The Cavern of Black Night and Unholy Rage

The Cavern of Black Night and Unholy Rage

Deep in the middle of the land, on the floor of a sunken icy grotto, lies a figure under a shroud of dark blue basalt, on it's back, face upturned, it's huge mouth open. A round, polished stone of black tourmaline, transmutater of baneful energy, shot through with a gossamer spiderweb of silver, chokes the maw, and is, in truth, a stopper, blocking egress; if one looks hard enough, if one has the sight, the silver spiderwebbing iredesces faintly, a neon blue net, the net pulsing, flickering, flaring, beating time.

It is apparent that the grotto was once the redoubt of the figure; seated as it is within a larger cavern, various furnishings tumbled about inside, the accoutrements and trappings bearing signs of fierce battle. The cavern that holds the grotto bears signs of the battle as well, blackened sooty splotches embedded in the cold walls, broken ice-covered pillars leaning precariously against one another, piles of rocky debris, blocks of ice everywhere. Old bones, brittle cartilage, scales and shriveled leathery membranes lie here and there, scattered about, under and over the debris.

Ah, but there are no eyes to look upon the carnage in the cavern or the figure in the grotto, nor to see the net flicker on the ball of black silvered stone: the figure, dry and frigid to the touch, lies alone, lies on an altar rooted, nearly seamless, into the volcanic floor. If anyone was present, such a one might question from whence the figure came, even how it came to be, what it is, and why it lies alone in it's dark cold abode. Of more pertinent interest to one with the sight would be the flicker of energy, dying, upon the black orb of semiprecious stone.

It took 7 hearts beating in unison, tied one to one, 4 pairs of hands defending, 3 of the 7 to meld the spell, bind it to the orb and place the stone. Locked to the hearts of the 7 men and women who brought the orb, the neon net throbs in counterpart to the beat of their life blood.

But time calls each and all home, eventually, no respite, it's primary task. One soul of the 7, then another leaves the land; the net dims and falters with each departing heartbeat.

'Till only one remains.


Now starts the tale of a journey to seek the sons and daughters of the masters, disciples, dispersed about the land. Alone of all the rest, I still live, and can speak the tale, and so I do begin.

I give it to you thusly, as I saw it, from the beginning to the very end.​

 

I​

Aware she was the last, feeling her own heart slow, miss a beat, skip like a stone slicing on the water, the rhythm uneven and fickle, Leiden knew it was time. Time to go and find the others. Find them before the blackness calling from the stone encased figure hidden deep in the earth gained more strength. Soon, it would call it's own to it, try to break free from the shackles placed upon it long ago, a lifetime ago.

With her hands, a ring of power on each one, she grasped, gathered and tied the sparse strands of limp hair with a thong. Chalk white now, it once hung on her back, thick and golden in the sun, and even in the night...once, ah yes...once. Everything was once.

Heavy, the travel cloak settled around her shoulders as she put it on, a weight that once meant comfort, and closed the clasp that held it close. Walking away from the things she had collected and cherished in another life, now, Leiden did not look back. She stood upon the porch and called down the raven Splice from the brooding sky and set off on the winding path through the woods.

Her left hand, the nails still long and strong, briefly sought the small silk pouch that hung between her breasts against her heart, and felt the clear rose quartz marble that hid within, the small scroll tucked beside it. She had another little pouch, identical items inside, safe in the carry-bag at her hip.

Tightened lips thinning, her mouth twisted, set, her hand left the silk and found it's way to the bow riding slantwise across her back. Holy wood, the bow, made of yew. Her hand went next to the quiver of arrows, hanging from her shoulder. In it were fire arrows, silver arrows, arrows made from the elderberry tree and from the oak. The wooden arrows were steeped in aromatic cinnamon oil, the scent soaked deep within each one. Leiden's arrows were crafted by her own hand, to take to the place where rage and despair were caged in cold blue stone.

In her right hand, she held what appeared at a casual glance to be a dark and yellow, almost umber colored staff, an aid in her old age to help her walk. Someone with a more discerning eye, however, would note the age of the material it was made of, would see the runes traced lightly upon it. Runes that breathed power and smelled faintly of some unknown scent. Leiden had been given the staff by another solitary mage, who had in turn, been given it by another; it had passed from hand to hand over many years and none -- once they had been told the story of it's origin and the purpose of it's passing -- had ever used it. She had been told it came from the mouth of a red dragon.

