Ra’ziir's Test of High Sorcery - Day Three
7th day of Hiddumont, 348 AC
The night passes quietly in peaceful comfort. The next morning in the Tower of Wayerth is quiet and a sense of tension hangs in the air. Ra’ziir doesn't see anyone around although breakfast has been laid out so he helps himself. He finishes eating and turns to head back toward his quarters when he glances into the grand hall where the leaders of the Conclave gather. The Hall of Mages is an immense obsidian chamber with a 60' ceiling. Twenty chairs sit in shadows, while one central chair gives off a cold, white glow - the hall's only light source. All twenty-one chairs face the north wall.
The longer he looks into the room, the larger it seems although whether it is a trick of the light, clever architecture, or magic is hard to tell.
He turns away from the chamber and finds himself at the bottom of a spiraling set of black stairs that were not there a moment before. The door to the Hall of Mages is gone, replaced by a blank stone wall. Above, torches ligh spring to life, glowing with red, black, and white flames, beckoning you upward, "Looks like the next part of the Test is finally starting," you think to yourself as you start up the stairs. The climb seems to take forever but after an untold number of minutes, you reach a landing. Beyond stands simple wooden double doors with silver doir knockers. Along the left wall, large painted portraits hang at regular intervals, portraying various mages of High Sorcery.
As he makes his way toward the double doors, Ra’ziir stops to look at each of the mages pictured in the hall. He thinks perhaps there may be a story to unravel or maybe a clue of some sort that might give him insight to the next test.
There are only 12 paintings on the wall. There are no labels or nameplates identifying the pictured mages, who wear an assortment of white, red, and black robes. Some pictures are centuries old while one looks like it may still be wet with fresh paint. Some of the mages scowl, others vary between whimsical and boredom. Of the final five pictures, the first is a black-robed kender with an enormous, dazzling smile, pointy hat, and monocle. The second is a tall, reb-robed humanoid with light blue skin and proud expression with an amulet dangling on a chain held between his fingers. Third, is a shy-looking black robed woman with dark hair and pupils shaped like hourglass. The fourth is a white-robed, white-haired elven woman with an ornate rapier hanging from her belt. All of the them - mages from every sort of background - had taken their Test and survived.
The final painting has no frame and is entirely black. Looking at it produces a sense of unease, a vague wrongness that tells you someone is watching from the other side of the canvas.
Ra’ziir shakes off the uneasy feeling as just another trick of the Test before moving toward the double doors. He takes a quick glance back at the black canvas, debating whether he should look behind it before moving on.
Curiosity drives him to follow through and the Bladesinger goes back to lift an edge of the canvas from the wall before trying to remove the entire thing from its mounted position.
The midnight-colored ink begins to swirl on the canvas, and you hear a man's deep, articulate voice inside your mind. "More wood for the fire. Another sacrifice to feed the Conclave's ego. You are an interesting one though, aren't you? Not many can perceive me at all, let alone make contact, yet today alone, there have been three of you. With a little help, I suspect that you just might make a mark on this little world. No mage worth their salt is an island."
Ra’ziir considers the words and who… or what may have spoken them. Reaching to touch the canvas, he thinks “What must you have done that the conclave doesn’t even reveal your image during the Test? Or is it you who keeps hidden intentionally?”
The Elfemental waits to see if there is a response, or if this is just another illusory test before making his way to the door to knock.
"I have committed a great many sins, just like any other who would follow our path, like any other who loves the feel of magic coursing through their body. Even the most promising of mages master their early tests, only to perish in the last, most vicious test. The corpses of those unlucky acolytes now lie, entombed, beneath this very tower. I alone can and will help you survive your final challenge. All I ask, in exchange, is a small portion of your life force after you complete your tests."
Ra’ziir grows suspicious as the voice in his head utters the last few sentences…
“Your claim seems rife with desperation… and makes it apparent that I have more to offer you than you do me…”
The Eldritch Knight pauses a moment, choosing his words carefully in the event that assistance from this disembodied voice in his head may actually be needed. At the same time, he combats the idea that the voice may be another figment of his subconscious toying with his mental stability again.
He waits a moment to see if the voice responds before approaching the doors and knocking.
