who knew that he had little chance of winning.

He reached into a small pouch hanging from his right hip and produced the hourglass he had shown his companions earlier. What he had told them was that it revealed the remaining time on the Ward vs. Dragon Fire spell he had cast. What it showed him was the time remaining on the silence spells, for which was its only purpose.

As before, when he opened his hands, it drifted a couple of feet away where it would float until he willed it to return. There were very few grains of sand left in the upper portion of the device and his grin grew to demonic proportions. Had either of the two seen his expression just then, they might have had more than a second thought about the sorcerer.

He left the enchanted timer to float where it was, it would continue maintain its position even when he was moving. He didn’t often do this, for it drained the enchantment much faster when it was out, but he wanted to watch the last grain of sand fall to the small pile on the bottom. There was a grim satisfaction in knowing that he would soon be the only one who would know the secret of The Box.

The Box (Part IX)

Posted on October 4, 2013 by R. Richardsson

The effects of the magical enchantments threw off his battle senses. He could hear his breath and the subtle creaks from the padding beneath his armor, but no other sound emanated from him.

The enemy was all around him. He had yet to see his attackers, but he was able to discern that there was more than one based on the simple whistle-click system they used to communicate. Unlike his companions, their tactics had no effect on him. Decades of service under the order of King Altharak had tempered him to the ways of battle. He had faced armies of human invaders from the front lines. Atop his Gryphon mount, he’d engaged in aerial combat against dragons. His blade had spilled the blood of the living and the dead and he had the utmost confidence that it would do the same for the creatures flanking him.

For all his experience, however, Elladuer had spent very little time beneath the ground. Much like the noble creature he fought upon, his place was in the open sky. His heart longed for the icy winds of the north. His soul craved the view of the ocean as it sprawled endlessly beneath him, far to the west. Because his elfin blood gave him a greater resistance to the elements than the lesser races, he wasn’t happy unless he was pushing himself and his mount to their absolute limits.

In the few hours since leaving the open sky behind, he had found himself fighting a new kind of battle. With the walls so close and the darkness pressing against the meager light his enchanted armor gave off, his imagination created an enemy which he had never before faced; claustrophobia.

He stood in the center of a ‘y’ junction, with the tunnel he just exited yawning silently behind him. The chamber was thirty feet in diameter, giving the monsters just enough room to circle while under the cover of darkness, from which they were also allowing glimpses of themselves to peek.

They were toying with him, feeding off of his fears and becoming more frantic in their communications. Each whistle took only a couple of seconds to complete, but they began softly, quickly rising to a pitch that caused his delicate ears to ache. The change of volume had another effect as well. Combined with the echoes from the natural caverns, it gave the impression that there were many more of them than there actually were.

Though it wasn’t happening, his mind convinced him that the range of light was diminishing, allowing for the darkness to creep ever closer. He could feel the walls around him amplifying their shrill calls. They were pressing against him, narrowing his only means of escape from this room and threatening to crush him beneath their infinite weight.

His sword arm faltered.

“Get a grip Rider,” he muttered to himself, “you’ve faced worse than this.”

The sound of his voice was unconvincing. Much like his arm, his voice wavered and cracked. His mouth had suddenly gone dry, choking the words off as quickly as they were spoken.

A sudden shriek to his right startled him and he jerked his body in that direction, leading with his sword. For the first time since he was apprenticed to his king’s army, he found himself off balance and out of stance, and had he been facing a more intelligent being, he might have found a new piece of steel protruding form the opening where his shield should have been.

“Gods,” he sputtered in anger and disbelief. He knew that what he was experiencing was in his mind, but this was an enemy he had never before faced . It had grown so strong, so fast, and left him vulnerable to the real threat around him, which, for as far as he could tell, consisted of several dozen of these things.

The air tasted stale on his lips. It reeked of fungal growth, a hint of purification and other more sinister smells which he could not imagine. It was hot against his skin and stirred only with the breath of the one they had come to slay.

“Give me strength,” he pleaded, finishing his thought.

It was a useless prayer, one which fell from disbelieving lips and quickly faded into the darkness. He could now hear the soft clicking of the creature’s claws as they closed the distance to him, scratching and tapping on the stone floor with each pass.

“…Elladuer!”

As before, he turned ungracefully towards the source of the cry, again exposing himself for attack. This time, one of the Destrachan took the opening and attacked. He had only enough time to see the conical opening of its mouth as it appeared from the darkness before it released the attack.

One of his first battles under his king’s rule had been against a banshee. He had led a small group of soldiers against the creature and had felt first-hand the force behind its wail. With the banshee, the attack had spread over his body, attacking him all over. This creature’s attack was concentrated and it smashed into the buckles which fastened his shield to his shield-arm.

When he had turned, he hadn’t kept his shield against his body as he should have, and the Destrachan had noticed. The straps shattered and his shield fell to the floor.

Now vulnerable on his front-left flank, Elladuer watched helplessly as the creature stepped fully into his circle of light and prayed that Joeshan could hold on long enough for him to face his own battles before getting there.

