Episode #17: Fingerbones and Catacombs

From the Ashen Codex of Lady Penitence

In the name of the Raven Queen [salutation shows signs of being erased and rewritten multiple times],

The fires in my mind are starting to dissipate, for the nonce. Adventuring and questing leaves little time for dealing with personal devils.

Immediately after the battle, Elody began assisting the pregnant native, while Edrathior attempted to engage the two native men in conversation. We were quite frustrated by the language barrier, until it emerged that the halfling could understand them perfectly well, as if they were speaking the Common tongue! Most curious, though it may be related to gemstone we acquired outside the oracle's lair.

Though the two men still did not speak to us, they motioned us toward their village, and we took refuge in a hut, crowded with many natives, in a most wretched state. With the halfling translating, and some honeyed words from Edrathior, we managed to convince the elder, who called himself Onlo, to speak to us. But his trust came at a terrible cost—it seems the foul demon-thralls that have enslaved these people have put a curse on the natives, so that anyone who speaks to a stranger finds their tongue rotting away. Most foul necromancy!

In sympathy, Edrathior lent Onlo some of his own resistance to necrotic damage—a touching gesture, but ultimately pointless, since the protection will fade after we journey onward.

We soon learn, thanks to Onlo and the local shaman* (the Zombie Master), that ages ago there passed through this village some strange heroes, engaged on a quest similar to our own. They showed us markings on a piece of wood that illustrated these heroes—one, clearly a servant of My Lady, and another a servant of Avandra, and the third was an elven form bearing the crescent moon symbol of Corellon, god of magic and beauty whom the elves revere above all. These three apparently went through a secret passageway underneath the ziggurat at the center of the village, which brings one close to the Wall—which is also where the foul servants of Orcus have imprisoned the villagers’ children. There were also said to be some artifacts left behind by this previous band that could aid us on our quest.

Then, before any of us could intervene, the old shaman took up a knife and chopped off his own fingers from one hand! The digits, when grasped, will supposedly hide us from the eyes of the abominable undead that stalk the halls underneath the ziggurat—the undead created by the Zombie Masters themselves. They call them the "walking ancestors" and seem to make a distinction between these animated bodies and the undead raised by Orcus's minions. I do not.

We approached the ziggurat with caution, and Elody and I espied the hidden door near the base of the steps. The Zombie Master had imparted that only way we could open the passage was to strike the door with a strong burst of elemental magic. Ecaris struck the steps with his lightning-invigorated blade; I called upon my natural burning heritage to bathe the stones in flame. All for naught.

Then Edrathior, reluctantly, suggested perhaps he was the one best-suited to open the door. He gingerly removed one his curiously mailed glove, and there was a sudden, truly terrifying transformation—the eladrin's body vanished, replaced with, in succession, figures made wholly of water, earth, lightning, green shining light, and fire. Thus the passage was opened, but Edrathior sighed in sadness, because apparently this display would call a certain kind of doom upon us.

Grasping freshly cut fingers (or a half-finger, in my case—the shaman had only five fingers to give our party of seven). It seemed churlish to ask for more, so I split mine in twain and gave the other half to Gruff. We descended beneath the ziggurat.

Almost immediately, we came upon two undead servants, but ones of a much different character than any we have seen before. Their bodies were of Olman natives; mostly bear, wearing ornaments and scant clothing. But one had a tiger’s head stitched onto his shoulders in place of a human head; the other a boar’s head. The shaman’s sacrifice mostly hid us from their eyes, and we passed on.

A fork in the passage soon presented itself. The right proved to lead to a dead end (literally)—a chamber which had clearly spent some time in service as a necromancer’s workshop. To the left, we continued through a passage, until we stumbled upon the blasted-apart bones of a fellow tiefling. Among the bones I found an opened scroll case and a letter, which—praise Her!—came from a fellow servant of the Raven Queen. The last hero, perhaps! The letter, which I attach at the end of this entry, spoke of their journeys, and mentioned a gift that lay in wait ahead. The letter also employed a spell that would bring swift death to anyone who was not a servant of the Raven Queen, Avandra, or Corellon. Though I do not know how to cast this particular magic, I recognized by the watermark on the letter that this ward had already been discharged—hence the bones of the tiefling who had opened the scroll-case. I wonder if it was that insolent wretch that asked for my sword at the archway.

We then came to a verdant chamber with tree-like clusters of vines crowing in all four corners, and swirled with mist that covered the entire floor, save for a central space covered by a grate. Elody and I ventured out into the mist and attempted to open the grate. I had not the strength to lift it, but Elody wrenched it up, revealing a moderately deep hole, like a well.

