The Box (Part IV)

Posted on July 28, 2013 by R. Richardsson

The sounds of his armor had been nullified, as had those of his companions, and while this allowed for them the peace of being able to approach quietly, it did nothing to quell his thoughts.

Elladuer thought back to the last time he had rode with his company, the Gryphon Riders, before they had fallen. He did so with a heavy heart, one that was near its breaking point, and he fought silently to keep his emotions in check.

Every member of his company had been like family to him. He had known them since their mounts had been fledglings, and had flown by their sides through countless missions for nearly a century. They were the fiercest warriors in King Altherak’s army, and during their long tenure, they had never met with defeat.

Until, that is, the night that the Death Knight, Faomyr, arose from legend and began spreading a plague of death across the countryside.

It had been a night like any other. The only sound was the soft beating of wings beneath them as they glided across the starlit sky. Each of the three moons were at various points in the sky, with Nanthuur being the closest, giving them plenty of light by which to see. The landscape rolled by beneath them, deep in the slumber that came with these late hours. Only the darkest of souls were awake at this hour, and it was the Gryphon Riders job to defend against them, if need be.

“Elladuer, my brother! Come near, that we may speak easily!”

The voice belonged to his oldest sibling, Sartha’ak, his closest and most trusted friend. Together, they had trained as riders. They had shown a natural affinity for their beasts, and it was through their instruction that the next generation of riders had been born.

Like himself, Sartha’ak had trained to be a holy warrior. Their techniques were very similar with the blade, making it very difficult to tell the two apart on the battlefield. If one didn’t know it was Sartha’ak who preferred to use the great sword, it was nearly impossible to do so.

This was something of their own design. While they excelled with their arms of choice, each could ready trade with the other and still fight with more competence than most.

With a gentle nudge, he guided his beast towards his brother.

“What troubles you, brother,” Elladuer called out once he was near.

“There, over the hills. Do you see that?”

He followed his brother’s direction and looked ahead. He could see it. There were several columns of smoke rising in the air. While he couldn’t see what was burning, he already knew that they had to be coming from the small farm community that resided there. It was mostly populated by humans, but it was one of many such places that lived beneath the protection of the Riders.

“I do! Praise Torm, I hope we’re not too late!”

Elladuer again nudged his gryphon, gently coaxing her to return to formation. It wasn’t long before they could see the orange glow of the flames. They were too late! The flames had hungrily consumed most of the structures and were now dancing in celebration as they began to crumble.

Each of the five riders looked on with grim expressions, all noting the absence of those who should be fleeing to safety. Their mounts began to tense beneath them, screeching uncomfortably from the heat that was now beneath them. While they were flying over a hundred feet above the flames, the heat licked at them as if they were standing right next to it.

“Brother, look,” Sartha’ak yelled.

Elladuer, who had been concentrating on not only keeping his mount calm, but had also been searching through the haze for any survivors, snapped his attention ahead at the warning.

Standing in the main road through the community, between two of the brightest fires, stood a huge man wearing full plate armor. The metal was the color of midnight, a darkness so black that to stare at it too long was to invite oneself in. The wearer’s head was covered as completely as the rest of him, by a horned helmet. Two glowing red eyes gauged their approach from the shadows behind the eye ports.

As one, Elladuer and Sartha’ak silently agreed to land and meet this one on the ground. Leaning forward, each softly whispered to their commands to their respective mounts, the latter of which were immediately obedient. Following suit, the others set down as well.

“Stay here. I will determine if he is friend or foe.”

Elleduer nodded and turned to the other riders as they dismounted and approached.

Diona, was the first to reach his position. Unlike the other riders, she was the only one who wasn’t a pure blooded elf. Her mother had fallen in love with her human guardsman and it was their union which had brought her forth. While many of the other elves treated her with indifference, it was Elladuer who had first seen her skill with the bow.

Maurir was next to reach him. Though haughty at times, Maurir’s knowledge for things magical was unmatched. He had learned all of what his masters had taught him with-in half the time his peers had taken and it was rumored that he had surpassed them in skill long before being released as a Wizard of his own right.

