This continues the story I began in chapters one and two. In order to understand what occurs in this chapter you will need to be familiar with the information contained in the previous ones so I have included links to them to make the process as easy as possible :-P
Chapter One -- http://www.torilmud.dyndns.org/phpBB2/v ... hp?t=15069
Chapter Tow -- http://www.torilmud.dyndns.org/phpBB2/v ... hp?t=15041
Dear Reader: I apologize for the long delay since my last posting but have been too concerned with current day events to put much time into anything else. However, greater minds have recently had a hand in my life and brought me to the realization that I will need help from those around me if I am to fulfill the tasks set before me so once again I will share my ramblings.
20th day of the Month of Uktar (the Rotting)
This is the first opportunity I have found to continue my record since leaving the haven of Mistywood over a month and a half ago. I traveled first to Zhentil Keep in my search for the items I would need to undo the damage wrought upon the grove in Greycloak, spending almost a month there in the guise of a black rat, a common enough form which allowed me unquestioned access to most parts of the keep. I then headed south to Darkhold Castle, following whispers of a lord who embraced the twisted path of Cyric, willing to trace every trail, no matter how faint until I found that which I sought. Patience is the only weapon I have at my disposal since Silvanus has withdrawn his favor from me and it will have to suffice.
Since leaving Ascuren, I have not dared assume my natural form until this moment, yet even a day’s distance from Darkhold is not sufficient to ensure my safety should Lord Sememmon discover the true identity of the crippled cat who became a temporary member of his busy household more than a fortnight ago. Ordinarily I am confident in my animal form but tonight I find myself peering into shadows and moving the quill more rapidly across the page so that I may more quickly return to animal form and continue my flight…all because of the stranger who came to Darkhold a few days ago.
I despise this nervousness which causes me to jump at shadows but do not dare stay in my half-elf form any longer tonight thus must continue this record when next I deem it safe.
Seeking: Chapter Three in my Chronicles of Eternity
Seeking: Chapter Three in my Chronicles of Eternity
Last edited by sotana on Mon May 09, 2005 8:01 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Dear Reader: After my last entry I traveled for a week, constantly in animal form, putting more distance between myself and Darkhold while I pondered the two remaining items I needed for my quest. The days passed uneventfully and at the end of the week I finally judged it safe enough to risk assuming my own form in order to record the rest of my actions at Darkhold.
28th Day of the Month of Uktal (the Rotting)
I suppose I owe some explanation for my hurried entry last week as well as an update on my current quest.
Thirteen days ago I awoke as usual in the temporary bed I had adopted for my time at Darkhold, curled up in my feline form on the cold flagstones under the table in the main hall. He appeared as I was lazily blinking the sleep from my eyes...I choose the word ‘appeared’ because he was nowhere to be seen when I closed my eyes yet was standing not ten feet from me when I opened them less than two seconds later, a male human of indeterminate age, dressed in rather nondescript clothing and looking straight at me. Something in his impassive gaze caused the breath to strangle in my throat and it took a conscious effort to stretch carelessly before padding out of the large open area into one of the small corridors, completely blind to my destination and suddenly hating the crippled leg that dragged behind me, surely pulling his attention to me even more. During the rest of my stay at Darkhold, the prickling of my skin warned me whenever he was in the room in spite of his disturbingly uncanny knack of silent entrances and exits.
Fortunately, I had already searched the public areas of the castle so was often able to avoid this stranger as much of my time during those several days was spent waiting patiently for the few remaining locked doors to be opened as they eventually must be at least for cleaning and airing out. After fruitlessly searching the chambers of Lord Sememmon himself during one such cleaning, I began to face the reality that the item I sought might not be found in this place in spite of the fresh oaken paneling throughout the castle and the carved oaken throne that stood in the Grand Hall. I was finally rewarded for my patience one afternoon when a heavily laden servant unlocked the door to the Pereghost’s study, a room I was reluctant to explore due to the faint odor of some unknown animal that I caught each time I wandered by the locked entrance. Unfortunately my options were narrowing and this room had to be faced if I had any hope of finding what I sought. The young lackey was too preoccupied with his burden to notice the cat following closely at his heels as he nudged the door open. My attention focused on this unexpected opportunity (and distracted by the smell of the raw meat he carried), I was caught off guard when I suddenly felt him in the small hallway and involuntarily paused to glance over my shoulder. His emotionless eyes were fixed on me as usual and in that small moment the door began to swing shut. I barely collected myself in time to slip through the narrowing opening before the door closed quietly behind me, feeling his eyes following me until the heavy oak shut me off from his view.