"Regardless of your choice, I will endure, endless and ever-present. I offer you insight when you will need it most. Turn aside from my offer. Perhaps you will survive. Perhaps your mind will shatter under the strain. Accept my aid, and you will surely triumph!"
Ra’ziir chuckles and knocks on the doors.
The voice grows loud and indignant inside your mind. "How utterly disappointing that you possess so little ambition or even an ounce of self-preservation. So be it! More wood for the fire!"
The mage's presence fades from his mind. Turning his attention to the doors, he finds that they seem utterly...normal. They appear to have neither handle nor lock - their only feature being a silvered door knocker. With no other obvious way to proceed, he rap three times upon the door.
A moment later, the door swings open. Beyond lies the familiar, fey-haunted forest you passed through on your way to the Tower. Heavy fog rolls through the Wayerth Forest. The red eyes of otherwise unseen creatures lurk in the mist. He reaches down, checking his weapons, takes a breath, and steps through.
The door vanishes, the echo of its closing continues on for a few seconds before fading away as well. The misty air is thick with anticipation. The trees' dead branches are still, thenweird red-eyed creatures remain steady, almost as if holding their breath as the seconds drag out. The white and red moons shine their light down upon you. The black most likely does as well, although you cannot be sure if that is even possible.
A voice snakes its way into your ear, "So it begins...."
Ra’ziir looks quizzically at the pile of pebbles, then asks the winged figure “How can I best assist you?”
Ra’ziir begins picking through and inspecting the pebbles carefully. “It sounds like you may be describing a diamond…” the Elfemental posits. “Though I’m not certain why a diamond might be warm to the touch.”
He continues to inspect the small stones, awaiting a response from the unusual woman. He crouches, his fingers brushing across the pebbles, spreading them out into a single layer before opening his palm. Suddenly, his fingers come into a contact with a single rock that gives off heat comparable to a cozy hearth fire — contained within a small, unremarkable piece of earth. When he holds it, that soothing warmth spreads to the rest of his body. Ra’ziir extends his hand, holding it out for the snake woman. She smiles and says, "Thank you." She the rolls forward off of the cliff and spreads her wings and flies away.
The wind suddenly picks up, forcing the bladesinger to squint his eyes against stinging grit. Once the wind abates, Raz finds himself in a long and narrow hallway, lit only by the sickly glow of luminescent moss that coats the ceiling and floor. He can barely stand up straight, and when he spreads his arms, he can easily touch both sides of the wall. With each step forward, the narrower and lower the space becomes, forcing him to crouch and shimmy as he goes along.
After what feels like hours, possibly an entire day, the sound of clicking nails on stone echoes through the passage. The noise seems to come from the ceiling ahead and Ra'ziir's gaze rises to the ceiling. Disembodied hands, each alive and crawling out of a small hole in the wall, using their fingers like legs, skittering quickly toward him.
As the crawling, disembodied hands are mere seconds from reaching him, Ra’ziir plucks a red dragon scale from a fold in his tunic, stretches out his hand, and cries, "Aganazzar flamma jet!" Fire roars forth, washing over animated fingers and reduces them to ash. The bladesinger kicks and stomps and swats his way through the oncoming horde until he reaches a door. He kicks it open, shrugs off another pair of hands and steps through.
And finds himself in a forest. The branches of the trees are covered in red leaves. His toes are hard against the outer edge of a magical circle carved into the ground. Three stooped kobolds in hooded robes snap and snarl at each other.
.jpg)
“I told you that we need an extra point here!” hisses one, gesturing to the circle.
Another kobold energetically points a clawed finger at the ritual circle. “Well then, it wouldn’t be a pentagram, now would it?”
“Oh, come on, stop pretending like you know more than we do.” the third grumbles. Simultaneously, all three of the creatures turn their heads towards Ra’ziir, their reptilian eyes semi-blinking.
“You’re late!” The first reptile says, shuffling to you on clawed feet. “We’ve been expecting you ever since Her Majesty said you’d be coming to help us with the ritual. You got what we need.”
The second one also ambles over to you. “I made some guesses, did the lines just like Her Majesty told me, but it’s not lighting up. Got a clue why?”
All three crowd around Ra’ziir, their questions overlapping and becoming more urgent as they move in closer and closer. From within the circle, he hears a familiar voice.