Last to approach was Lynneth, their healer. She was the most soft spoken of the three, but one would be a fool to think that this made her the least powerful. Elladuer had seen her faith heal those on the brink of death, as well as take others beyond it, with only a few simple words to her goddess. Unlike the others, who were adorned with magical weapons, armors and various other items to aid them in battle, she wore only a simple white robe, tied at the waist by a golden, braided rope.

It had only taken a few seconds for them to come together and each watched as Sartha’ak approached the dark knight.

“Ho there, stranger,” he called out in greeting. His words were friendly, but guarded. Each of the company noticed that he, at some time, had removed the strap holding his sword in place.

“That’s close enough,” came the hollow reply. It was a sound that none were familiar with, with the exception of one: Lynneth. As soon as the Death Knight spoke, her training took over. Before the others could react, she was shoving past them and running toward Sartha’ak; the beginnings of a prayer on her lips and her hands outstretched.

It was too late.

With a snarl, the Death Knight drew his blade; one that all immediately recognized as an unholy Vorpal.

Sartha’ak never saw it coming. His head flew from his shoulders with a warm smile still frozen on his lips.

“NOOOO,” Elladuer and Diona screamed simultaneously. He jumped from his mount, pausing only to strap on his shield, and began to run to his brother. Everything was happening in slow motion. He could see the robes of Lynneth billowing out before him, so white and pure. As he reached up to close his visor, three arrows sailed overhead from behind him. To his right, light green magical arrow sailed toward its target. It sizzled, dripping acid onto the ground that ate away whatever it touched.

And then it happened.

The billowing robes suddenly burst red from a crimson spray. Lynneth sudden stopped in her tracks, frozen by the hand of death. She slowly turned and met his eyes with a look of sadness that he will never forget, and he watched as the upper half of her body slid free from the rest of her and fell to the ground. She had been sliced from her right shoulder to her left hip.

He screamed with pure visceral rage and charged, but he never made it to his intended target. The last thing he saw was the bright explosion of a fireball as it slammed into the chest of their aggressor.

He was thankful that he wore his helmet with his visor down, even in these shadows of the underdark, for it hid well the tears of sadness that now wet his cheeks. It wouldn’t do for either of his companions to see this sign of weakness during a time when both were counting on him the most.

The Box (Part III)

Posted on July 23, 2013 by R. Richardsson

“Hold still my friends,” Oramiir commanded. “This will help aid us in our approach, but it will only be for a short time. Once I am done, we must move with haste.”

The sorcerer lifted his hands into the air, one after the other, moving each away from his body as if pushing against some unseen force. His voice rumbled as his lips formed the beginnings of yet another spell. As his companions watched on, he slowly walked around first the hobbit and then the elf. As he circles each, he makes plucking motions at various points of their bodies before turning and pushing his hands away.

Joeshan giggled when it was his turn, watching as his companion continued with his strange magical ritual and found himself in for the shock of his life. As the first sound passed over his lips, Oramiir reached up and quickly plucked near his mouth, snatching the sound before it finished passing his lips and deftly tossed it away.

Within a few short minutes, the spell was complete. Oramiir had silenced the joints of Elladuer’s armor. He had ensured that their feet would not alert their presence to the ancient wyrm before them. And, most importantly, he had silenced the endless prattle of their smallest companion, who didn’t seem to have the attention span to practice certain skills while amongst friends. Least of all, those pertaining to his profession.

Elladuer chuckled at the expression that had claimed Joeshan’s cherub-like features. The spell was one that he was familiar with, having traveled with the sorcerer on several other adventures, and it in fact had only flung the sound several meters behind them. While they could theoretically enter the dragon’s lair with the element of surprise on their side, anything behind them would immediately know of their presence.

They now had several spells protecting them. The dome which covered each of them, and, when they were together, offered stronger protection versus the dragon’s fiery breath. The contingency that caused any sound made by their noisiest parts to emanate from another location. And, of course, the various items that each of them carried.

There was a very good chance that they might be able to pull this off.

Oramiir waved his hands dramatically to ensure that he had each of their attention. Once they were looking, he flashed his fingers at them twice to remind them of how much time they had before the spell’s affects wore off. While Elladuer only nodded, Joeshan noticeably gulped and a bead of sweat rolled down his left cheek.

