Eberron Journal: Third Entry

From the journal of Vanivieve ir’Coralyn d’Sivis

Notes on the little coffee stand we went to, just outside the Fairhaven lightning rail station:

  • I ordered the Double Ristretto Venti Half-Soy Nonfat Decaf Organic Chocolate Brownie Iced Vanilla Double-Shot Gingerbread Frappuccino, Extra Hot With Foam, Whipped Cream, Upside Down Double Blended (with Ice).
  • Fairly typical order I’d ask for at any old Sharnbucks or Café Miron.
  • It was ok. Their roast was a little dark for my taste, but that was offset by the vanilla and gingerbread.
  • Is writing a review even relevant here? The place might not even be open anymore in our own time.

The year is 998 YK (again). We have returned to our own time, and all is right with the world as far as internal chronology is concerned. I’m writing this entry from a lightning railcar bound for the Sharn Skyway, where we are to be guests of honour at a party that – I’m told – is a more exclusive affair than the annual Skyway Gala.

It’s apparently been a successful two years we missed. But to the point:

Back in 996 YK, we learned a few things about Janek’s involvement in the blaze that eventually led to Cannith West’s downfall – it was quite odd seeing him before he rose to prominence in politics. His image as an unmarked Orien administrator, dismissed and disregarded, is quite incongruous considering the clout he has in the current day.

As I’m certain you’re aware, O reader, the fire that broke out during this party was incredibly important. People have speculated for years what might have been the result had Jorlana d’Cannith been present for the Dragonmarked House Conference.

A brief aside: the topic of this conference was allocation of House resources during the peace efforts after the war – houses like my own insisted upon neutrality, whereas others of a more mercantile nature saw unprecedented opportunity for profit. If you aren’t up on trade news, as I suspect of my audience (i.e any of my companions that might steal this journal), this conference was the fulcrum around which the present day business practices of the Dragonmarked Houses rotate.

Perhaps Jorlanna’s presence could have tipped the scales in another direction? She was known to have little respect for the highest bidder. But, then again, who knows (Me. I know, on account of the time travel)? She instead withdrew from society after the fire to care for her precious Janek, lightly toasted as he was.

Daja tells us this was an act. Considering Janek was indeed the one to start the fire, I’m inclined to agree.

He’d written several letters in Jorlanna’s hand to other house nobles that might agree with her more altruistic intentions, asking, cajoling, or outright threatening them to back down. Aster and I found these in his personal quarters, and quite convincing forgeries they were! I doubt I’d have been able to tell were it not for my own Dragonmark!

He’d placed an incendiary device in the Fairhaven Cannith estates, where the party was being set up. This we found in one of the back rooms, Aster demonstrating an affinity for technology that I really need to ask her about when I have chance. She’s suspiciously familiar with the Cannith approach to building a firebomb.

He’d also employed around a dozen Mirror Images of himself, keeping the various plates of his schemes aspinning. These copies of Janek attempted to thwart the efforts of our allies in their separate endeavours.

Robyn and Jaqueline went to find Jorlana herself, and prevent her from even attending. Through Jacqueline more than Robyn (who is taciturn as ever), I found out that they simply tracked her down and told her the truth – omitting the time machine angle – which I can very much respect. They’d found her bickering with the real Janek, who’d been insisting she come to a birthday party she did not want to attend.

‘We’ve received information that your life is in danger,’ Robyn had told her, after Janek had stormed off. When Jorlanna had grown dismissive, Robyn stated that ‘We do, of course, have evidence,’ producing the forged letters that I had helpfully notarised in the House Sivis style.

‘Did my daughter put you up to this?’ asked Jorlanna, but the elemental drained from her dragonshards upon looking closely at the letters. ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘Only Janek and myself would have access to everything in these.’ Daja had spoken of her overhearing Janek speaking with his gestionnaire of sorts, an entity belonging to the Lords of Dust.

Jorlanna grew tense upon mention of this group. I know little of them myself, but after our confrontation with Janek and the power they’d lent him, I suspect this tension has been earned.

Also, Jaqueline popped a Janek that was hiding in a nearby tree. That’s not a metaphor; she gingerly poked the Mirror Image with her rapier and it burst like my youngest brother Pommerique’s dreams of becoming a baker.

Our other companions, the rowdier two, were sent to disrupt the party itself. I initially assumed Daja had them do this to maintain the regular timeline – after all, the party needed to be destroyed for consistency’s sake. Upon further reflection, I’m more inclined to think she did it just to spite Janek. I’m told Mock and Shiira tore down several walls, chopped every piece of furniture into firewood, and reduced a cake that cost upwards of a hundred platinum dragons to a sort of sugary foam. They also popped two or three Janeks themselves?

‘Popping a Janek’. Sounds like something to take if you have a headache.

At any rate, we regrouped and I was able to use a description of a ring Janek wears to track down the man himself. Robyn, being the Great Detective and all that, had managed to frame our case in such a way that Jorlanna entrusted us with the cleanup.

I want to write about my tracking spell first, though! I’ve been finding greater success by diversifying the objects I use when performing magic. The three that work best are my House Sivis Pen of the Scribe, the lantern by the light of which I used to write the letters to next-of-kin during the war, and this very journal you are reading from now! Holy symbols to me, all of them!

When I cast the spell to Locate Object, I spoke a prayer to Aureon and opened the journal to the page I am currently writing on, which was of course blank at the time. And ink began to stain the page, the source of which was nothing I could see. Before long, an elaborate illustration of a compass had appeared, as if on a map drawn by a master cartographer (it rather reminded me of my sister Suzette’s trademark compass rose on all her maps). But the ink kept flowing around the page, the arrow of the compass spinning to point in the direction of Janek’s signet ring.

I’m terribly proud of this, as you can perhaps tell.

Janek was in the Cannith Library, of course. He’d resorted to creating fires through magic, as his device had been disabled by Aster. At first, he seemed a capable conjurer, but nothing too threatening, especially considering our force consisted of:

  • Aster, a ranger who can fire off more arrows at once than I have fingers and toes
  • Robyn, a rogue that I’ve seen backstab someone from the front using reverse psychology
  • Mock, a fighter who may be around seven feet tall, wielding an hammer just as large and twice as heavy
  • Shiira, the Bleeding Heart; I’ve seen guillotines back in Zilargo that came down with less force than her axe
  • Me, who admittedly is quite bad in a fight, but I did find a sprinkler system and say ‘Après moi, le déluge’ which is very funny if you speak Zilargan and know a bit of history
  • and Jacqueline, who… well, I’ll get to her in a moment.

But the battle against Janek quickly became absolutely terrifying. With all the fire and weaponry flying about, I could hardly concentrate on my spells. Which is bad if you’re trying to, say, keep everyone alive. But Janek had been granted power by the Lords of Dust, and he shrugged off our combined assault, growing more and more warped and grotesque as he did. Soon he was this huge, crimson, demonic thing, tearing around the room like a mage chariot, leaving destruction in his wake.

At one point he battered into Jacqueline and sent her sailing across the library to crash down under a pile of burning books and ruined shelves. I honestly thought she was dead under there.

And that leads me to the most… difficult bit to write.

Jaqueline is – and I write this without exaggeration – perhaps the purest soul I’ve ever encountered. In the time I have known her, she’s tried to do good without want of reward at every opportunity that presented itself. She’s gotten incredibly invested in the plight of others she’s only just met. Zut, she ended up bawling when she heard from Jorlanna just how much she loves her daughter, despite her stubborn streak.

(There is a part of me that feels it’s unfair to describe Jaqueline with this ‘purest soul’ status when we’re travelling with Shiira, as Shiira’s whole obsession is maintaining such a state. I might be more inclined to address Shiira as such, if not for her predilection with karmic good and evil.

The fact that she is so concerned with the karmic outcome of her actions has me worry that when she does good, it is not because she wants to do good; instead it is because she’s afraid of what might happen were she to act otherwise. A fear of karmic retribution should she act in accordance with her actual nature. She certainly destroyed that cake with an unhealthy glee.

Alright, now I feel guilty, and rightly so I think.

If she were to ever read this, I think she would be justifiably upset with me psychoanalysing her actions. And does it matter the reasoning for an act of good if the world is better for it? Karmic good and evil are explicitly framed in terms of the net morality of the entire world and not of one person; so even kindness for selfish reasons makes the world a better place. Doesn’t it?

But there’s a quote I can’t remember who to credit for. ‘You’re supposed to good because you’re good, not because you’re seeking moral dessert’.

My head is beginning to ache. Perhaps I need to pop a Janek myself??

…Which brings me back to Jaqueline. I’m procrastinating.)

We couldn’t do a thing to the demon Janek. Spells bounced off, and our arrows and blades couldn’t pierce his hide. As I said before, in the melee Jaqueline had been sent flying, and ended up unconscious in a pile of rubble. But it wasn’t strictly Jaqueline who pulled herself from the wreckage.

I was hiding behind a desk when it first appeared, so I didn’t quite see the whole thing. A laugh rang out through the room. I struggle to describe it, but I’ll do my best.

Think of those who, when confronted with gore or trauma or whatever, get a little lightheaded. They can’t quite face what they’re seeing, so they retreat into themselves, disassociating. They grow giddy, almost as a form of self defense. They begin to laugh at the horror.

Hold that in your mind. Now imagine a person who created said gore and trauma. And this person considers said gore and trauma the greatest thing they’ve ever accomplished; some grotesque magnum opus. And also they’re operatically trained, so they can really project.

A laugh rang out through the room.

Jaqueline was gone. Her clothes had changed, her face had… well, the thing didn’t have a face. At first I thought it wore a shining theatrical mask, but I soon realised the mask was its face. Looking back, it must have been polished bone. The mask had no eyes. Just a mocking, comic smile.

It wheeled through the dying fires, dropped behind Janek, and eviscerated him. Whatever defenses we’d been unable to surpass were reduced to nothing. And then it didn’t stop. Janek was reduced to a fine red mist.

We all stared as the thing that used to be Jacqueline gave us a deep bow… and then she fell to the floor, herself again. Mock ran over to her, in a remarkable display of either compassion or idiocy.

The rest of us, who saw our companion turn into something more dangerous than a literal demon, and then collapse amidst the fleshy confetti of its victim, were rightfully a bit wary. I noticed Aster kept her bow trained on Jaqueline, despite her lack of consciousness.

I need to ask some follow up questions. But Jacqueline, quite understandably, didn’t feel up to talking about it. And me writing anything else now would just end up sensationalised and inaccurate. I’m upset and I’m frightened when I think about it.

There’s better news to focus on, so I shall do so.

We travelled with Daja back to our own time, and people seem to recognise us. I’ll attach some newspaper clippings at some point to give further context, but it seems that we’ve changed things quite a bit.

The foiling of Janek’s plots and Jorlanna’s presence at the conference has resulted in a tectonic shift in the nature of the Dragonmarked Houses. Yes, they’re still businesses first and foremost, but they seem to be less cutthroat than the ones I know. They perform charitable work! And actually introduced regulation to discourage monopoly!! I can hardly believe what I’m reading.