“It is good to see you again, adventurer. I do not quickly forget those who cross my path. And you… have certainly intrigued me.” The seductive whisper doesn’t get louder, yet it feels closer to you, almost right in your ear. “You’ve heard many names from my loyal servants here, but you may know me by my true name Takhisis—be sure not to say it lightly.”
As the voice continues to speak, the three kobolds all tremble in awe, groveling in exaggerated reverence. “I see you are taking the Test of High Sorcery. A valiant way to chase ambition, yet so tedious and slow in its progress. By the time you even get the smallest taste of the power you could have, you’ve already bound yourself by the restraining laws of the Conclave.”
For a moment, it feels as though a hand has touched your cheek, but when you look, there is nothing there. “Would it interest you to know that you could gain power and prestige more easily? If you complete this ritual and survive your tests, I can give you power and purpose beyond the Conclave’s wildest dreams.”
“Give…? As in without a cost?”
The Eldritch Knight knows well enough that every temptation has a price. Intrigued as he is, he focuses on the magical circle, looking for flaws in the design and a sense of what it does. “Let’s see if I even qualify for your boon first before I start contemplating any offers you might have…”
As Ra’ziir approaches the ritual circle, he recognizes the symbol carved into the ground as the same one in Wayreth Forest clearing, if missing a few lines and a little crooked. Fixing it would be a matter of child's play. The circle is definitely meant for conjuration, but a minor one.
One of the robed kobolds brings Ra’ziir a staff. The Elfemental takes it and begins drawing the corrections in the dirt and using his foot to wipe away the small reptilians' mistakes. As he traces in the new lines, he feels a power begin to build, cold and swirling. The forest grows dark as the sun retreats behind some clouds and the shadows grow thicker but Ra’ziir is deep in the "zone" and works unabated.
As he lifts the staff from the finishing stroke in the soil, the symbol glows, flashing brilliantly between red, green, blue, white, and black. The colors undulate along the lines, and the air shimmers with a palpable energy coursing through the area, fluttering his clothes. An amulet appears in the center of the ritual circle, bearing the five chromatic heads of Takhisis surrounding a red gem. The eyes of the kobolds all glitter upon seeing the amulet, but they stay in place, held back only by the deep respect they hold for their Dark Queen. Takhisis speaks again, stronger than before, no longer a whisper but a charismatic and commanding declaration. “Ah, yes, mage! You truly are interesting. If you wish to take your reward, I offer you this amulet. It will grant you a fragment of my power and more to be unlocked as your arcane might grows.”
Ra’ziir gives a chuckle, “We’ll see, I guess…” and reaches to take the amulet.
Although there is no physical voice to her manifestation here, Ra’ziir know that she smiles. The amulet floats to his hand, and as he places his fingers around the five heads of the dragon, the awe-inspiring presence of Takhisis coursing through his body. Takhisis chuckles, deep and sultry, as the ritual circle swirls, revealing a portal. The three kobolds look at the bladesinger and salute before they step through, disappearing. “I look forward to the day I call for you… my adventurer.”
He looks the amulet over, front and back, searching for any
When he steps away from the circle, the portal collapses in a brilliant display of light. After blinking out the spots swimming in his vision, Ra’ziir finds that his next Test of High Sorcery has already begun.
He finds himself in a maze made entirely of mirrors, with no exit behind or ahead. Each wall is reflective to a polished shine and stretches impossibly high, reflecting his reflection back and forth into infinity. Suddenly Ra’ziir hears the sound of his voice although he hasn't said a word. “Well, well. Look at where we are now.” He turns his head to the side, and his reflection does, too. It’s only then that he sees that his reflection walks not in a perfectly mirrored image. Instead, they walk in stride, independent of his movements and thoughts, and begin speaking again in his voice. “How did we get here, stuck in a mirror maze, wandering until something terrible happens to us? Oh yeah, I remember now. You did this to us. And what are all of our efforts for? To be counted among equals to mousy wannabe mage Kyrian or peers with what's-his-name who got off on tormenting other people?”
