Order of Corellon 4: Echoes, Part One

Gray. Gray. Everything is gray.

The soldier moves forward at a steady pace with the rest of his mounted column. His heavy armor is cold to the touch, inside and out; a fitting companion to the gray world his eyes reveal to him. Gray banners stir listlessly at the ends of their poles, held aloft by equally listless pages. Gray light barely reflects from the gray metal of the armor plate worn by every soldier in the heavily armed group, as if even the light itself is weary and devoid of energy. This is not the light’s domain.

His eyes stare out at the gray landscape, the rocky ground melding with the gray sky in a wall of limitless, colorless stillness. To his right, an infinite well of gray mist marks the edge of the Mournland. He stares into the mist, looking, but not seeing; taking note and reacting, but not comprehending. He has been trained well how to survive the regular patrols along a border that even the mad would dare not cross.

In the mist, shadows begin to form. The column turns as a machine, silent but for the clinking of metal and the clopping of hooves. Weapons are drawn. Shields raised. Glassy eyes stare toward the shadows as they coalesce into solid creatures. The creatures emerge, crossing from the terror of the eternal mist into the lands of the living. Twisted abominations, they barely resemble anything the soldier would recognize even if he could allow the rest of his conscious mind to comprehend the sights in front of him.

His sword swings in wide arcs as his mount circles madly in the swarm. Blood and other, less noble things cling to his blade. His mind is operating on something akin to instinct, something he gained only from long, difficult training. Letting thought interfere with that training would mean death, or worse.

Still, a part of him does see. A part of him does comprehend. That part of him cannot be fully suppressed, no matter how rigorous his meditation. A particularly nasty creature falls to the might of his blade, but then, deep in his mind, recognition resonates like a gong…

…

Lucatro sat bolt upright in bed, gasping, covered in sweat. The shock of that moment five years ago filled him as if he had just lived it again; his heart hammered loudly in his ribs; his fingers clenched and unclenched, as if expecting to find the hilt of his sword. He looked down at his hands, almost expecting to see blood there.

The half-elf composed himself, running through the prayers that the Reverend Father had taught him for just these occasions. His heart stilled. His breath became deep, and regular. His mind became a placid pool, a place of rest and cool waters. A quick glance in the mirror showed him something that he could not afford to reveal. He kneeled, taking a small, wooden box from beneath his pillow. He opened the box and removed a small, silver pendant, intricately made in the shape of Syberis, the dragon above. He clutched it tightly, marveling at the skill required to etch such perfectly even scales, as he said another prayer. Satisfied with the results, he placed the charm back in the box, and the box back beneath his pillow.

Lucatro scolded himself inwardly. He had been neglecting his meditation. He knew that he had come close to losing his carefully sculpted self-control in the goblin cave. He could only hope that the rest of his party was willing to chalk it up to the stress of his recent resurrection. After all, they had no way of knowing that he had experienced more disturbing things than death. Now the dreams were starting again. Dreams he hadn’t had since shortly after joining the Order of Corellon.

Shaking off his unpleasant thoughts, he dressed himself quickly. It was far too early for a nominally sane Paladin such as himself to be wandering about the grounds, but Lucatro had a hunch that a certain wizard was already hard at work.

……

Petrick didn’t hear the knock at his door. His eyes flew across the pages of the huge book on the table in front of him. The book, made by giants for giants, had already revealed several useful bits of information.

The Reverend Father had indeed been very interested in the circlet the team brought back from their trip to the Seawall Mountains. He had never seen anything like it, and that meant that, in all likelihood, neither had anybody else.

Petrick feverishly scanned the massive pages, searching for more clues. The easygoing young man wasn’t suffering from the same emotional bruises as his wife, Amelie, from their death and subsequent resurrection on the Mistmarsh expedition (aside from a strange recurring dream where he was being suffocated by a porcupine whom he’d offended somehow), but he did have a driving need to prove to the Reverend Father that he was worth the effort of his resurrection ritual.

A louder knock startled Petrick out of his thoughts. He scratched a few quick notes in his booklet, then went to admit his visitor.

"Lucatro! What are you doing up so early?"

"I couldn't sleep. I thought I'd see if there was anything I could do to help with your research."

"Well, not really. I think I've learned all I can here; I'm just finishing up a report for the Reverend Father. If I'm right, this is a truly remarkable find."

"Oh? What have you turned up?"

"At first, not much. I kept hitting one dead end after another. I wrote a few of my old professors at Morgrave University." Petrick gestured to a massive pile of papers filling a table on the far wall.

Lucatro raised an eyebrow, "a few?"

"Well. Relatively speaking. Anyway, one of them noted in passing that he once saw similar designs on an old Giant book, though only the leather cover of that one had survived, so he couldn't tell me what it might have said. That got me thinking: we're assuming that the circlet belonged to someone roughly human-sized. What if the owner was not an adult? A Giant child would need clothing of about the size as an adult human."

"That does put a new spin on things."

"Right. I started gathering every piece of information I could about the Age of Giants. I've even got a few actual Giant books here on loan from a few different universities. There's not much information, but several of them mention a lost tribe of, for lack of a better term, Frost Giants."

"Frost Giants?"

"I don't know much more than that. There are just several allusions to a tribe of Giants that had taken to living in extremely frigid climates. The markings on that circlet seem to be specific to that tribe. I haven't found any information about how they ended up in the Seawall Mountains, nor what would lead them to migrate that far. An old business journal from a tribe of giants that used to trade with these Frost Giants simply notes that they didn't show up to the summer markets one year. That's it."

Lucatro rubbed his chin, "so we're looking at the circlet of either a crown prince or a child king or chieftan of some sort from a long-lost tribe of Frost Giants that nobody in our time knows anything about, and few of their contemporaries had any dealings with."

"Pretty much." Petrick gave a winsome half-smile, "But I bet we can find a whole lot more."

........

"The FROSTFELL?" Amelie was on her feet in an instant. "Petrick, nobody comes back from the Frostfell!"

"The Wayfinder Expedition seemed to do alright for itself."

"And how many others simply disappeared?"

Lucatro, raised a calming hand, "Please, Amelie, sit down. We don't want to disturb the entire Order."

Amelie, Petrick, Ghejhann and Lucatro argued together in the crowded central dining hall of the Order of Corellon. Amelie glanced around at the curious looks beginning to fall on her and sat down, slowly. Her voice remained tight, however. "What could possibly be so important to risk going to the Frostfell?"