And in this altered timeline, we are a crack team that Daja assembled to save the world. Multiple times. The business with Janek Vonet was but the first of our many escapades – over the last two years, Daja and her team have taken down monsters and mafias, solved problems and perils, faced dungeons and… well, you get the point. And none of us remember.

We’re on our way to a party in our honour. Or, more accurately, in the honour of whatever heroic versions of ourselves we’ve returned to replace. I’m trying not to dwell on that part. I shall instead distract myself by picking out an outfit for the event, with Aster’s help, and try to live up to this stolen life, with the help of everyone else.

Caliber Session 4: SPÖKHUS, Part 2

The construction of the Ikea had been completed about 9 months ago, its garish blue and yellow walls marking it like a carbuncle amid the other squat, grey warehouses. The industrial estate it had sprung up in was a little out of the way of any main roads, so the car park was quiet when Nora’s bike rolled to a halt.

Merlin had clambered out of the sidecar almost before the engine had stopped, his face a shade of hospital-green. ‘You drive like a Roomba full of crack,’ he said, when he’d managed to take a breath.

‘If people don’t want to be overtaken, they should drive a little faster,’ said Nora, in the tones of one that had explained this hundreds of times before, possibly to the police.

‘Yeah Merlin,’ said Ursa. ‘I thought that was pretty exciting!’

She was leaning on a nearby car for support.

*

Inside, there was a bored girl – probably still a teenager – on the reception/customer service desk beyond the revolving door. An escalator stretched up to the showrooms.

‘Hi,’ began Ursa. ‘We’re here about the loss prevention cover?’

‘The four of you?’ asked the girl, not looking up from her phone.

‘Four?’ asked Ursa.

An unnaturally pale man leaned against the wall behind them, dressed in a well-tailored, white and black suit. He gave a little wave, and when the three focused their attention on him, they could see one of his eyes, too, was black. He wasn’t trying very hard to hide his Infernal nature.

Before anyone could question him, though, the Loss Prevention Manager came bursting from the staff area.

‘Right, good afternoon,’ he announced, his accent thick and blunt. ‘My name’s Brian. I know you’ve already gone through’t interview process, so we’ll just have a PowerPoint induction to get through before we can get started.’ He paused, surveying his troops. ‘I see we’re one short, though?’

‘Oh, no, I got here first,’ said another new voice. There was a fifth person stood with them, his grinning mouth full of sparkling emeralds. He had hair in purple locs, perfectly smooth brown skin, and wore an understated button-up shirt with jeans. Obviously, he was Fae. He had not been there before.

Brian, though, just seemed to accept it. As he led them back towards the staff room, Nora kept herself to the rear of the group. That two Outsiders were also here, presumably for the same reasons as she was? That probably meant things would become… complicated. Though, perhaps it was a blessing in disguise? At least she wouldn’t have to work with vanilla human staff members. No risk of getting Audited, she hoped.

She eyed the back of Brian’s balding head. Well, almost.

Oblivious to her gaze, Brian was talking them through the responsibilities of a loss prevention officer. Ursa alone nodded along in feigned interest, as the others had stayed far back enough to escape his notice.

A buzzing interrupted Brian halfway through something about waiting for a shoplifter to leave the premises. He glanced at his phone, then gave an exasperated grunt. Ursa bore down on the opening right away.

‘Everything ok, Boss?’ she asked.

‘Oh. Yeah, just another stupid text.’ Seeing Ursa’s expression, Brian explained. ‘Some joker’s got hold of the list of employee phone numbers. Sending texts at random, pretending they’re stuck in a wardrobe or somethin’. When I find out who it is, believe me, they’ll wish that was what’d happened.’

‘Excuse me, Brian, but could I request a visit to the nearest bathroom?’ said Merlin, quite suddenly.

‘Eh? Oh. Yeah, toilets are just a bit back there. I’ll only be setting the PowerPoint up so just find us in the staff room, yeah?’

‘I would also like to use the bathroom before we get started, actually,’ said Nora, thinking along similar lines to Merlin.

‘Yeah, yeah, no worries,’ said Brian. ‘Come on, whoever doesn’t need the toilet.’

Ursa and the others followed him into the staff room. It was a fairly standard affair, with a few tables and a corkboard with notices for employees. The walls were an inoffensive off-white, and other than a damp patch in the middle of the ceiling, it seemed quite well-kept.

Ursa made an excuse to leave near-immediately. ‘Oh, one sec Boss, I just need to make a quick phone call,’ she said, brushing past Brian on her way out.

Back in the bathrooms, Merlin had opened up his laptop and promptly broken into the store’s network drives. He’d spotted the Wi-Fi password on a corkboard through the staff room door, so he was in and poking about within maybe a minute.

The list of employee phone numbers wasn’t particularly hard to find either. The file was password protected, but said password was ‘Password1’. He gave a derisive little snort as he pressed enter.

He also threw together a quick program to extract text logs of messages, and their senders, sent to devices on the Wi-Fi network. This he set to work on Brian’s phone.

The source of the message Brian had received was a signal bouncing around the various routers in the building, with no apparent provenance. Oddly enough, there appeared to be over six thousand routers on the network.

In the bathroom next door, Nora prodded at a holographic projection of a phone screen she’d conjured with a Remote Access spell. It wasn’t a simulation – her spell allowed her to physically affect the targeted hardware; in this case, Brian’s phone. The text he’d received was a simple two words:

Help us

As Nora pondered this, another message appeared:

Where are you?

Ursa had just pressed send on the phone she’d plucked from Brian’s pocket. ‘Where are you?’ she’d asked of the cry for help. If whatever spirit was trapped here was communicative, Ursa wanted to do what she could to free it. She waited for just a moment, and paled a little at the response.

Are you a threat?

Nora finished her reply. She didn’t know how the thing knew she was accessing Brian’s phone, but the fact that it did was worrying. What she got in reply was somewhat horrifying.

No, we just want to free you!

Merlin, having pieced together what was going on, emerged from the bathroom, though not before snickering at the chat log for a while. After a moment, the three were on the same page.

‘So it’s the Wi-Fi itself that’s asking for help?’ asked Ursa.

‘More like something riding it,’ Merlin replied. ‘Though I haven’t yet thought of an explanation for the number of routers on the network.’

‘There’s a few options. None of them good,’ said Nora, before adding dryly, ‘Come on, we don’t want to miss the PowerPoint.’

*

In the staff room, the PowerPoint had not yet begun. Brian lay slumped over a desk, with the green-toothed Fae working some kind of glittery magic over his head.

‘Ah,’ said the Infernal man, from the back of the room. He’d put his feet up. ‘I believe introductions are in order. You’re from the Institute, are you not?’

He got up and gave a shallow bow. ‘Azoth Alkahest,’ he said. ‘It is not a pleasure to meet you, but I have only just told you my name.’

‘That’s a bit obvious, isn’t it?’ asked Ursa. ‘Doesn’t the name ‘Alkahest’ throw normal people off?’

‘My name is my name; if it raises a red flag with a mortal or two, that is the price they must pay for my honesty.’

‘Yeah, okay,’ said Ursa.

Nora butted in. ‘More to the point, what are you doing?’

The room’s other occupant straightened up from behind Brian’s sleeping form. His emerald smile flashed in a face with bold, handsome features; the unnatural beauty of the Fae much more at the forefront than earlier.

‘Montparnasse,’ he said. The accent didn’t match the name. ‘This guy here isn’t in pain or anything, so stop worrying about that. And Nora, if you’re going to pull the gun you have, I will wake him up and I’m sure you don’t want to explain all that, do you?’

Nora’s hand paused where it had been slowly moving towards her pistol. Had he read her that easily?

‘Yes, I had,’ said Montparnasse. ‘But I do have a bit of an advantage.’

Oh, wonderful, a fucking psychic. The thought arrived before Nora could stop herself.

‘Yeah, that’s it. Now, you three are here for the same reason Akahest and me are. The plan is to come back after closing tonight and deal with it.’

Alkahest, having sat back down, gave another little wave. ‘We aren’t working together, mind you,’ he said. ‘We’re just both here on common business.’

‘I am here to destroy the thing haunting this place, on behalf of my Queen,’ said Montparnasse.

‘What about him?’ asked Merlin, when Alkahest didn’t volunteer a response.

Montparnasse just smiled. ‘I’ll tell you what he’s thinking if you agree to assist me?’

‘No,’ said Merlin and Nora, simultaneously.

‘Hey, can we get a couple of minutes without you reading our minds?’ Ursa chimed in. ‘Just so we can all get on the same page and negotiate properly?’

Montparnasse watched her for a second, then shut his eyes. ‘Okay,’ he said.

The three quickly huddled together, speaking in hushed tones. ‘Right, what do we think?’ asked Ursa.

‘Obviously we can’t trust either one,’ said Merlin. ‘One can literally tamper with memories, and the other’s a demon. Or a devil. And I’ve never met one of those that could be relied upon.’

‘We’ve only been given orders to clear the haunting out,’ said Nora. ‘So it doesn’t strictly matter what happens to it afterwards. I vote we go down the ‘keep to ourselves’ route and only deal with them if we absolutely have to. Though I would like to know the Fiend’s motives for being here.’

‘Hrmm,’ said Merlin.

‘What?’

‘Oh, nothing. I’m just not used to you agreeing with a sensible option.’

‘I don’t like them either,’ said Ursa, ‘and I’m not too happy about the prospect of coming here after dark with a couple of psychos! But if it’s all going down tonight, there’s not much…’

She trailed off. Montparnasse was grinning at them.

‘You said you wouldn’t listen,’ she said, loudly. ‘Are you breaking your word?’

His smile continued unabated. ‘Of course not. But your two minutes are up. I tuned back in at the part where you called us psychos.’

‘There are some who might take offense at that,’ said Alkahest. ‘Luckily, I am magnanimous. What do you say to our proposition for this evening? I believe the phrase is, ‘the more the merrier’?’

After a shared look between the three, Nora spoke. ‘We’ll be here tonight. In fact, why don’t we come in at closing time? That way we can be on hand before anything might kick off.’

This time Montparnasse and Alkahest shared a look. ‘Deal,’ said the Fae.

*

When Brian awoke, he ran through the plan that had been fed to his unconscious mind. ‘Right, you lot come back a bit before closing, and that way we can get a patrol set up through the night and find whoever it is that’s been breaking in and vandalising the Grönkullas. Hopefully I’ll have found my phone by then.’

That last part about his lost phone had been at Ursa’s request.

Once everyone had filtered out of the staff area, the three of them set about their preparation for the evening’s work. There were still about eight or nine hours before they’d need to be back.

Merlin immediately set to work on his laptop again. When Ursa prodded, he’d simply muttered something about the ‘source of the messages’, and added another skewer of binary digits to the smorgasbord on his screen.