The Box (Part VI)

Posted on July 31, 2013 by R. Richardsson

Oramiir walked calmly through the darkness as if he had been in these tunnels a hundred times over. He preferred it to the magical light of the elf’s armor as well as over the other’s company; the shadows held all the comfort as an old cloak to him.

Much like his companions, he too had the ability to see through the veil of darkness. While each of his companion’s races were blessed at birth with varying strengths of night vision, his was granted upon him by a magical ring.

Safe from their prying eyes, he pushed his hood back onto his shoulders. Had they been able to see him, they would have seen that his head was completely shaven and covered with tattoos. Only a few were for decoration, most having been magically etched into his flesh to offer him various forms of protection. In the center of his forehead is the tattoo of a closed eye, that, when unwanted attention is drawn upon him, opens to reveal a dark blue orb. Once its gaze falls upon the subject whose attention he does not want, its power would activate; causing the subject to be unable to remember any details about him except for in their dreams.

A dark patch covered the empty socket where his right eye should have been, protecting it from infection or worse. He had recently removed his eye to use as a spell component, for a ritual which would allow him to ‘see’ the location of an oft forgotten artifact; The Eye of Necrodemus.

While it was true that the eye had once belonged to the most unholy Lich God, he found himself more interested in the powers that it might still hold, vs. the petty little details of its history. His only desire was to find more powerful magic than the land had seen in centuries.

“Oramiir? Please, do enter.”

For only the second time in the twenty years that he had served under his master, he entered the one room which was off limits to him; the study of Archmage Terranyr. The first time he had crossed the door’s threshold had been the day he had entered into his apprenticeship. Little had changed in the room, except, if it were possible, there was more books now than opposed to his previous visit.

The study encompassed the entire top floor of the tower, taking on its circular shape. The walls had been made into a continuous bookshelf that began on one side of the door and ended at the other. There were no windows, but light poured in from several small vent openings near the ceiling. In the center of the room is his mentor’s desk, an oak monstrosity which he could lay, beside himself twice, upon and still have room to spare. Every inch of the desk was covered with various beakers, bowls full of spell ingredients, piles of books in which the Archmage recorded his studies and various other mysteries.

He stood just inside the door frame his mouth slightly agape as he marveled at the mountain of power before him. He had no doubts that most of the books contained the results of his mentor’s magical studies, spells and experiments, but it was the other items in the room that made his mouth water. Various pedestals, clothing and weapon racks were placed decoratively around the floor, though one would have to be a fool to believe there was anything decorative upon them.

They were adorned with cloaks, robes, swords, staves, and armors that his master had enchanted or collected over the years. There were wands, various crystal balls for scrying and dozens of potions that he could see.

The room buzzed from the power of magic around him.

“Come in, Oramiir. Shut the door behind you.”

The request seemed silly to him, for he was the only other person in this tower, but years of discipline made him follow the command.

“Please, sit.” His mentor waved a gnarled hand in front of him, to where a cushioned chair suddenly appeared, without looking up from his writings. “We have much to discuss.”

His stomach lurched as his feet carried him to the seat and for a brief moment he contemplated turning and running from this place. The thought was only there for a second, however, because he knew that Terranyr could stop him with any number of spells that were always at his disposal.

He passed a small table, upon which were carelessly strewn scrolls. One item in particular caught his eye, of which a deft movement of his hand palmed and brought to his side.

“Tell me, Oramiir, have I not given you everything you have ever asked for, under my tutelage?”

“Y-yes sir.” His answer was so quiet that, had they been in any other room, it might have gone unheard. But this was no usual setting and the Wizard before him had many magical enhancements which allowed very little to get by him.

He studied the old man before him. Unlike himself, the Archmage was a pure blood human, and contrary to the members of his race, he had only been able to see the passing of a full century through the aid of magic. There was very little hair upon his head and what tufts still managed to push through his skin were as white as a summer cloud. What had once been eyes the color of bark had become clouded, milky orbs.

“Mm, hmm,” he hummed in response. “How long has it been now? Nineteen years?”

“Twenty, sir.”

“Yes, yes. So it has.”

The old man paused in his work, carefully drying the end of his quill before setting it aside. After placing a stopper in the inkwell, he carefully sets his tome aside and laces his fingers before him.

“I’ve called you up here because I have recently become aware of some very serious rumors. Please, come with me. I want to show you something.”

The Archmage quickly rose to his feet with the dexterity and stamina of a man half his age, and cast him a commanding stare before turning toward his seeing crystal. Though he had the finest collection of crystals in these parts of the lands, the one he used was the largest and with the least flaws.

A soft scraping sound emanated from somewhere behind him, startling him from his thoughts. It was was barely audible, and if he hadn’t had his former mentor’s Charm of Better Hearing, he might have missed it altogether. Now fully alert, his nose detected the putrid stench of decay in the air. The smell was acrid and he was surprised that the others had not detected it first.

As one hand pulled his cowl once more over his head, the other slowly reached for the small wand which hung at his belt.