Petrick grabbed her hand, "I know it's dangerous, but we found the first real evidence of a lost tribe of giants that apparently lived in the Frostfell and only traded with the Giant tribes in Xen'drik out of necessity. Even if more of the old Giant civilization had survived, I'm not sure they knew much about them even then. We don't need any more reason than that. Finding the lost fragments of civilizations - any civilization - is our mission. And something as old as the Giant civilization... who knows what kind of lost rituals or art may be there?"

Amelie dropped her chin and stared and her bowl of stew. "I know. But.. "

"But what?"

"I'm just not sure it's worth it any more."

A silence settled over the group. It lasted several moments until Ghejhann ventured to speak. "The history of this world is a history of loss. We fight daily against the dying of the light. The few candles left flicker in the winds of a war that has not truly ended, though we like to pretend it has. If there is to be any world worth living in at all, for you and for your children, then we must seek out whatever we can that may help restore some of what we've lost."

The normally taciturn Dragonborn held Amelie's gaze for a long moment, adding, "Nothing worth having can be acquired easily, or without risk. You are no coward. Do not act like one."

Amelie's nostrils flared slightly as his words hit home. "I guess I lost sight of the stakes. Death has a way of changing people you know." She gave a weak smile, "Thank you."

A nod was her only answer.

"In that case," Lucatro announced, "it's safe to tell you that I've already presented Petrick's report to the Reverend Father. We leave for the Frostfell in the morning."

.......

Early the next day, all four adventurers were packed and ready to go. They had breakfast together in the dining hall before heading to the bottom floor, as directed, to receive final instruction.

"How do you think we'll get there?" Petrick asked.

Lucatro admitted, "I'm not entirely sure. I suspect we'll be sent as far as possible on the lightning rail, then on a House Lyrandar galleon to the Frostfell. I suppose we might be sent by airship, but my guess is that would be a little too conspicuous."

As the group reached the end of the hallway, a plump, grandmotherly woman in a modest dress was there to greet them. Her face was like a smiling moon, her eyes as bright stars.

"Mother Franseen!" Petrick exclaimed, stopping suddenly and almost causing Ghejhann to crash into him. The group said, almost in unison, "Corellon guide you, Mother."

"And you, dears," she answered, chuckling.

Lucatro offered an apology, "the Reverend Father didn't tell me we'd be meeting you here. He just told us to report here for our final instructions."

"Oh, I suppose he wouldn't. Dear Willyam so enjoys playing the part of the mysteeerious old priest. But don't you believe it for a second. He couldn't keep a real secret more than a day even if I threatened to stop cooking for him if he didn't." Her voice was warm and welcoming, washing over the group with a strong sense of peace. Mother Franseen unlocked the door leading to the part of the building normally reserved for the highest levels of the Order's heirarchy.  She motioned for the party to pass through before following them and locking it tight from the inside.

She led them down a long, colorful hallway, lined with wooden doors leading to offices and apartments.  The hallway opened onto courtyards and verandas at regular intervals. "He has such a difficult job, my Willyam, and we both take it very seriously. We're both quite a bit older than we look, you know. Oh, don't give me that look Petrick! Trust me, I look quite good for my age."

"What look? I'm just listening very closely!"

With another easy chuckle, Mother Franseen continued, "Oh, but your thoughts are written all over your face, dear. You're still so young that way. When Willyam and I were first married, he was very much like you, in fact. Back then, the Last War was just a war, and we all knew it would be over soon. We all thought of ourselves as Galifarians first, and Brelish second. Those of us in the heartlands could go about our lives as though nothing in the world was wrong, and we could pretend that all the horrible bloodshed on the borders was just a royal argument that would be resolved once everyone came to his senses. Some of us even believed that.

"But as the decades passed, the war pressed in, ever farther from the borders."  Rounding a bend in the corridor, the party passed through another locked door.  It merely opened onto another hallway, this one dimly lit.  Even here, where few would ever see, the cieling was decorated with masterpiece paintings.  Mother Franseen's voice grew somber as her tale grew closer to the present, "We faced shortages. The glass tower in Sharn was sabotaged by enemy agents. We watched House Canith turn from creating wonders, to creating weapons. We lost friends, and children, and grandchildren to the fighting. And we watched much that was good, and beautiful, and right pass from the world, destroyed by this terrible conflict. The world you were born into was already much diminished from the one Willyam and I started our lives together in. And then at the last, when we lost Cyre to the Mourning..." The old woman shook her head, eyes closed in remembered pain, "you're too young to truly know the brightness of the light that was extinguished that day."

The entire group was silent, in shared rememberance of Cyre. They reached another door, and Mother Franseen paused, her voice now quiet, tinged with deep sadness. The laugh lines around her eyes stood out in stark contrast to her tone. "I know that now, we call this peace. But we know it's not peace. It is only a respite. As soon as one of the Five recovers, war will break out again. Sooner, if the goblins have their way. We looked on in horror in the early days of the war, when Karrnath raised their undead legions from the bodies of the fallen. But this so-called peace is just as horrific. The nations as you know them are nothing more than the dismembered corpse of Galifar, moving about as if they have life and purpose, when in truth, it would be much better to let Galifar's remains die, and for the old kingdom to rest in peace. Then we can forge something new, and true, on the ashes, and keep the darkness at bay."

Mother Franseen unlocked the last door and led the party through into a huge, dark room. A few small lamps provided some feeble light, but none of them penetrated far into the surrounding darkness. "I do apologize, my dears. This old woman is just feeling her age today. I only wanted to remind you how important it is that we gather to ourselves every bit of light and beauty that we can. We lean on Corellon, and trust that he will allow humankind a new spring. But you... the four of you are four of the brightest lights we have. Remember that.

"Ahh, here we are at last."

The party stopped in front of a large circle of black stones placed in a perfect circle. The air around the circle was charged, expectant.

Lucatro spoke first, "is that a ..."

"Yes, dear," Mother Franseen answered him, "a teleportation circle."

"I never imagined...."

"Oh, we don't exactly advertise it. I know of a circle in the heart of the Frostfell. The coasts are dangerous for sure, but the heart of the continent is home mainly to animals. Not to say they aren't dangerous at all, but they'll find you much stranger than you find them. Willyam decided that the circle was the best way to send you, mainly because it means that someone, somewhen decided that part of the world was of paramount importance to have built a circle there. It seemed the best place to start your search.

"Now, step into the circle, loves."