The windowless room I had entered contained only a writing desk (which I immediately sought out to escape the servant’s detection), armchair and a couple of wooden cases, one filled with books, the other with liquors. But the walls.....the walls were covered with countless trophies collected by Sememmon’s military commander from his various battles and hunts. From my position underneath the writing desk I studied the Pereghost’s choice of decor with a horrified fascination. Most of it consisted of grotesque parodies of once living creatures. I was dimly aware of the house-boy leaving through a trapdoor in the ceiling then returning a few moments later without his burden to exit the study through the oaken door in the wall, locking it securely behind him. With him safely out of the room, I crept from my hideyhole and turned to exam the trophies I had been unable to see from my vantage point under the desk, only to have my whole body recoil as I reached what had to be a recent addition to his collection. I could feel my ears lie back flat against my skull and my back arch as a strange, low rumbling sounded in my throat. A small oaken carving of a jawless skull set on a sunburst hung directly above the writing desk. The symbol of the Prince of Lies. I had no doubt that this ‘trophy’ had been carved from the mighty oaks which had once made their home in Greycloak. I had found what I sought.
In the blink of an eye I assumed the form of an osprey, plucking the carving from the wall with my one well-formed claw and heading upward through the trapdoor in the ceiling. Somewhere in the upper levels of the tower was fresh air and fresh air meant freedom. Holding carefully to my awkward burden, I continued upward through another trapdoor only to veer wildly to the left to avoid collision with the wyvern occupants of the room, barely maintaining my tenuous grip on the carving. This, then, was the source of the strange smell I had sensed earlier but had momentarily forgotten in my haste to be gone from this place. This room was also the source of the fresh air I had been seeking and before the dragon-kin could look up from their bloody meal recently delivered to them by the very servant I had followed into the Pereghost’s domain, I was out the open window and winging my way north.
My next destination remains unclear. I yet need fertile soil and water blessed by Silvanus himself but have no idea where I might begin my search for either. (I suppose I could ask the arch-druid of my guild in Waterdeep for Silvanus’ blessed water but am too ashamed of the disfavor of my god to approach him.) For now, perhaps I will travel the land, gleaning whatever information I can from the local druids and sages until I have more information to direct me.
28th Day of the Month of Uktal (the Rotting)
I suppose I owe some explanation for my hurried entry last week as well as an update on my current quest.
Thirteen days ago I awoke as usual in the temporary bed I had adopted for my time at Darkhold, curled up in my feline form on the cold flagstones under the table in the main hall. He appeared as I was lazily blinking the sleep from my eyes...I choose the word ‘appeared’ because he was nowhere to be seen when I closed my eyes yet was standing not ten feet from me when I opened them less than two seconds later, a male human of indeterminate age, dressed in rather nondescript clothing and looking straight at me. Something in his impassive gaze caused the breath to strangle in my throat and it took a conscious effort to stretch carelessly before padding out of the large open area into one of the small corridors, completely blind to my destination and suddenly hating the crippled leg that dragged behind me, surely pulling his attention to me even more. During the rest of my stay at Darkhold, the prickling of my skin warned me whenever he was in the room in spite of his disturbingly uncanny knack of silent entrances and exits.
Fortunately, I had already searched the public areas of the castle so was often able to avoid this stranger as much of my time during those several days was spent waiting patiently for the few remaining locked doors to be opened as they eventually must be at least for cleaning and airing out. After fruitlessly searching the chambers of Lord Sememmon himself during one such cleaning, I began to face the reality that the item I sought might not be found in this place in spite of the fresh oaken paneling throughout the castle and the carved oaken throne that stood in the Grand Hall. I was finally rewarded for my patience one afternoon when a heavily laden servant unlocked the door to the Pereghost’s study, a room I was reluctant to explore due to the faint odor of some unknown animal that I caught each time I wandered by the locked entrance. Unfortunately my options were narrowing and this room had to be faced if I had any hope of finding what I sought. The young lackey was too preoccupied with his burden to notice the cat following closely at his heels as he nudged the door open. My attention focused on this unexpected opportunity (and distracted by the smell of the raw meat he carried), I was caught off guard when I suddenly felt him in the small hallway and involuntarily paused to glance over my shoulder. His emotionless eyes were fixed on me as usual and in that small moment the door began to swing shut. I barely collected myself in time to slip through the narrowing opening before the door closed quietly behind me, feeling his eyes following me until the heavy oak shut me off from his view.
