moi

The black sphere of nothingness seemed to swirl slightly as it sent tendrils of null matter to inspect the deathless minions floating in the room. The strange glowing beings it had encountered earlier had passed on too quickly for it to follow, but no matter, these creatures, these ghouls were a fascinating study in themselves. Perhaps the glowing ones had travelled onward, out into the expanse. The superstructure of the odd container in which it found itself groaned slightly as if some great force had exploded against it in another place. Perhaps they haven't after all....

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.

Stronghoof filed his horns. They were always getting blunt. Another one of those Signers was in today causing trouble again. The Athar were still not letting any of the berks in to scrag the old temple by the Ubiquitous Wayfarer. Some sort of God hazard, they said spouting some sort of screed about the dangers of having temples to so called Gods amongst human habitation. The Athar hate that sort of thing, of course, but these Signers seem to want to all try and prove they are the One by doing something in the temple. Maybe they'd disappear like the construction workers and the Harmonium patrol that went in after them ! Only the Dabus probably know, and they're not telling, or imaging or whatever you call their pictorial communication. All they were doing was watching it all in apparent rapt interest. The Lady must want to know what's going on. Perhaps it's got something to do with all the powers being put into the dead book. Some power of Fate was the latest, never even heard of him before. But now his erstwhile followers are all moaning in their bub. At least it's not the illithids again, or Bwimb from the paraelemental plane of ooze !

Jito shivered in the dark wet alcove in which he crouched. Tarin's blood dripped off his pack onto the ground beside him, but he hardly noticed it. He was too busy scanning the street front to see if they had managed to follow him, though he doubted they could see through the illusionary visage which he wore. An elven cleric of Torm could hardly be mistaken for the squat gnomish individual he truly was. He worried about the blood though, they could track him with that. No choice then. He'd have to take the advice of that beggar as truth. This very alcove would take him through to the Undermountain where he could, if he was lucky manage to find his way out to Skullport, the smugglers den. He should be able to trade a potion or two to catch a ship bound for Baldur's Gate or even Calimport ! As long as he got out of here. Curse that fool Yegmod. If she hadn't insisted that they try and expose the whole of the Zentarim operation in the city then the other three would still be alive. Did she not know how ruthless they were ? If only they had not stumbled upon the temple of Bane in the sewers. Of course Tarin said that the "dreadful curse of this evil place must be lifted, lest it spread above and corrupt all the people of this city"! Bloody paladins, they don't know when enough is enough. Well having no head is probably enough for him now. As he shook his head the image of the elven cleric's head also shook the symbol of Torm on it's chest swaying slightly. "I'm good at this," he thought quietly to himself, letting the image that he created from his phantasmal force scroll fade as well as the change self leaving the wet, dripping gnome plainly visible. Don't want to raise any of the suspicions of the dwellers of the Undermountain. He turned and went through the archway holding up the burnt out torch just like the beggar had said.

Levi reached up his mailed glove and tried vainly to wipe the rainwater from his eyes. It hadn't stopped since the day before. Jito had nearly got himself killed by careering off into the marsh full of violent lizard men. Still they were past that now. Maybe they could return and help out that fine paladin fellow clean out this area. If only he were one of Tyr ! Anyway, Guthranka was whom they had to be concerned now. On to Neverwinter to get her atonement. Only a week or so more, through the rain.

He didn't want to think about the trek across the land that Bert and Aldaron seemed dead set on. Apparently they needed to get Aldaron to a pass in the mountains that he had visited years before that he only remembered again now. Bert would delay getting to Citadel Adbar to see him safely there. Perhaps it was all due to what Bert had seen in Aldaron's mind. Aldaron has a brother.

He hoped that none of the orcs that Jito was so keen on seeing, would descend upon them. He almost felt too weary to lift his arm again and again to brush the rain away, let alone wield two swords in battle.