Umber

Bane sleeps, and dreams…

Twin moons…orbiting? Or moving closer…Off in the distance, some beast howls. So very very cold…A stern-looking bespectacled man dressed in gray stands before you. “Power, my son,” he says, “is Truth.” To the left, three white-robed women kneel facing each other, as if in prayer, chanting slowly. The man points his finger down the hill that until now you did not realize you stood upon. “Look…”

A dark and bestial army is camped near a small village in the verdant valley below. A patrol of perhaps a dozen climbs the hill. Seeing you, they yell as one and rush towards you, axes and swords drawn. Momentary panic fills you, but is replaced by an almost electric charge, and with it, a sense of nearly limitless power. With an almost dismissive gesture, you blast the patrol into powder. Hearing the commotion, the rest of the army climbs to their feet and attacks. Archers fire. You do not move, but instead strike away arrows by the hundreds. Monstrous swordsmen charge, but a single clap of your hands strikes them down as if by lightning.

Finally there are no more. Hundreds of bodies and broken weapons litter the field. You look at them, but instead of seeing destruction, you see possibility. Palm up, and power flickers over the scene. The army rises to its feet. They are yours to command.

The man speaks. “Cease your struggles against me. Join, and you shall know Truth.”

The temptation is strong, but slices of discordant images flash through your view, dazzling you. You close your eyes, concentrate, and reopen them. The scene has changed.

Instead of decimated Orc-kin, you see knights of a nearby realm, now possessed by the power of undeath. The valley is blackened and ruined, as is the village. Over everything, a colossal skeletal dragon surveys the destruction and laughs. Its heart — the only organ visible — radiates lines of blackness that end the life of all they touch. Looking down at your hands, you see shrunken flesh and desiccated skin. You touch your face, and it too is bony and gaunt. You put hand to chest; there is no heartbeat. A taste of ashes fills your mouth. The three women — now with matter hair, protruding fangs, and dressed in tattered rags — watch you closely.

“Well now. You have seen through my petty deception,” says the man. His cloak is black, his skin is pallid, his eyes are covered by disks of pure jet. “But it hardly matters. Surely even this Truth is better than the ordinary, pathetic death which is sure to come to you if you persist in your current course. True, the pleasures of mortal life will be lost to you, but that would be the case either way, would it not? And I have plans, such great plans, for the future. I will power a realm unlike any ever seen before…

“Choose. Fight me and die a meaningless death, or join and live forever.”

Bane replies: “Vampire, you speak of truth, yet you tempt me with lies. You speak of power, yet in undeath I am not even given the benefit one such as yourself can bestow upon me. Perhaps your offer may have been more persuasive had you simply shown me your truth and offered me life as a Vampire, rather than believing me a fool. However, clearly your understanding of me is limited. You offer me power, yet I do not seek power. You offer me immortality, yet I do not seek immortality. Perhaps you seek undeath for the world because you do not understand those who live in it.

“Look at them, across the field. Undead followers. I care nothing for those on the field, living, dead, or undead. Look at your women, tattered and dirty. Perhaps you’d have found more happiness in unlife had you provided them with a bath, a nice dress and a bouquet of dead roses.

“Perhaps I will die in this place. Perhaps I may even be destroyed. However, I would rather die than follow a master who seeks mindless, stupid drones for his followers. I would rather die than follow a master who does not believe enough in what he does to offer the real truth to those whom he would have follow him.

“Are you unsure you can defeat us, Vampire? Are we a threat to you? If you are so powerful, when we meet, my party will be destroyed and your future will come to pass, making your offer here meaningless. However, I think not.

“Begone, foul lying creature, we will meet anon. Should I die, so be it. I will not follow stupidity.”

Gulthias shouts: “Then die stupidly! A thousand years I have lived in unlife and I freely admit I know little. But I know one thing for certain: Ashardalon comes!”

Bane wakes with a sense of foreboding, but also with renewed purpose and strength, saying to himself, “Existence is not life.” His calmed and centered mind senses that the echo of an echo of some wise Presence is nearby. The ghost of a smile, a flash of brilliant blue, and it is gone, but also somehow near.

Perhaps winning this encounter has prepared him better for the ones that lie ahead.

