Vulūne 28 – Drûr 19, 653 DR: Fishing on the Bay of Crows. The insurgent’s Sleep of Death. The Army of Nadrèwyr. Stories of the Eðérim. Skaeldythoel’s strange glow. Invisible visitors. Flight from Kirít Nalam. A shadowy skirmish. Inspecting the troops. Questions about a dagger. Provisioning. Leaving Kirít Nalam. Along the Run Golàrdyr. Local warnings. Through the Forest of Stones. Kry Irmàrend and the borderlands. A snowy journey. The Doomed Way. A stranger’s fire. More warnings. First view of the Crescent Desert.

Continued from The Damnation of Garvyd.

Palídor, 28 Vulūne 653

Crouched upon a heavily barnacled pier along the Kirít Nalam waterfront, Fyrgol cast his line into the choppy waters. The docks smelled like old fish but nothing was biting. Dock workers walked by his small figure without casting a second glance at the strange outline, set against thousands of tiny black shells. The Feyri wondered about the barnacles that covered every inch of posts and planks except for a wagon-width’s path down the center of each pier. The little shells usually accreted on the underwater bellies of ships and the bottoms of pier posts. He reasoned that either the town had been flooded at some point, or the wharf had been lifted from the bottom of the Bay of Crows. Before he could make a decision the line grew taut and a fish fought and struggled at its end. He looked about but no one seemed interested in the splashing and he was able to draw the fish up to his seating place and end its fight. Meal in hand, Fyrgol moved among crates and barrels as he crossed the wharf. Dodging into an alley, he made his way back to the tavern.

At the Academy, Calyedin listened as someone arranged his limbs on a wooden bed. The air’s damp chill and the short echo of the man’s voice told him that this was a small stone cell. Somewhere outside the room, Calyedin’s attendant was being questioned about magic, time, and health. Calyedin was not familiar with Dekàlic but he knew the sound of it, and had studied enough of Old Ildûnic to understand some words. The last words he heard were offered in the form of a monastic chant. Then everything grew dark, and slowed to a strange quiet.

That afternoon, after talking with the priests, Tressta visited Dammon in his quarters. Sitting across from the chalk-skinned magician, she explained more fully about her Eðérim visitations on the ship. Dammon listened carefully as she explained that she’d been given a quest to retrieve a dagger. Once she’d finished, the magician directed her attention to a giant folio on the table. Dammon explained that he’d recently learned about the Village of Nyl. Pointing to illustrations within the old tome, he explained that the village was perched on the edge of the Crescent Desert, one of the most inhospitable locations in all Teréth End. As to what a Nurzek might be, the magician could not help her.

Meanwhile, Jak and Zêla left the Academy to visit the army encamped north of town. Exiting the town, they followed a line of supply wagons moving north along the coastline. After a couple hours’ walk, the two reached an expansive tent city where dozens of colorful banners stood snapping in the bay breeze. The beaches were lined with units of soldiers drilling with spears, swords, and shields. After watching the soldiers train, Jak inquired about the army commander. It was explained that the commander was in town on “business”, but no one could guess where that might be. A lieutenant explained that he would tell the commander about his Ðard visitor and that he should be returned by morning. Jak and Zêla left the encampment and made it back to the Academy by evening.

Alídor, 1 Drûr 653

Sometime after Nightsdeep, Fyrgol awoke to a bright light. His sword shone with an otherworldly color, the likes of which he had not seen since leaving his homeland. Nothing in the room stirred. Sitting up in bed, Fyrgol examined his father’s blade. “The light must be a warning” he concluded, looking around the chamber. The door was locked. The shutters and curtains closed tightly. With some trepidation, he slipped the sword into its scabbard and wrapped it inside the blanket’s corner. Its light quenched, the unready sword struggled vainly to warn its bearer of the night’s dangers. The Feyri returned to his covers and waited for the night to pass. It was sometime before he was able to close his eyes again.

