Tarithnesti - Infiltrated!
07 Deepkolt 349 AC
EN ROUTE TO TARITHNESTI
Kysek continues as planned. He concentrates upon his raptor familiar and tells Bubo to continue to relay what he sees; hoping to better formulate a plan prior to his arrival. He continues to guide Dusk through the treetops and under the canopy for concealment as his mind sifts through Bubo's information and runs down the spells he has remaining.
His world narrows to two wildly different views. Below, he can feel the rise and fall of Dusk's wings, he can hear the whistling of the wind as the griffon skims the treetops. He smell the tang of pine tar from the forest and the new leather of his saddle and harness.
He closes his eyes, trusting his steed to carry him where he needs to go and focuses on what Bubo can see.
It's like looking through a tunnel. Everything close by is a hazy blur cast in shades of gray, black, and white. Farther out, the elf is able to pick out fine details - individual needles on pine trees, patterns of tree bark, errant wisps of mist clinging to the trees. Straight ahead only, almost no peripheral vision.
And, far ahead, off in the distance - still some thirty minutes away, the crystal atop the Protector's Tower.
The elf turned mage strokes the feathers of his steed. “You know where to go; you know how to get there. Stay unseen girl; I need to focus to gain a plan. Give me a minute girl. I’ll be right back with you. We need to know what we’re flying into. Bubo is giving me this. Stay dark; stay silent, our approach and lives depend on it.”
ON THE EASTERN RIDGES
Ornforithalas’ blood runs cold. For almost thirty seconds, he can't move. Can't breath.
Images of dragon fire, of a city burning around him, fill his mind. The night he should have died. Only the intervention of the Cat Síth, Lord Hamish, had saved his life and life of his wife, Tephysea.
The elves around him all freeze, paralyzed with fright as the dragons begin flying past.
The dragons glide with terrifying purpose. Disciplined. Coordinated. The green wyrms slip low, their sinuous bodies threading between the towering trunks like living venom, scales catching dim light in flashes of sickly jade.
Higher above, the pale ones command the sky. White dragons. Larger. Colder. More bestial. Frost trails in their wake, faint but unmistakable, like winter itself stalking the forest.
Each dragon bears a figure clad in armor, long spears angled downward—not searching, but ready. Prepared. As if they already know where to strike.
A warning prickles down his spine and he realizes... "They’re not scouting…"
The dragons pass him by, three greens and three whites, all headed for Tarithnesti.
AT THE FIRST FARMSTEAD
Through their mindlink, Ra’ziir suggests to Raven that his remaining scouts split to cover either side of the procession as they move parallel with and ahead of it.. Redclaw and the Eldritch Knight continue scouting the aerial perimeter from above, keeping an eye on the horizon while Redclaw scans the ground.
While Ra'ziir flies overhead on Redclaw, Raven scouts ahead on the forest floor.
Grotto takes position as the rear guard of the procession, looking over his shoulder to be sure they are not being followed.
"A bull, a bison! Who asked me to fight evil? Is one of those evil? What is going on?" The confused dwarf thinks to himself while watching the path.
AT THE CRYSTAL QUARRY
Cedron turns swiftly, a bit startled, upon hearing the voice behind him. He looks the messenger over. “I bet you’d like a coin too?” Cedron says to the grown messenger. “Well, it’ll cost you a tooth.” He jokes mainly to himself knowing the elf has no context for understanding his comment. Wasting no time in awkward silence, “Let’s not keep the Commander waiting. Lead the way.” He asserts.
THE PROTECTOR'S TOWER
Cedron and his escort cross the river on a small, rope-guided ferry. The minstrel-priest makes his way to the Tower. The guards stationed out front open the door, allowing him to pass.
He makes his way up through the training gallery, two floors' worth of barracks, and past the war room on the fourth floor. As he steps off of the stairs and onto the fifth floor landing, an explosion blows the door off of the Commander's office.
The blast hits with the force of thunder inside the confined space. Cedron staggers back half of a step as the pressure wave hits him. His escort curses loudly and falls. Smoke pours out of the shattered doorway with streaks of red light swirling within the cloud.
Cedron rushes to door and looks inside. Parnitha is propped against the back wall of the room. Splinters from her shattered desk and bits of broken glass pierce her skin. A blackened warhammer is clutched in one hand. Smoke rises from tiny fires where the carpet continues to burn.
At her feet lies what used to be a person. The corpse is twisted, half-collapsed in on itself, its once-humanoid form now ruptured and splitting apart. Blackened, gold scales, the high crest surrounding what's left of its lead. The smell is horrific: burned flesh mixed with a bitter chemical odor that clings to the back of the throat.
