The Box (Part VII)

Posted on August 15, 2013 by R. Richardsson

The sounds were subtle at first, and if he hadn’t been actively searching for any signs of danger, he might have missed them altogether. A series of soft clicks echoed through the tunnels. They were innocent enough at first, and just as he was about to decide that they belonged to an insectile denizen of the underdark, a soft whistle answered.

For the first time since leaving his hearth home, his hands began to shake. His heart pounded so loudly in his chest that he worried the sound would give him away. There wasn’t time to think of such things. Slowly, he removed a small cylindrical object from one of his many hidden pockets and pressed it against the wall. Seconds later, he left the chalk message behind with utter confidence that his companions would easily discern its meaning; Danger!

He hoped that it was enough. It had to be. These creatures were difficult enough to battle when solitary, but he knew that this wouldn’t be the case. There were at least two of the Destrachan stalking him and the gods alone knew how many more were out there!

Having moved very little since replacing the chalk, he lowered his hand onto the pommel of his dagger. The feeling was warm and comforting, for it had been a faithful tool during his travels, but he also knew that it wouldn’t be enough. There was no way that he could take down two of them by himself!

The Destrachan are a legendary race of predators, mostly unknown to those above ground. They’re able to move deceptively quick on their powerful hind legs, at the bottom of which their tri-clawed feet which they can also use for attack. A powerful tail maintains their balance, in their hunched over posture, and is itself a deadly weapon in combat as well. Generations of living below ground have removed the necessity of having eyes, and a large circular mouth dominates the front of their head, inside of which is lined with several rows of razor-sharp teeth. Though they have two power arms to attack with, they are most commonly known to lead into battle with a kinetic attack from the mouth. A weaker version of the Banshee’s wail, this attack not only causes significant damage to their victims, but has been known to outright kill those more susceptible to the sonic attack.

Joeshan drew his dagger from its sheath and despaired that he couldn’t find a way to find the unfair advantage. There would be no sneaking around them, for, unlike most beasts, these were extremely intelligent. While it was true that they hunted for food, they also enjoyed toying with their prey before killing it. He’d even heard rumors that they could understand the common speech of man and delighted in the fear they caused in their victims.

More than their intelligence, their true advantage was with their extraordinary hearing. Their tripartite ears allow for it to adjust to the many different sensitivities of sound, which, in turn, allow them to ‘see’ better than most creatures who rely solely on their eyes.

As he was reflecting on the physiology of his enemy, he failed to notice that the tunnels had fallen silent. His stomach grumbled, but this time it wasn’t from the hunger. He felt sick. They were now upon him, and…

..an inhuman shriek shattered the silence, rending it beneath several waves of power. He didn’t see the attack that slammed into his chest, lifting him into the air and launching him several feet backwards. He couldn’t hear his screams as the Destrachan slowly crept to where he now lay. If he had, it would have sounded something like a woman’s scream, mixed with a pig’s squeal.

The blubbery lips of the monster rippled from the passage of its attack, but more unsettling than the sound from its mouth was the steady clickety-clack of its claws as it drew ever closer.

Stunned by its attack, Joeshan watched helplessly as it approached.

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.

The Box (Part V)

Posted on July 30, 2013 by R. Richardsson

Far ahead of his companions, Joeshan continued to slink through the shadows as he scouted the path ahead. His particular set of skills, as well as his many years of experience, made him the prime candidate for detecting and removing any potential traps.

Though he would rather be sitting in the comfort his his home, resting before a cozy fire and telling stories to his nieces and nephews, he loved the thrill that his ‘hobby’ gave him even more.

Joeshan was a hobbit, proud and true, but he was also a ‘collector’ of unusual things. It was never so much about the value of the item. Nor was it about any unusual properties that said item might or might not have. He didn’t care about the history of the item; it didn’t matter to him if it was blessed or cursed . What he lived for was the acquiring of said item.

Oh yes, Joeshan was a hobbit through and through, but there was something wrong, deep inside of him. Something was broken. Rather than staying home, in the safety of his hole, and enjoying the many meals that his people usually did each day, he found himself becoming obsessed with the next big hunt.

He was as dedicated as a warrior to his studies. Each morning, he went through a regiment of exercises, which he had designed himself, that kept him fast and fit. Once he had finished his third meal, he studied with many different locks that he had found in his travels. He practiced picking them. He took them apart and categorized their mechanical designs within a special book that he carried with him at all times. There wasn’t a lock that had bested him, and when the rare occasion presented itself that he found a lock he couldn’t pick, he used a special ring that had been given to him by a wizard, to get the job done.