Still mostly stunned, Lucatro, Petrick, Amelie, and Ghejhann stepped carefully into the circle. The dim light of the room didn't allow them to take in many details, but it seemed that Mother Franseen's eyes were as bright as ever. As the old woman began the Linked Portal ritual, she was transformed. Power rippled from her in waves; her eyes went from bright stars to blazing suns. She moved her hands with power and precision, speaking in words that none of the others could understand. Her gentle voice, which had alternately soothed and expressed a sadness to great for words alone, instead boomed with strength and the aura of command. The adventurers huddled close as fire began to glow in the spaces between the stones. As the Reverend Mother worked, the flames grew higher, though they gave off no heat. Lightning began to flow from her hands to the stones. With a loud, final crack, the party was gone. The flames winked out in an instant, and the silence returned with an almost audible thump.

Alone in the darkness, an exhausted old woman collapsed to the ground.

Order of Corellon 3: Dawnfire, Part Two

The party stepped carefully through the abandoned mine, following paths that had been worn smooth by generation upon generation of feet travelling into the depths.  The magelight cast harsh shadows on the walls of the caverns, oddly distorted by the uneven rock.  In the distance, a slow dripping echoed through the silence.

The path forked several times, but each time, their agent’s map provided direction, guiding them deeper into the mountain.  The floor grew rougher and more uneven as they headed inward, reaching the parts of the mine that had been newest when it was still in use.  Rather than rock-hewn tunnels, they began to see natural caverns in every direction, and stalactites and stalagmites began to be regular features.



“This section of the mine looks almost unused,” Lucatro seemed concerned for the first time, “I assumed the mine was abandoned because the gems ran out, but these walls are untouched.  Petrick, bring your light down closer to the walls.”

Petrick willed the magelight down to eye level.  The walls glittered with specks of color.  Lucatro narrowed his eyes in thought, “there are still gems in these rocks.  Alright, let’s slow our pace.  Keep your eyes open for any movement.  Petrick, throw that light as high as you can.  We’ll get wider illumination.  Just let me know if your eyes don’t adjust to the dimmer light; I never could get a good feel for what humans considered too dim.”

The adventurers continued on in silence, peering into the dimly lit shadows, listening for any sign of life.

Ghejhann spoke in a low rumble that passed for a whisper, “this place is too empty.  Surely we would have run afoul of something by now.  If not goblins, then at least rats, spiders, or something else that makes its home in the dark places.”

“You’ve got a point,” Lucatro conceded, consulting his map once more, “but we’re almost at the end of the path.  There’s a room off to the right, just around this bend.  I don’t know what’s wrong with this place, but we won’t have to stay much longer.”

As they rounded the last long curve in the natural corridor, there was no doubt that this was the right place.  A huge cavern opened up before them; a two-foot drop led to an unnaturally smooth and level floor.  A massive stone table, with stalagmites for legs, dominated the center of the room.  The walls were lined with piles of weaponry, armor, and other equipment that looked as if it had been neatly stored at one point, but which lay haphazardly in piles now.  Flails, spiked chains, strange helmets, oddly-shaped shields, breastplates with scrollwork and sharp points, and other assorted odds and ends flashed in the magelight.  A massive, tattered banner hung on the far wall, it’s colors long faded and its sign now unreadable.

"These are Dhakaani weapons," Ghejhann confirmed, "but damaged beyond repair by the cold dampness here.  They're surely brittle now."

“Well, this certainly looks like a court-in-exile.  It could have been the Shaking Emperor, or it could have been some other Dhakaani noble.  There's no way to tell now.”  Lucatro commanded the others, “Fan out; the amulet should be easy to spot.  Who knows where that poor goblin tossed it when it burned him, though.”

The party spread out and began searching through the piles of ruined weapons and rusted armor.  The metal had aged and worn oddly, with parts still gleaming as if new, and parts tarnished and rusted.  Petrick made note to study the Dhakaani when he got back to his library.  Perhaps there was originally some preserving enchantment on the stash which had been disturbed or had begun to wear off.

Petrick was poking along the edge of the far wall, beneath the tattered banner.  He noticed a deeper patch of shadow behind some shields.  It looked almost like a small alcove in the base of the wall; it would have been completely covered had the shields been arranged neatly.  His magelight didn’t penetrate very far, as he had let the light drift up to the ceiling to illuminate as much of the cavern as he could.  The wizard crawled closer, wary, and gently pushed the wall of shields over to get a better look into the alcove.  The shields fell, one after another, and tumbling out from behind them was a black-clad corpse, its eyes staring blankly up into the depths of the cavern ceiling.  It hadn’t been there long; the blood still glistened wetly from the ruins of its throat.

With a cry of surprise, Petrick scampered backward.  “Guys, you better see this.”

The others rushed over, but stopped short when they saw the body.  Ghejhann inhaled deeply, “Human.  Fresh.  Probably less than two hours old.”

Lucatro  furrowed his brow, “whoever ambushed this poor soul isn’t here now; we certainly would have been next.”

“Or he went back for help.” Petrick added weakly.

Amelie stared at the corpse, focusing on something on the dead man’s left hand.  A narrow band of gold circled the base of his pinky finger.  She made her way carefully over the pile of shields and gingerly turned the fellow’s hand over.

With a curse, Amelie dropped the hand and dashed back to the group.  “How well do you know our mysterious source?” she asked, each word dropping as lead.

“I don’t know him at all,” Lucatro admitted reluctantly, “but the Reverend Father assured me the source had been feeding us information for many years, well before the end of the Last War.”

“Well, you may want to send someone to check on our source’s health.  That man is a member of the King’s Shadows.  The symbol on his ring marks him as a member of the Night Blades, an elite cell of the Shadows that is often called on to police our ... their ... own.  I have no doubt he was waiting here for me.”

“But... but... the Shadows?” Petrick stammered, “I thought we only had to worry about the King’s Shields.  If they’re sending the King’s Shadows after you now…”

“I know.  It means that … he … doesn’t need me alive any more.  Things have obviously changed back home, but … Oh,  by the Five Nations, Leukis… "  Amelie whipped around and met Lucatro's eyes, "I have to get back to the Order.  I need to know what’s happening in Wroat, in the King’s court.”

“Agreed,” Lucatro did not hesitate, “but your would-be assassin is dead, you can’t change anything that’s happening in Wroat right now, and I will not fail the Reverend Father a second time.  We find the amulet first.”  His uncharacteristic scowl transformed him; this coldly pragmatic version of the Paladin was not something the party had seen before.

“Don’t you get it?” Amelie was nearly shouting.  “This whole mission was a setup!  There is no amulet!”

“The whole mission?  Nonsense.”  Lucatro scoffed, “obviously, an agent with the King’s Shadows caught wind of our mission and sent someone to lay in wait for us here, and …”

“So who killed him?  What did they want?  Where did they go?”