Jake sleeps, and dreams…

Twin moons…orbiting? Or moving closer…Off in the distance, some beast howls. So very very cold…A stern-looking bespectacled man dressed in gray stands before you. “Stealth, my son,” he says, “is Wealth.” To the left, three white-robed women kneel facing each other, as if in prayer, chanting slowly. The man points his finger down the hill that until now you did not realize you stood upon. “Look…”

It is evening. A small village is nestled in the valley before you. An ostentatious manor house squats on a small rise. A party is in progress on the lower floor. Your vision blurs, but your hearing becomes phenomenally acute as you fly to the second floor. The window is locked. Rather than bothering to unlock it, you flow through a small crack in the window sill, then through the key hole of a well-protected interior door. Regaining normal form, you survey the contents of what appears to be a small treasure room. After filling your pockets with loot, you flow back out the way you came and return to the hill.

The man speaks. “Cease your struggles against me. Join, and you shall know Wealth.”

The temptation is strong, but a sudden intuition grips you. The Unquenched — which you suddenly realize is the only object in the entire scene that is not a shade of gray — slashes out. The vision shatters and you see the underlying truth.

The valley is blackened and ruined, as is what was once an elegant elven village which you recognize as one near your birthplace. Scores of elves, so brutally slain as to be unrecognizable, le everywhere, though you recognize the colors of your home amongst the dead. Over everything, a colossal skeletal dragon surveys the destruction and laughs. Its heart — the only organ visible — radiates lines of blackness that end the life of all they touch. Looking down at your hands, you see shrunken flesh and smooth, pale skin with a bluish hue. You touch your face, and it too is bony and gaunt. You put hand to chest; there is no heartbeat. Examining your pockets, you find not gems and gold but meaningless trinkets stolen from the corpses. A taste of ashes fills your mouth. The three women — now with matter hair, protruding fangs, and dressed in tattered rags — watch you closely.

“Well now. You too have seen through my petty deception,” says the man. His cloak is black, his skin is pallid, his eyes are covered by disks of pure jet. “But it hardly matters. Surely even this Truth is better than the ordinary, pathetic death which is sure to come to you if you persist in your current course. True, the pleasures of mortal life will be lost to you, but that would be the case either way, would it not? And I have plans, such great plans, for the future. I will power a realm unlike any ever seen before…

“Choose. Fight me and die a meaningless death, or join and live forever.”

Jake replies: “Death makes living worthwhile. You offer me nothing.

“After we have killed you properly you will appreciate what I am saying.

“Now bugger off and prepare, your time approaches.”

Gulthias shouts, “Fools! You shall regret your arrogance! Ashardalon comes! Your torment shall be infinite!”

Jake awakens, alert and refreshed. The gloom seems less oppressive, the cold less biting. Oddly, his rapier is actually in his hand, and he quickly stashes it out of sight.

Bane is sitting up, obviously awake. He appears to be surrounded by a faint shimmering blue aura for a moment, which quickly fades. Magnus stirs restlessly and Psydney appears to be meditating quietly.

Magnus sleeps, and dreams…

Twin moons…orbiting? Or moving closer…Off in the distance, some beast howls. So very very cold…A stern-looking bespectacled man dressed in gray stands before you. “Power, my son,” he says, “is Truth.” To the left, three white-robed women kneel facing each other, as if in prayer, chanting slowly. The man points his finger down the hill that until now you did not realize you stood upon. “Look…”

A dark and bestial army is camped near a small village in the verdant valley below. A patrol of perhaps a dozen climbs the hill. Seeing you, they yell as one and rush towards you, axes and swords drawn. Momentary panic fills you, but is replaced by an almost electric charge, and with it, a sense of nearly limitless power. A single stomp from your massive foot sends the patrol reeling. Not even bothering to draw your weapon, you strike each soldier down with a single barehanded blow. Hearing the commotion, the rest of the army climbs to its feet and attacks. Arrows fire. You do not move. Dozens of arrows strike you, but most bounce off harmlessly. Those that manage to penetrate your hide cause you no pain and you yank them out with a laugh. Monstrous swordsmen charge, and you send them reeling, two and three at a time, with massive sweeps of a gigantic black blade. One in ten manages to get close enough to get in for a swing, one in twenty actually manages to strike you. You almost pity them, for they do no damage.

Finally there are no more. Hundreds of bodies and broken weapons are heaped about you in piles. You wade through the gore and laugh.

The man speaks. “Cease your struggles against me. Join, and you shall know True Strength.”

The thought fills your heart with glee. A colossal skeletal dragon surveys the destruction. Its heart — the only organ visible — radiates lines of blackness that end the life of all they touch. You bow before it and present your blade. Looking down at your hands, you see toughened flesh and stone-like skin. You touch your face, and it too is lean, hard, invulnerable. You put hand to chest: your pathetic mortal heartbeat has been replaced with a cold stone of pure fury. The three women gaze up at you adoringly.