An image flashes of Kyrian and the bullies in the antechamber. The faces of the three mages who interviewed him appear, each judging him with their gaze. “To be locked into subservience to one of three gods? To live in a lonely tower like a bird in a gilded cage? To be drafted into wars at the will and whim of others, forced to fight against former friends and enemies you don’t know?”
The vision shifts again, revealing not the past but a possible future where you battle with another mage as war rages behind in the distance. The reflection sneers, "And that's if we live. Wouldn’t it be better just to stop now while we have life and limbs attached? Imagine what kind of future we could have if you chose it for ourself!”
Ra’ziir grunts at his reflection, not fully trusting that the voice is not a hallucination given the all of the mental and physical stresses his mind has been subjected to since this entire cross-world and multidimensional misadventures began. He turns away from the image and the sound of grinding metal and glass fill the air as the mirrors begin to shift, cutting off all potential forward paths. He braces himself, trying to prepare himself for anything as the glass closes around him. His reflection, now face-to-face with him, laughs cruelly. “If you can’t even succeed in getting through here, how do you expect to pass the Test?”
As his eyes meet the glass, he no longer sees himself as he is now, but rather a version who looks healthy and happy and whole, any scars from the trials gone. This version smiles, having a tight-knit and loving family, living in comfort away, untouched by the terror of war, and even going on an adventure or two. “You see?” pipes up the reflection, “You could choose to have a simple, peaceful life. So many of the Test takers had this opportunity, and yet they threw it away for the path of magic. That path always has, and always will, lead to destruction.” The comforting visions shift, revealing now fractal echoes of many mages who have come to pass through the Test of High Sorcery. He sees them torn apart by monsters, impaled by spikes, and drowned in their own blood. The mages that do make it through look haunted, with many missing limbs or vacant expressions, forlorn of eagerness or hope. He watches the mages leave to fight wars and hunt rogue wizards. In the heat of battle, mages eviscerate each other in the most brutal and cruel ways. Mangled bodies and empty eyes fill the vision, and the coppery taste of blood fills his mouth.
He tears away from the sight, the horrifying images fade away, replaced once more by the potential pastoral future. Ra’ziir's reflection reaches out until their hand pushes through the glass, inviting him to take it and let it lead him away from the Test of High Sorcery to a better life.
The glass begins to squeeze Ra’ziir and he pushes back, bracing himself with his back and legs and snarls out, "Serpentis anhelitus, mortis dulcedo et vitae, Omen faciens!" Five glowing missiles erupt from his fingers, each targeting one of his many reflections. The mirrors shatter, breaking into thousands of glittering shards that rain down all around him.
As the last of the fragments fall, Ra’ziir finds himself atop a hill. A gorgeous sunset sky at the top of a hill, at a crossroads overgrown with tangled weeds and dancing blades of pale grass. Cool winds whistle across the hilltop. Four paths cascade down from the crossroads—three offering locations where he might find rest and one hinting at a more perilous-looking trail. The westward road leads to a small seaside village in the midst of celebration, its people singing lively offkey shanties from the town square. The northern road slopes to a beautiful glade surrounded by cozy trees and a sparkling pond. The eastern road curves around a rocky bend, and beyond lies a home that looks just like the one he grew up in, with a single lantern’s light shining from a window. The southern road disappears into the thick, choking fog—he can feel in his gut that way lies the next challenge in the Test of High Sorcery.
Ra'ziir looks down the hill and eschewing the opportunity to rest and regain his spells plunges into the fog. The mist smells strongly of copper and salt. Gnarled tree limbs hang over the road, taking on the appearance of skeletal arms beckoning him to leave the path. The way forward is rocky and uneven, but he boldly stays the course.
The twisted, foggy road onward leads you away from the hill and, eventually, underground. The mist dissipates, and you find yourself standing upon a small, soggy dock within a sea cove. At the end of the dock, a wooden sloop sailing the flag of the crimson moon Lunitari rocks back and forth against the choppy waves. On its side, the name The Night Candle has been painted in red calligraphy that glows slightly with arcane light.