Ursa left him to it, taking out her mobile phone and calling Emva at the Institute. She was worrying about the mind reader, who upon leaving their meeting had just wandered away through the car park. She hadn’t seen which way the Fiend had left.

Which was because he hadn’t. Alkahest was sat in the café, with a heaping plate of meatballs.

A screeching sound heralded Nora’s arrival at his table, as she pulled up a chair as noisily as possible. ‘Hi there,’ she said.

‘Hello,’ said Alkahest, without much enthusiasm.

‘You’re going to explain a few more things.’

‘Am I, now?’

Nora gave a pleasant smile of the kind a dentist offers before showing you their biggest set of pliers. ‘You are.’ There was the distinctive click of a pistol being cocked beneath the table. ‘You can start with why you’re here.’

She reached across the table with her other hand and helped herself to a meatball.

Alkahest sighed. ‘I’m here to deal with this haunting. Same as you.’

‘That’s not what I’m asking and you know it.’

‘Fine. The other guy, the Fae, apparently has orders to destroy the cause of it. I, on the other hand, am here for the purpose of retrieval.’

‘Why? What’s special about this?’

‘I’d gotten a tip that whatever’s causing all this could be useful for future plans. A friend of mine can sense when something powerful comes into play. Though, they can never give me any details; that’s not how it works.’

Nora paused to think about this, covering her hesitation by making a show of enjoying another meatball. ‘So it’s a bigger deal than just a run-of-the-mill haunting. Great. Whose future plans do you want it for?’

‘Ahhh,’ said Alkahest, drawing out the sound with a grin. ‘That’s a good question. Currently, on the Infernal side of things, there’s something of a… power vacuum at the top. Lots of people trying to claw their way upwards.’

‘That’s not an answer,’ said Nora.

Alkahest just kept on smiling like a wolf, so Nora decided that was all she’d get from him. Well, she also got one more meatball, but that was just to make a point.

Ursa was still on the phone when Nora got back. ‘No, no, like some kind of item that could stop our minds from being read. Yes, I know it’s short notice but it’s an emergency. Yes. Yes? Alright, I can, uh… get you some great baking kit in return? Yeah? Ah you’re a lifesaver! Ok. I’ll see you in a couple hours. Thanks again!’

When she saw Nora’s raised eyebrow, she explained: ‘That was Emva, at the Institute. I was asking her for something that might shield us from a psychic Fae. She said she’d see what she could put together if I got her something in return, so we’ll need to nip back to the office before tonight.’

‘Good,’ said Merlin, suddenly at their side with his computer under his arm. ‘I should like to visit the coffee place across the street. I can’t concentrate on coding here. The atmosphere’s just terrible.’

*

Nora and Merlin glared at the chatlog on the laptop’s screen. Neither of them had touched their coffee. Merlin had been trying to track the source of the messages bouncing through the Ikea’s hundreds and hundreds of routers, picking his way through the string like he was untangling Christmas lights.

Ursa had gone to get a peace offering for Emva. The three of them had gone to pick up their mental shielding, and been given a single pair of headphones that Emva had promised would protect them from mind reading, mental control, and charm effects. That they were pink with cat ears was irrelevant.

‘There’s only one pair?’ Ursa had asked, quite sweetly.

‘Yeah, sorry, it was short notice and I didn’t have the bits. I’d have had to disassemble some other stuff!’ said Emva.

‘Emva, I’m grateful for this, but you can see that there’s a problem here, right?’

Emva seemed oblivious to her tone. ‘What’s the problem?’

‘There’s only one. And three of us.’ She gestured to Merlin and Nora, who’d begun to back away as the temperature of the room began to rise.

‘Yeah, I did what I could on short notice. As a favour.’

‘Well, you could have tried a bit harder couldn’t you?’ snapped Ursa, before she could stop herself.

Emva went still as a marble bust. Merlin felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up to see Nora nodding towards the exit. The two had surreptitiously absconded when Ursa next looked to them for backup.

There was shouting as the door closed.

Back in the present, Ursa walked into the coffee shop with nary a scratch upon her. She meekly held a carrier bag filled with baking paraphernalia. ‘I’m gonna head back up in a min,’ she said. ‘I might have been a bit of a jerk before so I wanted to apologise.’

‘Probably smart,’ said Nora. ‘She’s known to hold a grudge.’

Ursa shuddered. ‘What are you two up to?’

Merlin didn’t look up from the screen. ‘We got more messages,’ he explained.

The screen read:

IS SOMEONE THERE?

I CANNOT SEE YOU.

WHY CAN’T I FIND YOU?

WHERE ARE YOU?

COME OUT. COME OUT.

AM I GETTING WARMER

WARMER

WARMER

‘It’s trying to track our IP,’ said Merlin. ‘It shouldn’t be able to because of my VPN, but it seemed to be managing it… then Nora did something.’

Nora had cast a spell she’d learned from her computerised Patron. Digital Phantom, it was called, and she’d used it in the past to conceal her presence in computer systems. It seemed to have worked on this thing, too.

Not that she mentioned any of that to the others.

Ursa went back to see Emva and present her offering. ‘Listen, I’m really sorry for getting huffy about the headphones. I was just stressed about the prospect of having this creep read our minds again, and it got to me more than I’d have liked. That’s not an excuse though. I’m sorry.’ She held out the bag.

Emva took it gingerly, as if it might explode. Though she herself was much more in the business of exploding bags than Ursa. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I might have… overreacted a bit myself.’ She reached into a drawer and produced a second pair of headphones. Black ones this time. ‘I, uh, wanted to apologise too. I don’t think there’s time to make a third pair, but–‘

Ursa scooped her up into a hug, which Emva didn’t seem to like, but definitely appreciated.

Rather than reuniting, the three went back to their respective homes for the afternoon, to try and rest up before the night ahead. There were ghosts to bust.

Eberron Journal: Second Entry

[I should mention that the accent of Zilargo in Sami’s Eberron is a French one, hence the occasional bit of the language. I’m not just being pretentious, I swear]

From the journal of Vanivieve ir’Coralyn d’Sivis

I have little time to recount the events of the last few hours. As I put pen to page, we are waiting for Daja d’Cannith to calibrate her time machine. I am little bit irritated that this is a real sentence I must write.

​I truly thought I would die in the Mournland. We fought our way through the d’Cannith estate, toward the reason Daja had brought us here. This was no mean feat, as the floorplan had completely given up the ghost as far as spatial logic was concerned.

​It had also given up the ghost in that actual ghosts were everywhere.

Throughout, whatever entity it was that had caused such damage to Starrina was stalking us from room to room, quite separate from the other spectres. An eater of knowledge. An epistemophage, if I can coin a term that’s a bit of a mouthful. As we went deeper into the estate, it bore down upon us.

And it caught Daja. Despite her protection being the principle reason for our hiring (though under admittedly false pretenses), Asra, her Kalashtar companion, was the one who managed to wrest the thing from her mind… but by then the damage was done. A kind of grey sludge leaked from Daja’s head, dripping down to cover her Dragonmark and dissolving into wispy smoke before our eyes.

She grew erratic – more erratic. Her memories and knowledge were haemorrhaging from her, the tide only stemmed with psionic help from Asra. Her short-term and working memory seemed unaffected; she remembered us, she remembered we were here to retrieve a device, but she couldn’t remember exactly what said device was.

Nevertheless, we pressed on.

​A side note – after almost being murdered in the estate’s now-haunted library, we came to what appeared to be a gallery of Cannith inventions. I was somehow able to intuit the exact operation of a device I’d never before encountered; a jet-propellant jump-pack. I cannot reiterate enough what I wrote in my previous entry – I am not technically minded; not by any stretch of the imagination.

​But I petitioned Truth, the concept; similarly to how I’d pray to Aureon, or the Traveller, or any other god. And the nature of the device’s operation just… came to me. This is something new; an ability hitherto alien to me.

There are theological implications I haven’t the time to dwell upon now. Could what I’m addressing as ‘Truth’ be some other deity; perhaps the Traveller partaking in a bit of identity fraud? Or something new? Eberron’s gods are distant. Am I simply reaching a little further afield? Or something else?

​I’m getting off topic. Eventually we found Daja’s strange device, though she was unable to remember how to set it up. I tried praying to the Truth again, but to no avail. I know not if this was due to my own lack of conviction, a limit to the deity’s power, or the arcane nature of the device. It doesn’t matter now.

Daja attempted to puzzle out the device’s function for a time, but relented under Asra’s needling that we leave and get her medical attention. ‘You’ll likely figure it out when something on the ship jogs your memory,’ Asra offered, which to me had the scent of an offer for Daja to leave with her stubborn pride intact. Asra knows her very well, it seems.

​But, as we tried to leave, it seemed the estate had other plans. We made it back to the main hall and moved to descend the stairs, when the frontmost wall of the estate, the one with the exit, opened its eyes. Rising, flowing upward, it became a massive stationary wave, towering over our attempted escape like some dreadful ocean ready to crush a seaside town.

​Through the hole that was the nightmare thing’s mouth, we could see that the ship we’d come in was just gone. Even if we miraculously escaped the Cannith estate, we were still stranded in the Mournland.

​This is it, I thought. The best case here is a quick death. This is the end, and nobody will even find the work I leave behind.

​And then Daja switched on her machine. And suddenly we stood by the ship again, hours ago.

​A flash of pink hair caught my eye, and I watched our group vanish into the estate. How strange it was to see the back of my own head. It felt like we should warn them or something, but then, I don’t know the etiquette for travelling back in time. Perhaps it’s like that old saying where if you step on a butterfly, you end up killing your own grandmother?

​I never quite understood that one. My grandmother was a Gnome, not a butterfly. Although, there was that time she’d fallen out of bed, and she whispered to a butterfly, which told a sparrow, which told a pigeon, which told a chain of progressively larger birds until a giant eagle came to rescue her.

​(That story is not true. It isn’t a lie, though; it is a joke.

​It’s just delightful to see that my neuroses apply even when writing in my personal journal, a record of events for my eyes alone. I shouldn’t have to clarify the honesty of my words to myself.)

​Anyway, none of this is what I even wanted to write about. I wanted to write about my new friend Aster.

​I’ve attached a drawing of her to the top of this entry. She’s got this… feral look to her. I don’t mean her Shifter heritage – I mean the look in her eyes when we’ve been in crisis. She has the eyes of one willing to do whatever is necessary to survive, and capable of it too. One who could (and would) kill a man with a whisk if it came to it.

​When I first met her, I thought her aloof. She’d kept herself to one side, kept the rest of the group at arm’s length. Then, I saw her in battle, moving faster than I could track, loosing arrows as if there were a rail guiding her shots to foreheads. After that, I thought her not aloof but alert.

​The scarf she wears confused me at first. It’s glamerweave, enchanted to look like a glittering night sky. And it just didn’t match her functional suit of brown leathers. Was it a memento from some slain enemy? A gift from an old friend? An affectation to seem less threatening?