As Elody opened up the chamber, I felt my mind overwhelmed by a strange rage—not the familiar fiery wrath of Amon, but a cold, calculating anger that burned cold. I suddenly was seized by the notion that whatever lay in that well was mine and mine alone, and Elody would try and steal it from me and give it to the servants of Orcus. I attacked her straightaway, but her strength was too great and she pinioned me, and brought me out of the mist, where my head cleared.

Meanwhile, Edrathior peered into the roots of one of the "trees" in the corner of the chamber, whereupon a small, blue-skinned creature rushed out and attacked him. Several others followed, and we threw ourselves into the fray. It was difficult—the mist poisoned some of us, put odd notions into our heads, and the gremlins had that annoying ability to turn invisible once approached or struck. In the midst of battle, feeling my strength waning, I vaulted into the well to see if the gift left behind by my colleague could prove helpful.

At the bottom of the well was a necklace with a jade-blue pendant, shaped like an arrowhead. It was the object I had seen in my vision as my soul was being recalled from Hell’s gate! When I threw the necklace on, I felt a sudden surge of invigorating energy. I leapt out of the well to find my companions overpowering the gremlins, but also dodging attacks from the vines, which appeared to be suffused with a malevolent energy. Soon, the gremlins were slain and we fell back out of the mist, slinging ranged attacks at the vine-trees, contemplating how we might best open the locked door at the other end of the chamber.

I must return to my companions to discuss who will cross the mist, and meditate upon the importance of this pendant, which as my fellow cleric said, does seem to have a mind of its own…

In Her Name,

Penitence

------------------------

The letter:

It is not my desire—or indeed, the tradition of my order—to write things down so that others will find them, unless they are scriptural axioms meant to instruct initiates of the faith. I value privacy and discretion, but my companion insists that should we fail, others may come who need to know what has transpired. And if I don't do this, she will.

In truth, my companion's words may be prophetic—I will concede this. She says there is an Avandran saying: ‘Make your own path, but do not hesitate to follow the footprints of a friend.’  The sentiment is foolish, but I understand its meaning: There are times when the greater wisdom lies in accepting the aid—or acquiring the knowledge—of a like-minded ally.

My companion on this quest is Shareth, a priestess of Avandra, a heroine among her own people—or so I'm told—and a skilled healer. She has pulled me back from the halls of Letherna several times already. She carries not a censer or flail, but a mere staff of wood and I must admit that despite her size, she wields it well.

She is also insufferable. Were it not for the unusual arrangement of our gods, I would not willingly endure her company at all. Yes, Shareth's hygiene is impeccable. Her obsession with life itself and its experiences is admirably unswerving. But she will NOT stop talking. Does Avandra condemn silence itself? I have missed the quiet.

To the matter at hand: We carry in our possession the Deluvian Hourglass, a relic of indeterminate age and power, and we have been tasked with bearing it to the ruins of Thanaclan at the center of the Isle. There it will be hidden from all divinations, especially the roving eyes of the Abyss.

Three gods have enacted this plan of misdirection: Corellon, First of the Seldarine; Avandra, the Maiden Who Travels; and of course the Raven Queen, Mistress of Winter. We are their instruments on this quest. Only mortals, such as Shareth and I, may bear the device to its place of hiding. Once secured, the demon princes will be fed false information that the Hourglass lies elsewhere: Far from this plane-shifting island, far even from the kingdoms of the Known World. Indeed, they will be led to believe that the Isle of Dread is the last place anyone would find it. Misdirection isn’t the purview of evil alone.

Shareth and I are spending this night in the town of Tanaroa before we cross the Great Wall and head north. The natives, who call themselves Olman, are a hospitable and peaceable lot, if spiritually misguided. They are descended from the humans who once governed this island in its early days, who were favored by the archfey. But since the fall of Thanaclan, they have fallen into a primitive state. Though they have established a balance with the forces of the Isle, they follow unpleasant vestigial traditions. Their shamans are known as Zombie Masters, devotees to necromantic rites laid down by Nerull before he was deposed by the Raven Queen long ago—praised be Her glory. Were our mission not so dire, I would seek to correct these traditions. Perhaps when we return from Thanaclon, I will purge the Olman tribes of these practices.

This is all I will say. Secrecy seems the greater wisdom to me, but Shareth insists that others may come. She says she will leave further words for our 'successors' along the way. Wonderful.

Shareth leaves a gift to those who find this letter. It has served us well thus far, but it has disapproved of many of my decisions. My companion wishes to leave it behind before it chooses to quit our company in more circumstances. So be it. It is time to pass it on. You will find it beneath the grate.

Know this: If you are not a servant of the Mistress of Winter or a disciple of Avandra or Corellon, your ambitions have reached their conclusion. I deliver you now to the blessed realm of my Queen, where she will ferry your soul accordingly.