The windowless room I had entered contained only a writing desk (which I immediately sought out to escape the servant’s detection), armchair and a couple of wooden cases, one filled with books, the other with liquors. But the walls.....the walls were covered with countless trophies collected by Sememmon’s military commander from his various battles and hunts. From my position underneath the writing desk I studied the Pereghost’s choice of decor with a horrified fascination. Most of it consisted of grotesque parodies of once living creatures. I was dimly aware of the house-boy leaving through a trapdoor in the ceiling then returning a few moments later without his burden to exit the study through the oaken door in the wall, locking it securely behind him. With him safely out of the room, I crept from my hideyhole and turned to exam the trophies I had been unable to see from my vantage point under the desk, only to have my whole body recoil as I reached what had to be a recent addition to his collection. I could feel my ears lie back flat against my skull and my back arch as a strange, low rumbling sounded in my throat. A small oaken carving of a jawless skull set on a sunburst hung directly above the writing desk. The symbol of the Prince of Lies. I had no doubt that this ‘trophy’ had been carved from the mighty oaks which had once made their home in Greycloak. I had found what I sought.
In the blink of an eye I assumed the form of an osprey, plucking the carving from the wall with my one well-formed claw and heading upward through the trapdoor in the ceiling. Somewhere in the upper levels of the tower was fresh air and fresh air meant freedom. Holding carefully to my awkward burden, I continued upward through another trapdoor only to veer wildly to the left to avoid collision with the wyvern occupants of the room, barely maintaining my tenuous grip on the carving. This, then, was the source of the strange smell I had sensed earlier but had momentarily forgotten in my haste to be gone from this place. This room was also the source of the fresh air I had been seeking and before the dragon-kin could look up from their bloody meal recently delivered to them by the very servant I had followed into the Pereghost’s domain, I was out the open window and winging my way north.
My next destination remains unclear. I yet need fertile soil and water blessed by Silvanus himself but have no idea where I might begin my search for either. (I suppose I could ask the arch-druid of my guild in Waterdeep for Silvanus’ blessed water but am too ashamed of the disfavor of my god to approach him.) For now, perhaps I will travel the land, gleaning whatever information I can from the local druids and sages until I have more information to direct me.
Dear Reader: I spent the next six months wandering from area to area, questioning the local sages as the trees became bare and the winds blew colder and sharper. Eventually the snow came, blanketing much of the lands I traveled yet I continued my search, hoping that I might recognize the truly fertile soil I needed by its ability to support verdant plant life in spite of the unfavorable conditions. I saw no sign of the stranger who so disconcerted me in Darkhold although three separate times while in my half-elf form I felt that strange prickling of the skin I experienced whenever he was nearby upon which I immediately changed form to any animal capable of great speed and fled. Finally, my travels led me to a small town named Arnd’ir where I encountered an old scholar who focused his attention on me long enough to mumble something about elves and demons in response to my questions, before turning back to the books which seemed to so occupy his time. And thus I found myself stealing through the ruined streets of an ancient elven city in the heart of winter.
13th Day of the Month of Alturiak (the Claws of Cold)
I had never dared venture into Myth Drannor during any of my previous wayfarings, only too familiar with tales of demons hungry to feed on unwary adventurers. I now know those stories to be true as I have spent the past eight days in the form of a small slink, dodging devils and cowering in corners, licking wounds earned when I dodged too slowly. In spite of the urgency of my errand, I am often taken aback by the incredible man-made beauty that catches me unaware as I round a corner to find an untouched statue glowing softly in the setting sun or a stretch of tightly interlocking cobblestones which somehow miraculously escaped destruction. My heart mourns for this city and its previous inhabitants in a way I have not experienced in any other place.
I have found temporary shelter for the night in a hall filled with stone gargoyles as broken as the rest of this city but somehow protected from the fiends who wander the streets outside. Three quiet women call this place home and, while they offer no threat, they will not or cannot help me, maintaining a silence which lends an eerie atmosphere to a place already uneasy with the constant sense of death. All I have been able to learn is that they are the remaining members of the Company of the Catlash, originally adventuring here in search of treasure but lingering now for reasons they won’t reveal. In spite of their manifest ignorance, I spent much of the night questioning them, hoping they might reveal some small piece of helpful information to direct me. Myth Drannor has proven to be far larger than I imagined and I find myself growing desperate for any detail that might narrow my search. But my efforts have been to no avail and I have given up in exhaustion for tonight as the women appear unmoved by my explanations and pleas. I will now snatch what rest I can and try again in the morning. Sunrise seems to come too early in this place and I will need all of my wits and strength to meet the threats I will surely encounter on the morrow.
