Chapter 74
Spring time is upon the plains, with less of a chill in the air as the days begin to lengthen. Not only is there more daylight, but it’s becoming brighter as the sun moves from its arc across the southern sky to directly overhead. The sturdy oak trees dispersed among the two-foot tall bluestem grasslands haven’t yet begun showing their buds, more like armored pods. Meanwhile, the tiny buds on the cottonwoods are revealing themselves, a precursor to releasing an unholy summer snow upon their surroundings.
Gven is outside her father’s smithy, having absconded with one of the rare swords he’s crafted. The seven-foot tall half-orc blacksmith prefers to create useful tools, things that improve a person’s and the community’s life. But, as his warrior wife infrequently reminds him, weapons are tools too.
The sword the fifteen-year-old Gven is brandishing—with some skill, mind you—is neither flashy nor ornate, but it’s functional. And it allows her to practice the forms her mother has drilled into her since she was young, the lessons began not long after she learned to walk. The sword sweeps across the ground as her body moves its center of gravity lower and her arms slide the weapon horizontally. Continuing its path, the sword begins an upward arc as it moves to her side and then whips around her backside. Holding her sword arm high and a foot from her cheek, the sword finishes pointing forward at a downward angle, towards her imagined foe. Feeling satisfied with herself, a leg is suddenly swept out from underneath her. Landing on her side, she quickly turns her body to look up and find her brother’s grinning half-orcish face. His own sword, crafted expertly by their father, points downward, a foot away from her chest. An oak amulet hangs from a leather cord around his neck with the Unwinking Eye of Gruumsh intricately carved into it. A twin to her own, now at the point of her brother’s sword.
“Plant your foot, sister. How many times do Ma and I have to tell you. Push it through the ground and make roots with it, like that big ol’ oak tree in the village.”
Never one to give up easily, especially to her older brother, Gven quickly twists her legs, opening them to gain leverage and speed, then presses them together in a scissor motion against his calves, attempting to bring him down to the ground with her. His legs remain firmly planted in their place.
“Roots, sister. Roots.” His grin widens and he offers her a hand up, which she gladly takes, also grinning after their brief encounter.
“I’ll be leaving soon and traveling Gruumsh knows where. Pay attention to Ma’s lessons. You’re as skilled as I was at fifteen, better actually.” A soft push to her shoulder, his way of masking his nervousness or sincerity, tells her that he’s serious.
“I will. You’re going to write, aren’t you? I want to hear all about your adventures! I like traveling with Pa and blacksmithing, but to explore beyond The Badlands.” She’s quiet for a moment and looks away, “I’ll miss you, Torp.”
He gives her another push on the shoulder, a little harder this time, “You couldn’t stop me from writing…and bragging.” Pausing for a long moment to let is bravado fade, he looks her in the eye, “You’ll be stronger than me someday.”
“I know,” she says with the impertinence, courage, and naievete of a fifteen-year-old.
Dusk settles on the day and the golden hour lights up the plains around them, a soft breeze causing the bluestem grasses to sway in a dance of their own. A foot taller than his younger sister, Torp comfortably rests his arm around her shoulder as they walk towards their father’s forge.
Gven’s eyes open as she wakes, uncertain if that was real or a dream. A memory. She closes her eyes, hoping to relive it again. One more time with her brother before the world turned upside down. Before Torp became the bad guy.
Giving up on that fantasy, the half-orc opens her eyes to find herself laying in a familiar bed and room. This is Sanctum, Lady Alustriel’s house and the companions’ base of operations. Throwing back the covers, she’s wearing bed clothes, notably not her own—because she doesn’t carry any—and is clean of monster blood and goop. Glad to see that someone cleaned her up, she still feels the need for a bath. But first, to find the others.
After dressing and wandering the mansion for some time, Gven finds her companions and their hosts in the parlor where they had their first conversation with Lady Alustriel, Tasha, and Mordenkainen. They agreed to assist with the great wizards’ plan to rid the planes of Vecna. Sitting next to Alustriel on the sette that still resides towards the center of the expansive room is her wife, Malaina van Talstiv. They’re both dressed similarly as before, Alustriel in a stunning gown that seems to flow majestically even when she’s sitting still and Malaina in her flowing blouse underneath a navy vest, fitted pants, and leather pauldrons and braces, with a handful of visible knives—and several more hidden from view, but easily accessible. Tasha reclines on the chaise lounge with a very large wine glass, similar to before, and Mordenkainen rests in a leather easy chair, twirling the brown liquid in his glass around an ice cube.
