Umber

From despair comes the will to answer a desperate call. (sab)

The Messengers are coming for me. I have seen it. I feel it in my bones.

Soon, I will be dead.
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The final struggle for control of the axis mundi and its result.

Somewhere in the Gamboge Forest, an elf in golden chain mail on a strange, obsidian mount rode an unmarked path. The few individuals who by accident or design happened to draw near ran in terror when the beast turned its eerie red eyes on them. The elf rode with the absentminded familiarity of a path often taken, absorbed in her own thoughts until her mount spoke into her mind. This is a very slow Road. You know that I could take you to the entrance.
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The thief of the Creation Seed revels in his new possession. (sab)

Somewhere, in the Center:

Perched atop a sheer rock wall stands a smallish keep. The castle is black, streaked with green ooze. There are no windows or doors. The walls look like charred flesh and pulse and throb in a hideous mockery of life. Occasionally, the structure sighs, and a cloud of putrescence is exhaled. The cloud sinks to the ground and rolls along it. A ground squirrel, alone in this wasteland, pokes its head up as the cloud flows past. Instantly, it withers and crumbles to dust, and a small globe of light streaks back to the castle to be absorbed by its walls.
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The Bard receives an unexpected visitor.

The border guards of the Enclave, a haven for psions hidden deep within the Gamboge, are renowned for their vigilance. But for nearly a week they had failed to notice a tiny fly moving a little too purposefully through the forest, hovering a little too near the patrols’ soft-spoken conversations, studying the mistress of the Enclave a little too closely. Late one morning, the fly buzzed past a certain boulder, a certain tree, a certain cairn, then darted between two tall, red-barked spruce trees. It traced lazy circles around the Enclave until a small, pale elf exited the only shuttered building in the complex. It slipped inside, up the stairs, down a hallway, and through a keyhole in the door to T’lar’s private guest quarters.
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The Bard seeks shelter in the Enclave from the increasing madness of the world, but finds less shelter than he’d hoped.

A middle aged man with a lute slung across his back rode cautiously through the Gamboge Forest. He passed a certain boulder, a certain tree, a certain cairn, and then he stood before two tall, red-barked spruce trees. He reined in his horse and waited. In a few moments three elven archers appeared before him. He recognized one of them from earlier visits. “Noawna,” he greeted her. “How fare you?”
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In which another individual expresses interest in Castle Pescheour.

Several times during the day, Psydney felt a familiar probing at her mind. Each time she mentally snapped, ”If this isn’t life or death, I’m busy.” Each time the probing hastily withdrew. When the party finally paused for a few moments, she returned the contact. “Do you have any idea what we’re doing?” she demanded.

”No, in fact I don’t,” her sister replied irritably. “The Bard blazed through here, told me a lot of strange things about you personally, said what you and your friends were up to was definitely not for public consumption – not even mine – then left again. Said I had to ask you myself, that it wasn’t his place to tell. What in the Nine Hells is going -” T’lar broke off, and Psydney felt her take the mental equivalent of a deep breath, then an image began forming in the spaces between and around their minds’ eyes.
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In which the party redirects a scholar’s research for their own ends (TSR)

The Known History of Castle Pescheour

And the gods raised a mighty castle, each imbuing it with a portion of divine essence. Beauteous and wondrous it was to behold, all of the whitest marble and blackest obsidian, its colors and design embodying the duality of thought and deed. Then the gods produced a treasure, a fabulous stone of a radiance and clarity never known before or since. The sheer beauty of the stone held even the gods spellbound, and it was with great reverence that they hid it within the castle walls.
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The prophecy appears to roll along, fulfilling itself in the way that prophecies will.

Her nightly meditation completed, the elven psion withdrew her greatsword from the sheath propped against the wall next to her and laid it across her knees. Concentrating, she summoned into her mind an image of Crusader as she’d appeared on the Abyss: tall, emerald-skinned, winged. 

The planetar spoke within her mind. “You are troubled.”
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A bard’s tale heard by the adventurers in a reputable inn during the weeks in which they were searching Greyhawk for a master weaponsmith. They received a few shy glances during its telling… (sab)

It is said that in the City of Miracles, the streets are paved in leaves of platinum and gold, and no one dies before their time.
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Serge overhears a moment of conflict between Blastir and Achomed. (sab)

Serge hears what, in tone if not volume, sounds like an argument. Curious, he moves slowly towards the voices, staying out of sight.

“They ask good questions, little brother. Tell me again that you are sure that we are doing the right thing,” says Achomed, “for I am not so sure. We assume a great responsibility by taking the young ones from their homes and families. The cause must be just as great.”
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