Come morning, Fyrgol gathered his things and left the room. Outside the inn, the Feyri was startled to see a towering shadow standing in the street. The featureless shape turned toward Fyrgol. Drawing his sword, the blade once again erupted with an oreche fire. Townspeople stopped to look at the sword-wielding Feyri, but could not see his assailant or the brilliant fire that climbed his curved blade. The shade charged him, passing through the bodies of the street-goers as if they were smoke. Fyrgol rose the blade and cut across the shadow’s body. The thing writhed in pantomime pain. He struck it again and again. Soon, the monster collapsed silently to the cobblestone street. Onlookers watched as the Feyri stood triumphant over his imaginary foe. He noticed, with some dismay, that the oreche flame still raged along the blade. Somewhere, there were more. Fyrgol raced toward the edge of town. As he ran through the streets, three more of the long-limbed shades filed behind him in quick pursuit. As he fled, Fyrgol observed that the creatures could pass through people, animals, and wagons but seemed unable to cross through buildings. Making a mental note of this, he ran from the village and began up the long sloping path to the hilltop fortress. The shades did not hesitate at the village’s edge, opening their strides as they climbed the stony slope. When the out-of-breath Feyri reached the Academy gate, he found the doors closed. Pounding his fists against the door he watched the shades closing quickly behind him. Finally, the door opened and a porter let him into the courtyard. Through the open door, Fyrgol noticed that a shade had stopped and stood quietly outside, ten paces from the gate. The porter followed his gaze but could see nothing to explain the Feyri’s agitation. After some explanation, the porter led Fyrgol to Tressta’s room. After a brief discussion, the two visited the magician, who wished to see the shades for himself.

At the gate, a small crowd of monks and staff gathered to learn of the morning’s commotion. Fyrgol led his two companions to the ajar door and pointed toward the shadowy stalker. Tressta and Dammon saw nothing at first. The magician then peered into the Skein and was surprised to see a tall long-limbed figure standing outside the Academy, a half-dozen paces from the door. The creature had no features but seemed to be impatiently shifting its “weight” from one foot to the other. Recalling his Conscience’s inability to enter Holy ground, the emboldened magician stepped outside. The creature stood still, waiting for the Mortal to draw closer. Fyrgol reminded Dammon that three of the creatures had followed him from Kirít Nalam. This only gave Dammon a moment’s pause. As Dammon stepped forward, the monster swung a long arm at him. The magician dodged backward. The shade did not advance. The magician reasoned that the Academy offered a barrier, and that the shade was intelligent enough to lure the unwary beyond its reach. As Dammon considered his next action, Fyrgol emerged from the Academy with his sword in hand. Dammon noticed the sword’s radiance, but for some reason could not “see” its light. “Something else to consider,” he thought. Fyrgol advanced toward the invisible border. Even without eyes, Fyrgol could feel the thing staring at his sword. Without warning, the shade turned and ran back down the hillside.

Seeing this, Dammon wove a transformation and flew after the shade in falcon form. The monastic onlookers grew quiet at the sight of this. Both Dammon and Fyrgol saw a second shade emerge from the lower hillside to follow the shifted magician on foot. Soon, Dammon was circling over the village calling to his Conscience. On swift long legs, the first shade re-entered the village streets. There it crouched down and seemed to sniff at the air before bounding down one street or another. The falcon-shaped Dammon soon recognized its goal. It too was looking for his Conscience. Nearing his familiar, Dammon asked if it would retreat to the Academy. His cohort refused, preferring to take its chances in the village. Dammon rose back into the morning air and winged quickly back to the Academy gate. Alighting near the door, the magician resumed his Yrūn form. A third shade had taken its place on the road. Frustrated with these invisible stalkers, Dammon wove a Lāllan’s Lightning and cast it at the foe. The thing caught the lightning in one hand, absorbing the spell’s effect. Another hush fell upon the onlookers, and some started to leave the gate for safer places. Fyrgol rushed forward with his fiery oreche blade. The creature side-stepped his first slash, bringing a shadowy hand down toward the Feyri’s head. A deep chill passed through Fyrgol’s body. His second cut found the creature’s side. It trembled as he withdrew Skaeldythoel. He then proceeded to hack the thing to the ground until it trembled no more. Meanwhile, Dammon sent a message to his Conscience to lead another to the Academy. After some minutes, a second shade came racing up the hillside. After a long fight with the Feyri swordsman, the second shade shuddered and collapsed like the first. The Conscience returned to the village, but could not find the third.

