Umber

The party turns back Orcus at a gate to the Prime Material.

To Erenil the Long-Lost:

Words can’t begin to express my surprise when a girallon acquaintance of mine handed me your letter. Evidently the two of you know the same derro. When I heard you’d gotten as fed up with T’lar as I did and stormed out of the Enclave, I often wondered what you were up to, and even tried to find you a couple of times. I understand now why I always failed – I’ve never been fond of the Underdark. Since you don’t volunteer much information about what precisely you’ve been doing there, I assume you don’t really want me to know. I can hazard a guess, though, especially after talking to Thiff – you’ve added drow to your ever-expanding list of hatreds, haven’t you?

No, I’m not going to lecture you. I rather envy the straightforwardness of your purpose: find a drow, kill a drow, look for another drow and kill that one too. Etc., etc., ad infinitum, till death do you part from your blades. And no, I’m not mocking you. Lately wherever my companions and I go, we incur obligation. Visit Blasingdell, become responsible for Blasingdell. Visit Mage Point, become responsible for Mage Point. Visit Greyhawk, become responsible for Greyhawk. I’d almost welcome the opportunity to kill something and walk away, no consequences, no aftermath. We’ve just helped some svirfneblin wrest their ancestral home away from a pack of Orcus-worshipping duergar, and I’m beginning to feel stirrings of responsibility for them as well. And that in spite of the fact that we weren’t there on their behalf, but to prevent the aforementioned demonic abomination from manifesting on the Prime Material.

We were successful at the latter, at least in the short term, but I have grave doubts about the long. Anyone who has the power to summon and bind the Tarrasque as a guard dog is not easily discounted. My companions and I haven’t run away from many fights in our time together, but we ran away from that. The path to Orcus’ summoning chamber seemed constructed to be as hazardous to friends as foes, but that is the way of demonkind, I suppose. If you’re not clever enough or strong enough to keep your place, you deserve whatever gruesome fate tramples you underfoot or swallows you whole.

As for the chamber itself, it was populated with the usual smattering of demons, the summoning priests who were too busy with their ritual to do anything other than fall before our spellcasters’ wrath, and a pack of duergar crossbowmen too inconsequential to factor into our attack plans. A cleric and a wizard of just enough ability to be annoying watched the proceedings, but failed to survive much beyond the initial assault.

More worrisome was a strange cleric wearing an amulet in which the symbols of Nerull and Orcus were entwined and, of course, the column of swirling energy in the center of the room in which the image of Orcus himself was slowly rising. As soon as we cleared the playing field of the summoning priests and the bulk of the demons, Magnus, Serge, Enai and I swarmed the mysterious figure. To our amazement and dismay, we were utterly unable to affect him.

Attacking the amulet proved somewhat more successful, but also more deadly. The first time my blade hit, I felt as if the atoms of my body were flying apart. It was a feeling I recognized, the power of an enemy god channeled into pure annihilation. I shrugged it off and kept fighting. So did Magnus, and Serge, and Enai. Again and again we struck at the amulet. Again and again it tried to exact its revenge. We were making a dent, if barely, but I wondered how long we could toy with fate, inviting instant oblivion with every blow.

Finally Serge tired of this fruitless and dangerous game and disappeared into the shadows. Moments later, I saw him snatch for the amulet. His daring effort was unsuccessful, and could have been fatal: I saw the manifestation of the inertial barrier I’d given him earlier flicker and fall, and could only assume from the bewildered and angry expression on his face that the magic of Kuhlefaran and Bane had been largely stripped from him as well.

Meanwhile, after the last of the lesser clerics fell, the materialization of Orcus had been sinking slowly back into the ground from whence it had come. As soon as it vanished entirely from sight, the sole survivor of the summoning effort removed himself from our grasp and teleported away. I have no doubt that we have not seen the last of him.

The Wages of Responsibility

Hopefully whoever we’re fighting above ground doesn’t put two and two together and anticipate us at the battle, as our cleric, Kuhlefaran, and the wizard Bane were hurling firestorms and desiccation spells about the room with abandon. Magnus was crazy enough to throw himself at the emerging Orcus, and although the results for both himself and his blade were nearly disastrous, the fact that both he and it survived the encounter was indicative of something.

Delightful as it would be to see you after all these years, this is not a good time to emerge from your long seclusion. The rumors you’ve been hearing are largely true, but I have absolutely no interest in feeling responsible for any more lives than I already do.

Where will it all end? I can hear T’lar sneering disdainfully that the Prime Material managed to stumble along before we were born, and will continue to do so after our deaths, which we are hastening with every man’s burden we take upon ourselves. And why am I in such a froth about all these dull thickheads anyway? Let the demon princes have their fun with the little human peasants; it’s no concern of ours. I can’t countenance such callousness, but in the final analysis, how can we protect them all? I’m no leader, Erenil, of men or elves or svirfneblin. Haissha took upon herself the custodianship of Blasingdell; why must we help her retain it? The matter of Mage Point is even more tenuous. Those people aren’t even helpless: they’re Tenser’s private army. If they fall before a more powerful army, how are we at fault? During the day Magnus and Kuhlefaran train troops, Serge and Enai scout, Bane and I refuel our reserves of power, each in our own way. Nights we prowl the forests of Blasingdell, the streets of Greyhawk, the tunnels of the Underdark, looking for an edge in the coming conflicts. When does duty become obsession, responsibility a kind of arrogance? Have we already crossed that line?

Don’t try to argue that you’re responsible for yourself – I don’t want to hear it. If you stick your nose up here, I’ll put the drow onto you myself, just to give you something else to worry about. Since our ghaele (don’t ask) periodically check in on the svirfneblin, I’ll leave this with the latter in the hopes that it will eventually wind its way back to you. And I hope you remember our old childhood code, or even if it reaches you it will remain unread. Good fortune, and good hunting –

Ever your affectionate sister,

Psydney