I regain consciousness, though the pain is excruciating, white lights dance before my eyes in the black stillness, motes of brightness, dazzling, circling, revolving, rotating. "Oh goddess, I'm gonna be..." My stomach heaves, mocking my ill considered decision to eat earlier.
My attempts to rise are defeated by the slashing jaws of the deep dragon manacles cutting into the flesh of my wrists. "Not again," I scream, my echoes of rage filling the chamber, stirring the dust and decay with the strength of my vehemence, "NEVER AGAIN!"
His steps are light, untroubled, undaunted, unstopped. "Ah, at last, my pet awakens. And just in time for the ceremony as well." rasps the lich, the decaying flaps of skin about his lips making each syllable sound like the rustle of dead leaves.
I feel his dead stare, hatred burning through my core. "One has slept long. One knew that you would return someday." He rakes his talons across my cheek, drawing a gasp and a slow trickle of warm wetness down my cheek. "Ever the puppet, you were. Did thou not know that we were tied together by the Curse? That wherever thou didst go, One would follow?" Elaith reveals with a dry laugh. "One does not know how one came to be moved to this crypt, however, but it means nothing now. For this is where you are, this is where One is." he intones, satisfied, oddly jubilant.
Upon the altar, he lies the Tome. My eyes shift subconciously to its flesh bound pages, sigils written in the blood of defiled innocents. My skin crawls, being forced to even be near the damned thing, but my restraints do not allow me much leeway in position.
"One sees that you recall the Tome of Necros." Elaith drawls, his skeletal hand caressing the cover of the book like a lover. Goosebumps rise along the flesh of the binding, I avert my face, deeply disturbed by the monstrous artifact. "Yes, the Tome has finally revealed the mysteries to me. The time is indeed near. When the rites are completed, the undead hordes of Kieransalee shall sweep the living from the land, above and below, leaving nothing but a dried husk. The Culling shall begin!" He laughs, coughing up a smog of funerary miasma in his mirth.
From his frayed sash he pulls a bone dagger, laying it alongside my prone form. "One has only to make a final sacrement. One can think of none better than you, my pet." He grins down upon me, his rictus smile and tattered face enthralled in the raptures of ultimate victory.
He places tallowed candles about me, upon the altar, his muttered curses reaching my ears. A black flame leaps into being above each wick, sputtering a caustic smoke that forces me to cough uncontrollably. With a nod of his skeletal head, he turns back to the book, leafing through it's pages until finding what he seeks. "And now, One shall begin." he traces the mark of Kieransalee into the air, and begins the ritual.
I succumb to a moment of panic, uncertainty, but then I remember. The calling. The searching. The truth. A pair of feline eyes, emblazoned before my mind's eye. I know now what must be done.
His voice reaches a fevered pitch, reverberating about the walls so loudly that spiders scurry from their webs, rats shriek and protest before fleeing into the deeper darkness. Boney digits wrap about the bone dagger, the seething power and knowledge of the murder he is about to commit burns within Elaith, lending energy to the dark deed. He salivates hungrily, nothing more than an animal, a slave to the rite itself, now.
Poised over me, he hold the kris above my heart. "One consecrates this offering to thee, Kieransalee!" My breath catches, "To the end of life!" Down thrusts the dagger. I close my eyes, ready to meet my reward, my soul promised to another. A slight whistle can be heard as the blade arcs downward and then stops.
I feel ... nothing. The rattle of the dagger hitting the floor can be heard.
"What is this?!?!" I hear the lich proclaim, startled, suddenly frightened. "One cannot..." stammers Elaith. I open my eyes, joyous life greets me, clarity, knowledge of purpose. The lich has stepped back, clutching the demonic book to his chest like a shield.
"You think you have won, Elaith," I force myself up, as far as the binding restraints permit, blood runs freely as the jaws of the manacles cut further into my flesh, "but, you have made a mistake. A fatal one." I lock his vacuous, spirit glowing orbs in the trap of my heat-vision stare. A sneer cracks my lips.
"Goddess, hear me. Protect me. Lend me thy wisdom and strength." I reach through my faith and find her there. I hear a cat's purr. Her light, her will, her divine wonder. The power flows into me, enriching me. The world changes about me, colors seem brighter, sounds richer, textures fuller, tastes more pronounced. My lips move of their own volition, a litany of prayers, spoken in tongues, leaps forth.
The shackles open, falling away, broken, with a loud *CLATTER*. I sit up fully, afixing the lich with a dire glare, the words continuing to emerge from the mysteries of the Goddess' light. My hand reaches below my vestements, pulling forth my holy symbol, my TRUE holy ward.