The elfin warrior reached down, placed a comforting hand on the smaller man’s shoulder, squeezed and then patted it twice as he offered him what little assurance he could. The latter nodded and when he noticed the impatient look on the sorcerer’s face, he leaned forward and darted into the darkness ahead.

Oramiir, as always, retreated to the shadows behind the group as Elladuer extinguished the torch into a small pool of water beneath a nearby stalagtite. Only the soft glow of his armor foretold their approach, or, so they thought.

They had thought of nearly everything in their preparations, but little did they know the difference that the smallest detail could make.

The Box (Part II)

Posted on July 14, 2013 by R. Richardsson

The flames sucked greedily on the end of the torch, quickly consuming what precious little fuel available to them. As the companions prepared for the battle that lay ahead, the flames crackled and sizzled, one element symbolically overpowering the other.

Elladuer sat upon a large stone, his sword laying across his legs. In one hand he held a small bottle, inside of which is a glowing light blue substance. Reverently, he removed the stopper and tipped a little of the liquid onto the small cloth in his other hand. Softly, as to not disturb the spell casting of the sorcerer, he begins to apply the glowing substance to the blade of his longsword.

“What is that you’re putting on there,” Joeshan asks curiously. Unbeknownst to the warrior, his halfling companion had been raptly watching his every action.

“It’s an oil that has been harvested from a frozen merman. It’s said that the oil is so cold that it will inflict twice as much pain to creatures born of fire.”

He looks thoughtfully at the blade, which has now taken on the hue from the oil.

“Elladuer?”

“Yes my friend?”

“I’m more than content with the promise of riches that we’ll gain in the spoils, the gods know that I shall never want again, but I have to know something…”

There was a pregnant pause while Joeshan looked to the hourglass, and during this time more oil was massaged into the blade of the longsword. At the edge of the makeshift camp, Oramiir chanted softly, his fingers tracing glowing sigils into the air.

“Why is this box so important to your King’s campaign? Isn’t it supposed to be an evil artifact?”

As Elladuer wrestled with the answer to his question, Oramiir’s voice rose to uncomfortably loud levels. His hands deftly created a small squadron of glowing sigils, all of which hovered in the air between the companions. Their attention raptly enthralled for the moment, they watched as he grabbed onto each arcane writing and flung them to various positions around the camp. They watched in wonder, frozen by the spectacle before them, as the sorcerer then drew a small blade from his belt and, before either of them could protest, sliced a large groove into his palm. The sigils flared with power as he flung droplets of his blood in their direction, shouting a command to each. With each shout, the sigil would glow blindingly for several seconds before vanishing.

At the end of his ritual, a crimson dome appears around them, momentarily obstructing the view of anything outside of their small camp, and then vanishes.

“That should help protect us, as long as you stay within the boundaries of the spell,” Oramiir quietly iterated. “It should last the entire battle, so mind where you are. I’ve centered the spell on all three of us…”

“You mean, we each have this protection,” Joeshan asked timidly.

“Yes, it’s weaker individually, so mind where you are. When we are together, the wyrm’s magic should only have minor affects on us.”

As the sorcerer began putting his components and spellbook away, Elladuer also finished his preparations.

“You wanted to know about the box, little one?”

The question forgotten, Joeshan found himself startled when Oramiir spoke.

“Y-yes, I guess I do. I mean, I’ve always heard about the box. The stories were told countless times to my brothers and I as we were growing up and it just doesn’t seem like it could be real.”

Oramiir looked thoughtfully at the hourglass, now just a little over half full…or half empty, depending on how one was looking at it. In this case, and with what lay ahead, the latter seemed to be more appropriate, he surmised.

“Several hundred years ago the plains beyond the Northern Pass ran red with the blood of the innocent. It was a dark time; a time when the gods had abandoned their peoples. For every creature of good, there were six of ‘his’.”

“You mean…?”

“Yes, the Lich Necrodemus.” At the mention of the foul name, Elladuer quickly makes a gesture to ward against evil and utters a soft prayer, while at the same time, a shiver travels down Joeshan’s spine.