The magician re-entered the Academy and returned with his colleague, Ingun of Palæð. The magician knelt over the fallen shades. After a number of divinations, the old man looked up and said, “Hūdū”. Ingun explained that the creatures are generally harmless, except with regard to aberrations. They walk Teréth End seeking to repair breaches in the world fabric. When they find places where the Skein is torn, or something that has come through, they hunt it down and try to right what is wrong. It is unclear whether they are intelligent or simply manifestations of the world’s will to survive. He went on to say that they are not common, and may have been drawn to this region for some purpose. Looking at Fyrgol, Ingun added “I doubt they are here for you, though I doubt your presence pleases them.” Fyrgol nodded, remembering a distant warning about the Hūdū that he’d received before coming to this place, so very long ago. After a brief investigation, Ingun arranged for a room for Fyrgol.

Along the north coast of the Bay of Crows, Jak and Zêla returned to the Ildûnan army camp. It was their third walk between Kirít Nalam and the encampment. Upon their arrival, they were escorted to the tent of Commander Kydàzan. The commander greeted his visitors warmly before welcoming them into his canvas quarters. The tent was comprised of two cones supported by a system of interior wheel spokes. The floors were covered with animal furs and Southern rugs, heavily chained chests, carved folding chairs, and a number of tables heaped with parchments, books, and scrolls. The meeting half of the tent was separated from the commander’s private quarters by an elaborate Lanàdan tapestry depicting the High Queen’s War. Though Zêla was greatly interested in this, conversation soon turned to that of the party’s prisoner. The commander asked a great deal of questions about Calyedin, and suggested that he be taken south to the Risen City. In the meantime he summoned a camp priest to accompany the group back to the Academy to “prepare” the prisoner for travel. They also spoke of Nyl and travel into the Great Death. The commander told of what he knew, which wasn’t much. He explained that the Contested Lands were a dangerous place to travel, making a expressive gesture to remind his audience of the army outside his tent. Commander Kydàzan also suggested that recent intelligence suggested that the Ælyris were employing Ogdar mercenaries. Jak thanked the commander for his help. Before leaving, the commander invited his visitors to accompany him during his morning review of the troops.

Jak, Zêla, and an army priestess returned to the Academy in the mid-afternoon.

That evening, Dammon continued his research of Nyl and the dagger. He soon discovered that the dagger had passed through the Academy years ago and was associated with a death that occurred in tunnels beneath the school. An unnamed man had possessed the red dagger but after his unexplained death the object was never seen again. There were no more records of the incident. Dammon decided he wanted to look into the matter more closely. Meanwhile, Fyrgol slipped out the Academy gate and made his way carefully along the precipitous ledge that ringed the school’s walls. He kept his sword brandished, watching the persistent oreche flame blaze and dwindle along its edge as he climbed. Despite the flame’s ominous portent, he saw no more of the shadowy hunters.

Kændor, 2 Drûr 653

Jak and Zêla returned to Kirít Nalam in the morning, seeking provisions for the impending trip. The initial shopkeepers looked twice at the pair when they explained their purpose, but said nothing to dissuade them. They had seen adventurers come and go before, though far fewer of them returning. They learned that Ilûwyr was a cold and lifeless desert that required a number of specific precautions, namely leather wrap-suits and goggles to protect against the debris and sands. One chandler estimated that the journey to Nyl would take nearly a month if they kept to the roads and sheltered in villages where they could. She also warned them not to stray from the roads, repeating this point to the edge of reproach. They thanked her for the counsel and purchased six outfits before returning to the Academy.

Fyrgol meanwhile, was famished. He wandered outside again to see what he could find. Stopping by the dead Hūdū he drew his sword and saw that the flame was gone. Satisfied that the danger had passed, he too went into town and found a place to fish along the wharf.

