Part 7>>>The Shadow of Love (an LoF adventure)

[Elif Godson]

Vincent Pathfinder 89/98

Noticing movment in his periferal vision he turned to look just as Anarrima jumped up and blurted out " Lady Tao " he smiled as he saw her and said quietly " I'll be damned. " to the wind and headed over to her. " Well met Lady Tao " he said with a slight bow. And then shifted his position so Tao and Anarrima could speak with out any further interruption from him.

[Morgeruat]

Morguerat

Few men truly face their fears, those that do in these realms fo fantasy are often devoured by them and leave widows and orphans behind them. The less serious fears still often break those of weak will who try to face them. But how does that compare to a man who has been broken, both literally and figuratively, by the piercing of an arrow in this tower. Helm, a stoic god devoted completely to his role as a guardian had been assigned the task of guarding the celestial realms, the very homes of the gods, from the beings who had shaped them, and made them their own. His work had destroyed several powerful gods, as well as himself, but because of his unwavering devotion to his assigned task he had been reinstated, and restored by a being as far above Helm as Helm was above humans, once restored he still did not waver, or pause when presented with the threat of fighting his brothers in power. Such was the example for those who retained the worship of Helm. Because of his devotion he expects no less from his followers, making it nearly impossible for those who offend him to regain his good graces. And yet, somehow a minor figure in the grand scheme had done so, Helm had given Morguerat back one of the abilities he gave to his paladins. And then scant moments later it all came crashing down.

A minor scratch from an arrow, the wound itself did little, but what it represented began to unravel the confidence of this champion of godly might. He thought, pushing at the haze that clouded much of his mind, as he scrambled for cover, shielded Senora with himself until he was out of the corridor. Three, three shall be the number of the counting, and the number of the counting shall be three. Thou shalt not count to four, neither shalt thou count to 2, unless thou dost immediately proceed to three, five is right out. There had been three arrows, one was broken and had been used against him by Neb, the misspaped ball he carried about his neck had come from the head of it, no he didn't carry it, it had vanished when he joined this game, but he had a shrouded memory of a sword and a withered crone in connection to it...

His thoughts snapped back to the present, there were still two tainted arrows somewhere in this game, very possibly in the possession of that thing up the stairs. The thought sent cold shivers up his spine and bolted him to the floor, white as a ghost.

[Cyril Darkcloud]

Joseph

His is an art of the interplay between dreams and desires and between memories and expectations, of goals set off against disappointments and of perception’s subtle interplay with that brute facticity men too easily name reality. An illusionist he is named in the popular parlance of the early editions, but that is far too simple a name for a craft so complex as this art he practices. Few are so capable of awakening slumbering and forgotten ideals into vigorous life, or of crushing into unliving silence the most cherished dreams of the heart as that one whose art is the shaping of dreams and the molding of hopes and the meeting and the denying of desires.

Illusion is his tool, the brush he employs, but emotion and perception, interpretation and expectation, these are his medium. Men speak the word ‘illusion’ and by it they mean what is misleading and false, and in so doing they commit the irony of failing to see the reality of the matter. There is very little of falsehood about his art for mere deceivers are little more than charlatans, neither to be feared nor respected, lacking all true mastery of the Art. Say what one will about the facticity of what one experiences in his work, one cannot deny that through it certain aspects of reality, often those most deeply hidden within the heart, stand forth with a clarity and a truth they had not manifested prior to the working. The lycanthrope fell before no mere figment of his conjuring, but by the powerful truth of her own fears and this tower was not breeched by any mere trick of the eye but by the discerning use of the truth about its nature and the unmasking of its illusory strength. An illusionist he is, for he is that one whose work shows forth the truth that all avoid, mask and even deny the real in some way, however great or however small.