An addendum quickly scribbled the following morning:
14th Day of the Month of Alturiak (the Claws of Cold)
I awoke this morning to find a small piece of paper tucked into my pack with my travel rations. The scrap was unsigned and merely read, ‘Head east then work your way north through the forest toward the temple in the northeast corner.’ There was no sign of the women I spoke with last night almost leading me to believe I had imagined them except for the paper I now carry in my cloak pocket (I don't understand why they might have decided to help me after all but who else could have slipped the note into my belongings?). Mayhap tonight’s setting sun will see me safely away from this tragically decaying place of despair.
13th Day of the Month of Alturiak (the Claws of Cold)
I had never dared venture into Myth Drannor during any of my previous wayfarings, only too familiar with tales of demons hungry to feed on unwary adventurers. I now know those stories to be true as I have spent the past eight days in the form of a small slink, dodging devils and cowering in corners, licking wounds earned when I dodged too slowly. In spite of the urgency of my errand, I am often taken aback by the incredible man-made beauty that catches me unaware as I round a corner to find an untouched statue glowing softly in the setting sun or a stretch of tightly interlocking cobblestones which somehow miraculously escaped destruction. My heart mourns for this city and its previous inhabitants in a way I have not experienced in any other place.
I have found temporary shelter for the night in a hall filled with stone gargoyles as broken as the rest of this city but somehow protected from the fiends who wander the streets outside. Three quiet women call this place home and, while they offer no threat, they will not or cannot help me, maintaining a silence which lends an eerie atmosphere to a place already uneasy with the constant sense of death. All I have been able to learn is that they are the remaining members of the Company of the Catlash, originally adventuring here in search of treasure but lingering now for reasons they won’t reveal. In spite of their manifest ignorance, I spent much of the night questioning them, hoping they might reveal some small piece of helpful information to direct me. Myth Drannor has proven to be far larger than I imagined and I find myself growing desperate for any detail that might narrow my search. But my efforts have been to no avail and I have given up in exhaustion for tonight as the women appear unmoved by my explanations and pleas. I will now snatch what rest I can and try again in the morning. Sunrise seems to come too early in this place and I will need all of my wits and strength to meet the threats I will surely encounter on the morrow.
An addendum quickly scribbled the following morning:
14th Day of the Month of Alturiak (the Claws of Cold)
I awoke this morning to find a small piece of paper tucked into my pack with my travel rations. The scrap was unsigned and merely read, ‘Head east then work your way north through the forest toward the temple in the northeast corner.’ There was no sign of the women I spoke with last night almost leading me to believe I had imagined them except for the paper I now carry in my cloak pocket (I don't understand why they might have decided to help me after all but who else could have slipped the note into my belongings?). Mayhap tonight’s setting sun will see me safely away from this tragically decaying place of despair.
Dear Reader: When I recorded this entry I was still so focused on my quest to regain the favor of Silvanus that I did not yet realize the significance of other events occurring along the way. I point this out now so that perhaps you will neither be as blind nor surprised when the inevitable confrontation does occur.
17th Day of the Month of Alturiak (the Claws of Cold)
I write this entry from the dubious safety of Mistywoods, having been unwilling to chance a shapechange any earlier. My hands shake with exhaustion after my long flight but I feel pushed to record what I can remember before the memory is dulled by even one night of sleep.
After finding the anonymous message in my belongings three mornings ago, I re-assumed the form of a sleek black slink and crept out of the hall which had sheltered me through the night (In the past few months, I have discovered that my limp is markedly less debilitating when I choose animal forms with shorter legs but that is neither here nor there for this recollection). The streets in this portion of the city were cracked and overgrown with ice-frosted weeds, gradually deteriorating even further as I picked my way across areas scarred by scorch marks and scattered with the bones of long-dead victims. Stealing cautiously from shadow to shadow, I was able to avoid the most dangerous monsters, encountering only a couple of ogres who seemed undisturbed by my presence. As I reached the beginnings of the forest and headed north the path disappeared, almost entirely overgrown by the dense weeds and winter-bared forms of the encroaching shrubs yet I drew comfort from the tangled forest around me as nature worked to reclaim that which had been taken by mortals.