The floodwaters continue to rise in the cove as the bladesinger makes his way up the gangplank and pull it up onto the ship’s deck. Suddenly, the captain’s cabin door flies open, and a large, wild-bearded man stumbles out onto the deck, wearing stained navy robes and a matching tricorn hat. He waves a bottle of rum wildly around in the air and rumbles loudly at you. “Oi! This ain’t yer mama’s storm, ye slow-legged landpup! I’ll take the helm, and ye man the sails like yer life depended on it. ‘Cause mark me words, pup, it does! The Sea Witch be hungry tonight, and scabby ol’ Zeboim will gobble up yer bones whole if ye be shortwitted. We got a ways to go if we e’er hope to sleep beneath the red moon again!” The ship captain chugs the rest of his rum and throws the empty bottle carelessly overboard. The captain begins to bark orders to make ready to sail. Soon enough, the two of you take The Night Candle out into the midst of the most vicious storm you have ever witnessed. Its wrath tosses the ship about like a toy. The thunder roars in elemental fury, and the captain roars defiantly back as he steers you toward a distant, beckoning mist of silver fog. Just when it seems your fearless captain is every bit the match for Zeboim’s storm, swirling funnels of water rise like columns from the churning ocean and batter the ship. One of the funnels floods the foredeck, washing the captain away from the helm and toward the frothing sea. Unmanned, the ship’s helm begins to spin in wild circles, forcing your course in the wrong direction.
Ra’ziir races across the flooded wooden deck to try to reach the ship’s spinning helm. “Ye spineless, yellow-warted knave! Ye’ve not seen the last o’ lucky Cap’n Lu-aaaah!” the ship’s captain bellows out at you over the fury of the storm, his final words turning to a scream when a hateful wave sends him plummeting overboard to his watery grave. Just before the elf gets to the helm, a lightning bolt splits the sky wide open, and another giant wave comes crashing directly toward him. Gripping the wheel to keep from being swept over the side, Ra’ziir plants his feet and heaves with all of his might, righting the ship.
Just as it seems that all is going well, a long pink tongue, as big around as a ship's hawser flashes out of the fog and lightning. The warty, sticky muscle oozes yellow goo from weepy pustules as it strikes Ra’ziir in the back. It quickly retracts, hauling the Elfemental backwards, tearing his grip from the wheel. The goo is caustic and burns through Ra’ziir's tunic and begins to eat away at the flesh beneath. He manages to plant his feet on the gunwale and heaves furiously against the pull. The tongue rips away with sick, popping sounds and Ra'ziir rolls forward, away from his attacker. He rises and turns in time to see the vast maw of a massive sea monster resembling a cross between a giant frog and a dragon with small wings. The monster roar-croaks thunderously before slipping beneath the waves.
The Bladesinger draws his obsidian blade, Grumbar’s Razor, from its sheath. The weapon begins to smoke, surrounding him with a black, ashy cloud that conceals his movements. The sword hums lightly in his hand, thrumming with power taken from the Vorpal Blade in the Grimmlands after the Jabberwock was slain. He also downs a potion that will allow his to breathe underwater if he is swept overboard. He stands between the wheel and the mast, seeking to limit the directions the winged frog monster can attack him from.
The beast bursts from the water again, only 20' off of the starboard beam and lunges forward through the water, closing the gap in a second. The frog monster slams into the side of the ship, rocking it so violently that the starboard rail is briefly submerged. As the ship rocks back, the monster digs its claws into the side and pulls, hard. The port rail plunges precariously toward the water. Ra’ziir allows himself to fall toward the behemoth's gaping maw and slashes it across the face. Yellow ooze spatters, digging pits in the wooden deck. Acidic fumes rises from the pockmarked wood, the stench nearly blinding Ra’ziir. He launches three more swift cuts, one landing on the brute's brow and the second across the back of its left clawed foot. More acid sprays with each strike but the monster releases the side of the ship before the last blow can land. It drops away and circles quickly, coming about with a speed and grace that belies its massive size and rushes the ship again.
Ra’ziir grabs a hold of some rigging that broke loose during the monster's first strike and, with a running start, swings out over the side. He drops onto the approaching creature's back and whips his sword back and forth across the shoulder blades. Blood amd acid spray everywhere in the wake of the attack. The frog-dragon croaks loudly and dives again, giving Ra’ziir barely enough time to leap clear.
The elf hauls himself back over the rail and scans the water for signs of his foe. His back burns from where the first tongue attack hit him and numerous burns cover his hands and chest from the acidic sprays.