“The intrigues of the human courts are numerous, and often opaque.” Ghejhann, as usual, remained unruffled by the argument around him, “If we waited until we knew the motivations of everyone here, then we would never move again.”

Petrick furrowed his brow, “It can’t be a setup, Amelie.  I trust that the Reverend Father’s gnomish friend has not been compromised; he would know.  And the goblin showed off his melted hand, remember?  How could he be lying?”

“I never claimed the King’s Shadows were nice people.  Iron burns hot enough to melt flesh, too.”

“Ohhh. That’s… wrong.”

“Yes.  But it would explain how a scatterbrained goblin was able to feed a very detailed, very accurate map to our agent in Zolanberg.  The Shadows had to be sure we’d make it.”

Petrick still wasn’t satisfied.  “But how could the Shadows know the Order would send us, specifically?  It’s not like we’re the only team of adventurers on the payroll.”

“No, but it was a good gamble; the ‘amulet’ was easy to reach, and we needed a win after our last mission.  If a different team shows up, the assassin just stays hidden and they try again later.”

“Stop.”  Lucatro tilted his head.  “Voices, coming this way.  Petrick, extinguish that light.  Defensive positions.”

...

“Diss where human fiend attack you, Bagguck?”

“Yess, we close now.  He wass hide in a hole, in room full of treasure.  I kill him easy, bite his neck.  Lots of treasure! Chief will be happy with us!”

A group of eight goblins followed Bagguck and his bugbear friend Colin.  A Hexer had offered to lead the group, just in case the human fiend had friends.  This part of the caves was not safe.  But Bagguck had seen a treasure, a treasure too big to carry, and no goblin could resist bringing riches like those home to his clan.  They would all be rewarded!

“Right ova here!”

…

The party froze as a group of goblins rounded into view.  Seven goblins accompanied by a huge bugbear, and an odd-looking goblin that, by his bearing, could only be a hexer.

Petrick summoned another magelight and set it high, lighting the cavern once more.  The sudden light brought the goblins to a halt, cringing.  For a long moment, each group just looked at the other in the darkness; the goblins shocked into a rare moment of stillness.

With a prayer, Lucatro began moving his hands in a wide circle.  A line of glowing runes followed behind his palm, encircling the party and offering a measure of protection.  Amelie had moved quickly to the side, using the piles of weapons and armor for cover as she drew her Duelist’s Shuriken.  Ghejhann readied his crossbow, knowing the hexer would not charge to the front of the line.

Ghejann fired at the goblin hexer, but the hexer grabbed one of the poor goblin minions next to him and thrust him in the path of Ghejhann's bolt.  The goblin screamed his last and was cast aside.  The rest of the horde, partly out of anger and partly out of fear of their leader, charged the adventurers, who had taken refuge behind the huge stone table. 

Petrick knew he had to deal with his opposite number among the goblins.  The wizard's hands began to glow as he held them out in front of his body.  He began to form symbols with his fingers, tracing complex patterns in the air.  He blocked the charging goblin horde from his consciousness with a will; a final flourish of his hands marked the hexer as his target, and a cloud of magical daggers begin to swirl around the goblin, stabbing in and out relentlessly from all directions.

The hexer, through his pain, cast a cloud that covered the party, obscuring their vision and concealing the hexer.  Amelie, though, was safely outside the range of the cloud; she took aim and tossed her shuriken expertly.  The hexer screamed as the weapon hit home, but he shook off the pain, and the cloud remained.

The large bugbear reached the party first, rushing into the vexing cloud while swinging his massive Morningstar.  He delivered a skullthumping hit to Petrick, knocking him to the floor, unconscious.  Lucatro whispered another prayer, and a translucent golden shield materialized between Petrick and the attacking horde as he swung mightily with his sword.  The bugbear had jumped on top of the stone table in an attempt to land among the party and wreak havoc.  Lucatro's powerful chop connected with the bugbear’s legs, sending the brute to his knees.  One of the little goblins scampered over the table to the bugbear in concern.  “Odd,” Ghejhann thought to himself as he traded his crossbow for his battleaxe.  That cloud may make it hard to see, but it wouldn’t stop his axe.

Though Petrick was unconscious, Amelie didn’t worry too much.  Ghejhann’s axe was cutting a bloody swathe through the goblin horde, and Lucatro was shielding Petrick as much as he was attacking the enemy.  She tumbled across the cavern, changing directions and drawing closer to the hexer.  The goblin was free of the painful dagger cloud with Petrick unconscious.  Amelie could tell he was readying for another strike on her friends.  She drew her short sword as she flanked the hexer, concealing herself behind the massive piles of ancient relics at the edges of the cavern.

With a calculated strike, she exploded at the hexer, slicing him viciously and throwing him slightly off balance.  He attempted to bring his rod around to crush her skull, but Amelie anticipated the attack, and with an adroit riposte, sliced her sword across the path of the goblin's attack, neatly severing his hand; both it and the rod falling to the floor.

Screaming, the hexer ran, spurting a gleaming trail of blood for the surviving goblins to follow.  As the vexing cloud dissipated, Amelie saw Petrick getting to his feet.  Five dead goblins littered the cavern floor; the bugbear ran from the cavern, limping, with one small goblin trailing along behind him.

“Now we know what happened to the assassin.” Amelie cleaned and sheathed her sword as she moved to check on Petrick.  “You going to be OK?”

“Yeah, he just hit my head.  No real damage.”

The rogue smiled and put a steadying arm around her husband.  “Let’s get going.”

“What about the amulet?” Lucatro was incredulous.

With a heavy sigh, Amelie helped Petrick sit down at the massive stone table.  “Fine.  We’ll find it first.”

The party tore every inch of the cavern apart.  No shield, no flail, no breastplate, no spear was left untouched.  When all was said and done, the most interesting thing to be found in the cavern was a small circlet, the kind a crown prince might wear.

“Looks like you were right Amelie,” Lucatro admitted, “the whole mission was a setup.  But I’ve never seen designs like this before.”  He ran his fingers along the outside of the circlet.  “The Reverend Father may at least find it interesting.”

"Well, at least we're coming back in one piece this time." Amelie conceded.  As she looked around at the rest of the group, she felt a leaden knot of guilt form in her stomach.  She had come so close to betraying them all; she had considered becoming a traitor to the Order in order to clear her name as a traitor to the Crown.  It was the Shadow way: the Crown above all.  The rogue made a promise to herself.  She would never again consider betrayal, that as long as someone was loyal to her, she would be loyal to him.