 

Interlude​

There was the calling from the blue stony figure locked to the ground, a cold guttural tone, muted, the urgency mounting, rising, the sound crawling to those who could hear it, to those who would, and will, respond. Ah yes, there are those who already come, those who move toward the land's center, toward the cavern, the cavern of black night, the hidden redoubt so deep within the earth; to the grotto, they come.

But there was also another sound, another calling, faint for years, seemingly an echo of one's own yearning, yet consistently and constantly growing through the years, now the timbre high and true, strong, a wild clarion call from the north. A call as different from the other call as the light is to the dark, warm where the other is cold, singing where the other clamors, feeding life where the other feeds death

Onerous, the waiting, long the years, necessity narrowing the focus, fixed on need, waiting, waiting, waiting. O yes, the wait had lasted for eons, and almost it had been too long, almost too long.

To the north the old sorceress went, to find the vessel, fill it, pour the store of knowledge she carried, one into the other. She went to seek the one who would replace her, the one who would lead the others in the fight that was soon to come: light against dark, truth against deception, life against death.

With her, went the raven.

 

Flying ahead, leading the way, the raven Splice scouts for the old woman, Leiden. She follows slowly but steadily behind, a pace that saves her strength, keeps a reserve in case of need.

She and the raven are mind-bonded and share the other's thoughts, though it is by mutual agreement and not an imposed condition. Years ago, before the spell that would give the raven a life long enough to tell the tale, the spell stripping years and strength from her own life, turning her hair white, Leiden climbed to a ledge on the side of a cliff, to reach the nest of a mated pair of ravens.

A dangerous task it was, not withstanding the perils of the climb. There were the angry parents, fierce, to fend off, the fight to keep her place near the nest, the one chance to scoop the largest chick into a basket, the climb back down. She took the chick home, and raised it hand fed. It took some time to gain the trust of the young bird, but once won, it was given forever; ahhh yes, once won, forever after given.

And so the two of them wend their way to the place where the wild sorceress waits, and has waited, even as the old sorceress has, a pair yet to be connected in spirit, in mind, in heart, as well as location.

 

Along the way, they stop at an inn, eat, and take a room for the night.

Mind to sleeping mind, the raven Splice calls a warning.

Always tuned to Splice, Leiden wakes abruptly in the dark, feels magic in the room, her clearsight going immediately to the wall across from the bed. An ice leech, a spirit, is reaching toward her. It wants to drain her life energy, burn it out with ice. But it must touch her to succeed. She Knows her mage armor is useless against such a foe. Throwing out a hand, she casts a fire cone at the leech to slow it down, warns the raven to take cover.

She hears no compliance, senses the raven fly behind her. Waving her hand this time, with haste, she teleports to a corner, sees Splice attack an ice-mephit that hangs over the bed. Out on the edge of her vision, she sees the leech's arm recoil, stung by the cone of fire.

A quick warning to Splice, she sends a lance of fire at the mephit; it falls. Leiden readies a shield of fire, returns her focus to the leech, sends off a fire-bolt. It melts some, shrinks, when the bolt hits. She glances again to the mephit, sees Splice finish it off, rivets her attention back to her foe. Casting one fire-bolt after another, she nearly depletes her stock; the leech is badly hurt. It resists the last bolt and reaches out a hand again. Not as lethal as before, the leech still retains enough cold magic to use her life's energy, if it can steal it, to heal itself.

Striking fast, Leiden knocks the leech's arm back with her shield, uses her other hand to throw her last fire-bolt. The bolt deals the icy spirit a mortal blow: the leech falls in shards and melts out of existence.

The room reeks, is in shambles, smolders where the fire splashed. Leiden decides it would be expedient to leave the inn as quickly as possible. Thanking Splice at the same time she curses him for disobeying, she calls the raven to her shoulder, waves a hand, and teleports out of the inn. Not one of her stronger skills, teleporting, she doesn't go very far. Far enough, though, to avoid the innkeeper who is sure to be on fire himself over the room damage. She has had experience with angry innkeepers before.