“It was a time when hope was something one dreamed about and faith had to be created, rather than maintained. There were few heroes left during that time and it was their studious dedication that brought an army against him. However, it was at a price. Of the thousands whom stood in battle, only dozens walked away.”

“That’s horrible… Why so few? How could there be so much devastation?”

This time it was Elladuer who answered the question.

“What too few know these days, is that the Lich had ascended into godhood. In the absence of the other gods, whom some say he had slain, he took claim of their pantheon and their immortality. By the time the war had begun, there was only one way to defeat him. Two brave heroes, a Dwarf and a Drow warrior, stood before him with a secret of their own. You see…they had faced him in the three wars that proceeded this final apocalyptic one. They knew his secrets. They had already felt the sting of his magic and they held the key to defeating him.”

“But how to kill a god,” Oramiir mused as a light smile curved the sides of his mouth upward.

“Ah, but that’s another story as well. The Drow had become a collector of sorts. Over the course of his journeys, it is said that some of the old gods had spoken to him and given him a most holy duty. Whether or not that is true is not for any of us to say, but what IS certain is that he, with the aid of some of the most powerful wizards of that time, created a magical building to house the things that he collected. A museum, if you will. In it were some of the most evil devices, the most powerful magical items and the most powerful of artifacts, all locked away inside of this safehouse which existed in several planes at once.”

“But how does that explain…”

Oramiir chuckled softly, sadly, and when Elladuer didn’t answer, he offered the final conclusion.

“The only way to kill a god is to remove from it its immortality. To do that…”

“To do that, you have to destroy a very powerful artifact of opposite alignment to the god in question,” Elladuer concluded.

“I know not which one it would have been, but history tells us of what was left from the resulting explosion. While the heroes and the Lich had survived the blast, those others who were closest to it were either wiped from existence or horribly changed forever into something unlike anything anyone has ever seen.”

“And the box? Where does that come in?”

Elladuer sighs softly as he slides his sword into its scabbard.

“From the battle that ensued between the two remaining forces. Both sides traded blows, each more devastating then the last, and they remained locked in battle for days. Several of the heroes fell, but so too did the generals of the Lich God. In the end, only a handful of heroes remained and it was only by destroying the fetter of the Lich that they were able to win. Their enemy turned instantly to dust, collapsing into a pile at their feet with only the skull remaining. In the skull, one eyeball somehow remained intact and impossibly alive, turning madly about as if searching for a path of escape.”

Joeshan gasped in horror and trembled at the thought, looking over to the sorcerer for confirmation. The latter only nodded as he finished wrapping his hand with a bandage.

“You mean it was still alive?!”

“Yes, and no. His soul had forever been released from our plane, that much is true. However, enough of his essence and malignant force remained in that one eye to effectively and forever corrupt those who touched it, as well as give the bearer the powers of the eye’s former master. Much deliberation would come of what to do with this eye; the Dwarf wanted to crush it beneath his boot but the Drow insisted that the eye go into his Museum for safekeeping. They argued for months over what to do with it until finally the Dwarf had had enough and forever parted ways with his friend.”

Oramiir softly cleared his throat, signalling their attention as Elladuer paused.

“We must prepare now, the sands have nearly drained. When they all reach the bottom, the final spell will be in place!”

The companions nodded and each began gathering their belongings together.

“So then, what did the Drow do?”

“History hides most of what happens next, only that it was nearly a century later before the he would again be seen. It is written that a shrouded figure would appear before a small group of dwarven craftsmen, asking for an impossible task. He had wanted a box that could be seen into, but not ‘out of’, and it was only to be big enough to contain a small rock. Naturally, the dwarves thought he was mad and were quick to turn him away, but it was the offer that he made which quickly changed their minds. Mad or not, when he laid before them a magical pouch containing a dragon’s treasure, they took to their work very seriously.”

“Wait… Are you saying…”

“Yes Joeshan, we have come here today because this is the resting place of the eye of the Lich God, Necrodemus, and Malifgorranaka the Great Flame is its eternal guardian.”