The very same wizard tutored him in trap designs; how to set, as well as disarm them. Though this was a trickier subject for him, he had done fairly well over the years with only the loss of but one toe. In that case, he’d had little knowledge of the traps used by the wood elves. He spent several weeks on the mend, and the loss of the small toe on his right foot hadn’t hampered him much afterward, but he had never made that mistake again.

His stomach grumbled angrily and the sound brought him back to the present. His lips curved upward at the irony; the sorcerer had silenced the second loudest part of his body! His smile was short lived, however, as he discovered yet another trap blocking their path.

He moved quickly. Because there was no proper way for them to communicate, not to mention the fact that he had been magically silenced, he had very little time to act. Elladuer was only a few minutes behind him, which gave him precious little time to remove it before he arrived.

He knelt before the trigger line, admiring its quality. If he hadn’t been actively searching, he would have easily missed it. Slowly, he placed his finger upon the spider silk as his eyes followed it to each side of the corridor. It looked innocent enough and could have been set by one of the many species of cave spider, but he knew better. Each end of the line was fastened securely to a small magical box that, when triggered, would activate several hidden crossbows. In most cases, the bolts were poisoned. Rarely, they were magically infused to cause some form of greater damage.

“Better not to think of such things,” he thought to himself as his fingers began to work on the device. This trap only required him to trick the device into thinking it was still set. It was just a matter of keeping enough pressure on the trigger.

He chuckled at the thought of such a primitive device being able to think, and as he did, he was suddenly reminded of the reason he had agreed to come on this quest.

The Gryphon Rider stood at the entrance to his hole, looking absolutely miserable in the pouring rain. He had removed his helmet in introducing himself, and his golden hair hung matted to his head, doing little to hide the pointed ears that identified him as elf.

“What is it that I can do for you, Sir Elladuer of King Altherak’s army,” he had asked.

“Please allow me shelter from the storm. I will not require much and have food of my own to sup. I only ask for a few minutes before your fire.”

“Don’t be silly, dear elf. My home is always open to the Riders. Come in, come in! As for eating your own cold rations, I shall hear nothing of it. I have a nice rabbit stew simmering over the fire now. By the time you’ve made yourself comfortable, it will be ready. Please, make yourself at home!”

“I am grateful for your kindness…”

“Joeshan Bunce of Brockenborings, at your service.” He had placed his forearm against his midsection and bowed gracefully, which earned a nod and the respect of his guest, as he spoke.

“Joeshan, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

It had taken the better part of an hour for the elf to remove and carefully dry each piece of his armor and by that time the stew was ready. Joeshan, ever the gracious host, had also brought some rolls from the pantry, prepared some greens to cleanse the pallet and brought up two bottles of his finest wine. While they weren’t the fine elvish wines his guest might be used to, he was confident that Elladuer’s palette would approve.

“It’s not by coincidence that I find myself in your home tonight,” Elladuer finally said. They were each sipping their wine from the crystal goblets that Joeshan kept for such occasions.

“Do tell. What brings one of the gryphon riders to my humble abode?”

Over the next two hours, the two finished the bottles of wine as the elf told him his story. He spoke solemnly of the fate of his friends, during which time he came as close to tears as he had ever seen from an elf.

When he had awakened, the Death Knight was gone and he was the sole survivor of his company. The evil being had slain them all, along with every one of their mounts. The only thing that had saved him had been the rubble from the building which had collapsed upon him, thus obscuring him from view.

After returning with the news of his defeat, King Altherak had fallen into a deep state of despair, for Diona had been his daughter. It would be many weeks before the kingdom had finished grieving and by that time, Elladuer had begun to formulate a plan.

“So… Where do I come in,” Joeshan asked inquisitively.

“Many have heard the name of Joeshan. In these parts, many hold a deep admiration for the hobbit who studies the arcane arts,” he began slowly. “I have need for someone like you.”

Joeshan finished his wine as the elf was speaking, careful not to accidentally reveal his excitement. An elf, asking for HIS services? It was unheard of!

“I really just help the old man clean his tower,” he answered sheepishly.

“I care not for what you do, so much as I do that you are renowned for having an uncanny way of finding things.”

“Okay,” he answered thoughtfully, “so what is it that you wish to ‘find’, my pointy eared friend?”

“I cannot say the name of that which I am seeking. However, I have full authority to allow you to keep everything else, to the extent of what you can naturally carry.”

Now THIS was interesting! Where could they possibly be going that he would find such treasures?! He quickly echoed his thoughts aloud, but the answer would offer him no comfort whatsoever.

“A red dragon,” he murmured as he disarmed the trap. “Joeshan? What have you gotten myself into?”