Moving at a quicker pace, the pair continues northward, Leiden pensive, thinking of what the leech's level implies about the growing strength of the figure in the grotto.

 

Once more, Splice leads the way, as is his wont, as well as his task.

During a short rest under an oak tree, the raven settles on Leiden's shoulder, and she speaks to him, mind to mind, a conversation that he evidently takes vigorous exception to, hopping up, then down, flying away, circling shortly back, once flapping his wings and digging in his claws, drawing blood. He caws harshly, squawks and screeches loudly. Finally, perched near her neck, he fluffs his feathers, shakes them into place and stands with his head down, appearing more mournful than tired. The argument, if such it was, appears over.

Eventually, they reach the location of the young sorceress, her home.

 

Interlude

In it's own home, stone shrouded, the figure raves behind the black orb that stops up it's mouth, the rage cold, ahhh so cold, icy cold, a comet's worth of cold. The bitterness sealed within is vehement, malevolent, it seethes: great fuming swirls of rage and black despair, trapped under the orb, mounting, swelling, crashing. It crashes hard against the stone.

Here and there, 2 places on the stone, a plume of frost climbs. Ice falls from the plume, settles, forms a thin plaque on both sites.

One builds on the shroud in a place where one could presume a heart may lie under the stone, for surely if the figure is or was once alive, it would have a heart. The other site is triangular, appears to lie arrow-straight from the heart, a connection tying the plumes and plaques together, the ice on one building first, then feeding the other.

The ice grows and grows.

 

Chloe stands waiting by the door, watching the duo come up the path, one walking, one flying, lagging behind. She smiles. Her green eyes, from whence she gains her name, shine, perhaps from tears, perhaps not. She too has waited, scant eons on her part, for this day, has all her life felt Laneyh in the distance.

The old sorceress gains the porch, stops.

For a totally still moment, no magic surging, no burst of thunder, nothing to announce the weight of their meeting, they stare at each other. They have already met each other's minds, there are no surprises, there. The moment breaks; in unison, they clasp each other close, feel their heartbeats tune one to the other. Together, then, they enter the house.

Splice sits alone in a tree.

 

A light shines from Chloe's house, it shines dimly, flickering; I watch it until it wanes, at the onset of dawn. No one knows what they spoke of, not even I; for the first time, I am shut off from the old one's thoughts. Ahhh, but I can guess at some of it; yes...O yes. When they come out late in the day, the silk bag that hung around the old one's neck for as long as I have memories, the bag with the pink marble and tiny scroll inside, ayii, the young one wears one too, identical, close to her heart, around her own neck.

I disobey, I do not come when called. I sit. I watch the two of them walk down the path through the woods. I remain treed, high on a strong branch; with my talons, I cling, clenched tight to the wood, alone.

 

Without the raven, Leiden and Chloe set off toward the hills in the north east, seeking the dwarf who now holds Ferusaxe, Beldon's son or daughter. One of the 4 defenders, Beldon Ferusaxe was good to have at one's back, to heal, to fight: his axe was fierce, indeed.

As the crow or raven flies they haven't gotten very far, maybe 5 miles or so, when a white owl swoops and cuts across the trail they travel. Leiden halts immediately, steps off the trail and fades into the woods, her travel cloak blending in nicely, as intended. Chloe follows close behind, not quite as concealed, but woods wise, and makes no noise. A white owl crossing one's path means danger ahead, and it is wise to heed the omen.

Leiden calls to Splice for help, she needs a scout, she needs one now, both draw their bows and wait, alert, wary. Loyal, the raven comes, flies to a point ahead of the pair, then circles high and reports: less than a quarter mile ahead, 3 lizard men and an ice wolf wait in ambush.

Heart bonded, but not mind bonded yet, Leiden points a hand, curls her fingers, sends Chloe in one direction, while she takes another. They circle through the woods to where the ambush is set, each creeps up behind a foe.

Leiden casts true shot on her arrows, shoots the first lizard man in the eye, he falls. Splice tells her Chloe has downed her target as well. She moves behind a different tree, dodges the lance coming her way, nocks another arrow, shoots the charging lizard man, rapidly repeats and another foe is down, his shield and club thudding on the dirt, two arrows in his neck. Another arrow, from Chloe this time, follows. The lizard man dies, shrieking.