Malídor, 3 Drûr 653

On the morning of the 3rd, the group passed through the Academy gate and walked down into town. Their packs were heavy with supplies for the long journey ahead. Beyond the pitched rooftops and chimney pots, the shimmering Bay of Crows spread out before them sprinkled with dozens of tiny sailed boats. In Kirít Nalam they found their way to the west road and were soon in the Nadrèwyr countryside heading alongside the slow-moving Run Golàrdyr. The river cut through a wide verdant landscape of rolling green fields dotted with small farms and criss-crossed with low stone-piled walls. Sheep, goats, and cattle stood by the roadside, watching the travelers pass. Sords of ducks made their daily trek down narrow country avenues to the quiet riverside, gathering along the rocky shores and mill ponds. Progress was slow but steady, interrupted by the occasional need to stand aside as wagons rattled east along the rutted road. The road wound through several riverside hamlets, across small stone bridges, and around creaking watermills. It was hard to imagine a more peaceful, idyllic region than this. Despite appearances, this region was under constant threat from Ælyri forces. Commander Kydàzan had assured them that only two days travel north the country was very different. The Contested Land’s border was lined with a string of Ildûnan fortresses that kept the barbarians in check. It was strongly suggested that they make as much progress westward as possible before crossing the northern border, for once in Athewyr their circumstances would take a dangerous turn. There had been no argument against that plan.

Amdor, 4 Drûr 653

Travel along the Run Golàrdyr.

Wōdìndor, 5 Drûr 653

The group reached the Village of Jæmar on day three from Kirít Nalam. They stopped long before the day was done but the decision was made to rest at the inn, bathe, have dinner, and enjoy a good night’s sleep. They were two days from Erðmor, the last town they would come to on the journey inland. Come evening, the inn was crowded with fishermen, loggers, and pilots stopped along the river wharf on their way eastward. They boatmen were bound for Kirít Nalam, Tharawyl, and distant Maavayr. Despite the crowd the inn remained subdued. The innkeeper explained that it would be another scene entirely when the boatmen returned from selling their goods in the weeks ahead.

Iyldor, 6 Drûr 653

Travel along the Run Golàrdyr.

Irídor, 7 Drûr 653

The Town of Erðmor sat at the junction of the Run Golàrdyr and the Run Nyrrm, which flows north from Savarin’s Wall. An old forest stood on the hills above town, perpetually crowned with the smoke of charcoal pits and lumber camps. Giant roller-sluices carried logs down the hill to waiting lumber mills on the riverfront. When the waterwheels began turning, the mills came alive with the sound of large mechanical saws. On the way into town, the south road became a wooden bridge that crossed over the sluice furrows. Now and again another log would rumble underneath on its way to the mills. The town itself was a mess of crowded buildings and curving avenues wrapped around a round central marketplace. The market seemed to be packed with every farmer and merchant in northern Nadrèwyr, and many from as far south as Nyrrm Nalam. It was not difficult to find a suitable inn as most of Erðmor catered to travelers. So on the fifth day out of Kirít Nalam, the group stayed at a comfortable inn, had a hearty meal, and listened to man playing the vielle late into the evening.

Roydor, 8 Drûr 653

Travel along the Run Golàrdyr.

Sūdìdor, 9 Drûr 653

On the second day out of Erðmor, the group came to another tributary coming out of the hills to the north. Here the road turned toward the border and away from the Run Golàrdyr. That evening, the group found themselves in the rural Village of Nelúrem, situated on a cliff above the cascading Run Delun. Gone were the comforts of previous villages and towns. The food was plain and the beds were uncomfortable. The innkeeper’s wife, Tâla, apologized profusely, explaining that there weren’t many travelers in the northern hills and the farmers and residents scorned simple amenities. She went on to explain that she was originally from the Town of Erðmor and had married the brother of her dead husband to provide for her children years before, as was the custom. She missed the comforts of “civilized life” and wished she could return.