As the party shuffled out of the cavern and back into the mine to begin the long journey home,  a pair of glowing eyes looked down on them from the shadows high in the cavern’s ceiling. The Revered Father wasn’t the only one who would be getting a report today.

Order of Corellon 2: Dawnfire, Part One

[caption id="attachment_1363" align="alignleft" width="240" caption="The lightning rail train departs."][/caption]

Amelie leaned her head back against the luxurious seat of the lightning rail car, pretending that she might fall asleep.  It had been a few weeks since her death and resurrection after the ill-fated Mistmarsh expedition.  The healers at the Order of Corellon had done a marvelous job on her injuries, but, like all members of the Order, they viewed their jobs as an art.  And what better way to practice that art than to fix anything and everything that was out of place?

She didn’t mind losing the nasty scar that had run across her left collar bone and shoulder.  The pulling of the scar tissue as she moved her arm was a persistent reminder of the unpleasantness surrounding the end of her time with the King’s Own.   It would be good to have full motion in that arm again without the accompanying pain that had been her companion since the … incident.

The rogue let her right hand absently trace the smooth skin of her left forearm.  Amelie had mixed feelings about losing the faint parallel tracings that had run from her left elbow.  They had been with her almost as long as she could remember.  She was barely seven years old.  She had been playing “warrior and dragon” with her older brother Leukis, and, naturally, she was the dragon.  Leukis would chase her all over their large home in a fashionable neighborhood near Morgrave University in Wroat.  Amelie always managed to stay a step ahead of Leukis’s deft stabs with the wagon-wheel spoke that doubled as his sword; she would tumble, dive, spin, and otherwise keep her bigger, slower brother off balance. 

One afternoon, their scampering had led to the magnificent balcony on the second floor.  Amelie had planned to fool Leukis into committing to a lunge, then dart out of the way and through the second door on the far side that led to her mother’s private library.  When she dashed out onto the balcony, however, she found her way blocked.  A small team of the house servants had moved a huge wardrobe to the balcony to paint the family seal onto the polished oak.  The wardrobe and the surrounding artists were blocking the library entrance.  Caught up in the moment, Amelie made the mistake of allowing herself to believe that the old blankets tied to her arms as her “wings” would really let her fly.  Before Leukis could capture her, she leapt from the railing, stretching her arms wide – and fell directly into a supply wagon carrying writing materials to the university.  She had landed directly onto a box of sharp quill pens with her elbow, and took home some deep, nasty scratches as a souvenir.  Her father told her she was blessed that was all she suffered, though the way he grumbled as he paid the driver for the ruined supplies, you would have thought parting with a few gold pieces was just as painful for her father as the fall had been for her.

The marks she carried from that fall were a talisman; by fingering them, she could slip into childhood memories almost instantly.  Now that she couldn’t possibly go home again, those memories were more important than ever.  She worried that when the monks removed her scars during the resurrection and healing ceremony, they also removed the key that let her remember what seemed like another life – or, since her resurrection, was it another life in truth?  Amelie had learned to live as a fugitive, accepting the Order's sanctuary and only leaving to go on missions far from Wroat, the smaller the town, the better.  Due to the rather public nature of her escape, she at least didn't have to worry about the rest of the King's Own - or any other cell of the King's Shadows - coming after her.  She only had to avoid the King's Shields to stay free.  Amelie took comfort in the fact that Leukis, himself a distinguished member of the King’s Shields, was secretly working to expose the threat that had landed her in hot water when she accidentally discovered what was going on in the King’s inner circle.  She had faith that he’d complete what she started; then, she could go home again, and her questions of life and death and resurrection and memory wouldn’t matter any more, so long as her father lived to see that she was no traitor after all.

A whistle pierced Amelie’s wandering thoughts.  The conductor’s booming voice called out, “Sterngate Station!  Sterngate Station!  Now arriving at Sterngate Station!”

Amelie nudged Petrick awake with her elbow, “wake up!  We’re in Sterngate already.”

“Oh,” Petrick mumbled, rubbing his eyes, “I feel like I just fell asleep a minute ago.  First Class is the only way to go!”

The couple made their way to the front of the car and onto the station platform, where Ghejhann and Lucatro were already waiting for them.  “I trust you had a pleasant trip,” Lucatro beamed, “but I can’t wait until you hear what we’re going after next!”

“I’m surprised the Reverend Father sent us anywhere after that little setback in the swamp.” Amelie stretched, working out the kinks from the long lightning rail ride, “are you sure we’re not tracking down some saint’s third cousin’s best friend’s recipe for chicken soup?”

“Not at all,” Lucatro’s excitement was contagious as he led the party down the platform and through the mostly empty station, “the Reverend Father wasn’t all that upset with me.  He said the important thing is that we made it back.  But… he still sent someone else back into the Mistmarsh to get that musical score from whatever cave it’s holed up in.  My guess is that this is just a lucky break: something very valuable just happened to be relatively easy to get.  Something to get our confidence back, I should say.”

“You still haven’t told us what it is!” Petrick interjected.

“Ah,” the half-elf turned to face the rest of the party, easily keeping up as walked backward, his hands illustrating his words in wide motions, “that is an interesting story.  A gnome agent the Order works with in Zolanberg has been collecting information about the old Dhakaani empire for years, specifically any information related to the Shaking Emperor’s ancient scepter.”

“Surely, that can’t be the object we seek!” Ghejhann’s surprise showed as a small puff of smoke.

“Well, no.” Lucatro waved the matter aside with a shake of his hands, “but Lhesh Haruuc has been sending his goblins into the Seawall Mountains searching for the Shaking Emperor’s hiding place – and his scepter – for quite some time.  Rumor has it that some of his minions found a minor stash of weapons in a network of ancient tunnels.  They took a few swords and called it a day, but one of them talked about all the strange things laying about, specifically, spiked chains, flails, and …”

“Dhakaani weapons!” Ghejhann’s eyes lit up.

“Exactly! But the real prize is a curious piece of jewelry one of the little creatures seemed captivated with.  It was a flaming red jewel, its facets swirling with inner flame; it was set in burnished gold, shaped like the rays of the rising sun…”

“The Dawnfire Amulet…” Petrick whispered.

“Got it in one!” Lucatro was nearly hopping with excitement, “The goblin had tried to grab the ‘jewel’ but found that it burned with unspeakable heat.  He showed his hand to our agent’s source; the flesh of his fingers had been melted together.”

“That seals it.” Petrick couldn’t believe what he was hearing, “The Dawnfire Amulet can only be handled by those who have pledged themselves to good.  It seeks out true darkness, darkness of the soul, and seeks to burn it away…” Petrick’s words trailed off as he fell deep in thought.