The supposed truth, taken by so many in this strange place with the curious name of IronWorks, that such a thing as “shadow magic” exists in its own right and involves a darkness that verges upon, if not actually is, evil – this idea is but a denying of a much more substantial reality, mistaking what is merely the part for the whole, a whole that is then concealed and forgotten. Shadow Magic, however has its origins in his own Art long before Ed Greenwood and his Forgotten Realms made the tern popular. Any illusionist of moderate accomplishment might know the casting of that form of spell called Shadow Magic in the ancient system. Shadow, afterall, is a word also employed to speak of those things which fall just short of full reality, but are not in themselves unreal. Indeed, one might speak of gradations in shadow as more and more substance is attained and one moves closer to the real.

Shadow Magic. He’s heard the expression used so often in this place he’s grown sick of it. He smiles. Of course, there is genuine art in the well-timed and well-placed use of irony. And so, what better a thing to do here in the face of so artless an assault than to greet this minion of shadow with Shadow Magic, shadow magic of a very different kind than that which those of this place profess to know........

...... And so he casts and his words and gestures, while distinctively his own, are not unlike those employed by mages. His pronunciation of arcane syllables is fluent and confident and not the awkward and poorly spoken snippets of Latin one hears from the spellcasters found in certain popular CRPGs. There is a familiar cadence to his speech as the spell he invokes is among the most common – a great bursting sphere of flame. This sphere will be no mere illusion, no mere fiction to be readily ignored even by those who might perceive readily the distinction between fact and seeming. There will be a real burning in its heat and a real charring of flesh produced by its flame – the shadow of a fireball, perhaps, and not completely real, but not completely false as well. He casts confidently, as a caster of great accomplishment should and the burst of flame produced in the place where the archer stands is great indeed, greater perhaps than many of this place called IronWorks have ever seen for in that place and system from which he comes, the burning intensity of such a spell is limited only by the accomplishment of the caster.

In the obscurity of the fog there is first a flare and heat, a flare and a heat the erupt outward in sudden expansion. There is the stink of sulfurous gases and crackling of flame and the burning away of much of the fog. Those alert to such things might also discern the smell of burning cloth, as of clothing, and of flesh that has been seared.

[ 12-05-2005, 04:00 PM: Message edited by: Cyril Darkcloud ]

[Larry_OHF]

Echo

Echo knew nothing of old systems, old rules, or old and long forgotten spells. What he truely felt he perceived however was a massive fireball spell like none he'd ever witnessed before, aimed in his area. It would be large enough to wipe he and Grey out, completely! Gods, but this spell-caster was brilliant! His powers might even master those of the Mage of Shadow!

Echo saw no reason to become the Echo of an echo. In other words, he saw no point in letting this man remove him from the game.

He fled the scene, leaving Grey alone with no fruther guidance than the last command he'd been given, which he would follow until his life-force was terminated. Gods, but the Master was going to kill him for getting Grey terminated in this game. Echo might have to lay low for a while.

Grey

The zu-zu zombie that was Brendon Grey knew nothing of first or second edition rule sets, as he had been borne from the NeverWinter Nights campaign. He was also a zombie, so he didn't know much of anything anymore, except a hatred for the living. When the fireball came at him through the foggy substance that impeded his completion of the task given by the Master...Grey knew no fear so as to run from the attack. Luckily for him, the attack was not as extensively damaging as it appeared to promise. The illusionist had cast a spell and made it look more dangerous than it actually was. It was still one helluva large fireball, but the mixture of reality and illusion had scared away the Echo with a promise of collosal damage to come. It was not exactly the truth. Also, this zombie's chart explains that fire does half-damage...

...but again the meaning of all this was lost on a dead guy.

When the blaze subsided, the charred, smoking zombie was left alone at the stairwell, holding his magical Bow of Kat that had resisted damage from the blast. A magical quiver of neverending arrows given to him by a sage named Myron still hung on his back, also unscathed by the magical blast.

OOC>>>Grey has taken some damage from the fire.

[Cyril Darkcloud]

Hit Point Loss

Joseph has lost an additional 5 hit points from the exertion of casting these last two spells. Too much more of this and he's likely to completely collapse.