​But, knowing what I know now? Her clothes are not what I initially perceived. The palette of her outfit has been meticulously selected. Her boots may be a simple brown, but they’re of a craftsmanship I’d expect to see on a runway. The fit of her jacket is immaculate.

​The glamerweave scarf isn’t an anomaly, it’s an accessory. One that gets you thinking about her whole look, and the intentionality of an otherwise ‘simple’ set of clothes. Like a little spoon of crème fraîche on a berry tart, balancing the sharpness.

​I try not to dip into hyperbole too often, but Aster is a fashion genius.

Leaving the Mournland ​on the ship we commandeered from our slightly younger selves, we made a quick stop in Fairhaven to gather supplies. Daja’s plan, as was explained to us, was that we would be using her machine to go back several years and thwart a certain calamitous event.

​I won’t go into details on the plan, as if this journal is taken while the work is in progress, I could compromise the whole timeline – like that business with the butterfly I mentioned before. ​Suffice it to say that for Aster’s and my role in the plan, we’d need disguises. And Aster knew just where in Fairhaven to get some.

​We made an incredibly brief visit to her home. The very fact she’d joined Daja’s group probably meant her house wasn’t safe, so we were in and out in a matter of minutes. I won’t comment on the house, except to say it was like a dressmaker’s studio mixed with a magpie’s nest. Then cross-pollenated with an industrial laundry room.

​Glamerweave was everywhere. Aster sprinted around gathering it up, leaping over furniture, our need for disguises gone from her mind like grey sludge from Daja’s head. At one point I think she slid down the banister, swatting pairs of shorts from each stair.

​Disguises have been achieved. She also gave me a beret with a little rainbow toast cat on it!!! My new friend Aster is capable and dangerous, but she’s also thoughtful and generous. I never realised how good I’d look in a beret, but she knew that about me before I did.

Daja’s going through the last bits of the plan now. The machine is nearly ready. And once we

[The rest of this page is illegible. Vanivieve apparently broke a pen or spilled some ink on it, as the paper is stained completely black. The next page has only a few smudges, and is written in a different ink.]

From the journal of Vanivieve ir’Coralyn d’Sivis

Daja’s machine worked. As I write this, it’s the 16th of Sypheros, 996 YK. Two years ago. Two years after the Day of Mourning. We’re still in Fairhaven. This wasn’t a quick pitstop at all, but our actual destination – the ‘pitstop’ was the Mournland. It seems Daja can keep her motives under wraps if she puts what’s left of her mind to it.

That date is relevant, if you’re not up on your politics. Today is the day of the fire at the celebration of Jorlanna Svehla d’Cannith’s birthday; the one that led to Janek Vonet – later Janek d’Cannith – being gravely injured and requiring months of supportive care, which Jorlanna retreated from the public to provide.

Before that day, Janek had been a minor poussoir de crayon for House Orien, who’d been assigned to assist Jorlanna in an interhouse project she was overseeing. Always one for Dragonmarked Houses working together, she was.

The two ended up in a relationship, one which only deepened on the day of the fire when Janek pulled her from the flames at great personal cost to his own health, and manifested a dormant Cannith Dragonmark in the process.

It’s long been suspected that Jorlanna’s priorities shifted away from leadership of her house in no small part thanks to Janek’s presence in her life. Rumours swirled that he was the reason there was no Cannith voice at the Dragonmarked House Conference later that year, as he and Jorlanna were off eating grapes in a gondola somewhere.

House Cannith West fell into sharp decline soon after, with the new rumours being that Jorlanna and Janek are not ‘Ruler and Advisor’, but ‘Puppet and Controller’. Such a reputation must surely have been a source of consternation for someone as stubborn as Daja. I’m sure she’d seethe at the gossip at her house’s expense. Maybe enough to try and ‘fix’ it?

We confronted Daja about this plan of hers. ‘Why are you so interested in preventing the events of this night?’ I demanded. ‘Is this some 3D Dragonchess political coup you’re running? Trying to raise your house’s profile?’

‘What?’ Daja looked perplexed. Of course, she often looked a bit perplexed when someone asked her a question she thought beneath her. ‘The fortunes of Cannith West aren’t important. That’s not why I’m here.’

‘Something more personal, then?’ I asked. My mouth was working a little bit faster than my brain was. I can get like that if I smell a scoop. But that is a flaw I can admit to, which means it isn’t really a flaw at all. ‘Are you perhaps here to make a name for yourself in the fire’s aftermath? Seeking favours from Janek d’Cannith?’

Daja’s eyes had begun to bulge as I went on, and by the time I mentioned Janek they were ready to burst out from her skull and bounce off my jacket. ‘Now why would I want to help my Mother’s slimy, backstabbing boyfriend?!’

She realised what she’d said as our collective jaws hit the floor.

Daja is Jorlanna d’Cannith’s daughter.

Normally I’d jot down some thoughts on such a revelation. But I can’t right now. There’s work to be done.

Eberron Journal: First Entry

[This is a recap of Sami’s Eberron, in the form of an in-universe journal written by my character, Vanivieve, a Gnomish cleric. She was an investigative journalist with a pathological inability to lie! She came to Sharn from Zilargo because she’d found a list of members of the Trust! It was a big, six-player group! Oh boy!]


From the Journal of Vanivieve ir’Corralyn d’Sivis

It has been something of a long day for me.

I awoke to my fourth Sharn morning, the sounds of traffic outside my hotel drifting up through the open window. I hadn’t quite reached the stage of paranoia where I’d prioritise security over night-time comfort, and the duvet – a feather-and-down behemoth thick enough to shield the bed from Detect Magic – was hot enough to fire clay. The breeze helped, but I still ended up wanting my shower cold.

I enjoyed a leisurely breakfast in a nearby pâtisserie I’d been eyeing. The menu was nothing revolutionary, but then, there are only so many permutations of pâtisserie faire one can arrive at before each plate needs to be inlaid with dragonshards to keep the sauce aflame.

It was a pancake sort of morning. They arrived with mascarpone, honey, and a few mint leaves artfully perched atop the stack. They were light and fluffy, like you’d expect.

And then I found I couldn’t pay. My personal accounts had been frozen, or drained, or something. I’m still not sure. It’s an awfully big coincidence, though, considering the reason I’d come to Sharn in the first place. Luckily, I had a fair amount of my initial travel withdrawal leftover, and I left the pâtisserie with a few coins and my half-finished coffee on the table.

Of course, had that been the extent of the day’s misfortune, I wouldn’t currently be stranded in the Mournland, would I?

Someone was following me. He made no particular effort to conceal his pursuit; looking back it seems an obvious scare tactic, meant to frighten me into trying to hide away from the bustle of the main streets. I’m ashamed to say it worked. I ducked into an alley and tried to make myself invisible with the aid of a few barrels. 

The man who’d been following me entered the alleyway. He stopped by the barrels I hid behind. His voice was rough; shabby, as was the gentleman it belonged to. ‘Alms for the poor?’ He rattled a tin cup down at me. It sounded surprisingly full.

It’s times like those that I miss having the capacity to bullshit. ‘I’m afraid I don’t have any…’ Nausea interrupted me. I couldn’t say it if it wasn’t true. ‘I’m afraid I… ugh.’

The man seemed unoffended, which was good. But he’d produced a roughly gnome-sized sack, which was bad. At least I wasn’t just being paranoid, I suppose.

From my crouched position, I slid through my would-be kidnapper’s legs, and sprinted away as fast as I could manage. His shouts died down as the distance grew, and by the time I leant against a red brick wall, gasping for breath, lungs feeling like a portal to Mabar, I was quite confident I’d lost him.

I’d ended up in the lower city. The bricks were roughly cut and uneven, leaving a red dusty residue on my hands as I straightened up. I hastily wiped them on a nearby poster.

NEED COIN FAST? shrieked the poster. HARDY ADVENTURERS NEEDED RIGHT AWAY. Enquire at the Crooked Cat – Departing IMMEDIATELY.

I peered at it. An opportunity to get the hell out of town. I mean, I didn’t have access to my money – no doubt another arrow in the Trust’s sizeable quiver – so I wouldn’t be able to secure passage at short notice. I spoke a quick prayer to the Traveller in thanks, and peered at the poster more closely.

Below the high-impact title, it featured another line in a more reasonable font size: No questions asked, no answers given. Then a dotted line, as if one was supposed to sign. After a moment I realised the dots were, in fact, letters.

Not responsible for any loss of life.

*

And so, I found myself in the Crooked Cat, perhaps the most unkempt place I’d been in since my stay at the infamous and ill-fated Lhesh Haruuc’s Arms. The proprietor of the establishment, a Tabaxi by the name of He Who Cares Greatly for Cats, welcomed me to this ‘cat café’ and directed me to a table that had been set aside for those who had ‘come about the job, wink wink.’ Yes, he actually said ‘wink wink’.

Six chairs on one side. Two on the other. There was one person already at the table; a Shifter I soon learned was named Aster. She had the demeanour of a stranger in a strange land, as though she was admiring the very idea that there could be a building in this place. It was a look I’m sure I’ve worn myself on my travels, though in my case it would be closer to the ground.

I immediately mistook her for one of the employers. She was on the side with fewer chairs, after all.

Shortly after, another Tabaxi arrived. She introduced herself as Dancing Heart of the Mockingbird, and didn’t make any comment on the fact that her face was just COVERED in blood down one side. It seemed she’d had a fall (a fairly blatant lie, but it’s none of my business) and stitched up a gash in her face on her own. Without anaesthetic. Or a mirror. I offered to help, but as it turned out, she’d done a surprisingly competent job. Since then I’ve learned she’s happy to be referred to as just ‘Mock’.

Funnily enough, who should walk in next but Robyn ir’Viva-Kalistro? She hadn’t replied to any of my letters in some time, but here I am in Sharn and the Great Detective herself appears as if the city is no larger than a backwater village! It’s an awfully strange coincidence, and I found myself thinking back to my earlier muttered prayer to the Traveller.

I shouldn’t have been surprised when she feigned ignorance that we’d been in contact. It’s how she often acts with other chroniclers, and there’s no reason I would be any different, house and mark be damned. Still, if I was apprehensive before, Robyn’s presence got me feeling properly nervous about the place.

The next ‘HARDY ADVENTURER’ to arrive was a meek girl who couldn’t have been out of her teens. She seemed to mistake those at the table with fur for the cat café’s featured felines, and turned bright red when she had to be corrected. It did raise a fair point though: where were the cats? The Crooked Cat surely failed to live up to even the most meagre expectations.

After I politely let the girl – Shiira Mahimahi, she said her name was – know that I was a gnome, not a human child, the final member of my current companions made her way past the table to stand in the corner.

There were scuffs on her clothes, like she’d been climbing, and her eyes kept darting to the door. Her name was Jaqueline, and of all of us, she was the one I thought had least business being at that table. She seemed afraid.

A short while later we did get to meet the cats, which in all honesty was cute but not conducive to a comfortable dining experience.