Several minutes go by with no sign of the creature. Silver fog rises around the ship until the deck vanishes beneath his feet and Ra'ziir instead finds himself standing before tall, broad double doors crafted from crimson metal. Strange runes carved along its outside fill the area with cold white light similar to the light seen in the Hall of Mages. When he turns, he finds himrself at one end of a narrow bone-littered dungeon corridor. The other end of the hall is a dead-end. You turn back to the arcane door again. However, there is a handshaped hole at waist level through the door. Magical darkness can be seen through the hole into the next room.
“Long narrow hallways… I’m sensing a theme.” Ra’ziir mutters to himself. “Okay…” he looks at the hand-shaped hole, and then the dead-end. Letting out a sigh, he starts toward the dead-end, “just to be sure…” he goes to give the area a look. He taps along the walls, the floor, the ceiling all around the dead end, hoping to find a secret door or a lever, a button, some sort of panel, pretty much anything but for all of his effort comes up with nothing.
He takes a breath and resigns himself to reaching into the darkened space. “I don’t imagine this is one of those ‘Glory Holes’ ya hear about…” he closes his eyes and grits his teeth, anticipating something painful as he reaches through the hand-shaped hole. And is rewarded with dozens of needles piercing his forearm. He feels a dull burn as poison is pumped into his system but his crystalline heart prevents any sort of venom from taking hold in his system. After a few seconds, the needles withdraw and the door begins to glow purple. The door splits in half, with each side receding into the wall on either side.
Just beyond the doorway, several skeletons and the ruined remains of a leather-bound tome float in midair. It takes a second to realize that they are suspended in a gelatinous mass. The translucent cube lurches forward, no longer held at bay by the door halves. The mass swarms over the Eldritch Knight, trapping him inside. He kicks off with his feet and pushes out the far side of the cube before he can be paralyzed by the acidic jelly. He staggers up the hall, putting some distance between himself and the cube. He climbs a short set of stairs and pushes through another door at the far end of the hall and finds himself in a mountainous cavern.
Snow and ash mix in a furious, howling swirl high above Though it is snowing outside, the air around you here is hellishly hot. Deep volcanic vents release choking sulfuric gasses into the air. A giant mound of gold, gems, and stolen treasures fills the cavern floor below the jagged obsidian ledge upon which you stand. An enormous red dragon slumbers, half-buried in its treasure hoard. The great creature’s scales are a dark, shiny red, as thick as ten stacked shields. Curved horns crest the dragon’s reptilian head, poking through a pile of gold coins. Each of its snoring breaths is powerful enough to shake the mountain walls. The dragon’s breath is so hot that it melts some of the treasure close to its maw, causing a small stream of liquid gold to trickle to the cavern floor below. Cold fear seizes Ra’ziir as he gazes upon the titanic reptile. It shifts slightly in its sleep, grumbling as it wriggles in to get more comfortable.
Ra’ziir carefully places the five-headed dragon amulet around his neck before loudly announcing, “Awaken magnificent child of Takhisis and rise from your slumber!”
The Elf pauses, waiting for any reaction, his two most powerful spells on the tip of his tongue.
“I am Ra’ziir Azagoth! Favored of Your Mother of Dragons, Bearer of the Blood and the Jewel, Planeswalker and Time Stalker, and I will not skulk through your lair unbidden hiding amongst the shadows! Arise great beast!!”
The dragon's left "eyebrow" rises slightly as the crimson beast turns its gaze toward the Eldritch Knight. It rises on its front legs and spreads its wings. The rumble of its breathing shakes the floor. "I would call your intrusion brave, thief, but I make a point of never complimenting my snack before I devour it.” Heat shimmers around the dragon as it rises. As it spreads its wings, the temperature of the cavern rises dramatically and the fiery glow radiating from the red wyrm's chest sheds illumination on the elf, revealing the damage his body suffered when he forced his way through the gelatinous cube. The skin on his hands has been eaten away, exposing crystalline muscles and tendons beneath his flesh. He can only imagine what his face must look like. Sweat begins to bead along Ra’ziir's hairline and around the collar of his tunic. “I have eons inside me, and eons await me. Before I toast you like dessert and swallow you whole, sate my boredom. Tell me, morsel—why dare you come here and gaze upon me?”