An Aurak Draconian.
Even in death, it’s not entirely still. Faint, residual energies ripple through the remains—its infamous death throes having already spent most of their fury in the blast that destroyed the door.
Cedron moves to Parnitha. Seeing that there are no more immediate threats present, he checks her well-being and casts healing spell. “What happened?” He inquires.
"That thing... it was wearing his face." The Commander's voice is monotone, almost mechanical. She lifts the green gem pendant hanging around her neck and shows it to Cedron. "It tried to take this. We... fought. How long? How much did it hear? How many of our plans does it know? Are there other things like that?"
As the commander's injuries fade, Cedron asks, “This is troubling. What if any indications did it give you that it was not who you expected? We must immediately find a way to identify these things.”
Parnitha pushes herself to her feet, using her hammer as a cane for leverage. She holds up the green gem hanging on from a chain around her neck. "He tried to take this. It activates the beacon on top of the Tower, warning Silvanost of an attack."
Cedron scours the room, looking for anything out of the ordinary. “We can only assume that they know everything. We must fall back on alternate plans things that were never discussed. New ideas. If we know that they know, then perhaps we can regain the element of surprise.”
MEANWHILE, IN SILVANOST
Shadow steps quickly with Cor and the Sack of Bigness to the teleportation circle. Once there he sits the slightly bulging bag of holding down loudly as if on purpose. He speaks with a loud clear voice in a version of Elvish he dares question if any of the Elves of this world have heard, Drow. “Hear me sons and daughters of the People. Where I came from I killed Red Wizards and here I took the Red Wizards test and choose that Path. In my world, my People would be your enemy and here I go to fight for Tarithnesti and your People. Is there none that will join us? I can take a handful with me. Any among you who will join us? For Tarithnesti and the PEOPLE!” Shadow looks to see if any join.
As Shadow looks around the room, waiting to see if any of the gathered elves are going to volunteer to fight, it dawns on him that all of these elves aren't just "old", they are elderly. Most of them retired from public service with House Servitor or House Recorder, in some cases decades ago. With the exception of Alara, every single one of the elves are too old to fight or are the children the dark elf just delivered from the war zone.
One of the elders shifts draws a child a little closer. A few exchange glances but no one steps forward. Not because they don’t care—but because they can’t.
Alara’s jaw tightens slightly, though her expression remains controlled. She doesn’t embarrass him by saying it outright, but her eyes flick once across the room, silently making the truth obvious:
these are archivists, caretakers, and survivors. Not soldiers.
From the back of the room, a voice mutters, "I cannot fight." The owner of that voice steps forward, an ancient elf dressed in simple robes leaning on a gnarled staff shuffles into view. "But I can cook. I can help feed the warriors who defend the city. I will come with you."
The elf moves to the circle. "My name is Therionel Leafbroth." He smiles softly, “Soldiers fight better on full stomachs. That much has never changed.”
He adjusts the strap of a small, weathered satchel at his side. “I cannot swing a blade. But I can feed those who do.”
Spewer snorts. “Ah yes, excellent. The Dragonarmies will surely retreat once they smell a well-seasoned stew. ‘Fall back, lads—the soup is too hearty!’”
Therionel chuckles. "Even heroes starve," He stares at the lizard, "and even cynics eat."
Shadow looks at Alara and sees what he missed before, all the fighting age Elves are off to war. His eyes fall on Therionel and he listens to him speak and waits for him to step forward. When he enters the circle Shadow steps to him and embraces his hand for a moment and he looks him in the eyes and says “Thank you my brother. Now let’s ride the lightning.” And with that he teleports the three of them back to meet the Dragon Army.”
Shadow nods before casting Teleport back to the crystal quarry with whoever will go. “May your skill prevail!” He says as he begins to cast.
Spewer says “Now you are quoting the Red Wizards of Thay? I thought we were past that.”
Cedron turns swiftly, a bit startled, upon hearing the voice behind him. He looks the messenger over. “I bet you’d like a coin too?” Cedron says to the grown messenger. “Well, it’ll cost you a tooth.” He jokes mainly to himself knowing the elf has no context for understanding his comment. Wasting no time in awkward silence, “Let’s not keep the Commander waiting. Lead the way.” He asserts.
THE PROTECTOR'S TOWER
Cedron and his escort cross the river on a small, rope-guided ferry. The minstrel-priest makes his way to the Tower. The guards stationed out front open the door, allowing him to pass.
He makes his way up through the training gallery, two floors' worth of barracks, and past the war room on the fourth floor. As he steps off of the stairs and onto the fifth floor landing, an explosion blows the door off of the Commander's office.
