Vulūne 9-15, 653 DR: Dammon flies into the dark interior of Tirewyr. A southern radiance. The untouched stones of Mor Skyræn. A curious operation. A victim of ancient magics. The agents of an ancient Circle. A mysterious caravan. Candid conversation among peers. The search continues. Above the Village of Eroewyl. A monster in the village square. Escort of the dead. The dark waters of the Shyl Lœryn. One step ahead of the ghost horses. An unexpected meeting on the road to Nōyn Dag. A rendezvous with old friends.

Continued from Return to Thyr Kænōyn.

Sūdìdor, 9 Vulūne 653

A rush of air filled his ears as Dammon climbed into the night. Within his chest a pounding heart drummed with the strength and speed of a flying bird. It was not his heart, but rather piece of a borrowed shape taken to scour the winding shores of the Shyl Elōe. Turning on the winds, he strained to see the roads and riverbanks below. Within a short time, another feeling washed over him. Freedom. Somewhere back at the ferry, his familiar had passed outside some invisible ring of contact and influence. This separation was not accompanied with the subtle mental tug he might have expected, but rather a wrenching feeling that left his body (even in this form) yearning for reunion. Akin to a mother’s sense that a child has come to harm, something was now missing from the magician that he could not identify.

As the landscape unfolded beneath his wings, Dammon continued inland, looking for a group of eastbound monks crossing the hostile land. By dawn he wheeled above a crossroads, wondering which direction he should continue. As he scouted the road both north and south, the magician became aware of something else. An energy flowed from the south and west. He had felt such invisible radiance before in the Halls of Taldàna, but did not expect to find it here. Turning toward the lightless glow, the falcon crossed the growing hills to find the source of this new thing.

Well after the sun’s crown, the shape-shifted magician came upon a stone fortress nestled within the high inland hills. The slopes that rose to the castle walls were choked with trees, brambles, and the crumbled remains of a once flourishing town. Old roads radiated out from the structure’s walls, stretching into the distant countryside and disappearing into forests and beneath farmers’ fields.

On the fortress’ far side, a group of wagons had been hauled up a broken road. As the falcon turned above, a group of men emerged from a small door in the stone wall. They carried heavy barrels between them, heaving them one by one into the backs of the wagons. Finished with that task, they returned through the small doorway and back into the belly of the fortress. Intrigued by this, Dammon swooped down into the surrounding trees to gain a closer look at the operation. After what seemed like a long period, the men emerged again and loaded more of barrels into the waiting wagons. When again they entered the fortress, the bird-shaped Dammon landed atop one of the wagons and peeked inside. The wagon was nearly full of squat wooden barrels, all marked the sign of a turning skeletal fish. The barrels seemed to shine with the same invisible light that emanated from the fortress above.

Taking back to the sky, Dammon circled up and over the fortress walls. Within the great stone courtyard he found a number of shuttered inner buildings. Inspecting the place, he found that the fortress itself was in good repair despite its outward appearance. Each door was closed tightly and marked with the skeletal fish symbol of Drūn Ilar. Strangely, none of the doors were equipped with handles or knobs. Reverting to his natural form, the pale Yrūn reached out to push on one of the doors.

It was nighttime suddenly and Dammon was surrounded by armed men, their swords pointed toward him. A tanned woman stood back from the guardsmen, giving terse commands to her men. The sound of her voice was similar to the Drāūn priestess that Dammon knew, what seemed like a lifetime ago. She was speaking Ildûnic, which meant she too was not from these parts. After finding she had a common understanding of Dekàlic, she explained that he was a prisoner and that they would be taking him south. Dammon looked again at the swordsmen that surrounded him and remembered the Vorbid he’d triggered when touching the door. There was still a great stiffness and aching in his joints (from standing still for unknown watches) and he decided to go along with his captors, for the moment. The woman led the group down a series of narrow stairways and turning corridors before they emerged near the loaded wagons. Whips cracked and the mules heaved the wagons forward. Soon they were moving back down the long hillside, with Dammon sitting between guards and barrels.

Talídor, 10 Vulūne 653

They camped in a meadow at dawn. Dammon was given a blanket and some food. The woman climbed from another wagon and sat with the pale magician. She introduced herself as Halgræ of Tahl and explained that she and her men were representatives of the Circle of Drūn Ilar. Halgræ was very interested that Dammon’s magics seemed intact in this “dead land”, and tried to learn more of the strange magician. Dammon explained that he had many friends moving through the countryside. He also spoke about the Zrū they’d encountered days before. This last point was of great interest to Halgræ, who had not heard of the Odárad roaming this far north. After some thought, she attributed their appearance to the absence of “proper magics” and the tendency for Chaos to fill voids. Halgræ also spoke some of her Circle and the distant island of Tahl that was their destination. She spoke some of the Great War and the death of the island’s Dragul, all the while surprised and skeptical at Dammon’s seeming lack of history. At the end of their conversation, she was confident that he was not an Ælyri spy and agreed to let him go. She also explained that if he found his friends and wished to continue to Tahl, that a ship was waiting in the City of Nōyn Dag. He thanked her for this and slept the day among the caravan.

That evening, Dammon bid farewell to Halgræ and her men. Weaving back into falcon form, he continued across the Ælyri countryside looking for the wandering monks.