And then we met our would-be employer. I must say, I’d been expecting some seedy pirate type with fewer teeth than toes. Instead, we were joined by two women: a Kalashtar with that serene expression so common to those from Sarlona, and an unkempt Human bearing the Mark of Making on her scowling face.

Daja d’Cannith. That Daja d’Cannith.

Considering the poster that had led me here, it seemed the Mark of Making granted no special mastery in the field of Graphic Design.

A brief interview followed – we were asked if we’d done this type of bodyguarding work before, could we wield a weapon, were we allergic to oranges… the usual. Well, except the last part there, but who was allergic to oranges? (As it turned out, Shiira was allergic to oranges. She won a special bracelet as a result.)

*

We were bundled onto a ship of d’Cannith’s own design, a vessel held together with blackberry jam and the wishes of children that she’d christened The Investigator. Robyn informs me that it functions similarly to the Lightning Rail, projecting a track before it and simply riding along it. She says it’s quite ingenious, and I’d have to agree, albeit through gritted teeth.

‘Some safety guidelines,’ announced d’Cannith. ‘Don’t fall off.’

After a time travelling – I’m not sure how long as I believe I went into a kind of fugue state when the ship took off – Daja and her companion, Asrasri, ran through a quite obviously rehearsed exchange on how ‘Oh no, there’s something wrong with the engines, where is all this smoke coming from, oh no we appear to be about to crash land in the Mournland right on top of Whitehearth’.

Of course, just because something appears to be scripted, that doesn’t stop it being terrifying, does it? My throat is still raw from the descent.

As far as the sliding scale of crash landings goes, this one was certainly skewed more to landing than crash. When we ventured forth from the still mostly-intact ship, we found we’d arrived at the estate of the late Starrina d’Cannith. Shiira had gotten separated in the crash, but ostensibly whisked away by a Fey entity named ‘the Bleeding Heart’, who offered to join us and help navigate the Mournland.

Something about the Mournland I feel I should make particular note of: it is beautiful.

Cyre was always a picturesque land, and of course the grounds of a Dragonmarked House estate would be kept and cared for with the utmost respect, but I was ill-prepared to find it likely just as it was. The scenery, obscured as it was by pervasive fog, had a serenity that one would be hard-pressed to find in even the most remote points of Khorvaire.

Crystalline flowers dotted the gardens (surely these would not have been present before the day of mourning, though?), and there was a subtle scent in the air, as if the land had just enjoyed its first rains after months and months of drought.

Oh, and the Bleeding Heart was wearing a special bracelet exactly like the one Shiira had received. Presumably citrus allergies are more common than I thought.

Daja seemed very interested in making a ‘detour’ to investigate the estate. No doubt this was the whole reason for our hiring. Though it seemed unwise to plunge headlong into this oddly-intact mansion, I certainly didn’t want to stay outside, alone. I may have been impressed with the beauty of the place, but beautiful things can kill you just as easily as ugly ones.

That’s not me waxing poetic; I once saw a marble sculpture of Lady Miravella Uruvai d’Thuranni fall and crush a goblin.

The front doors – massive oaken things, the kind you’d use as a roof on a lesser building – swung open to reveal… a small cupboard. It wasn’t quite as grand as I’d expected. D’Cannith explained, with no small degree of exasperation at having to talk us through such a simple concept, that the estate must have gotten confused in the Mourning, and the rooms no longer knew where they were supposed to lead to.

So the cupboard took us out onto a comfortable lounge, complete with roaring fire, record player, and the ghost of Starrina d’Cannith with a glass of brandy and a cigar. I didn’t recognise her at first, I’d only really seen pictures of how she used to look; fortunately she was quick to introduce herself.

And she wasn’t a ghost, she was a memory. ‘It’s the estate itself that’s remembering me,’ she explained when we pressed for details. ‘I can’t move from this chair. I can’t do anything. But I can have as many cigars and glasses of brandy as I like.’ Something was eating away at the memory, though. Something that eats knowledge.

She answered Daja’s enquiry about the location of something called a Wavelength Amplifier (though I could be mistaken about the specific name, I’m not technically-minded) in a somewhat condescending manner. Daja didn’t seem to care as long as she got the information she was after.

And then the image of Starrina reset itself, and welcomed us to the mansion again.

The next room was a dining hall of some sort; figures at the table had been frozen in crystal mid-meal. A spirit sat at the head of the table, and invited us to eat, drink, be merry. It was a trap we narrowly avoided. Aster demonstrated just how dangerous she was, flashing forward and dropping the ghost before anyone else could even move, and frankly, I’m impressed.

And terrified.

We’re going to be moving on soon, but now seemed like a good point to update my journal. I’m hoping I can keep adding to it frequently, especially as we’re in such a dangerous place. I don’t know whether any given entry will be the last.

If there’s no more entries after this one, I’d ask whoever is reading it to turn to the last page of this journal. The list of names there are all the current members of the Trust as of the time of writing. It’s dangerous knowledge, but I suppose you’ll be used to danger if you’re finding my writing.

Do what you will with the list. I’ve so far kept it to myself, and if I make it out of this alive, I’m going to rethink what I do with it.

Thank you for reading this.

Abhorsen

If the Caliber Institute itself doesn’t police the raising of the dead, then what does? Surely there must be those who make sure there aren’t Necromancers running all over the place, or we’d be up to our eyeballs in eyeballs, on account of all the zombies.

It can’t just be one person, because it’s a big Earth, this one. So there must be some sort of code or order, right?

I’m putting the Abhorsen, from Garth Nix’s Old Kingdom books, into Caliber as an NPC class. I’m planning on having control of the undead work similarly to in the Dresden Files, with the Necromancer providing a beat to substitute for the thrall’s heartbeat. And the sounds of the bells and such work quite well with that. Is an Abhorsen just a Bard subclass?

Maybe one day I’ll turn it into a proper playable class, with progression and all that. I’ll give Garth a ring and see if he wants to work on it with me. ‘How did you get this number?’ he’ll say. He’s such a card, is Garth.

Bells

An Abhorsen’s bells affect any creature that hears them. Their effects cannot be resisted if heard, and as such a creature must fail a perception check to resist.

This check is usually DC10. The wielder can ring the bell quietly to increase the DC to 20 for any creature further than 10 feet away. Or they can be rung with force, for a DC of 5. Creatures that take action in advance to impair their hearing have disadvantage on their checks, obviously.

(These rules are by no means set in stone, by the way. Just putting my thoughts down. And presumably, non-Abhorsens could get hold of the bells too.)

The seven bells, in order of their size and power are (lifted from the Old Kingdom website):

Ranna, the first, the smallest bell. Ranna the sleepbringer, the sweet, low sound that brings silence in its wake. (Puts listeners to sleep, as with the Sleep spell, only without the Hit Point limit)

Mosrael, the second, a harsh, rowdy bell, the waker. The bell whose sound is a seesaw, throwing the ringer further into Death, as it brings the listener into Life. (Functions as any resurrection spell short of True Resurrection – so Animate Dead, Revivify, Summon Undead, Danse Macabre, Raise Dead, Create Undead, or Resurrection. It’s a bit more straight forward here than in the books, as I don’t want to use the precincts of Death unless absolutely necessary)

Kibeth, the walker, a bell of several sounds, a difficult and contrary bell. It can give freedom of movement to one of the Dead, or walk them through the next gate. (A forced movement effect; the listener will move its speed in a direction of the ringer’s choice. Even towards a big pit or whatever!)

Dyrim, a musical bell, of clear and pretty tone. Dyrim can return the voice that the Dead have so often lost, but Dyrim can also still a tongue that moves too freely. (Can cast Speak with Dead or Silence)

Belgaer, another tricksome bell that seeks to ring of its own accord. The thinking bell, the bell most necromancers scorn to use. It can restore independent thought, memory and all the patterns of a living person, or slipping in a careless hand, erase them. (Does what it says on the tin. It basically grants full sentience to an undead thrall. And I guess it would turn the living into shambling zombies)

Saraneth, the deepest, lowest bell. The sound of strength, the binder, the bell that shackles the Dead to the wielder’s will. (Casts Dominate Monster. Does it work on the living too?)

Astarael, the Sorrowful. The banisher, the final bell. Properly rung, it casts everyone who hears it far into Death. Everyone, including the ringer. (Power Word: Kill without the Hit Point requirement. Powerful immortals – the Queens of Fae for example – would be unaffected.)

Anyway, read Sabriel if you like fantasy books. More info here.

Caliber Session 3: SPÖKHUS, Part 1

[This adventure is hugely inspired by Grady Hendrix’s Horrorstör, Mark Z. Danielewski’s House of Leaves, and SCP-3008]

               It had been about a month since Ursa and Merlin began their employment at the Caliber Institute. Merlin had been attempting to gain access to the R&D Department, despite not yet being approved for fieldwork, and Ursa had been looking for studio spaces in her time off. The work itself was simple, and their two office days a week were mostly clear of actual work to do within the first hour or so.

               Nora was still getting used to having colleagues that didn’t actively avoid her. She wasn’t entirely sure if she was okay with the adjustment. Sure, it was… nice to know they weren’t vilifying her. Was that the word? Nice? But it did come with its own baggage.

               Maybe a week after her new colleagues had received their prophecies, Nora had been making her way home from work when she became astutely aware of a presence following her. She’d ducked into an alleyway and turned the tables on the hooded figure in pursuit, slamming it against the wall and hissing, ‘So you’ve caught me. Now what?’

               Frightened red eyes looked back at her. Some Vamp kid.

               ‘Whoa, whoa!’ he said, without the accent that Vampire gang members seemed to favour. ‘Not looking for trouble!’ He scrabbled with his hoodie for a second, making sure he was completely covered despite Nora’s grip on him. There weren’t any direct rays on an overcast day like this, so he needn’t have been so concerned. Nora herself was a much more pressing threat. Maybe she should remind him of that fact.

               But no. He was practically still a child. She held him to the bricks for a moment more, just for emphasis, then let go and stepped back. ‘Well?’ she said. ‘What are you looking for?’

               ‘It’s just… uh, you’re with the Institute, right?’

               Nora said nothing.

               The Vamp kid groped around to fill the silence, as Nora expected him to. ‘Well, me and a few of our boys saw you a couple weeks back. With a gnome and someone else. Middle of the night, right?’

               ‘I also exist at night, yes. Get on with it.’

               ‘Well, your friend – not the gnome, the other one – doubled back to uh, give us a talking to. And I recognized her, like. P.C Hardgard, it was.’

               ‘Hardgard? Really?’

               ‘No I’m serious!’ the Vampire protested. ‘People take the piss out of her name but she’s sound about it, not like some of the other coppers. She’s alright. Always asks how it’s gone for me in court and stuff.’

               ‘So, let me know if I’m following you,’ said Nora, pun unintended. She’d been stood in a cold alley for longer than strictly necessary, a fact that was rapidly bleeding the patience from her voice. ‘You’ve stalked me through the city so that you could enquire if I… have a friend in the police?’