“And we will bring it back to the Reverend Father!  Think what this will do to rid our Order of spies, once and for all!”

Lucatro continued to expound on the powers of the Dawnfire Amulet, but Amelie could no longer hear him.  All she could think about was arranging a meeting between the Amulet and a certain member of the King’s inner circle.  Was clearing her name worth betraying her Order?  Should she continue to wait and trust that Leukis could handle the traitor from the inside?  She doubted sleep would find her tonight.

…

[caption id="attachment_1372" align="alignright" width="385" caption="Ancient Mining Road"][/caption]

The next morning, the party set out from Sterngate early and made their way south.  The Seawall Mountains were full of old mines and mining roads, some of them older than the human race itself.  The concentration of mines was much heavier toward Zolanberg, but there were still plenty of mines near Sterngate, though few of them were active today.

Lucatro lead the party swiftly and steadily, following the map sketched by the Order’s mysterious gnomish agent.  The agent’s efficacy was proven quickly, as every turn and twist was exactly as drawn.  “How he got this level of detail out of a goblin, I’ll never know,” Lucatro mused.  The gnomes had their methods.

The mining tunnel in question was deep in the mountains.  It was several days’ travel along the twisting roads, and in several places, the old mining road was little more than a narrow ledge, barely enough to step carefully across, pressing backs firmly to the side of the mountain behind and trying desperately not to look down.  Ghejhann thanked his ancestors that Dragonborn did not inherit dragon tails along with their dragon fire.  He had a hard enough time finding places to put his large boots on the narrow ledges as it was.

The Revered Father’s everlasting provisions proved their worth once again, allowing the party to travel lightly and swiftly.  The journey turned out to be uneventful, with only local birds and wildlife to keep the party company.

After three days of travel, the party finally stopped in front of the entrance to a particular mining tunnel.

“Looks just like all the others,” Petrick opined, “how do you know this is the one?”

Lucatro folded the map and put it back into his pack.  “This map has been fantastic so far.   I have every reason to believe that this is the ancient mine the goblins were searching when they found the Dawnfire Amulet.  Let’s go.  Petrick, some light, if you please.”

Petrick lifted his hand high to the air, cupped as if around a piece of fruit, and rotated his hand as if screwing something in.  A ball of magelight, barely visible in the sunshine, formed in his palm.  He willed the light to follow Lucatro, slightly above and behind him.

The party filed into the old mine and let their eyes adjust to the dimmer magelight.

“It still looks like every other mine I’ve ever seen,” Petrick said as he took in the surroundings.

Amelie raised an eyebrow at him, “You’ve never been in a mine before.”

“Doesn’t mean I haven’t seen one.  I do read a lot, including books with pictures.”

His wife sighed and shook her head at her husband’s odd manner of reasoning.  Her amusement was interrupted by an unwelcome thought, and a knot formed in the pit of her stomach.  Would betraying the Order mean betraying Petrick, too?  Would he side with them over her?  He knew the truth about the incident that had her falsely branded a traitor.  Was that enough for him to understand?

Amelie shook herself and tossed aside her thoughts.  None of it mattered if they didn't find the amulet in the first place.

Stay tuned for part two!

Order of Corellon 1: Ambush in the Mistmarsh

Petrick had long ago given up any hope of getting the stink of the stangnant Mistmarch mud out of his robes.  The thigh-deep muck was as much a mental trial as a physical one; each step required working up the gumption to willingly put his leg back into the sucking, squelching mess he had just liberated it from a moment before.  When the Reverend Father had selected Petrick for the party sent to retrieve the musical score to the Dragonsrise Symphony, he had never imagined that a hike through the swamp could be so... unpleasant.  Not that it would have changed anything, Petrick admitted to himself.  Music was a love second only to his magic, and the chance to recover, and perhaps help perform, a lost masterwork from one of the earliest great composers was worth any price.  Although he would not be surprised to discover that he had grown a pink, curly pig's tail before they got back home.



Amelie shook her head as she heard her clumsy husband stumble over a hidden tree root yet again.  "I'll force him to find a spell for flight before I let him come with us again," she muttered to Lucatro, the half-elf paladin leading the Mistmarsh expedition.  Lucatro gave a small, sideways smile, "Oh, I doubt the local skull-bashers can hear his splashing over the sound of Ghejhann's bellyaching."  Amelie stifled a giggle; she had long since tuned out Ghejann's muttering.  The proud Dragonborn warlord was not fond of the mud, to say the least.  She turned her ears back to Ghejann's steady stream of words for just a moment: "... reeking filth ... foul air and fouler water ... treacherous tree!  My dragonfire is too honorable an end for you! ... pests and pestilence ... my kin should scour this place with a cleansing fire and raise a cloud of steam so great it would rain down in Sharn itself..."

Amelie smiled to herself and turned back to scanning the terrain in front of them for some semblance of dry land to lay camp for the night.  It would be good to take her boots off and dry out her feet by the fire.  A short while later, she spotted some tufts of grass in the distance - actual grass, not swamp reeds.  "There," she nudged Lucatro and pointed out the spot,  "it's the first sign I've seen of anything dry since we entered the marsh." 

Lucatro would have preferred to press on a little longer, but seeing the hopeful looks from Petrick and Ghejhann was too much for him.  There's something subtly unsettling about a Dragonborn attempting to make puppy-dog eyes.  He was only giving up an hour of travel.  It was worth it to keep morale up.  "Looks good to me; let's get the fire going."

...

Three hours later, the party indeed was in a much better mood.  They had cleaned and dried their clothes and armor as best as circumstances would allow, and the everlasting provisions basket provided by the Reverend Father had helped them all regain their full strength.  The Mistmarsh at night was a different place.  Gone was the incessant buzzing of the insects and the splashes of the water serpents and other reptiles hunting in the light and heat of the day.  The mist which gave the Mistmarsh its name never really cleared, but during the day it was thin enough to manage, no worse than a light fog.  Now, the mist was pressing in on the small, dry island.  The fire held the mist back as much as the cold, leaving nearly solid walls of cloudy gray at the edges of the camp, and giving the impression of being inside a strange house constructed from the essence of ghosts.  The light from the fire cast strange lights and shadows in the mist, causing more than one person to glance off to the side, his gaze chasing after some spritely illusion.  The air was utterly still; in the surrounding waters, small, nocturnal creatures were beginning to swim, creating a constant background of tinkling waves.  Even the stench of the stagnant water seemed less oppressive in the cool night air.