Back stumbles Elaith, hissing and sputtering, his dead flesh smoking and curling like burning paper. "ONE does not understand... how this.. could be..." seeths the treacherous lich, ash falling from his errant limbs like snow. "One is protected from turning... by the Dark Liege." he screams "You were stripped... of your powers long ago!"
Holding the sigil before me, I advance, "That was indeed, long ago." I stride purposely forward. "And had you taken the time to note that you awakened in a different world, fool, you would know that you couldn't call upon the cursed protections of an undead goddess that doesn't exist, here."
I press my symbol to his forehead, the burning his of long dried flesh boils forth, filling the air with a sickly cloud. The screams that issue from his mouth are ear-splitting, forcing me to clutch my artifice even harder to ensure I do not drop it. "One... does... not... unders... tan...d..."
His remains collapse into nothingness. A pile of dust that begins to blow away even as I watch it. The power leaves me, the deed is done. "Dirt has no need of understanding." I kick at the last remains, sending it cascading into the air, scattered.
I weakly stoop down, rifling through the rags of Elaith's deserted clothing and find the Tome. Shuddering involuntarily, I force myself to take the book. "The answer sought lies here." I promise myself, "The secrets of the realms of chaos lie within." The book lurches from my hands, somehow knowing my intent, falling to the floor. Snarling, I grab up a broken manacle and chain from the altar, and advance upon the errant tome. Quickly I catch the thing, and after a brief struggle, manage to ensnare it within the bindings of the links.
"I must get you back to the Tabernacle ere the news of your presence gets back to unwanted ears." I whisper.
But I am tired. So very tired. The use of the power has drained me. My fear has overcome me. So very tired.
I slump down against the wall, fiercely holding the book. My last thoughts wander as I drift into an unwanted sleep. Dark Liege. Undead Hordes. The Culling. The nightmares begin.
I have arrived. The city gates stand open, the ambient heat of Narbondel can be seen, radiating, pulsating. Why should the drow fear enough to close their city? Who would dare attack them openly, the masters of the Underdark.
My breath comes in ragged breaths, nearly leading to hyperventilation, before the litany comes to mind and calms my racing thoughts. I have come to fulfill a purpose. I have come for information. I must calm myself for what is about to occur, for if even once my fear is sensed, I am doomed.
Slowly, I take the time to go over my gear. Stowed away are my Tabernacle vestements, for now I don the neutral garbs of undeclared priesthood. My cloak sparkles with radiant magic. My boots and gloves are of the richest rothe hide. My family house signet is displayed clearly. Though not of the higher echelon, it still extends noble station, even in this parallel world. Nodding to myself, I am certain everything is in place. "If not now, than never."
I stride forward purposely, eyes intent upon the passage, stolidly ignoring the gatehouse located to the side of the span. From the encroaching darkness a dark elf emerges, heavily armed with pike levelled. "Halt and be recognized."
My feet stop moving, not out of fear or command, but as it is what is expected of any drow. A sneer cracks my face, as my red-lit eyes take in the warrior. "I presume that you have good reason for stopping me." I demonstratively intone, my hand toying tellingly with my holy symbol. "If not, I assure you that I can arrange that we both visit the drider pits, right now." Menace drips from my words like venom from a cave viper's fangs. The resolve on the warrior's face melts before my threats, fear clearly crossing the measure of his visage. "I meant no affront, revered one, merely doing my duty. Please pass on."
With a glare and a dismissive gesture, I slowly traverse the gate and walk into the city, certain that the eyes of the soldier follow me, even as I cross into the nearest main thoroughfare and become lost in the crowd. "You know the report is being made, even as you walk ten feet away, fool. Find where you need to be and get this done with." I mumble absentmindedly to myself, glaring off the stares drawn to my intonation.
Menzoberranzan. Long has it been since I dared walk your wicked streets. One of the greatest, and most feared civilizations of the Underdark rule here. I have not come to see the Spider-Queen priestess however. The less I have contact with the matriarchy, the better. "Especially since you are male." I can only nod to myself and wince, as I recall the bite of countless snake-head whips biting into my flesh.
But, there are other religions practiced here. Those hidden from the ruling class, for if they are discovered, they are dead. The followers of Gromph and their bestial mannerisms linger in the sewers, performing their charnal rites. The back alleys sing with the whispered praises to Vhaeran, as thieves and muggers go about their criminal deeds. Even, if one pays close attention, the shadows of the wilds frolic with rangers of Eilistraee, the hated goddess of the hunt. But, there are other religions here, far more dastardly. One in particular that I know of, much too well.