               ‘I wanted to ask if she was working for the Institute as well. ‘Cause that’d be a bit shit, you know?’

               It was obviously Ursa he’d encountered, but that raised the question, was Ursa moonlighting as a PCSO? Or had she engaged in a bit of identity theft? It couldn’t be a coincidence, could it? Nora grunted. ‘That’s a good question. Now, don’t let me see you again, or I promise you’ll regret it.’

               She gave him a friendly couple of slaps on the cheek and departed the alley unfollowed.

*

               Nora hadn’t found an opportunity to bring it up with Ursa during the weeks since then. Which was to say, her method of ‘not really caring enough to pursue answers’ had yet to yield results.

                She’d been drinking her first cup of coffee when both Ursa and Merlin had planted themselves at her table in the canteen. This too was something she was ambivalent about – company was nice, yes, but the effort of conversation was… taxing.

                Mercifully, before Ursa had even opened her mouth, Cepheus had appeared and was hovering patiently on the outskirts of their table. ‘Hey guys,’ he said, when Nora acknowledged him. ‘Exciting news for you today! Merlin and Ursa have been fully approved for field work!’

                The three of them watched as he did a jazzy little flourish with his hands. It drew the eye to his piano-key necktie. ‘And what’s more, I have the details of your first assignment as a team,’ he continued brightly.

                ‘Oh boy,’ said Nora. ‘Whatever could it be?’

                ‘Well, it’s just a routine haunting.’

                Ursa looked up from her phone. ‘A routine haunting? That’s a normal assignment?’

                Nora leant over. ‘Yeah, it’s a pretty average job. Mostly they’re not even proper ghosts, just sluggishly malevolent echoes of someone who died. You just need to find their remains, salt them, and burn them.’

                ‘That sounds quite similar to how one might describe a normal ghost,’ said Merlin. ‘A lazy one, anyway.’

                ‘Proper ghosts are rarer. They’re still sentient. Your average poltergeist doesn’t even have any consciousness at all.’ Nora paused to consider for a second. ‘Like a jellyfish.’

                Cepheus grinned again with his big, flat teeth. ‘Well, this is a jellyfish that can text, then. All the employees have been getting texts that just say “help”. Penelope raised the flag here.’

                Ursa was the first to say it. ‘What do you mean, employees? I thought we were going to a haunted house?’

                Cepheus at least had the decency to look embarrassed. ‘Actually… it’s an Ikea.’

                This earned a raised eyebrow from Merlin. It sounded an awful lot like a novel he’d read. ‘So less a haunted house, and more a haunted household goods store?’

                ‘Something like that,’ said Cepheus. ‘We’ve organized a cover for you to get in employee-only areas and the like. You’ll be joining the loss prevention team as temps.’

                Ursa physically rose from her seat. ‘Loss prevention?! Have you seen me, Cepheus?’ She gave him a moment to consider her pink hair, diminutive stature, and Harajuku fashion sense. ‘Loss prevention is for like, balding men with beer bellies and stranglers’ hands!’

                She slowly sank back to her seat, leaving the others wondering if her outburst was a symptom of some weird past trauma.

                ‘Well, couldn’t you shift yourself to look like that?’ Cepheus began, but ran out of steam under the encumbrance of Ursa’s stare. ‘Um. Anyway. It’s the one just north of here, so it’ll only be about half an hour’s drive. You’re expected to be there for orientation at 12.’

                ‘Hold on a sec,’ said Merlin, a slow grin spreading below his moustache. ‘Does this mean we have official access to the R&D department?’

                Cepheus blinked. ‘I think she’s baking right now.’

*

                The door to the Caliber Institute’s R&D department was a fairly sturdy one, with a reinforced pane of frosted glass in the upper half. The glass bore an inscription that read:

RESEARCH & DEVELOPMENT

                Below that, someone had scrawled an addendum in red permanent marker. It read:

and baked goods such as cake, pies, and flapped jack

                This door currently hung ajar, with a light plume of dark smoke issuing from it. Merlin led the way with Nora and Ursa trailing behind.

                ‘I don’t know why you’re in such a rush,’ Nora was saying. ‘We’ve still got hours.’

                ‘I want as much time as possible to examine the R&D facilities here.’

                ‘They’re not much to write home about.’

                ‘Perhaps not to you,’ Merlin said. He marched through the open door with the eagerness of a soldier returning from overseas.

                The room within was smaller than expected. Several benches were laid out with beakers and Bunsen burners, all bubbling away in the refinement of some alchemical concoction. Against one wall was a lathe; an antique that was powered by a pedal and flywheel rather than a motor. Currently there was a staff clamped into it, with runes carved up maybe half its length.

               There was also a Goblin stood in the centre of the room, sniffing at the air occasionally and looking confused. She was wearing casual clothes with a white lab coat on top, then atop that, an apron emblazoned with the words ‘YOUR TEXT HERE’ in a large sans serif font.

                Merlin’s attention, however, was entirely focused on a set of decrepit-looking servers clustered in a corner. It rather looked like they’d been just left there to gather dust. A sticker, mostly peeled away by now, read ‘This machine is a server. DO NOT POWER IT DOWN!!’

                ‘Hello, Emva,’ said Nora. ‘Smells like something might be burning.’

                The Goblin’s eyes widened like detonating fireworks. ‘My muffins!’ she cried, vaulting a bench and sprinting into a little en suite kitchen area. There came a clanging sound and a shriek, then Emva reappeared with a tray of grey, igneous rocks that might have been muffins before whatever cataclysm had occurred in the oven. Or perhaps she’d used a kiln?

                ‘Oh man,’ said Emva. ‘Got ‘em just in time!’ She brandished the tray in their direction. ‘Wanna try?’

                ‘Oh, we really should let them cool,’ said Ursa, carefully.

                Nora nodded, grateful for Ursa’s silver tongue. ‘Besides,’ she said. ‘We’re here on business.’

                ‘Plus I’d like to take a look at those servers if you wouldn’t mind.’ There was a revulsion in Merlin’s eyes, quite unrelated to the calcified muffins.

                ‘What? Why?’ Emva put her tray down. Nora and Ursa found themselves still watching it, as if expecting it to lunge at them.

                Merlin rushed over to the servers while he was talking. ‘I can hear that they’re running, but they’re not in great shape, are they? I was hoping to investigate the, er… well, I was expecting some state of the art blending of magic and technology.’ His voice grew muffled as he stuck his head through the gap behind one.  ‘Good god, they’re all plugged in on one extension?!’

                ‘Oh. Yeah, they’re not really my thing,’ said Emva. ‘I’ve been trying to get rid, but nobody will help me shift ‘em.’

                Merlin emerged with a look of horror and a patina of dust. ‘This room isn’t even air conditioned.’

                ‘Oof, I know right? The kitchen makes it ten times worse, too.’

                Merlin’s gaze moved to the kitchen area, taking it in properly this time. There was a sign above the doorway that said ‘server room’.

                ‘Huh,’ he said. ‘Well, uh, Emva, if you’re ever in need of any assistance with these, I would be more than happy to lend a hand.’

                ‘Ah yeah, clear some space! That’d be great!’

                Merlin didn’t correct her, but Nora took advantage of his silence to redirect the conversation. ‘So Emva, we’re going to be dealing with a ghost. These two are new recruits.’

                ‘Oh!’ said Emva. ‘Yes. I made up some stuff for the newbies!’ She scrambled over to a workbench with cupboards below it, throwing open the doors.

*

                Emva had apparently been given a brief description of their talents and needs, and only listened to maybe half of it. Ursa received a guitar shaped like a cat, which produced a sort of synthesized meowing instead of normal notes. Merlin came away with a bowtie that, when tied around an electrical device, would apparently recharge its battery. He was instructed that under no circumstances whatsoever should he put it around his neck.

                Nora was also given something Emva kept calling a ‘Bitch Crystal’. When pressed for information, Emva told her it was ‘for bad bitches only’ and would ‘increase her power’.

                After that, the three of them headed over to the car park. There was a company car they’d been given permission to use, though they did hit something of a snag.

                ‘Who’s driving?’ Ursa asked. ‘I mean, I don’t have a license, so…’

                ‘Well I can’t do it. I only know how to ride a bike.’ Nora nodded toward a motorcycle, a sleek black monster of a sport bike that couldn’t decide if it belonged more to a cyberpunk futurescape or apocalyptic wasteland. There were a couple of empty spaces to either side of it, like it had scared off the surrounding cars. Or eaten them.

                ‘I’ll handle it,’ said Merlin. The gnome trooped over to the car without checking to see if they were following.

                ‘Wait, won’t you need like, pedal extenders?’ said Ursa as she settled into the back seat. ‘Adaptive devices, or whatever the term is?’

                Merlin climbed into the front passenger seat and began typing away at his laptop.

                ‘Uh, Merlin?’ Ursa watched as he highlighted a program named Unseen_Servant.exe and selected Run as thaumaturge from a list of options. The engine rumbled to life.

                ‘Wait, wait, wait!’ said Nora. ‘We can’t go driving through town without a bloody driver! People are going to see. Do you want auditors chasing us down through the streets?’

                ‘Google,’ said Merlin, by way of explanation.

                They were sat in a 2001 Honda Accord. Pedestrians were more likely to suspect it was haunted than self-driving. Of course, Merlin’s Unseen Servant was a sort of hybrid of the two.

                ‘No. Nope,’ said Nora. ‘This isn’t happening. They gave me a sidecar for my bike. We’ll use that.’

                Merlin closed his laptop in a somewhat sullen gesture.

                ‘How did you teach a program how to drive, anyway?’ Ursa asked, as Nora fitted the side of her monstrous bike with an incongruous little carriage. ‘I thought you had to ride around on that little electric scooter thing?’

                ‘I don’t have to. I choose to,’ said Merlin, patiently. ‘For the environment. I know how to drive a car.’

                ‘Really?’ Nora chucked him a helmet. ‘What did you learn to drive in?’

                Merlin said nothing for a moment. Then, very quietly:

                ‘A clown car.’

                The others just about managed to stop laughing by the time they arrived at Ikea.

Floodwall Session 55: The End (Story)

‘Bring Diafani to Floodwall and I’ll allow the city to keep on standing. And every other plane it’s connected to.’ And the image of Aurifar vanished.

Firuzeh, Vi, and Cranzalar exchanged looks, then almost as one turned to Diafani.

‘We should get going then,’ said Diafani.

‘There’s no way you’re coming,’ said Uzi at nearly the same time. ‘It’s too risky. It’s obviously a trap.’ Her face was calm, but her shoulders had begun to shake just a little. ‘We can’t. We just can’t.’

‘I don’t want to fight you on this,’ said Diafani. ‘Obviously the three of you are the heavy hitters here. I know my presence puts me at risk. But I need to come with you.’

Cranzalar and Vi kept quiet. It seemed they knew this was something between Diafani and Uzi. They just watched her, carefully.