Talídor, 10 Drûr 653

After another day of traveling alongside the rambling Run Delun, the group came to the small Village of Ankyreth. Having traveled high into the foothills, they soon learned that this would be the last village they’d encounter before the border. It was explained that the road grew difficult from this point as it meandered through the rocky wilderness. The road ahead was outlined in as much detail as possible by the residents that came to meet the travelers. There was some mention of a more remote village named Gomoth, but it was repeated by more than one that “no one ever goes there” and that “the villagers there, are different”. One last night under a roof before border.

Padídor, 11 Drûr 653

Three roads led from Ankyreth. The east road led back to Nelúrem and Erðmor. The south road crossed a small wooden bridge and proceeded to lower lands and the Village of Targæl. The group headed north into the high hills and wilderness of northern Nadrèwyr. There, a series of streams raced down the rocky slopes before combining into the Run Delun. The road’s condition deteriorated more the farther they traveled from Ankyreth. It was very unlikely that the soldiers used this route when heading to the border. After a day of hard uphill travel, the group got their first glimpse of the Forest of Stones. Every valley in the region was filled with natural pillars of stone like thousands of Felor Jotun standing at attention, waiting for some ancient order that never arrived. The residents of the region had mentioned the rock formations before but did not know much about them other than the area was a great hunting ground. An old man at the inn in Ankyreth had warned that an Ælyri earth spirit lived in the region, but he’d been ridiculed for seeing spirits everywhere, including his own outhouse. The group paused a while to study the strange formations from afar, before searching for camp site.

Bærídor, 12 Drûr 653

Travel through the Forest of Stones.

Virídor, 13 Drûr 653

Travel through the Forest of Stones.

Palídor, 14 Drûr 653

The final push up the northern ridge was the hardest day of the journey so far. It wasn’t until late afternoon that they could see the walls of Kry Irmàrend standing above the hilly countryside. They had reached the northern border of Nadrèwyr, but the road before them was still steep and torturous. The next hours stretched longer and longer as they climbed the ridge road. Here and there, the road had collapsed into wooded valleys and rocky chasms where thin cascades were soon swallowed in evening shadows. The final approach was carved from a face of stone and curved slowly up to the ridge’s top. Emerging from the cutaway, the group found a wide level staging ground heaped with broken and rusted war machinery. The northern wind chilled the travelers and rattled the broken machines. This then was the front line of the ongoing war, a conflict that the Ildûnan tried to maintain farther north but occasionally pushed back south. Kry Irmàrend was a simple fortification with a squat curtain wall and thick square towers rising from each of its corners. The walls were completely unadorned except for a single banner flying in the compound’s center. As the group drew nearer, the gate opened and a welcoming contingent rode out to meet them. After some questions, they were escorted inside and the gate was closed for the night. Jak, and his entourage, were led to barracks where they could stow their belongings. They were then invited to dinner with the Ðard commander of Kry Irmàrend. Jak and the commander talked at length while the others ate and retired, exhausted, for the night.

Alídor, 15 Drûr 653

After a much needed rest, the group left the next morning. In Athewyr, the wind seemed sharper and the air colder. Atop the northern ridge they could now see Contested Lands laid out before them. There were no pillars of stone or forests of ancient trees to grace the landscape. Instead, the entire countryside seemed broken and burned by the endless campaigns that had marched across its back. To the north and west snowy mountaintops awaited them. Somewhere among the distant peaks a pass called the Doomed Way led into the interior of Ilûwyr. That was their next goal. Bundling their coats and cloaks about themselves, the group trudged off along the hard, cold road beneath a cloudy gray sky.

Kændor, 16 Drûr 653

On the first morning beyond Kry Irmàrend, the group awoke to find it snowing. Dammon sat near the campfire while the others disassembled the camp, not a flake of snow landing upon his chalky head. With the snow laying everywhere else around them, a new sense of urgency fell upon the group. If the snow continued they might lose track of the road, and if they lost the road they might never find the Doomed Way pass. Within minutes they were back on the road, pushing north toward the mountains. The snow continued most of the morning, slowing the group to a determined trudge. More than once they feared that the road was lost but managed to locate it again and continue on their way. Behind them their footsteps grew shallow and disappeared with the passing watch.

