As we peer into the strange room with the hour glass.
“Alexis, I would strongly advice we attempt to solve this room and gain that hourglass. Given the power of the scrying ball and all the time effects in this dungeon. Having that hourglass could turn out to be very helpful.
Thoughts?”
On the final night at the end of two weeks of rest (and leveling), Ca’armine does not drift into sleep. He kneels. He prays. Not his morning prayers, simply a choice to connect with his god before he drifts off to sleep. It has been a good two weeks in this Westland wilderness, on the side of Mt Lanos. It has been so peaceful that even with the howling of the undead in the woods to the south, Ca’armine has enjoyed some real bonding time with the other members of his party.
The world grows sharp.The air becomes thin, and cold like standing at a mountain pass in winter. It’s not a painful cold, but it does make Ca’armine feel alive, and awake. When he opens his eyes Ca’armine stands upon a high ridge overlooking the Red Wastes.
The wind roars off the red wastes, kicking the crimson sand into the air and making the sky seem smeared with blood. Not chaotic. Some fear the winds. This seems purposeful to Ca’armine. Countless groups of humans are leaving the wastes and finding shelter below in these first lands. Behind him, footsteps. Heavy. Measured.
Raiden stands there. Not a god of light and glory. Not crowned. Not radiant. He stands in travel-worn armor. Leather scarred. Cloak torn. A longbow across his back. A sword at his side. His ears are slightly pointed. His face weathered. His eyes are very human. And tired. Perhaps even sad. But resolute.
Raiden Speaks…“This is but the first gate, as they have taken to calling it. Many will wish to stay here after our long journey. Yet we still have so far to journey before we can build again. I know that this is not what you seek, but it is important for you to remember. I can sense, beneath your guise of peace and calm, an anger burns.” The wind does not drown his voice. “Good. You wish to fight the corruption of our order, to fight the disease that attacks our roots. But first we must remember what is worth saving.” He gestures to the Red Wastes below. Ca’armine sees visions in the sand:
Large groups of humanity are fleeing from a scene of mass destruction, cities falling, civilization destroyed…Orc hordes cresting the Middlebarr pass and pouring into the land…Sutheron in ruin…Humanity scattered.The last scene, a young family, a man and woman and child, hiding in the woods as dark murderous forces move past…they are silent, not just in feart, but in determination. “We survived because we did not break.”
The sand shifts again. Now Ca’armine sees a scene between two figures, one of them familiar, Tarkus, in a familiar warehouse in Ghanil..Red iron shipments are discussed. A need for dark rituals. The importance of gathering power. The mysterious figure is clearly in charge. As they speak Ca’armine notices shadows coiling around an image of a broken crown that seems to ethereally sit over the head of the unknown figure, commanding Tarkus to obey him.
“The enemy believes humanity is weak.” Raiden says. The sand turns to glass and in the reflection Ca’armine sees himself after one of his more taxing battles with the Crimson Casling. Bruised. Wounded. But standing. “We are not weak.”
Raiden steps forward. The world swims and a new vision comes into focus. Now Ca’armine stands in a ruined city, perhaps Sutheron centuries ago from the look of it. Orcish warbands approach the gates. The defenders are few. Raiden leads them, but does not charge. He does not shout. He plants his banner. “Hold” he tells them. These human kin, they are resolute, and you know already that they win in dominant fashion, finally driving the hordes from Sutheron, and eventually over the Middbarr pass.
“Strength is not domination.” the world weary Raiden says to Ca’armine. The wind rises. “Strength is endurance.”
The vision swims and fractures again. Ca’armine now sees something he was not expecting: A new figure, a member of some kind of unknown imperial army by the looks of it, preparing to defend against a large force of elves and dwarves, that upon further inspection looks tired, hungry, and desperate. It is hard to make out specific qualities of the figure that the vision is focused on, but elements of his character shine through. Brilliant. Driven. Certain. He routes the enemy army and those around him swarm to him in celebration. Yet the figure quickly moves away. While the others celebrate, Ca’armine watches as this mysterious figure wastes no time returning to his tent and planning…always planning his next move, and the one after that, and the one after that…so many plans stretching far into the future. Raiden watches him with no hatred. But you detect your god does feel sorrow for this figure. “He may have destroyed the last empire, if you can believe such things are the result of a single person’s actions, but he is not chaos.” he tells you. “He is conviction without humility. Even as the others celebrate they are blind and lost in his web of dark desires. And while he is long from this world, from a time before now, you must prepare for his return for his machinations have never ended.”