‘Fine,’ said Uzi. ‘It isn’t up to me, I know that. But you have to promise that you’ll get out if things are looking bad.’

Diafani just nodded and gripped the hilt of her sword.

The four of them stepped through the portal together.

*

The first sense that things had gone horribly wrong in Floodwall was the taste of the air. It was too hot; their mouths were dry.

They’d exited the portal through the lilypad on the bottom tier; only, that’s not where they’d intended to go. Now they stood on parched, cracked earth that might have once been a seabed. The lilypad crumbled away even as they stepped from it – it seemed like that was the only portal still intact. And it was gone now. No going back.

Above them, the city of Floodwall towered dark against a crimson sky. The massive shape of the sun was far too close in the sky, hovering maybe a mile above the city. The sea had dried up. Disturbing shapes dotted the landscape – Cranzalar, shielding his eyes from the light, could see they were freshly mummified dragons.

But there wasn’t time. They had to move.

They went in through the bottom tier, winding their way through the sewers. It’s still a bit damp, shielded from the sun as it is. The route they took ended up being strangely familiar, coming into clarity as the group came to a pool of black liquid with a tightrope stretched across it. These were the caverns that the three had been washed down months ago, when the tide first forced them into companionship.

Things had changed, of course. Instead of quavering along the rope as before, Vi simply froze the pool solid and paced across. When accosted by a large group of crabs, Vi dealt with them just as handily, bringing down a Moonbeam and sweeping it through them without breaking a sweat.

They emerged in a familiar little tavern. Within, they found a cell of the rebellion who, once the group proved they were who they said they were, summoned up the resistance leaders.

Carnival and Redford appeared in the doorway. Carnival, now sporting scaly wings, quickly swept the four up in an embrace, the golden arm Vi had given her almost crushing them.

‘It’s good to see you alive,’ said Redford, trying not to smile.

‘It’s surprising to see you alive,’ Cranzalar shot back.

Redford laughed, and fiddled with the rifle he carried. Cranzalar went on to explain the situation, how they needed to reach the top of the city or every single plane was under threat from Aurifar.

‘Alright,’ smiled Carnival. ‘Looks like a last stand, then.’

The people of Floodwall gathered behind them, and they set out to reach the top.

*

The greenery of the third tier is brown and dying. The tree that held the first portal to the Regicider base is literally aflame. Passing by the tavern that the three had landed in when Firuzeh jumped them off the side of the tower, it’s full of civilians under siege from more undead. Cranzalar, rather than using Turn Undead as he might have once, simply crushes the zombies with an empowered Shatter. The rebellion doesn’t even break stride as he deals with them.

On the fourth tier, an explosion rocks the group as tree of the massive Nurse Things from Argat’s hospital come lumbering through a wall. Cranzalar passes the Evocation spark to Uzi and she blasts out a Lightning Bolt to rival the one she’d used on Shallows. The things drop and they keep moving.

The fifth tier holds a different kind of resistance – that last of the remaining church guard still loyal to the Royals, and thus Aurifar, stands in a defensive position at the opposite end of the bridge. The rebellion forces slam into them, but Uzi, Cranzalar, Vi, and Diafani emerge on the other side.

‘Keep moving!’ shouts Carnival. ‘We’ll hold them!’

*

The sixth tier was a mess. The entirety of the place had been overrun by the Bloodforged that the group once found a prototype for. Life-drained church guards and rebellion members alike are strewn about the streets.

Realising there were too many to fight, especially with the auras the Bloodforged exuded, the four decided it’s be best to slip through unnoticed. When they reached the centre spire, the door was still broken from Cranzalar kicking it in months back.

*

Atop the centre spire, Aurifar Incarnate, God of the Sun, God of Magic, and the One that Split the Planes, was focusing intently on opening rifts into the other planes. The sun above seemed just a few hundred feet away. He didn’t realise that the four he’d invited had made their way to him much more quickly than anticipated.

‘Let me borrow the spark,’ said Vi, her voice the barest whisper against the hum of power in the air. ‘I want to try something.’

She fired out a spark-empowered Witch Bolt, a new spell for her, with the idea that she could keep it sustained on Aurifar through the fight. But with the sheer amount of magic in the air – and the fact that she rolled a natural 20 – the beam that was produced dwarfed even the sun above; it smashed into Aurifar like a river washing away a beetle.

It disintegrated him.

But with the sparks, Aurifar could keep coming back. He reformed and fought back. ‘That hurt, Verischa. But I’m willing to look past it since you brought my prize.’

A spike, like the one in the middle of Floodwall itself, like the ones that had been used to pin the Leviathan down across the planes, skewered Diafani from above, removing her from the fight. ‘I’ll get to her after I get to you three,’ said the God.

The party kept up their assault, passing the spark between them to empower their spells and keep Aurifar from focusing too much on a single target. But they couldn’t keep him down, despite destroying him multiple times.

He reformed and picked up Cranzalar by the throat. The heat coming from him began to burn away at the Dragonborn’s flesh, as a sizzling sound filled his ears… and was interrupted by a gunshot.

Cranzalar landed on the stone spire, and turned to see Carnival flying past, carrying Redford and his rifle. Redford saluted awkwardly, trying to aim another shot – but Aurifar roared and sent a lash f fire toward them, sending Carnival spiraling to dodge it.

‘Fine,’ said the God. ‘If you can’t stop you physically I’ll just have to convince you otherwise.’ He tore open a further three pocket dimensions and sent the party spiraling down them.

*

Within, he offered them the chance to fix their mistakes. For Uzi, he took her back to when she agreed to be his champion. He took Cranzalar to his hostage negotiation with the Mind Spider. And Vi, he sent to the moment she threw a knife towards their captive inquisitor.

‘You can change what happened,’ offered Aurifar. ‘Fix your mistakes here. Do better this time.’

And all three gave him the same response. ‘I regret what happened. But I wouldn’t be who I am now without it happening.’

With this refusal, Aurifar changed tactics. Instead of a better past, he’d offer a better future. To Cranzalar, he showed a vision of his fighting off a vast monster, the Leviathan, to save the city and everyone in it. To Vi, he showed a family reunion, with respect from those she cared about, with Hestia and Edsel by her side. To Uzi, he showed a wedding with Diafani, with all her friends alive and present.

‘You can skip what’s happening now,’ offered Aurifar. ‘Leave this and move onto something better.’

And all three refused again. Uzi put it best. ‘I can still have that. I’m making that happen by fighting you now!’

*

The three of them emerged from the pocket dimensions still the same. Aurifar loomed over Vi, wounded from the fight. He reached down, and something slammed into the side of him, coming from the portal to the Feywild. Suddenly Granny Hestia was helping her up.

‘Hello, Verischa,’ she said. ‘You’re doing well. We’ve all been watching.’

Vi looked past her to see two figures driving Aurifar back with spears, the metal whirling in their hands. One was Edsel, back up on his feet, a look of determination on his face. And the other was her Father.

‘I’m proud of you,’ said Hestia. ‘Keep it up.’ And she leapt forward to teleport Vi’s family away as Aurifar hurled a bolt of force at them.

The three fought with renewed vigor, but Aurifar just kept getting back up. Uzi changed her approach, trying to get the spike out of Diafani so she could help.

‘It’s no good,’ said Diafani, weakly.

‘I’ll get you free, just hold on,’ said Uzi. Her shoulders were trembling again.

‘No… not that. I mean fighting him while he’s still got the sparks.’

‘We’ll figure something out!’

Diafani’s eyes shone. ‘I know,’ she said, taking Uzi’s hand. ‘I love you.’

Diafani’s spark was a fundamental change to the shape of her soul. A vessel for the other sparks of magic. When she passed it to Uzi, she closed her eyes and didn’t open them again.

But the Vessel spark was too much. Uzi’s skin began to glow, heat suffused her and began to burn away at her from inside. It was too much for one person.

Then Cranzalar and Vi were by her side, locking hands with her. And together, they took the spark’s power.

‘That isn’t yours!!’ screamed Aurifar, seeing the light of the spark.

They came at him again, and now each time they struck the God they took a spark from him and let it burn away to nothing.

‘It isn’t yours either!’ shouted Vi.

‘Nothing is,’ said Cranzalar, as he buried his sword in the God’s chest.

*

The massive false sun crackles and implodes when Aurifar dies. A roiling mass of dark clouds, created by the sudden shockwave of boiling air, lets forth a deluge of rain. Slowly, the sea begins to refill.

The fanatical churchguards have thrown down their weapons. The rebellion is seizing their supplies and distributing them to those most in need.

The Royals are gone, and so is the thing they inherited their power from.

And so is Diafani. Her soul itself was used up tearing the sparks from Aurifar; not even a True Resurrection can reach her. But Uzi is holding something small, her eyes determined despite their tears. It’s her mother’s ring. There’s still one wish left.

‘You’ve got to phrase it perfectly!’ says Vi. The three of them brainstorm for a little while, and then Uzi says:

‘I wish that Diafani would be returned to life with sound mind and body, cured of all wounds, and her soul returned in its original form, freed from any attachment to the God Aurifar.’

The spike in Diafani’s body crumbles away to nothing, and slowly, she opens her eyes.

*

In the following months, the city of Floodwall was rebuilt. The portals atop it stayed open, and soon the residents found themselves living in a busy multi-planar port town. The rebellion installed a democratically elected city council, with Redford and Carnival ending up as senior members. Cranzalar took on a role as city protector, both defending the city from within and representing its interests when negotiating with other planes. Of course, he’d still rely on his friends to stand with him on adventures across the newly-open multiverse.

Vi, with help from the others, made sure to expand her initial efforts of helping out those in need in the city. She’d gotten mixed up in all this by trying to bring food to the poor in Floodwall, so it was only fitting she continued to do so. There were a lot of kids that needed help, so she – with backup from the rest of her family – built something not unlike an orphanage.

Uzi and Diafani’s wedding ceremony was a smaller event than might be expected of the saviours of all existence. Vi and Cranzalar smiled away near the front of a room full of their friends and family, watching as Uzi slipped a ring with three now-empty gems onto Diafani’s finger.

Floodwall Session 54: Versus Shallows

Get ready for the worst recap ever made! It’s been months and I remember nothing!

So, the group (including Diafani) goes to meet Aurifar in the now-ruined City of Brass. And who should meet them there but Shallows. Turns out he’s not dead, he’s a bloody traitor! He has Bailiff, keeping them floating up in the air using telekinesis. The reason Aurifar had access to the full Psionic power wasn’t because he’d gotten a new Vessel spark; it was just that Shallows was doing it for him. He’d been working for Aurifar since the trial with the Lady of Pain.

‘If you attack me, they’ll fall to their death,’ said Shallows, gesturing vaguely towards Bailiff. ‘I know being betrayed is uncomfortable, but you must realise the situation you’re in? Give me the password for the flask and we can all get what we want.’

The first to act was Uzi – she cast Time Stop and launched herself straight up to catch Bailiff, while Vi and Cranzalar (once time resumed) assaulted Shallows with spells. Cranzalar now held the Evocation spark, and his spells were about three times as potent!