“Yes, all this and more shall be yours,” says the man. “And I have plans, such great plans, for the future. With your strength at my side, and the might of Ashardalon in command, we shall power a realm unlike any ever seen before…

Magnus wakes with a slight chill, but a smile on his lips. Bane is awake and sitting upright. Jake sleeps quietly, while Psydney’s elven trance appears to be somewhat restless.

Psydney drifts in elven trance, and in defiance of all possiblity dreams…

Twin moons…orbiting? Or moving closer…Off in the distance, some beast howls. So very very cold…A stern-looking bespectacled man dressed in gray stands before you. “Skill, my daughter,” he says, “is Life.” To the left, three white-robed women kneel facing each other, as if in prayer, chanting slowly. The man points his finger down the hill that until now you did not realize you stood upon. “Look…”

A dark and bestial army is camped near a small village in the verdant valley below. A patrol of perhaps a dozen climbs the hill. Seeing you, they yell as one and rush towards you, axes and swords drawn. Momentary panic fills you, but is replaced by an almost electric charge, and with it, a sense of nearly limitless power. Almost dismissively, you strike each attacker down as he comes. Hearing the commotion, the rest of the army climbs to their feet and attacks. Archers fire. You move, striking away arrows that get too close with your blade, though few do. Monstrous swordsmen charge, but your sword is a blur, moving through each opponent and on to the next before the first has even fallen to the ground. Your feet dance a dance of death, often leading opponents to strike each other as you duck under one blade after another. You cannot be touched. It is almost too easy, though their relentlessness makes it necessary for you to strike them down, which you do cleanly, each strike a killing blow.

Finally there are no more. Hundreds of bodies and broken weapons litter the field, spread from one end of the valley to the other, a trail of carnage that followed the battle. The man raises his palm and power flickers over the scene. The slain host rises to its feet.

The man speaks. “Cease your struggles against me. Join, and you shall know the Skill that is Life.”

The temptation is strong, but slices of discordant images, scents and sounds flash through your view, confounding you. You close your eyes, concentrate, and reopen them. With a mental push, you wipe the cobwebs and illusion from the scene.

Instead of decimated Orc-kin, you see knights of a nearby realm, now possessed by the power of undeath. The valley is blackened and ruined, as is the village. Over everything, a colossal skeletal dragon surveys the destruction and laughs. Its heart — the only organ visible — radiates lines of blackness that end the life of all they touch. Looking down at your hands, you see shrunken flesh and desiccated skin. You touch your face, and it too is bony and gaunt. You put hand to chest; there is no heartbeat. A taste of ashes fills your mouth. The three women — now with matter hair, protruding fangs, and dressed in tattered rags — watch you closely.

“Well now. You have seen through my petty deception,” says the man. His cloak is black, his skin is pallid, his eyes are covered by disks of pure jet. “But it hardly matters. Surely even this Truth is better than the ordinary, pathetic death which is sure to come to you if you persist in your current course. True, the pleasures of mortal life will be lost to you, but that would be the case either way, would it not? And I have plans, such great plans, for the future. I will power a realm unlike any ever seen before…

“Choose. Fight me and die a meaningless death, or join and live forever.”

Psydney replies: “Borrowed skill is no skill at all, and bestowed power is capriciously withdrawn. But it is no surprise to me that you fail to understand the hollowness of mastery without honor or dominion without duty. Fawn at the feet of your dragon lord if you like; I will not fawn at yours. I reject your ‘gifts,’ I reject you. And even if I die, to die a free woman is meaning enough for me.”

Gulthias shouts, “Fool! Ashardalon comes, and then we shall see what your freedom means!”

The only sign that Psydney may have emerged from her elven trance is a slight movement of her lips. For the first time in nearly thirty years, she reaches out for the mind of her telepath sister: T’lar, when you established this link we agreed that invading one another’s minds was not to be taken lightly, but things are looking a little grim. I’ve been close to death before, but this time it’s the undeath that worries me. Nothing much more bleak for us than being transformed into mindless creatures, no? I’m — well, I don’t know exactly where I am. The Spire, if that means anything to anyone you know. Ask your Bard. Ask him about Ashardalon while you’re at it. I know you don’t leave the enclave anymore — never did have my taste for thickheads — but if when this is all over I haven’t lived, and haven’t died either, try to find someone to come and kill me, okay? Be well, sibling mine.

Nonetheless she feels strangely light of heart, ready for the confrontation she knows is soon to come.