"Where is the sign. I know they..." I consider, as my eyes quickly take in each cairn carving, faerie light decoration, and glowing rune marking the street. Hours pass, as I slink from street to street searching, desperately searching. At last I see it, a burning sigil unobtrusively displayed in an alley amidst a pile of rubble before the dwelling, apparantly an afterthought, at least to those who do not know what it means, fortunately, I know full well its dread purpose.
A chill courses down my spine, driven by the memories of this mark, this sigil of evil. A scar that marred me for time countless, bound me to the service of depravity, unwillingly. This is the sign of enslavement, the brand I eventually escaped. Sweat oozes from my pores, sopping my clothing to my body. I cannot stop shaking. "Damn you... get control of yourself!" I swear to myself, gritting my teeth so tightly that my jaw begins to hurt. "This isn't even the same world." I assure myself.
"Small assurance." I steel myself, and prepare. One foot after another, through the low gated entrance, past a pair of live gargoyles that hiss and growl at my passing. Up the roughly hewn obsidian steps, kicking pebbles out of my path as I make my way up to the entrance. My gloved hand trembles, as I reach for the spider worked door lever, turning, and stepping quickly inside.
The door slams behind me. The wafted scent of death and decay fall upon me like a curtain closing a bardic act. I fight the bile rising to the back of my teeth, my eyes water. Black candles cast an eerie ambiance in the room, little more than a crypt. Rats scurry throughout the chamber, going about their rodent business with nary a care for the atrocities the take place here.
Before me, the altar consecrated to Kieransalee, a long pedestal of bone, hide, and basalt, awaits. Iron shackles, shaped into the form of deep dragon jaws, are coiled at the base of the structure, poised like waiting asps.
I cough. The air, billowing forth a miasma of detritus of the long dead. I feel light headed, but that's just the fear. I scan the room quickly, and inch forward, my pulse racing, my head throbbing.
To the dais, I make my way. My palm runs down the length of the bone altar, down the grooves in its length, lingering upon etched scratches and gouges purposely, remembering each one. "How can this be?" my eye widen with fear, as the immensity of what lies before me sinks in.
Behind me I hear the soft rustle of burial robes, followed by a sharp pain to my head. "Welcome home, Zane. So good of you to offer yourself up. One has waited long for thy return." Rasps the decayed form of one I thought long left in the past. As I collapse across the altar, my eyes alight on my captor. "Elaith..."
There is only darkness.
(Continued from: Tabernacle of Forgotten Lore)
On this Day of Thunder, in the Month of the Frost Giant:
The study of the Keep of Mahn Tor can wait, the needs of Tabernacle and the goddess take precedence. Upon learning of the latest in news, and taking the time to absorb what I had learned, I have decided upon action over inactivity. Classed among the seekers, the gatherers of knowledge, I shall seek an answer. The goddess knows I would never be able to sit idley by whilst the remainder of the clan sought the rosetta stone to the conundrum. My curiosity dictates activity. Allegiance to my goddess and the well-being of the Tabernacle demand that the answer be found. In this portion of the quest, perhaps I am best suited to what must now happen.
I have journeyed forth upon a hunch, following that irritating tickling sensation in the back of my mind. I may have an idea of how to assist the quest Nikola and Mandolus now have undertaken, at least partially. I am loathe to speak it aloud, or even write it here, lest I be prematurely hexed by the inclement disaster that shall inevitably befall me when I reach my destination.
Briefly, had I considered inquiring of assistance at the Den, however, the debaucherists were busy in their revelry, having recently sacked a town. The squalls of the women were disturbing to say the least, the Den Sloths' raucous laughter drowning out the screams in a cacophany of alcohol and unrequited lust. I could only shake my head and walk on.
I have travelled this road many times, though not upon this world. It is a path I know well, for it leads home. Home. An alien term to me. I use it only in the sense that this is the place from whence I have emerged, from which I have survived. There is only survival and death here. No other standard of measurement applies.
Through the gaping maw of an unobtrusive cave entrance I quietly pass, deeper and deeper I traverse. My senses sharpen, honed by paranoia and sensibility, or is it merely years of experience and knowledge of what happens to those who do not remain wary? Far past milky white pools of calcium laden water dripping from stalactites and stalagmites I have gone. The chitter of bats and stirges touch my ears, my muscles tense, my grip tightens upon my mace. My feet make no sound in passing, I must be as one with shadow, unseen, unheard. My eyes glow in the infrared spectrum, the tracks of long past visitors leaving heat traces upon the rocky environ. The air smells acrid, stale, the surface wind long left behind and denied sway by Terra Firma.
Everything, so familiar, and yet so alien. Yet, I shall find what I am after. One borne of the dark, lives by the dark and dies by the dark. Intuition shall guide me. I shall find them, this trip into Underdark shall not be for naught. I pray the goddess shall protect me, for she knows I shall need it.