Uzi passed the unconscious Bailiff to Diafani, who used the Cubic Gate to open a portal and get back to Sigil. With them safe and the cube retrieved, Uzi joined the fray.

Shallows fought back with mind blasts, psychic lashes, and telekinetic geysers that launched the party high into the air. Despite this assault, Cranzalar crashed through his defenses and sent him flying past the City of Brass outskirts.

Uzi marched by Cranzalar. ‘Give me the spark,’ she said. Cranzalar clasps hands with her, and the spark is transferred.

Shallows was trying to reassemble himself after the assault of blades and purple fire. His hyperactive metabolism had kept him immortal all this time. Uzi, using the Evocation spark, sent out a bolt of lightning that briefly lit the whole of the plane of Fire with cold, blue radiance.

Shallows was dead.

Unfortunately, Aurifar never needed the password. He’d simply destroyed the flask, along with its contents, without opening it. Pitting the party against Shallows was a win-win situation; if Shallows succeeded in killing them it would have meant retrieval of the Evocation spark and a threat removed without any risk to Aurifar. If Shallows failed, Aurifar got the Psionic spark, again without much effort.

The party learned all this upon their return to Sigil with another illusory visit from Aurifar. ‘I’m only missing one final piece,’ he said. ‘Diafani. My vessel. I’ll be waiting atop the city of Floodwall. Bring her, and perhaps I’ll allow it to keep on standing. Along with all the other planes it’s connected to.’

Floodwall Sessions 52-53: Drywall

It was decided the best approach would be to nip Aurifar’s spark-gathering in the bud, and travel to the Elemental Plane of Earth to deal with Rosso before the God could get to him. After some faff in Sigil with an illusory Shallows that almost led the group through a portal to the Far Realm, they contacted Nico and agreed to get her stolen Planar Lantern back from Aurifar in return for her taking them to the Plane of Earth – because yeah, Aurifar stole it a while back.

    Upon arriving in the Plane of Earth, and seeing the half-destroyed city of Drywall, the party was quickly accosted by a small army of Dwarves, unwillingly under the command of Rosso. They were building a big gate to march on other planes, to eventually retake Floodwall.

    The party negotiated a meeting with Rosso, and in his flaming throneroom thing they tried to convince him of the coming threat, and that the only way to escape is to give away his spark. He was initially unphased, instead just angry about being locked in the Plane of Earth.If he’d been on the other side of the portal then he could have just used Knock or something.

    Uzi’s like ‘Hold up what?’

    Cranzalar’s like ‘Yeah Knock suppresses Arcane Lock for ten minutes.’

    The conversation was cut short by the whole city of Drywall being dismantled and lifted into the air, collapsing upwards around them. Using Teleport to escape, and bringing Rosso with them, the party-plus-Royal escaped to the Plane of Fire.

    ‘So, Aurifar came in after us?’ says Vi.

    ‘I don’t know,’ says Diafani. ‘He shouldn’t have access to that level of power, even with Shallows’ spark. He should only be able to use a bit of it? He needs a container spark to attach it to!’

    ‘Could he have gotten a new one from the Leviathan?’ asks Cranzalar. It’s because of him the Leviathan died, har har.

    ‘Oh shit,’ says Diafani.

    ‘Right, I’m willing to give up this spark now,’ says Rosso.

    After some debate, some things are figured out.

    1: Don’t die while in possession of a spark, or your soul is included with it when Aurifar reclaims it. Those that die with a spark cannot be revived.

    2: Besides death, sparks can transferred with just physical contact and informed consent on both sides, with no other limits on number of times etc. Though there must be other ways to take them besides death or willing transfer, as evidenced by Zelena’s survival (however miraculous that was).

    3: Diafani can’t give her spark away – it’s less a ‘spark’ for her and more a changing to the shape of her actual soul. Were she to give it away, she’d die. Also, she’d been calling it a ‘bowl’ all this time, but a more accurate term would be ‘vessel’, which is creepy. 

    4: Cranzalar is probably the most resilient, and… in his words, has the least to lose (‘You two have family to go back to after this,’ he says. ‘You’re family too!’ say the other two, in a really nice group moment). He’s the one that takes the spark from Rosso.

    They go back to Sigil and Rosso vanishes into the city, exiting the narrative. In their house, they receive another message from an irritated Aurifar.

    ‘I’m just going to kill your friend, then,’ he says.

    ‘Fuck you,’ says Uzi.

    They agreed to meet on neutral ground in 24 hours – the City of Brass. Aurifar would bring Bailiff, safe and sound, and in return Cranzalar would give him the password for the Iron Flask with Mavi in. Neither would ever, ever double-cross the other.

Floodwall Sessions 50-51: Endgame Approach

Back in Sigil, the gang does a bit of shopping, gets a bit of breakfast, and discuss with Shallows about returning the Lantern they’d got from his friend Ardent.

                Uzi and Diafani stay at the house for a while, and when they leave for breakfast, the two are holding hands.

                Shallows needs help with a play he’s throwing – he doesn’t actually have the money to pay his actors, so he needs Cranzalar, Vi, and Uzi to star. They’re reluctant, but his friend Ardent will be attending and they need to get their collateral back. No play, no Ring of Wishes.

                The play is ably performed by the three budding thespians, though Shallows isn’t very good and also has a massive fucking ego.

                Returning Ardent’s lantern, Vi grills him on just why he’s helping. He says they have mutual enemies, and that he’s interested in peace returning to the planes. Vi absolutely doesn’t trust this, even using magic to see that Ardent definitely has a divine influence, but assuming he’s maybe an Aasimar and leaving it at that.

                Returning home to the Regicider base on Floodwall (with Shallows and Diafani staying in Sigil, and Bailiff and Zelena heading back to the Plane of Water) the three decide that their next step is to head down to where they think Czerna might be – at the very bottom of the city, where the spike first pinned a tendril of the Leviathan.

                Before they can go, they check in on the city’s status – it seems that the Church forces have largely retreated, and the rebellion is now in control of the majority of the city. Also Redford is still in prison. And something is watching the three of them as they stand in their base, but they can’t pinpoint it.

                They journey down, finding that the tide had risen, and travel along the route they’d travelled when they were last down here, and they first met Zelena as a group.

                The tunnels and caverns are overgrown with dusky pink vines. That feeling of being watch returns as well, and after some inspection, several of Czerna’s shadowy assassins appear. The party deftly deals with them, with Cranzalar doing like 800 damage I think.

                The feeling of being watched hadn’t subsided, but the group presses on.

                Upon reaching the centre spire, they find the source of all the vines: a huge brain, growing out of a small jar of mayonnaise. The Illithid they’d polymorphed and left submerged in magic mayo had mutated into this, and its cholesterol is absolutely terrible.

                They destroy it and prepare to dig.

                But Uzi has seen an opportunity to check in on what Aurifar is doing, if he’s even still in the picture – she leaps out to touch the spire, and has a vision just like when she first touched it.

                She finds herself stood in a familiar place – the bedrooms of the Regicider base. Zelena snores in the corner, and Bailiff sleeps nearby, blissfully unable to hear.

                A figure stands in the room, and turns to Uzi. ‘It’s been a while,’ he says. ‘I suppose I’ve been unmasked.’

                It’s Ardent.

                ‘What the fuck are you doing here, dickbag?!’ says Uzi.

                ‘I simply have–’ begins Ardent.

                Uzi launches a sixth-level Lightning Bolt right into his face, interrupting him.

                ‘Get out,’ she says.

                Ardent – Aurifar – clutches his face. There’s a crack in it, and light is spilling out. Uzi leaps forward and tries to tear it wider, but he throws her off.

                ‘I don’t know if you think you have nothing to lose,’ he snarls, ‘or just that I wouldn’t take it from you.’

                He marches over to Zelena’s sleeping form. ‘You can go now,’ he says. His hand shoots out, and Uzi is thrown from the vision.

                Cranzalar and Vi are there to catch her, and she tells them they need to get back to the base, almost incoherently.

                (Fun fact! Since the Mind Spider no longer exists, Aurifar has access to divination magic and can Scry on you, making you feel like you’re being watched!)

                But they’re interrupted by Czerna. That ballroom she so favours appears around them, and she appears not as a shadow, but as herself. She wants to make a deal – something is hunting her, so she wants to offer her surrender if they’ll let her leave the city. They can be in charge now.

                ‘You aren’t in much of a position to bargain,’ says Cranzalar, evenly.

                Uzi is frantic. ‘We need to leave, Czerna. You have nothing to offer! You let us leave, or you die!’

                Vi subtly prepares to cast Sunbeam down through the floor.

                Czerna admits she’s been having dreams of Aurifar coming back to retake his power. She hasn’t lived this long to be snuffed out now. She recognises Uzi’s urgency and says she’ll let them go if they promise to let her go.

                It’s no deal. Vi and Uzi destroy the floor, though even as they land the illusory ballroom stays fixed around them.

                Cranzalar focuses, and his sight is able to pierce the veil for just a moment. He sees a skeleton knelt in the corner, arms chained to the base of the spire. Its bones are black, and it has a broken horn. Its ribcage holds a still beating heart. Cranzalar casts Shatter, and Czerna’s illusion drops.

                Cranzalar steps forwards and brutally drives his Booming Blade through the skeleton, ending Czerna.

                The three of them rush back to the base, and find Bailiff missing, and Zelena dying in her bed.

                Uzi rushes in and manages to find a pulse – she’s still holding on. Zelena’s eyes fix on her daughter’s, and her hand grips Uzi’s weakly.

                Vi has been readying to cast True Resurrection if necessary, but seeing that Zelena is still barely breathing, she channels a massively powerful Regenerate, and somehow fixes the damage to Zelena’s soul.

                ‘Bastard tore my spark out,’ coughs Zelena. ‘…Glad you’re here.’

(Fun fact! If they’d waited and attempted to resurrect her, it would have failed! Her soul wouldn’t be ‘free to return’, since Aurifar would be in possession of the spark it was attached to! Wow!)

                Cranzalar carried Zelena to Sigil, so she could recover somewhere safe. Vi and Uzi searched for clues on Bailiff’s status, but could only confirm that Bailiff hadn’t been killed, and that Aurifar had taken the Iron Flask with Mavi in it.

                The house in Sigil was a mess too. Shallows’ bed was just drenched in blood, with his body nowhere to be found. Diafani’s room was empty.

                Fortunately, when Aurifar had been searching for her, she wasn’t in her bed.

                She was waiting in Uzi’s. Everyone got an eyeful except, sadly, Uzi herself.

                A plan was made once Diafani had gotten dressed. She’d need to find somewhere to hole up for a while, as if Aurifar was active again, she’d be in danger.

                Vi, Cranzalar, and Uzi would track him down and deal with him. They didn’t quite have a plan on how to do that yet, but there wasn’t time to waste.

                They set out to rescue their friend and kill a God.