The wind stops.Everything becomes silent.
“You will face men who believe they are saving humanity.They will sound righteous.They will sound necessary.They will sound like me.” Raiden grips Ca’armine’s shoulder. It is solid. Real. “You must remember the difference. Like when you left the Order, with purpose, no longer willing to be deceived…determined to fight for me, for us, for humanity. For the good that we can all do. That is why, no matter the darkness they can bring, or the evils they can choose to do, our people must be saved, for the good that we must encourage them to foster, on each other and the world around them.”
The scene shifts one final time. Ca’armine stands before a massive storm rolling in from the north. Black clouds. Lightning. Shadows moving within. Banners of the Dark Hand on a towering citadel surrounded by snow, ice, and black rock. A reoccuring figure again, the one who spoke with Tarkus in that warehouse…maybe Bandesingh. There is a ritual underway. You hear echoes from another time resounding as the ritual continues. Something awaits in the long ago and far away dark…something returns…something that will spell doom for all mankind while trumpeting it’s defense and salvation.
Raiden draws his blade. It does not glow. It does not blaze. It is steel. Simple. Reliable.“You will not stop the storm. You will stand in it. You will anchor the others. You will not bend. You must not break.”
The wind returns. Now fierce. Now glorious. Ca’armine feels strength surge through him…Endurance. Rootedness. A mountain stance.
Raiden’s speaks one last time to Ca’armine…“When you doubt, remember all of this, the struggle and the desperation, the power of choice and the need to stay strong in the face of all that which wishes to undo the good that we sow into this world.” There is a spear in Raiden’s hand which he entrusts to Ca’armine. Ca’armine grasps it with intense determination and it glows with the power of Raiden.
The vision fades to a final image. The Middlebarr Pass. Raiden is standing alone at its narrowest point but you can tell it is simply an ethereal vision of him which only you can see. This is a possible future. Behind him is an army of sorts, the tired, the hungry, the desperate. Other humans like Ca’armine. The rebels of Aegier…refugees most of them, not true warriors. They are preparing to fight, yet you can smell the fear emanating from all of them. Before Raiden stands a horde unlike anything Ca’armine has ever imagined, spreading down the pass and far off into the north…as far as Ca’armine can see. Orks, goblins, bugbears and hobgoblins, banded together from countless tribes to form a massive indomitable army. They are not there out of greed, or a desire to pillage. This is a host bent on the destruction of every human in the lands. The blood that they will spill will be like oceans to feed the appetites of their dark gods. Raiden does not move but you can tell he is speaking to those who can not see him, trying to give them courage in the face of so much death and destruction and evil.“Hold.”
In a moment of rest after entering Nodden Tor, Rask address Alexis and the rest of the group, but mostly Alexis.
“What IS a Tear of Avv? More than the rain that falls on our crops, shepherded by Oo-rin?
“Sheyeeni said her true boss had two? Hadonis said some Nalcir tribesmen betrayed him and may still hold it?”
After tending to the horses on the groups’ first return to the to top of the stairwell, Rask approaches the rest of the group:
“This,” he gestures all around them, “what… I’m not even sure where to start…”
“Hadonis… those giants… this… that five-eyed thing…” he gestures downward, and looks to Alexis, Ethelred and Gustav.
“You’ve explored dwarven ruins before, right? How are they different or the same? Were they this infested with magic? What do you make of all this? Anything Ca’armine and I should know?”
One evening after a long day of careful travel through the forest North of Gahnil, Rask quietly asks the group,
“What do we know about this Veris-a-miss? That’s the same as Varis right? The one Sheyeeni worked under who is hunting us? He’s a mage and he has access to scrying magic, but it is not portable scrying magic right? He’s got a henchman named Thraan? The cousin of that… mage who ambushed us in the collegium? Thraan’s a bit of a duelist, Shyeeni is probably a sneaky assassin type fighter…”
“The have the orcs, what other resources could they bring to the fight? You’ve defeated or suborned several of his people already…”
Rask looks at Alexis first, but glances at Elthered and Gustav, as well as Ca’rmine and Alikimo.
Zrithrak has been driven from Rask. Alexis has exclaimed that Hood had come to claim the spirit while holding a fly in his hands. Since those moments the group has gathered their things and barely started toward Ghanil again. Packs shifted, gear checked, the wagon creaking along. Alexis addresses the group.
“I keep circling back to that soothsayer—Ness Brightleaf.” He waves absently, not toward anywhere in particular, just back into memory.