"This is almost peaceful," Petrick mused aloud to the others, "I've never felt so isolated."

"Do not be fooled," Ghejhann growled, "the marsh is home to all manner of things that would do us harm.  This very island worries me.  It has a tainted feel to it."

Amelie frowned, "I was a spy of the King's Own before I ... well, before.  I know how to check for danger."

"I doubt not your skill.  I am seeing it with a tactical eye.  My life's goal is to wage battles of such beauty that Corellon himself would bless my endeavors, and give me the honor of forging a restored Arkhosia, an Arkhosia dedicated to the perfection of all honorable arts, an Arkhosia that ... "

"Ghejhann," Lucatro raised a single eyebrow at his old friend, "we've heard this speech before.  Why don't you just tell us what has you all worked up?"

Ghejhann growled softly in the back of his throat, but decided not to take offense.  "This is the only dry land we encountered in our long day of travelling.  I expected to sleep standing in water this night, and to break rust from the joints of my armor in the morning."

"You think someone wanted us to stop here?" Patrick asked, looking slightly confused.

"No," Ghejhann let out a small huff of steam that might have been a sigh, "If this is the only dry land we found, then it is likely the only dry land that many others have found.  Perhaps it is a well known spot to those who live here, like an oasis in the desert."

"So?  Nobody else was here, there's no sign of a recent camp, and if someone else shows up, they can share our fire."

"I did not think a wizard could be so dim!"

"He's not dumb, you cranky lizard!" Amelie jumped to her feet, "He's just very ... focused in his learning.  Magic and music are both complicated subjects!  And just this week he ..."

"Amelie..." Lucatro cautioned."

"Sorry.  But he's not dumb."

"I take no offense, Amelie.  I have grown accustomed to the hot tempers of humans, and defending one's mate is honorable."

Petrick interjected quickly, "I don't need defending!  Just because I can't guess what you're thinking doesn't mean I won't understand it if you'd just come out and say it!"

"I mean only that it is not just the good and the just that will know of an oasis.  When the lion wishes to hunt, he goes to the water.  If the sons of chaos wish to hunt here, they will come where they know they will find prey."

"Good point," Lucatro interjected, taking control of the conversation, "we'll stand double watches tonight, two at a time.  Amelie, why don't you and Petrick take the first watch.  I'll take over with Ghejhann later when the moon sets; I should still be able to see then as much as anyone can see anything in this mist."

...

[caption id="attachment_1297" align="alignleft" width="297" caption="Amelie gives Petrick an exasperated look."][/caption]

"I still can't believe he called you dim!" Amelie whispered.  She sat back to pack with Petrick, each of them staring into the mist, looking for any hint of a solid form.

"You know how he is," Petrick answered, "he expects everyone to know what he knows.  It's alright.  I'm over it."

"It's still rude.  Cranky lizard."  Amelie crossed her arms tightly in frustration, "Gah!  I can't see anything past the edge of the firelight! This stupid symphony better be magical or something."

"There's nothing stupid about the Dragonsrise Symphony!  It was written by Nattanyal, the very Nattanyal who wrote nearly half of the pieces that have survived from the time of the Nerath Empire.  Nobody has ever found a musical score to it, but historians note that the Emperor liked it so much, that he declared a national holiday in its honor!  Nattanyal wrote a great account of where his inspiration came from in his memoirs.  He said he was visited by Corellon in the early morning and told to go down to a narrow beach beneath a tall cliff, and ..."

Amelie sighed.  There was no stopping this speech.

...

Just past the edge of the little dry island, four reptilian eyes glinted in the moonlight.  A long, narrow row of teeth showed itself in the darkness in what might have been called a smile.  A small, scaly arm reached up and settled a pair of magnifying goggles into place.  It was time for some fun.

...

"... and that's when he knew he needed something really grand for the final movement.  He decided to visit the ..."

"Petrick, hush."

"What ... Why?  It's not like I just babble on all the time about ... "

"Seriously, Petrick.  Hush."  Amelie pointed to a spot off to her right where the little island came to a point.  "I thought I saw something over there on that point, just for a moment."

"Oh.  Well, I'll go check it out.  You keep watch.  You'll spot whatever's in the mist faster than I would, anyway."

Petrick made his way slowly to the far point, keeping his eyes glued to the ground for any sign of recent passage by man or beast.  He didn't see anything unusual, but the tightly woven grass was not good for holding prints.  He reached the edge of the dry land and leaned out over the border between the springy grass and the soft mud, peering into the mist beyond.  He saw a brief, golden glint out of the corner of his eye.  He snapped his head toward the spark, but saw only the swirling mist.  There it was again.  The barest hint of a golden flash from the dim remains of the dancing firelight.  Petrick froze and stared intently into the mist.  He couldn't discern any motion in the swirling eddies of the heavy fog, and he didn't hear anything except for the soft waves of the small local amphibians swimming about in the night.

The wizard decided it must have been a frog hopping along the edge of his vision and turned to head back toward Amelie.  As soon as he turned to leave, a thick, black, scaly tail exploded out of the mist, connecting with his shoulder blades.   Petrick was thrown forward, falling hard to the matted grass below.

Amelie turned her head just in time to see a jagged spike thrust up from the ground and impale her husband's throat.

Her training from her time in the King's Own kicked in immediately.  Dropping to a crouch, she scanned the edge of the island, scouring the mist beyond for any sign of movement.  Petrick's scream was enough to wake the rest of the party, despite quickly being strangled into nothing as the spike shredded his vocal cords.  Amelie knew he had to be dead.  Even if the spike didn't kill him outright, there was no way he could breathe.  The only way to get him back now was to survive, or make sure someone survived, to get his body back to the Reverend Father.  She pushed her grief down deep; she had her mission and her purpose.

Lucatro had moved to her right shoulder as Amelie made her survey of the mist.  "Looks like Ghejhann was right," he spoke softly, "that trap had to have been placed here long before we set foot on this little plot of land."  The paladin's gaze locked on a point in the distance.  "There!  I can see a solid form there.  I would say it's a kobold, but he's way too high off the ground.  Be ready for anything. Defensive positions!"

The half-elf stood up to his full height and called to the mist, "You there!  Stop skulking in the shadows like a coward and fight!  Or perhaps you're too ugly to be seen even by firelight: ugly like the dragons you cling to as parasites!"