Her companions are spread about the room, resting comfortably and most of them holding a wine glass or beer stein. They bring her up to speed on the happenings after the creature—which they now know was a hertilod—regurgitated her and the second piece of the rod. According to Alustriel, they’re deathly susceptible to lightning and the meager magical attack from Tempest Edge was enough to trigger it retching the half-orc, giving her the opportunity to slice it open from the base of its neck to its mouth. They were lucky it happened that way, because the beast had digested the rod piece and it came out with the barbarian, and everything else. Dolor cleaned up Gven with Prestidigitation and the servants laid her to rest in her room, removing her longcoat and travel clothes before doing so.
Captain Inda and the crew of the Lambent Zenith were rescued the next day by another ship. It turns out that Palenna, the halfling crew member and Ikasa’s friend who floated off into the Astral Sea, was rescued by another spelljammer. They were able to track down the Lambent Zenith and offered to help the remaining crew, including Redbud, the treant. Once the fate of the Lambent Zenith’s crew was known, they reached out to Alustriel to activate the portal back to the Sanctum. Gven was unconscious the whole time; being half-digested by a monster and poisoned takes it out of a person, even a mighty barbarian.
Standing up from her chair and stretching her arms high, Gven looks to Alustriel and Malaina. “I may be clean, but a bath sounds like the most lovely thing at the moment. I can think of only two things, ahem people, who could make it even moreso.”
Their faces remain neutral and Alustriel responds to Gven’s invitation, “While we are flattered, we must decline.”
Bilwin registers a look of surprise and Dolor begins to speak up, cautioning Gven, as the Lady Alustriel demurs the unabashed overture. Tasha moves silently, rising from the chaise and going to the barbarian.
“You know, she can do things to you from the inside out that will make you wish for death.”
“Yes, but we’re allies and, besides, we’re all adults here, right.” She turns to the otherworldly resplendent mage, “What about you, are you interested in joining me?”
Dolor blurts a way out for the half-orc, “You’re still tired and worn out after that battle, Gven. You should recuperate alone, allow your body…and your obviously confused mind…the time they need to rest.”
Ignoring her friend’s warning, “It’s been a long time on the roads between worlds and my body needs companionship. What say you, lady?”
A grin comes to Tasha’s face as she softly points towards Gven’s chambers, urging the half-orc to lead the way. Gven gives an “I told you so” look to Dolor, who shakes his head in resignation, and leads the ravishing dark-haired wizard from the room.
Minutes later, after a silent journey through the halls, the two enter Gven’s room. A warm bath is drawn and ready in the oversized clawfoot tub. Eager for the coming events, Gven enters the water and is overcome with how lovely it feels. The water surrounds her like a warm blanket, the perfect temperature on a chilly day to soothe her body’s aches and pains. The wetness enveloping her body feels so natural and soothing, quite literally the best bath she’s ever experienced. She closes her eyes to enjoy the moment. It takes her a few minutes to realize that she’s fully submerged and breathing comfortably. Opening her eyes, Gven realizes that her body is different. She’s a goldfish.
Peering upwards, towards the water’s surface, Gven can see Tasha’s human form standing to the side of the tub. The half-orc-turned-fish flits around the water that fills the large bath tub, surprised and concerned at the turn of events. Tasha lets her swim around in worry for a while, then takes a glass, scoops her up, and sets it on the table.
“Are you done being a nuisance to those who are trying to help you? Are you going to be polite now?”
Gven’s fish body bobs up and down emphatically, “Blub, blub!”
Tasha nods her acceptance and dumps the glass of water onto the floor. She watchs as Gven’s fish form flops around on the tiles, choking on the air and gasping for the water it needs to breathe. In the time it takes for Gven to die an excruciating death by asphyxiation, she embraces the harshly taught lesson of respect. Her physical size and prowess in battle have always enabled her to behave rashly, impertinent even, without risk of retribution. She’ll certainly think twice before doing so again.