Malídor, 17 Drûr 653

The next day, the snow returned and the hike grew even more difficult. The road began gaining elevation and turning back on itself in a series of tight switchbacks which made the mountains seem much farther away. After a long and difficult day the group made camp near a road marker. The commander of Kry Irmàrend had mentioned this landmark three nights ago and explained that the eastern road led down to the Ruins of Kelvyra. He’d described it as an old Ælyri village which had been burned and rebuilt at least twice since taking his post. Assuming the road marker was the one he’d described, for no carvings remained on the stone, it was a good feeling to be on the right path. It also meant that they should enter the pass by tomorrow.

Amdor, 18 Drûr 653

On the fourth day out of Kry Irmàrend, the group climbed even higher into the mountains. By late morning the pass revealed itself between the shoulders of Mor Varæyn and Mor Noen. It also became apparent that the gray clouds that hung so heavily above them these past days did not penetrate into the land beyond. Despite their proximity and pushing through the snow and wind all day, the group stopped shy of the pass in the late evening. Nearby they spotted the reflection of firelight against a concave face of stone. At the base of the outcropping sat a solitary figure who had managed to build a sizable fire. See the visitors, the traveler motioned them over and invited them to his camp. The stranger spoke Ildûnic, leaving much of the talk to Dammon who spoke to him in Dekàlic. As they crowded around the blaze to thaw their hands and feet, cook a hot meal, and unroll their bedding, the man spoke about the perils of Ilûwyr and the Village of Nyl.

Dammon explained that the folio he’d read at Kirít Nalam described the place as a haven for adventurers, an explorer’s outpost for those wishing to delve into the wonders of the Crescent Desert. The stranger understood some of what Dammon was saying and gave a contradictory shake of his head. He tried his best to explain. “I come from Nyl. Leave there days past. Bad weather ahead: cold, wind. Nyl is bad place. No law. Much money there, but difficult to hold. People from all places find Nyl. All strangers. Much trade but all secret. Find many things. Dead desert has many treasures, terrible things.” The conversation ended early as the group was exhausted from days of hiking through the snow and wind. It was a balm to no one learning that the weather beyond the pass would also be bad. The group arranged themselves into watches, but the stranger took no part. Instead, he sat in front the fire all night, unmoving, unblinking, unaware.

Wōdìndor, 19 Drûr 653

With the first of dawn the stranger stood and collected his things. Before leaving he stopped by Dammon’s bedroll to give more warnings. “No trust for Zygyrm. Dishonest. Kill him if chance is good. Keep treasure and money close. Everyone steals. Careful. Pray gods protect you.” With that the stranger nodded farewell and strode out into the snowy landscape.

Once the group had eaten a hot breakfast, they collected their things and continued into the pass. The snow had stopped falling overnight and the air was clear. They soon found their way back onto the road and were relieved to find that the worst of the climb was behind them. By afternoon they crested the final ridge and stopped to behold the country before them. Beyond the divide there was no snow only a barren rocky landscape extending into a distant horizon. Somewhere in that cold, vast desert lay the legendary City of Ildûn, brought to ruins by the Eylfāe and their Acèntyran confederates. Dammon looked about him and a chill colder than the mountain winds gnawed at his heart. There was no magic here.

The group continued through the pass.

Continued in Into the Wastes.

Characters

• Dammon Shroudson = 1 CPs (242)
• Fyrgol = 3+1 CPs (171)
• Jak of Cænden = 2 CPs (239)
• Tressta Drynsval = 2 CPs (232)
• Baggar of Ealyma (Monk)
• Ērēus of Amra = 2 CPs (315)
• Familiar = Unkn.
• Graiç of Mazzam = 0 CPs (153)
• Ingun of Palæð (Magician)
• Zêla ma Ler = 2 CPs (178)

Played: 10 Jul 2009