Padídor, 11 Vulūne 653

Another night of flying under his wings, Dammon searched the farmland below for a place to land and rest his shoulders. By mid-morning he came across a startling scene of a walled riverside town ringed by horsemen. The horsemen were shooting ghostly arrows at the town gates as dozen of cloaked figures pounded at the town’s gates. Within the town’s center, a surging mob dragged figures through the streets to a central platform where an iron wheel turned atop a high post. Five bodies already dangled from their necks beneath the wheel as an empty space was pulled into place above the newest victim. The magician dove from the sky for a closer look, landing on an high eave above the square. He could discern the captives’ garments as identical to the monks he’d left at the ferry. These were their comrades and unless something was done his search would would end here.

In the distance he could hear the constant drumming against the town walls and gates as the Undying servants struggled to reach and save the monks of Drāūn. Around him, the townsfolk yelled and cheered for the deaths of the remaining captives. Steeling himself, Dammon reverted to Yrūn form and wove a great spell above the town square. Shrieks rose form those gathered as icy knives rained upon them, ringing off iron and stone, shredding through the clothes and flesh. Seeing an opportunity to escape, the remaining monks dashed toward a nearby alley. Seeing them flee, townspeople intercepted and tackled them. Again, the magician weaved himself to another form and launched himself into the courtyard as an Owler. The large winged shape crashed into the attacking townspeople, knocking them to the cobbled ground. As the monks got to their feet again, Dammon turned to guard their rear, slashing at the pursuers with his savage beak. As the townsfolk fell back, the magician turned and raced toward the fleeing monks.

After a number of turns and alleys, Dammon found the monks standing near the town wall. They turned in horror at the monster that approached from behind. Stopping short of the captives, the magician ripped a board from a nearby house and scratched “Here to Help” with his curved claws. A woman among them answered “They will help us escape”. As Dammon watched, stones from the wall began disappearing as bony hands reached through and tore at the wall from the far side. Soon larger pieces came free and the group could clearly see the Undying servants: men, women, and children clawing blindly at the town wall. Beyond them, horsemen fired ghostly arrows into their backs with explosions of decayed clothes and bone. Once the gap was large enough, the group climbed through into a pocket of rotting bodyguards. Thus encircled, the enveloped group moved slowly toward the ring of horsemen. Looking around, Dammon could see scores of corpses had come to the monks’ aid. The magicians of this land might have difficulties weaving magic, but the followers of Drāūn had no such limitations.

Pushing through the firing archers, the female monk cast a final spell over the escapees. Dammon could feel his throat grow dry and gasped for breathe. Looking about, the magician noticed that their Undying escorts had led them to the shore of deep creek. One by one they leaped into the dark churning waters as ghostly arrows exploded against their zombie hosts. Once submerged, Dammon could feel the water rushing into his mouth and lungs, quenching the unnatural thirst. As he accustomed himself to water breathing, the murky waters swept him downstream as spirit horses galloped across the waters above. After a time, their ghostly pursuers fell behind, unable to track the monks moving along the deep creek bed. After a longer time, Dammon could feel the enchantment ending and convulsed as the water was expelled from his lungs. Swimming to the surface he spotted the monks at a nearby shore, hauling themselves into the high grasses. On land, they raced across the hillside and into a line of trees before stopping for the first time since leaving Erōewyl. While regaining their breath, Dammon reverted to Yrūn form. The riverwalker Seúra, seeing his deathly pallor wove healing upon the magician and was shocked to see no change.

After a brief rest, the monk named Teléēk returned from the edge of the woods. He reported that the ghost horses had reached the place they climbed from the river. It was time to move. The group quickly got to their feet and moved deeper into the southern woods of Mor Skyræn.

Bærídor, 12 Vulūne 653

The next day was spent moving between farms and forests. Dammon took to the sky more than once as a falcon to gauge the lay of the land and spot any pursuit. As the day progressed, the group grew more fatigued and the magician became more acutely aware that something was very wrong with his mouth and throat. A dull aching filled his head and neck, and he feared some strange illness was winning him over.

That evening Dammon became desperately ill. Seúra sought to help him with a number of spells, but nothing seemed to lessen the attack. As the magician lay wracked in pain, grasping at his throat he looked to the night sky and saw the full emerald face of Mamra in the sky above. Was it a coincidence? How could it be? The pain continued for a few watches more as his neck swelled and strained under the influence of strange magics. The monks of Ealyma sat silently and watched, wondering what evil would come to them for traveling with this stranger. Dammon could not understand all that they whispered among themselves, but they agreed to help this traveler that had saved them from the heart of Erōewyl.

Eventually the pain subsided, and the magician could breathe right again. It would be morning before he realized with great disgust, the transformation that had taken place.

Virídor, 13 Vulūne 653

In the late afternoon of the next day, the monks reached a major north-south road. Dammon led the group south toward the Ancient Mounds. Dammon reassured the monks that there were no signs of spirit riders along the roads and they were able to make good time.

Palídor, 14 Vulūne 653

In the late evening of the 14th, Dammon was contacted by a familiar voice. It told him that the original group would meet them in the Ancient Mounds in a few days, but were delayed along an eastern route. The monks established a camp inside the old woods and planned to strike at its heart in the morning.

Alídor, 15 Vulūne 653

Dammon and the monks set out into the Ancient Mounds.

Continued in An Old Friend, No More.

Characters

• Dammon Shroudson = 5 CPs (231)
• Dalra of Ealyma (Monk): hanged
• Eaymr of Ealyma (Monk): hanged
• Halgræ of Tahl (Magician)
• Kalvan of Ealyma (Monk)
• Kelévus the Black (Henchman)
• Laárma “the Tall” of Ealyma (Monk): hanged
• Podàa of Ealyma (Monk): hanged
• Seúra of Ealyma (Monk)
• Teléēk of Ealyma (Monk)
• Veármayn of Ealyma (Monk): hanged

Played: 27 Jan 2008