The fish takes its last breath and lies still on the hard tile floor. A few seconds later, Gven’s half-orc body materializes in its place, fully clothed and drenched from the bath water. Tasha stares into the half-orc’s eyes for a length of time, ensuring that her message was successfully delivered. Turning quickly, the mage’s robes twirl around her as she exits the room, leaving Gven to her own thoughts.
In the parlor, after Tasha and Gven’s exit, the others return to their discussion about the second piece of the Rod of Seven Parts. Mordenkainen asks Bilwin to repeat the vision when he picked up the piece amongst the hertilod’s remains.
“It was a land shrouded in mist, settled in amongst the towering peaks of an old and very large mountain range. The mountains surrounded a valley, itself vast in size, with large meadows broken up by clusters of trees: cottonwoods, boxelders, grand willows, oaks, ash, and elm. Small rivers and creeks criss-crossed the plains, watering them with runoff from the mountain range. It was beautiful to behold, a utopia. And then it faded, the mists turned to angry, dark clouds that blocked out the sun. The grassy plains became barren and dead, with intermittent scrags of tall dried out grasses reminiscent of what had been. Large bastions of machinery could be seen spread throughout the land, like islands in a desert sea. They appeared dead as well, unused, worn, and withering away from lack of use.”
Lady Alustriel waited for the dwarf to finish his description. “You speak of Eberron and the war-torn continent of Khorvaire. The nations of those lands were constantly at war with each other, never satisfied, always wanting more. Until one day, a magical catastrophy, the Day of Mourning, occured that decimated the continent and most of the population. What you saw is now referred to as Mournland, it was once the great nation of Cyre. During the height of their wars, the Cyrens created magical constructs of wood and metal, sentient beings—slaves, really—designed to wage war on behalf of their masters. They are called the Warforged. Some of them still wander the Mournland, those whose magical batteries still have power. Some wander mindlessly and others search for meaning, a reason to exist beyond the chaos of war. They’re fascinating. The dead are fascinating, as well. Some unknown magic preserves the state of their bodies, they do not decay. They look exactly as they did in the moment of their death, many years ago.”
As the companions absorb the news, she continues, “It will be more difficult to find the third piece. Since the Day of Mourning, magic doesn’t work the way we expect it to in Mournland. In addition to the Warforged, the Cyrens created fire-spewing war machines known as colossi, those are the island-like monstrosities you saw, sir dwarf. The colossi were powered by a small, sentient metal sphere, called a docent. I believe that if you find a docent and attune it to the second piece of the rod, it will then be able to find the third piece.”
Mordenkainen irritatingly adds, “Teleportation and divination work poorly there, to say the least. We won’t be able to place you close to the rod. You’ll be on your own to find it.”
At the mention of the docent, something pulls at the back of Dolor’s mind. He can’t quite make it out, but it tugs at his memories. “Looks like we need to find a docent.”
The companions spend the rest of the day recuperating from their battles in the Astral Plane and preparing for the next stage of their journey.
Wandering the Sanctum, Dolor is invigorated to discover the vast library. Learning the warlock occult lore, he’s recently gained Eyes of the Rune Keeper, the ability to read all writing. This is his first opportunity to revel in the ability.
“Hmm, there must be something that will help us fight Vecna amongst these tomes.”
The tiefling walks the length and breadth of the library, his tail twitching in anticipation as his fingers glide along the spines of leather bound texts. An unusual book catches his eye but not for the title, “My quest for meaning,” rather for the language. The letters are unlike any other language he’s seen. They’re a substitution cipher that uses a system of dots and strokes all based on a dot placed in the upper left corner of a grid. He pulls the book from the shelf and finds a chair where he can comfortably tuck his tail and peruse the words of the author, aptly named Thinker.