[ 12-05-2005, 04:50 PM: Message edited by: Cyril Darkcloud ]

[Larry_OHF]

”I’m sick of living in suspension, you understand? I don’t care if you don’t understand, you goon! You just get up and be a man, you hear me?!!”

Larry Silverfall 17/23

Larry heard those words again in his head...the residue of Mistral's wrath washing over him anew.

He looked over to where he could now see Morgeruat, huddled on the floor and quivering. Had he taken an arrow?

Joseph had completed his spells and looked pretty pale, no matter how strong he appeared to be...that man had to be getting tired. The talented wielder of magical illusion looked over at Larry, his face for a moment proving his exaustion with his last work..."Looks like you're up, kid", he said...but as soon as he said it, he appeared unscathed from his hard labors. That guy's just plain wierd...

Ooooookay then. What to do...

He peered over his hiding place to see the smoking and charred zombie keeping watch over the stairwell, but he somehow felt that Echo was gone...escaped from this level. How did he know that? Grey had an arrow notched and ready to aim it at anything that moved. What could be done?

Larry looked to his hit-point total, floating above his head. He had taken some damage and was not really ready for anything like taking on a zombie of such power after nearly getting killed during the last battle. Level 2 players just don't have it in them to go far without backup...and now his backup was needing backup.

He considered an idea. He had a spell book that he had hoped he'd have time to study sometime during this trip. He had been studying it before he went to go fetch the necklace with Tao what seemed years ago now. He had not picked up the book since.

He fished the book out of his backpack. It contained beginner's level spells, usually found amongst the belongings of any young child who was studying for magecraft. No spell in this book could do any real harm to the zombie...but a simple spell could aid Larry in getting in close-range to Grey so he could tackle him!

Let's see...chapter....um...4...and uh...let's go...to page...here! This one looks good.

Larry read the syllables presented on the page, made permanent so as to teach a youth how to work them without the page dissapating after the casting...

Larry casts: Burst of Speed.

*%@~```...

But that is not what he got.

"AAAAAAAIIIIIIIiiiiiiiiii......"

Larry was expecting to be able to run straight at the assailant with a burst of speed enough to clear the distance across the floor before an arrow could get shot at him. What actually happened was that Larry sprang into the air at an incredible height as to hit the ceiling of the Tower's room, and come crumbling down to land within arm's length of Grey the Zombie.

But that is not all that occured with the missfire of the spell from an unpracticed bumbling ranger. An oil slick bubbled into life across the floor, precisely under the zombie's feet which made it fall. Then Larry came crashing down nearby who ignored his broken arm and twisted ankle...and splitting headache...and took advantage of the situation and sprang at the zombie as best he could...straddling it and beating it in the head with his good arm.

"YOU &#!#~ PIECE OF **#@!^*, I'LL KILLYA! I'LL KILLYA!"

And so two figures wrestled in the oil slick. One was already dead and the other close to it, but not feeling it yet.

OOC>>>

Larry has sustained 9 hp damage in this crazy venture of his.

[ 12-06-2005, 09:05 AM: Message edited by: Larry_OHF ]

[Cyril Darkcloud]

The Tower of Shadow – Underwarrens

Thorrin Ebonshield

Something is not right. Without the firm hand of Terrakis to restrain his brothers, the murderous fury of the Giants of Shadow clamors for release. The sudden slaughter of ancient and dormant clan halls did little to satisfy the love of battle that burns within these creatures and the Underforums have long been subdued, with all opposition either crushed or brought to heel beneath their might. Terrakis has long been away and one must now consider the unthinkable, that somehow the great giant has been bested on the field of battle, bested and perhaps destroyed. The falling still of the terrible wind that promised death would seem to herald this. Should such news indeed be true, none but the firmest of hands might restrain the giants from issuing forth from these lightless tunnels to slaughter all whom they might find – and in so doing leave these lightless tunnels undefended.

The Mage as well has long been away. This also is not good, although the Mage himself has paid but little attention to certain matters – most prominent among them to the talents of himself and his clansmen, those dwarves born of the terrible blending of lightless shadow with tangible flesh when Terrakis used the Book that had been looted from the halls of the ancient Yellow Kingdom.