“Know first that I am no thief!” replies Ra’ziir.
“That said, the answer to your query will require me explaining how I have arrived in this world… and that may take some time.
But first, I have announced my arrival and made my introductions, yet have been met with naught but threats. Am I to die without even knowing the name of my fellow interlocutor? I stand before you, facing the possibility of instant immolation. May I not even know with whom I speak?”
The Elfemental stands tall upon the obsidian ledge, projecting confident deference while casually assessing each second of the interaction. Arcane words ready to call forth his most powerful magics swirl in his mind, and his hand never indicates just how ready it is to draw Grumbar’s Razor should the awesome dragon choose violence.
A sly grin, if that is the word for it, crosses the dragon's face, “You have a good way of speaking… for a morsel. Tell me, morsel, how many titles can you invent that capture perfectly my mightiness—my magnificence? If you can give me one hundred worthy names, perhaps I will let you leave here uneaten.”
The Bladesinger scoffs at the request ever so slightly.
“And lo, oh Unnamed Terror Who Slumbers in Gold, should I meet your request would you then ALSO honor me with thy actual name?”
“And lo, oh Unnamed Terror Who Slumbers in Gold, should I meet your request would you then ALSO honor me with thy actual name?”
The Elf smiles at the gargantuan reptile. “Think on it while I sate your whimsy…”
Ra’ziir gestures as if addressing a large crowd…
“Behold! Before me towers: The Crimson Terror, Ember King, Lord of Scorched Skies, Inferno Sovereign, Scalding Wyrm, Flameheart the Mighty, The Blazing Reign, Sovereign of Ashes, The Infernal Overlord... "
The dragon raises one clawed hand, "Enough! Enough. I grow tired of your prattling mews. Begone now, before I change my mind.”
The beast smiles, and Ra'ziir is certain that this is the word for what he's looking at.
“I am Death-Maw, the bane of all foes of Takhisis! I am Mountainous Perfection, embodied by the fires that forged this world! I am Mighty Fang, devourer of thieves and liars and spies! I am King of the Mountains, and all who look upon me tremble and die!” The dragon raises its head and roars fire into the sky. The heat from the blaze liquifies more gold, copper, and steel coins. Gems explode in the superheated cavern and the dragon spreads its wings and takes flight, soaring out of the cavern and into the stormy night above. You can hear its terrible cries for some time, echoing across the mountain peaks. As ash swirls all around, a twisting sensation fills Ra’ziir's head and his vision goes white.
After a minute or two, his eyes clear and he finds himself back atop the hillside overlooking the four paths from before. Under the light of Solinari and Lunitari, no similar choice is offered this night. All roads twist and rejoin, leading to the same place. The road winds around the hillside to the wreckage of the seaside village you recently sought refuge in. The entire village stinks of dragonfire, ash, and the smoldering dead. Bodies lie unburied in the street, scorched limbs sticking from fallen buildings and mounds of soot. One building stands remarkably untouched, a small temple to a god the Eldritch Knight does not recognize. It bears the image of a shining silvery dragon. The friendly voice of an older person greets you. “Oh, dear. Oh, hello!” Ra’ziir looks over his shoulder and see a confused-looking older man peering at him from within the temple. The man is dressed in simple gray robes and a pointed green hat. “Terrible! Absolutely horrible. These were good people here, with good hearts. And I always told them so, too! I say, friend, do you mind if we share this haven with you for the night?”
Before the Elfemental can answer, the older man roughly scratches his scalp and wags a finger in the air. “Ah, wait. Oh, dear. I can’t. Not tonight! And besides, you don’t need me interrupting your studies, not when so much hinges on your performance! Forgive me, good friend, but consider it a rain check. I must be away.” The man promptly steps away from the doorway, moving faster than one might expect for a person of his age. When you go to look outside, he is gone. At the temple’s step, however, lies a small figurine made of platinum, crafted in the likeness of a noble dragon.
Ra’ziir picks up the platinum figurine and looks it over before pocketing it. He then turns to first investigates the temple before preparing his spells. The Elf finally settles into Reverie for a brief respite.
Comments
Post a Comment