A few hours later, Dolor gently closes the book and rests it on his lap. The Warforged were built for war and their names reflected each one’s individual purpose, but after the Day of Mourning, those had no meaning. There was no more war to be forged. The author documents their philosophical musings as they search for their new meaning. They rename themself Thinker, honoring the Warforged traditions. Dolor has an overwhelming sense of sadness, realizing that Thinker never discovered their new purpose. The last line of the book read, “I guess I must stop for there are no pages left.”
Sitting alone in his introspection, a memory comes to Dolor of a childhood moment in his parents’ workshop. The intricate pieces of a time piece laid out on a table to be cleaned and serviced, then put back together. One of those pieces has the blocky substitution cipher written upon it. Dolor knows it isn’t native to Eritz. How did it travel from Eberron to Ertiz? Why did his parents know the language? What were they using it for? The unanswered questions probe at the rogue’s mind, driving his curiosity.
Resting in one of the parlors, Mond is flipping through Journal of the Arcane when Mordenkainen enters the room. The mage takes a seat in one of the plush, leather chairs and opens a book of unknown origin or title. Dolor leans against one of the walls, still pondering what he read by Thinker.
Mond ventures, “Excuse me, Mordenkainen. Would you know where I might be able to purchase a ring of protection? We’re constantly getting into fights and I feel the need for more defensive assistance.”
A look of glee crosses the archmage’s face and he slams his book closed, “I know just the place! Ready? Of course you are. You’re ready when I’m ready. let’s go!”
He waves his hand and a portal appears at the side of the room, right where a small couch sits empty. Before the half-elf can rise from his chair, Mordenkainen has already gone through the portal. Mond hurries to catch up and Dolor decides to follow. Passing through the portal, they find themselves in the middle of a cavernous bazaar. It’s a vibrant sea of silk tents, where the searing scent of exotic spices mingles with the staccato cries of a thousand merchants. Beneath the shadows of the awnings travelers and locals scrutinize a visceral array of magical items, from incandescent soul-gems to sundered relics that hum with a sturdy, ancient power. The air itself feels thick and heavy, thrumming with the interconnected energy of haggard sorcerers, enthusiastic warriors, and reticent druids creating a jovial chaos that never seems to wane.
“Follow me,” the mage says as he enters the crowd, which magically parts for him, granting him free movement amongst the marketplace’s din and confusion. Mond and Dolor struggle to keep sight of Mordenkainen, following the tasseled tip of the mage’s deep burgundy hat through the throng of people. They finally arrive at a large enclosed tent and enter through a flap that provides privacy to the merchant and their customers.
“Welcome, my friends, to Thoom’s House of Boom!” A loud thunderclap resonates throughout the tent and a few items shake unsteadily on their shelves. Recognizing Mordenkainen, the loxodon exclaims, “My good friend! It is the pleasure of the gods that bring you back to my magnificent emporium!”
“Yes, yes, Thoom. Please extend your hospitality to my young associates as though they were almost me.”
Bowing to the mage, “Yes, my wondrous comrade!” Turning to Mond and Dolor, “How may I be of service? There are many things of wonder for you to consider. How might I find things of need for you? After all, this is,” he widens his arms in a grandiose manner, “Thoom’s House of Boom!” The subsequent thunderclap shakes Mond’s teeth.
“I would like something to protect myself in battle that doesn’t get in the way, perhaps a ring or braces.”
Thoom leads the sorcerer to the other side of the tent, revealing several options, some of which are even within his price range. Fifteen minutes pass and Mond returns to Dolor, showing the tiefling a shiny gold ring of protection.
“And for you, my new friend? How may I discover the thing for which your heart desires?”
“I would like something to help me in battle. I’ve always been drawn to rapiers, maybe one that’s enchanted.”
“I have it!” Thoom rushes to the opposite side of the tent, where an assortment of weapons are displayed on the shelves and in cabinets. The elephant-like merchant opens an unadorned chest and digs around, removing a cloth-bound item. Unwrapping it to reveal a rapier, “The Dancing Sword!” He tosses it into the air where it hovers, apparently awaiting instruction. “It does the fighting for you! You can be nice and toasty safe off to the side, bathing in the warmth of its effervescent glow as it pokes your opponents. Only twenty thousand gold pieces! What do you say, a steal, eh?”