Without warning, the path opened up and I was standing in the middle of a large grove, miraculously green and warm with the breath of summer in spite of the winter touching the rest of the city. Ancient marble pillars encircled the grove while large trees with lush foliage overhung the open glade and the walls of a temple could be seen to the east. Several wide curving benches cushioned with soft, velvety moss were stationed around an ornate fountain depicting a beautiful woman decanting water from a pitcher and the entire effect was indescribably welcome. Shifting to my half-elf form, I sank down into the lush grass, relaxing at the extraordinary beauty made even more powerful by its unexpectedness.
I dug my hands deep into the warm, dark earth, grabbing a handful and letting it trickle thru my fingers and could tell by the tingling in the skin of my palm and fingers that I had found the second item in my quest. Quickly pulling out the small pouch procured specifically for this purpose, I filled it with the precious soil and drew the drawstring tight, knotting it securely. Even as I pulled the knot taut, I felt the now-familiar prickling and the pouch dropped from suddenly nerveless fingers, my eyes darting hurriedly around the clearing. How could he be here?! In the middle of Myth Drannor?!? My mind whirling in confusion I shifted to the dark form of a crow, snatching at the strings of the pouch with one claw as I flew into the comforting dimness of the neighboring forest, hoping my actions were not taking me closer to the man I was rapidly coming to view as my hunter. After putting some distance between myself and the glade I had just fled, I dared fly upward into the open sky, winging my way over the destroyed city and heading west. It was time to return to the safety of Mistywoods while I considered my next move.
Mayhap my unnamed shadow will be unable to follow me here.
17th Day of the Month of Alturiak (the Claws of Cold)
I write this entry from the dubious safety of Mistywoods, having been unwilling to chance a shapechange any earlier. My hands shake with exhaustion after my long flight but I feel pushed to record what I can remember before the memory is dulled by even one night of sleep.
After finding the anonymous message in my belongings three mornings ago, I re-assumed the form of a sleek black slink and crept out of the hall which had sheltered me through the night (In the past few months, I have discovered that my limp is markedly less debilitating when I choose animal forms with shorter legs but that is neither here nor there for this recollection). The streets in this portion of the city were cracked and overgrown with ice-frosted weeds, gradually deteriorating even further as I picked my way across areas scarred by scorch marks and scattered with the bones of long-dead victims. Stealing cautiously from shadow to shadow, I was able to avoid the most dangerous monsters, encountering only a couple of ogres who seemed undisturbed by my presence. As I reached the beginnings of the forest and headed north the path disappeared, almost entirely overgrown by the dense weeds and winter-bared forms of the encroaching shrubs yet I drew comfort from the tangled forest around me as nature worked to reclaim that which had been taken by mortals.
Without warning, the path opened up and I was standing in the middle of a large grove, miraculously green and warm with the breath of summer in spite of the winter touching the rest of the city. Ancient marble pillars encircled the grove while large trees with lush foliage overhung the open glade and the walls of a temple could be seen to the east. Several wide curving benches cushioned with soft, velvety moss were stationed around an ornate fountain depicting a beautiful woman decanting water from a pitcher and the entire effect was indescribably welcome. Shifting to my half-elf form, I sank down into the lush grass, relaxing at the extraordinary beauty made even more powerful by its unexpectedness.
I dug my hands deep into the warm, dark earth, grabbing a handful and letting it trickle thru my fingers and could tell by the tingling in the skin of my palm and fingers that I had found the second item in my quest. Quickly pulling out the small pouch procured specifically for this purpose, I filled it with the precious soil and drew the drawstring tight, knotting it securely. Even as I pulled the knot taut, I felt the now-familiar prickling and the pouch dropped from suddenly nerveless fingers, my eyes darting hurriedly around the clearing. How could he be here?! In the middle of Myth Drannor?!? My mind whirling in confusion I shifted to the dark form of a crow, snatching at the strings of the pouch with one claw as I flew into the comforting dimness of the neighboring forest, hoping my actions were not taking me closer to the man I was rapidly coming to view as my hunter. After putting some distance between myself and the glade I had just fled, I dared fly upward into the open sky, winging my way over the destroyed city and heading west. It was time to return to the safety of Mistywoods while I considered my next move.
Mayhap my unnamed shadow will be unable to follow me here.
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