An outraged roar pierced the night air as a massive blackscale bruiser charged out of the mist and into the camp, greatclub raised to strike.  "Green dragon not ugly!  Green dragon pretty!" Amelie tumbled out of the line of the bruiser's charge and took refuge behind the low-hanging branches of the ancient willows which stood in an unbroken line on the far side of the island.  She whispered a brief prayer to Sehanine that the shadows would allow her to strike back at their attackers unseen.  Amelie drew her Duelist's Shuriken, her last perk from her time with the King's Own.  The fact that she wasn't technically supposed to have it didn't bother her too badly. 

Ghejann drew his crossbow and fired into the charging creature, only to watch the bolt bounce harmlessly away from the thick scales on the blackscale's shoulder.  The lizardfolk was almost on top of Lucatro when he brought his greatclub down in a mighty blow. The paladin raised his shield to ward off the strike, but the heavy club turned it aside and left a sizeable dent in the thick plate armor beyond.  "Scrape his scales to make a new set of armor!" Ghejhann shouted, as Lucatro brought his longsword around in a wide arc.  Showing no mercy to the creature who had so cruelly killed his companion, Lucatro drove the sword home, biting into the scales beneath the blackscale's shoulder blades and drawing blood.  If the brute even noticed, he gave no outward sign. 

 The lizardfolk's enraged charge took him farther than he intended; he skidded into Ghejhann's reach, and the warlord gave his enemy a furious smash with his shield, knocking him slightly off balance. 

As Amelie watched from the shadows, she took note of two oddities about this particular blackscale bruiser.  First was the long string of plush children's toys hanging around his neck.  The second was the cackling form of a bright green kobold riding him in some kind of clever harness.  Something told her that taking out the little kobold would be in everyone's best interests.  She siezed the advantage Ghejhann's smash had granted.  A deft throw of the shuriken met with success: a high keening scream of surprise and pain as the enchanted shuriken flew back to her hand, taking a chunk of green kobold hide with it.

The little creature held the back of his neck as he turned to stare in the direction the attack had come from.  His eyes were invisible behind his strange goggles, but there was no mistaking the malice in his hiss.

Amelie darted up into the willow, finding a strong limb just above the kobold's eye level.  She crouched down and steadied herself, ready to leap down and at least knock the kobold from his harness.  The little green creature leaned down and whispered some short commands to his mount.  The blackscale turned away from Amelie and began to advance on Lucatro, slowly this time.  Whatever the little kobold had said seemed to have given renewed focus to the hulking brute.  He advanced slowly, swinging his greatclub in short, vicious arcs.  "Blob eat good tonight!  Pointy ears mean tender meat!"  Lucatro moved first, shifting to his left and striking downward in a brutal hack at the lizardfolk's knees, only to watch his sword bounce harmlessly from the thick scales that covered the joints.  Ghejhann had moved in behind the enemy pair, trying to help Lucato encircle their foes.  He did not move unnoticed.  A surprisingly quick pivot by the blackscale sent Ghejhann hurtling backward from the force of the tail strike.  He was thrust backward into the ancient willow Amelie had hidden in, cracking the trunk with the impact and sending the upper branches - and Amelie - tumbling downward.



Amelie used her dagger to cut herself free from the entangling branches and crawled out from underneath the fallen treetop.  She looked up, only to be met with the smiling visage of the green kobold as he let loose a crossbow bolt.  Amelie screamed as the bolt pierced her shoulder.  Lucatro rushed forward to assist Amelie, but he had to circle around the great mass of the fallen willow.  Amelie plunged her dagger into Blob's foot and rolled sideways in a last-ditch effort to buy time to open up the distance between them.  Her blade was deflected by the seemingly impenetrable scales, making her gambit ineffective.  The blackscale lifted her from the ground and tossed her expertly against the trunk of the last ancient willow in the line.  Amelie hit the ground hard, her breath knocked out of her.  Her weight triggered another trap, and a giant boulder fell from a fork in the trunk of the great tree, crushing her abdomen.

Lucatro watched the second member of his party fall with a grimace.  He couldn't be sure that Ghejhann was conscious underneath the remains of the giant willow, but at least he was alive.  The blackscale turned to face the paladin, but it was the green kobold who met his gaze.  Out of the corner of his eye, Lucatro saw a rustling beneath the willow branches.  Determined that the kobold would not notice, Lucatro thought quickly.  By strapping himself to the dumb bruiser, the clever little kobold had given himself a few weaknesses, too.  "Your mother was a gecko!"  It wouldn't win any points for style, but the taunt was enough to get the big dimwit back into his blind rage.  The brute charged again, picking up speed as Lucatro backed off quickly.  The half-elf kept one eye on the toppled willow, willing Ghejhann to break free.  The kobold was frantically whispering into the blackscale's ear, almost pleading.  So intent was he on keeping the blackscale's attention, Lucatro failed to notice when the charge evolved from a straight bull rush to a wide curve.  The paladin kept scrambling backward, interposing his longsword between him and the gnashing jaws of the blackscale.  He felt his footing give way underneath him as a large chunk of the matted grass broke away.  He fell slowly, so slowly, his fingers scrabbling against the soft dirt, but finding no purchase.  The last thing that passed through Lucatro's mind before he was impaled at the bottom of the pit was a vague sense of disappointment.  The kobold had already used spikes once this fight; he had been hoping for some variety.

"Him make funny face!  Blob happy!" the big lizardfolk clapped with thunderous delight.

"Worthless brute!"  Ghejhann, freed from his trappings and standing in the center of camp, waved his battleaxe at Blob.  "I shall ensure your happiness is short lived indeed!"

Blob turned toward the Dragonborn with a sneer.  The kobold licked his lips in anticipation.  Just one last pesky adventurer, and they could collect a very, very handsome purse indeed.  Ghejhann set his feet in a wide stance, digging in to face the lizardfolk's charge.  Blob did not disappoint, running headlong at the warlord, club held high above his head.  Ghejhann reached down deep and connected with his draconic heritage; the power of his great ancestors burst forth as he let loose a mightly flame that engulfed Blob and his master in a raging inferno.  The string of plush toys around Blob's neck caught fire.  He froze; reaching down, Blob grabbed the smoldering remains of what had been a plush lizardfolk doll and watched the last remnants of it turn to ash.  He lifted his snout high in the air and let out one long, mournful howl: "MOOOOKIEEEE!!!!!"  For several minutes, the only sound that could be heard was a series of rattling, rasping gasps.  Ghejhann had a revelation: he was hearing blackscale tears.

The last he saw of their unusual adversaries, Blob was running headlong back into the mists; the frantic cooing of his kobold master's futile attempts at comfort carried on the air for a long time afterward.

Ghejhann surveyed the broken bodies of his comrades.  The Reverend Father would not be pleased.