Dolor coughes in surprise at the cost, “A steal, yes, but one that is still too rich for my purse.” Perusing the wares along the shelves, a pocket watch catches the tiefling’s eye. Pointing to it, “Can you tell me about that watch?”
“Ah, it is a wonderous device, and beautifully crafted. Here, please inspect it for yourself.” The merchant hands the intricately designed pocket watch to Dolor, who immediately feels a connection with the piece. Thoom continues his pitch, “Beauty is not the only thing it provides the bearer! This watch allows you to stutter time, once per day! Imagine the opportunity to redo a moment in time, a decision gone awry, a vanished prospect, an extinguished hope. A chance to rewrite your history!”
Dolor examines the watch closely, setting it on the counter for a deeper look into its inner workings. With a twist and a pull, something clicks and the back of the watch detaches. Peering into the gears, wheels, and mechanisms, Dolor confirms his suspicions. There’s no doubt in his mind, this watch was made by his parents. More questions flood through him, but this isn’t the place to ponder them.
“How much?”
“For you, who are obviously a connossieur of watch-makers, yet experiencing a momentary lightness of purse, I offer this beauty for,” he pauses, “fifteen hundred gold pieces. Another steal, eh.”
“Sold, and with great thanks, friend. You have given me a gift of untold measure.”
The merchant opens his arms and twirls his trunk, “Selling is about finding that which needs to be found.” The loxodon winks, “Through a path of gold, of course.”
Bilwin approaches Lady Alustriel in the hall, “Um, hi Lady Alustriel. Um, remember when you offered to help me remember,” he waves his hands, “that stuff from my past? The stuff that didn’t feel good. I, um, I think I’m ready now. Are you still willing to help me?”
“Of course, my dear dwarf. Let’s make ourselves comfortable.” She motions to a doorway close by that leads into a study, the walls surround them with filled bookshelves and a desk sits to one end of the room. In the middle, an ornate leather couch with brass buttons sits next to a matching chair and a dark mahogany table. She points to the couch, “This will do. Sit.”
As soon as they’re seated on the couch, Malaina appears at the doorway and moves silently to the chair. Looking at the dwarf, Alustriel’s wife explains, “This can be taxing for her and I’m here to make certain she doesn’t strain herself, or endanger you both.” He nods in understanding.
Sitting next to Bilwin on the couch, the mage lightly touches his hands and closes her eyes; he follows suit and shuts his own eyes. The images slowly appear in his mind, first of his friends and companions from years ago. The tale is told in the feelings the images create. They were on a quest to find, or maybe defend, a piece of the Rod of Seven Pieces. He cannot decipher why or which piece. One of his companions is a bard. The bard saved his life! Is that why he’s tried, and failed, to be a bard? To honor his fallen companion?
The images shift into a black hole. How were they killed? What lead them to that point? Where did it happen? The memories of how and why they were killed are still hidden from the dwarf, locked behind an insurmountable barrier of his subconscious’ making.
The Lady Alustriel’s guidance penetrates his trance, “We must move onward. Those memories are too painful for you to handle.”
Bilwin lets go of their deaths, letting his mind open to any direction, all directions. A haziness hides the details of the scene, but he can hear their voices. They’re in a study, not too unlike the one he sits in now. The voices of strangers join his comrades. Something is lost that needs to be found, and they are charged with the quest.
The dwarf’s body begins to shake uncontrollably and he feels an eerie sort of fear, one that gives him the heebee-jeebies. He hears a single sentence, “We will start with the one and the rest will come after.”
Opening his eyes to see Malaina supporting Lady Alustriel, exhaustion creeps over Bilwin and he falls gently into the leather couch, asleep before his body comes to rest.
Later that evening, everyone is gathered for dinner in the spacious dining room. Gven has recovered from her lesson in manners and sits quietly, a small bit of shame keeping her terse tongue silent. Mond is showing her his new ring, that improves his already stalwart defenses. Dolor holds the gold pocket watch by its sturdy chain, letting it dangle hypnotically. Bilwin has recuperated from his earlier session with Lady Alustriel, but is also uncharacteristically solemn.
Tasha looks around the table, “Where’s the halfing, Grindlefoot?”