The blast hits with the force of thunder inside the confined space. Cedron staggers back half of a step as the pressure wave hits him. His escort curses loudly and falls. Smoke pours out of the shattered doorway with streaks of red light swirling within the cloud.
Cedron rushes to door and looks inside. Parnitha is propped against the back wall of the room. Splinters from her shattered desk and bits of broken glass pierce her skin. A blackened warhammer is clutched in one hand. Smoke rises from tiny fires where the carpet continues to burn.
At her feet lies what used to be a person. The corpse is twisted, half-collapsed in on itself, its once-humanoid form now ruptured and splitting apart. Blackened, gold scales, the high crest surrounding what's left of its lead. The smell is horrific: burned flesh mixed with a bitter chemical odor that clings to the back of the throat.
An Aurak Draconian.
Even in death, it’s not entirely still. Faint, residual energies ripple through the remains—its infamous death throes having already spent most of their fury in the blast that destroyed the door.
Cedron moves to Parnitha. Seeing that there are no more immediate threats present, he checks her well-being and casts healing spell. “What happened?” He inquires.
"That thing... it was wearing his face." The Commander's voice is monotone, almost mechanical. She lifts the green gem pendant hanging around her neck and shows it to Cedron. "It tried to take this. We... fought. How long? How much did it hear? How many of our plans does it know? Are there other things like that?"
As the commander's injuries fade, Cedron asks, “This is troubling. What if any indications did it give you that it was not who you expected? We must immediately find a way to identify these things.”
Parnitha pushes herself to her feet, using her hammer as a cane for leverage. She holds up the green gem hanging on from a chain around her neck. "He tried to take this. It activates the beacon on top of the Tower, warning Silvanost of an attack."
Cedron scours the room, looking for anything out of the ordinary. “We can only assume that they know everything. We must fall back on alternate plans things that were never discussed. New ideas. If we know that they know, then perhaps we can regain the element of surprise.”
MEANWHILE, IN SILVANOST
Shadow steps quickly with Cor and the Sack of Bigness to the teleportation circle. Once there he sits the slightly bulging bag of holding down loudly as if on purpose. He speaks with a loud clear voice in a version of Elvish he dares question if any of the Elves of this world have heard, Drow. “Hear me sons and daughters of the People. Where I came from I killed Red Wizards and here I took the Red Wizards test and choose that Path. In my world, my People would be your enemy and here I go to fight for Tarithnesti and your People. Is there none that will join us? I can take a handful with me. Any among you who will join us? For Tarithnesti and the PEOPLE!” Shadow looks to see if any join.
As Shadow looks around the room, waiting to see if any of the gathered elves are going to volunteer to fight, it dawns on him that all of these elves aren't just "old", they are elderly. Most of them retired from public service with House Servitor or House Recorder, in some cases decades ago. With the exception of Alara, every single one of the elves are too old to fight or are the children the dark elf just delivered from the war zone.
One of the elders shifts draws a child a little closer. A few exchange glances but no one steps forward. Not because they don’t care—but because they can’t.
Alara’s jaw tightens slightly, though her expression remains controlled. She doesn’t embarrass him by saying it outright, but her eyes flick once across the room, silently making the truth obvious:
these are archivists, caretakers, and survivors. Not soldiers.
From the back of the room, a voice mutters, "I cannot fight." The owner of that voice steps forward, an ancient elf dressed in simple robes leaning on a gnarled staff shuffles into view. "But I can cook. I can help feed the warriors who defend the city. I will come with you."
The elf moves to the circle. "My name is Therionel Leafbroth." He smiles softly, “Soldiers fight better on full stomachs. That much has never changed.”
He adjusts the strap of a small, weathered satchel at his side. “I cannot swing a blade. But I can feed those who do.”
Spewer snorts. “Ah yes, excellent. The Dragonarmies will surely retreat once they smell a well-seasoned stew. ‘Fall back, lads—the soup is too hearty!’”
Therionel chuckles. "Even heroes starve," He stares at the lizard, "and even cynics eat."
Shadow looks at Alara and sees what he missed before, all the fighting age Elves are off to war. His eyes fall on Therionel and he listens to him speak and waits for him to step forward. When he enters the circle Shadow steps to him and embraces his hand for a moment and he looks him in the eyes and says “Thank you my brother. Now let’s ride the lightning.” And with that he teleports the three of them back to meet the Dragon Army.”
Shadow nods before casting Teleport back to the crystal quarry with whoever will go. “May your skill prevail!” He says as he begins to cast.
Spewer says “Now you are quoting the Red Wizards of Thay? I thought we were past that.”
Comments
Post a Comment