moi

Bert's beard itched. It was an insistent itch. It wouldn't go away. He thought it might be telling him something. He was sure he was doing the right thing at the moment, after all he'd promised himself that he would ensure that Aldaron would be returned to his former self, and the Mothers certainly seemed to have to do something about these strange visages. Be he wouldn't stay beyond Aldaron's recovery. He wouldn't be needed. It was time to hum a hymn to Moradin in the pounding of the forge. And he hated this damn itch !

Bert scratched again...
Indeed something was not quite right. He felt dissatisfied by the clumsiness of the tools he was wielding lately. Merely tools, he grunted. Sure - that spear, that ogre's toothpick, had its uses, but he was damned if he was going to call it a weapon.

He would not use these inferior tools for much longer. It was time to create something better, a weapon of quality unlike any he had seen in many years.

But it will take time, he grunted to himself. I will return to the mountains of the North. To the people and places that exist only deep within the earth. One can not expect to craft anything of worth without being close to the Soulforger himself.

He would miss his companions, his old friend Aldaron the most. But elves have long lives and long memories, and they would surely meet again......

Hercanon scanned the tapering ebony wand suspiciously. For one, it seemed to be almost too big to be called a wand, but the invocation magic that it held was clear. A simple wand of magic missles. And yet, underlying the surface dweomer, a deeper more sinister spell lurked. He had felt nothing when he had taken the wand from the human woman, but she had suffered an immediate hurt. From what he could determine it was a curse, one that no mortal could have empowered. It seemed based on some sort of contingency, one that would trigger when the owner gave it away. A curse of selfishness then. What sort of being would have done this though, a tanaarii perhaps... And so to the flower. Midnight's flower, found only in the Realm of Set in Baator. What had this group stumbled into to find themselves there ? Let alone return ! But although they were correct, this flower would restore all memories, it did indeed carry a risk. Everything would be recalled, all the hidden dark memories as well as the light. Could they cope ? They both looked strong, the human female, still stung by the recent hurt and the elven male, whom he had encountered before, once with more of a glint of resentment in his eyes, softened now in ignorance. What racist hatreds will well up in the newly remembered mind ? Enough, that is their concern. They have paid, and the deal is fair, simply grind the flower in a mortar and pestle until it is almost powder. Mix with dew, one part to five and bring to heat, simmering gently until the powder is gone. Finally drink, and be prepared. Time to let them know. They will take the risk, 'tis sure.