Terrakis. The great giant claimed no less than the Mage as father and grew strong under the tutelage of another, One that while not so mighty was much more ancient and considerable in its evil than even the Mage. Terrakis, the great nightmare of all who dwell beneath the earth, unrelenting in his might and unyielding in his strength of will – he it was whose arm conquered these lightless lands. He it was whose actions restored the Mage. He it was whom the heroes could not conquer nor impede. He it was who seized and exercised the power to turn a band of defiant and unbroken slaves into something much greater, into children of power, born of darkness and born for the darkness.

Terrakis, great Terrakis – warlord and leader and ruler and ...... father. Yes, father. For who are he and his clansmen if not the children of the ambition and power of Terrakis even as the great giant and his brothers are the children of the ambition and power of the Mage? He rises from the stone bench were he has been considering these things and his fingers curl around the hammer, newly made from the ebony his fellows had taken in that place so far to the North. “Brothers!” His voice resonant and stern, the voice of a leader. “Brothers and clansmen,” he addresses those gathered before him, those who once were merely dwarven slaves but who are now the Dwarves of Shadow. “Brothers and clansmen, children of Mighty Terrakis, the signs from above are not good and something has gone wrong within the tower. The Mage has ignored us, but we are the sons of Terrakis. Let us show then that we shall stand where others have fallen and if our place has been denied us, let us demonstrate our merit that he who sired Terrakis might see our worth. For we are his sons, the sons of Terrakis, and none shall contest our claim!”

The lightless warrens echo with the ringing of hammers and axes against shields and the shouted assent of the dwarves, “For Terrakis. For Thorrin! To the Tower” So rise the shouts. Should what he suspects indeed be true, an Althing of the giants must be held. But there will time enough for such things. For now there is the spilling of blood and the breaking of the bones of all intruders who might be found within the Tower that lies before them, and as Terrakis insisted, one must always attend to the matter at hand.

[ 12-06-2005, 07:11 PM: Message edited by: Cyril Darkcloud ]

[TAOWolf]

She smiles at Vincent, and motions him to come closer to hear the conversation. ”Well met to you too, Vincent. I’m verra glad to see you, believe me. I’m sure a lot has gone on since everyone parted, but it can wait until a safer time, I’m sure.” She glances at Anarrima as she says this, but no is not the time to ask for help with the shadow taint. There is a job to do first.

She stares at the far door, narrowing her eyes as she thinks. She looks up at the ceiling as a thought comes to her, and she thinks back to the great hall up above that she saw. She brings the tapestries to her mind again, and looks them over carefully.

She shivers once, as she recognizes the symbols and heraldic shields and glares at the door. Turning to Anarrima and Vincent, she whispers in a harsh voice, ”Just WHO are we going to rescue on the other side of that door? And what does all this have to do with the disturbance in the ley lines near here?”

[Morgeruat]

Yevaud

Yevaud stands slowly, Anarrima had greeted this woman, this apparent human as a friend. He recalled the tales of Ana about her former companions, a woman who was more wolf than person was among those. A druid by birthright as well as by upbringing, at least she wasn't completely human, the very word clung to his mind like sour milk, how he hated it. He said nothing, and moved with the well documented elven quiet to stand by the door, waiting to be noticed, or needed.

[Legolas]

There is a wrongness to some places. A wrongness that has no more to do with evil than a painting hanging crookedly from a nail, but one which disturbs far more than its own direct surroundings. This was a place of wrongness. Even flaunting the many different subtleties of the hues, the world here was flat and ultimately plain green as though he wore 3D goggles with his red eye shut.
The more he remained here, the worse the irritation grew until he felt his entire bodiless being itching like mad.

It would be a good time to stop, to scratch or roll over the grass until he'd relieved at the very least the worst of it. Just until he could focus his thoughts once more.

Ahead of him, a wall popped up from out of nowhere, and the other passed through its gates. Though he made several attempts to lie down, he followed it. This was disturbing, he thought, and very much wrong.