Only the ice wolf is left, with it's wicked breath. Splice dive-bombs the wolf, swerves sharply, returns from another direction. The wolf wastes it's breath on the attacking raven, missing, giving Leiden and Chloe the chance to fire 5 arrows into it. One of them hits the heart; it too dies.

Breathing fast, the 2 women smile at one another; Chloe laughs. It is their first fight together and the untried one did well.

Chloe gathers up the shields and clubs the lizard men carried while Leiden finds the lances. She debates skinning the wolf for it's pelt, decides to leave it to those who feed in the night, they have enough to carry for barter. Dusk is dimming the world, they still have a few miles to go before the trail cuts into a road and they reach a nearby trader's post, where they hope to find lodging behind stout walls. They set off again, moving faster,
keeping close to the trees.

Splice rides on Leiden's shoulder. She does not scold him this time.

 

II​

All three reach the trader's post and spend an uneventful night, recouping their energy and magic. Early the next morning, they barter the items they took from the lizard men, among much comment by the trader as to their source and how they might have gained them. The comments are explicit and offensive, but a good price is a good price, Leiden and Chloe remain silent.

Splice however, does not and winds up waiting outside, a strand of hair in his talons, lucky he did not wind up in the trader's stew pot.

They buy supplies for the trip into the hills, replenish their stock of arrows; they will soak them in poison when they rest again. Leiden buys more cinnamon oil, a scarce commodity that comes dear.

Days will pass before they reach the chain of caves where the Red Dwarves abide and pass their lives. Not much is known about them. They gain their name from the color of their hair, and they rarely choose to leave their home, their temple, their mine deep in the earth. All dwarves tend to be cantankerous, and the Red Dwarves lean in that direction the heaviest, they are comfortable only among their own kind.

Beldon was no exception, even being blessed as he was by Berronar Truesilver, the deity he was bound to. As Ferusaxe's wielder, he had an obligation from long tradition to fight for whomever knew the axe by name and called it to fight against evil. Leiden had traveled far the first time she sought the axe's aid, even as she did now.

Out of fear of losing it, the Red Dwarves keep close counsel about the axe. When she came to their underground stronghold, Leiden was asked how she knew the name and the obligation. They were surprised at her answer. Nonetheless, she was sworn to keep the name to herself, and so she had. But events sometimes supercede the need for secrecy; Chloe also knows the name now, can call up the obligation.

 

Most of the way is uneventful, Splice does his scouting well, they avoid conflict with passing parties that might want to fight. Leiden and Chloe stay one night at a small wayside shelter, camp out the other nights, setting out the wards that scare danger away or will wake them if it manages to come too close.

They skirt about a city that lies on their route, camp close enough to a swamp to worry Leiden. She sets the wards, strengthens them, and sleeps with her mind open. That
night, her senses sound before the wards; she wakes the other two. A small group of stirges, tiny bat-like things, from the nearby swamp is flying over the wards. They home in on the warmth of blood. Splice flies into the stirges, disrupting their flight, Leiden and Chloe have time to draw their arrows. With the aid of Leidan's truesight spell, it is an easy fight, one arrow to each foe, the foe down. Not hitting Splice was the hardest part.

The next day they reach the hills they seek, camp that evening in a grove of willows. They sleep soundly, the wards work through the night. Morning finds them wending through the hills. At dusk, they reach the small trading settlement that fronts the great door to the Red Dwarve's home. Not liking the looks of the only inn, Leiden decides to enter the stronghold, call upon the dwarves for shelter, something that is not given often. She announces herself at the entrance. The dwarves live long, the red ones longest of all, and their memories do not forget her name, nor the deed that first brought her, she is allowed in.

 

Leiden is escorted to a small room dug out from the stone, not far from the stronghold entrance. While it feels close once inside and cramped, the room will trap their body heat and keep them warm. There are shelves for their belongings, even a projecting rock for the raven Splice to perch on. A guard stands outside the narrow door, someone else brings food to them, the first hot meal they share since the trader's outpost. They settle in, sleep.