“Something like: ‘Ahead of me, a river of lost souls. Some spirits refuse to sleep. The voices of the dead yearn for rest. Their whispers bring dark tidings.’” He shrugs, not claiming perfect recall. “Or close enough.”
The copper coin keeps running over his knuckles as his gaze sweeps the line of travelers, pausing a fraction longer on Ca’armine. “Zrithrak fits—soul that wouldn’t sleep. But did he ever want rest? Or was he holding on?”
He gives the priest space, then presses on.
“I still think of that dwarven spirit in Dura-Intun. The one who spoke of Kobos. He was restless. Wanted Hood’s gate, wanted peace. And that city of the dead? That’s different. They’re bound by the Endless Hunger. Won’t let them rest. Zrithrak wasn’t bound like that.”
The coin flashes once, drops into his palm. “So what kept him?”
The campfire cracked and hissed, throwing its smoke into the night air. The Crimson Calling alone around it.
Alexis sat near the flames, hat brim low, a copper coin working its way over his knuckles. Across from him, Ca’armine’s red cloak caught the firelight, while Rask sat rigid, a soldier even when still.
Ethelred’s words about troll-powder still hung in the air, fragments of theory and half-formed warnings. Alexis let them fade, then leaned forward just enough to set his shadow across the fire. His voice carried evenly, with the kind of weight that didn’t need raising.
“You’ve heard what we’ve seen,” he said. “Trolls. Powder. What it does. That’s the measure of it so far.” The coin paused between his fingers, then rolled again, catching a lick of firelight before vanishing back into shadow.
He studied the two newest men in the group, letting the silence stretch a breath longer than comfort. “What about you? Raiden’s people don’t waste time. Do they know more about this enemy?”
The fire popped. The coin clicked once against his ring before disappearing back into motion. Alexis didn’t move otherwise, just watched them across the flames, steady and expectant.
Rask approaches Alexis in moment where the others are busy.
”Alexis, have you ever heard of Raiden being named a Storm God?”
Rask looks around warily, “My connection to Aegir is lost here, and it has been difficult…”
He gestured at the tattoos on his chest and back. Clearly a saddened and a bit lost.
“I have a vague… memory? “My… grandmother? Referring to Raiden as the Storm God…”
Rask’s brown furrows… Alexis gets the sense that’s not quite right, and that Rask is hoping for help understanding…
Over some breakfast since leaving the 1st Gate, Alexis is thinking aloud
“Without Drennos I can go back to my musings.” after a little pause Alexis continues.
“I’m still thinking about the Hammer and Crown, and what the Collegium is supposed to be kept from knowing. What about the history or the nature of those artifacts is supposed to stay hidden? Since nobody but villains talks to non-humans” Alexis says with sarcasm “it seems reasonable that the knowledge that the Collegium doesn’t have was acquired from non-humans… perhaps from some long-lived creature or from some lost library.”
“Perhaps the Crown and Hammer could be items that Dwarves would rally behind, but it seems like they would have to be held by a Dwarf, otherwise they wouldn’t be objects to trade, but objects to use.”
“The simple explanation, the uneducated explanation, is that these items are connected and together they form a symbol of royalty. Similar to a crown and scepter.”
“Less intuitive is that they are somehow items used by some ‘rightful chosen of the Maker’, and the hammer is the real item. It forges something. But this gets into wild speculation.”
“What would be a threat to our enemies, or a great boon to them, from those items, that the Collegium wouldn’t be aware of?” Alexis thinks on this while they all eat together.
The Crimson Calling is sailing on the Gilded Zephyr, having been smuggled from Sutheron and heading to Llanos port. Alexis kneels down next to Ethelred, who is continually studying the documents from the Collegium, holds the red jasper around his neck, and chants something while his other hand forms precise forms and seems to get a little blue.
For the next many hours Alexis sits next to Ethelred, thinking. Occasionally one of the Calling will ask him for something, or about something, and he will respond and then go back to his focused thoughts. For some portion of his reverie he writes or draws in his book.
The next morning at breakfast clears his throat to get the group’s attention while he idly walks a copper coin across his knuckles. “Yesterday I studied the ritual room with the demon under the Copper Hills Fort. As we had suspected it was human magics calling upon demon magics. Nothing about the magics was anything I’ve ever encountered before. Not the sorcery on the sword, not the summoning. But I could clearly make out two intertwined magics: one demonic, and other was of Avv.”