The day comes early, for the dwarves have their own time table for dire events, and this event was forecasted, written down, planned for. Leiden and Chloe are rousted out of bed, Splice squawking, flapping his wings. He settles down and preens his feathers, while the other two don their finest robes. They are brought to the Hall of the Red Dwarves. The dwarves are big on ceremony, the hall is packed.

Veins of silver run through the walls of this holy place, the same silver inlaid in the ball of black tourmaline that stops up the shrouded figure's maw in the grotto; the ball was created here, in this very hall. Globes of crystal embedded in the walls glimmer like stars, provide some light, make the sliver flash. For the dwarves, a decoration more than a need.

Before those who witness, the King formally asks Leiden the purpose of her visit. The dwarves know, but must ask. On either side of the King stand the High Priest and the Forge Master, their presence and acquiescence required. Leiden kneels, asks for the use of the axe and the one who bears it. At the High Forge, the dwarve's altar, one hand on the anvil, a young dwarf bows her head. She rises, raises Ferusaxe, gives the response, accepts the obligation. When the King, the High Priest and Forge Master, each in turn, confirms the oath, the congregation sighs.

The young dwarf stands beside Leiden. Beautiful by dwarven standards, her hair, her curly beard are a glossy red that lies somewhere between burgundy and sangria. In the flickering light in the hall, her armor shines, indeed outshines that of the King. It captures the raven's eyes. Like the axe, the armor has a history of it's own. Repaired, refitted, reblessed, it is always worn by those who hold the axe. Two linked circles adorn the silver helm and chainmail. Ferusaxe requires the bond of skin to helve, she wears no gloves. Beldon's rings are on her fingers.

Her name is Hador and she has trained hard, for years, to meet this day with honor. Clan members, another cleric, her aunt, taught her how to heal, a cousin how to scribe scrolls. The High Priest taught her the spells of light that protect against the dark, a rigorous task in itself, his acolyte how to make potions. Together, the High Priest and Forge Master taught her how to craft weapons and armor.

Ferusaxe itself taught her how to fight. Beldon handed the bearing of the axe to his daughter before he passed, but the final decision was always made by Ferusaxe. Hador was found fit. There had been those that had not.

Thus comes the cleric Hador to join the party, replace her father.

 

I resist awakening, protest, my senses tell me it is the middle of the night. Leiden bids me to prepare myself for the upcoming ceremony, I obey.

Impressive, huge, the Hall of the Red Dwarves quite takes my tongue. Short on ceremony, the aura that lives on Hador's armor keeps my attention. I do so wish it was a small item, I cannot take it for my own. Skinned and hung by my feet my fate would be, if the dwarves caught me, if I did. I will avoid the alive fearsome axe. It waits for a target and I have a chaotic nature. Leiden silently laughs at me, the mind-bond we share letting me know.

With the sending comes another sensing; a dark place, a howl of fear as something cold retreats, is melted by silver flashing on a ball, even as the silver in the dwarve's hall flashes on the wall, like linked to like. Almost, I lose my perch upon Leiden's shoulder, almost I caw in alarm, Leiden calms me. I have felt it before, and often lately; I did not like it then, I do not like it now.

It is the place where we must go, it is the place I dread.

 

The ceremony concludes with the giving of gifts.

The High Priest gives Leiden and Chloe silver bracelets, set with black tourmaline. He has enchanted them to guide their arrows true, laid on top of a strong protection spell.

All of them are given simple bands of red iron, powerful protection in their own right against cold. They were hammered out by the Forge Master, himself.

Last of the dignitaries, the King brings fire agate necklaces to increase courage, add additional protection against cold.

There are even two bracelets for Leiden to fit on the raven's feet, one a tiny duplicate of the red iron bands they wear now, the other silver and set to increase evasion.

Hador's aunt drapes a linked silver necklace around her neck. It has stones of various types, most of them meant to increase her charisma, to insure she gets along with the other party companions. It is well known that the Red Dwarves are often hot tempered, berserker prone, and Ferusaxe increases this tendency. Like the links, the stones are flat, to lay comfortably under her armor.

Ever workers, never slackers, the dwarves who came to witness disperse.