With the impeccable logic of a child who wonders what would happen should he stick his hand into a fire, Trebor extends his consciousness down the tube. He survives, miraculously enough. The universe makes a mental note of this fact, and resolves to place the open jaws of a hungry lion in his path some time in the future. A tickle, then a touch, then - behold - contact! Trebor realizes in an instant that he is in wordless, subconscious contact with Chester Fortune. No sooner is he aware of this, than he realizes that this is the same Chester Fortune to whom he owes his life. How awkward.
Chester tells Trebor of the monumental struggle that he is currently engaged in. He and the entity known to him as "The Machine" have been striving for psychic supremacy these past few weeks (subjectively speaking). Currently Mr. Fortune is utterly failing to live up to his name, finding himself strapped onto an automatic dissecting table, with only his mind in any shape to fight back. As he communicates this to the Mystic, the Machine is off in the deeper recesses of its heuristic programming repairing the damage that Chester inflicted upon it in their last battle. He fears for his life. Every time it returns to the affray it has picked up a few new psychic maneuvers with which to maul its hapless opponent. Chester needs help.
He tells Trebor that if he and the rest of the group can make their way to the physical manifestation of the Machine in their world, and assault it somehow, then he - Chester - might be able to overthrow it and gain full control over the shadow in which the rest of it resides. This would effectively allow the party to learn the secrets of the Machine, and use it to win back the City of Cârnford, perhaps turning the tide against the Dark Lord for a change.
Trebor agrees to tell the group, and Chester breaks contact, renewed with the hope of assistance.
The party has grown to include a few more revelers, but still there is no sign of Handel and his wife, or of Jyfféer or Trebor. This is partly remedied as Trebor bursts into the bar in which the reception is currently being held (it took him a couple of dramatic entrances to find the right pub among Cârnford's one hundred and four quaffing establishments). The music stops and all eyes turn their gaze upon him. He briefly wonders how many mortals he could psychically dominate in one go, but resists the mischievous urge to find out right then. He announces that the party has to end, as the group has urgent business to attend to back at Drake and Michele's place. The party-goers consult for a moment, and then decide that a change of venue would not be unacceptable. A small but severely drunken crowd wends its way through the streets of the garden quarter to an old, slightly dilapidated residence on the riverfront.
Rats scurry from the dusty sitting room as the party enters. A cat finishes off a large rodent in the corner of the room. Michele notices it and coos at the presence of the inky black feline visitor. It regards her nonchalantly as the others drift languidly into the room. Waiting for the rest of the group to make it into the room she crouches and makes friendly, happy-noises at the cat. It exudes indifference, and nibbles at the deceased vermin by its feet. Trebor tries to call the meeting of disinterested inebriates to order. They stoically ignore him, Michele especially. To her, finding a cat in one's house is somewhat akin to finding a gold coin in one's purse, which wasn't there before - delightful. She gently extends her mind to say "Hello" to it in kitty-speak, as it were, and suddenly the attention of all in the room is yanked in her direction as a wild scream issues forth from the ex-cat. As she touched it with her mind, she realized that it was no cat at all, but rather something with an energetic psyche and a hatred of being found out.
The thing twisted and howled and leapt and shifted. In a split second, the cat on the floor became an imp on the attack. Quick as lightning Drake D'Argent vaults a chair and intersperses himself between the creature and his wife. Slow as treacle, everyone else turns to see what all the commotion and inhuman shrieking is about. Schiolàn draws a brutal- looking gyrojet pistol and waves it ineffectually in the general direction of the imp, not realizing that the multiple safety interlocks are still in place. He wonders why it doesn't work and peers down the barrel. Once more, the universe makes a mental note.
Drake scythes a deadly arc in the air, the steel of his blade chunks into the hardened claws of the imp. It executes a neat flip, letting the momentum of the blow turn it rather than disembowel it. As the sword passes it lashes out, its unnaturally sharp talons raking towards Drake's chest. He cuts back with the sword to block the blow, but too slowly and four long gashes appear in his armored doublet. These deep cuts in the leather armor go deep, but not deep enough to bring forth blood. The imp's grin freezes on its grotesque face and transforms into a caricature of dismay. It silently wishes that it had gone into a safe career as a cathedral gargoyle, but before it can lament too seriously it is pressed onto the defensive. Drake cuts again, the imp parries, he thrusts, and it twirls aside, using every moment to summon the energies necessary to get it out of there. With a moment's thought the imp suddenly glows white hot, and it plummets through the wooden floor like molten steel through ice, leaving a burst of noxious smoke and a charred circle in the floor.
Drake peers through the hole to see smoldering little footprints leading off to the outside wall. Schiolàn by this time has figured out how to charge and arm his gun. A flurry of eardrum-ripping blasts is released, accompanied by the appearance of three fist-sized holes in the floor (and three torso sized holes in the floor beneath that one, together with flying chunks of metal and splinters of thick wood). The imp yelps out a high-pitched imp curse, having something to do with an anatomically impossible sexual act, and begins trying to smash its way through the nearest window.
Michele finds her opportunity and, seeking to apprehend the escaping demon, jumps to the hole in the floor. The charred edges singe her clothing and burn her skin as she deforms and stretches to ooze like a piece of putty through the small hole. Writhing to free herself, she sees the imp staring aghast at her display of shapeshifting. He realizes just how utterly outclassed he is in this house and tears furiously at the boards covering his only route of escape. Michele leaps, shifting to her chaos form as she hurtles through the air at the panicked imp...
Outside, the riverfront is quiet. The few brief bangs that had been heard a minute ago could easily have been the impact of another stone from the enemy trebuchets half a mile to the north. A sound that the locals had come to ignore - dwelling excessively upon such things was the route to despair, and the citizens of Cârnford were a practical lot, not given overmuch to depressing contemplation. An old man sits in his small rowing boat drifting with the slow current. He will resume his rowing as he draws too close to the city walls, and the heavily guarded water gate, but for now he rests his arms and breathes deeply of the night air. It is cold, and his breath mists before him as he sighs, longing for the return of simpler days when a lobster fisherman could tend his traps and expect a warm welcome home after an honest day's toil.
To the man's right comes a splintering crash, and a burst of flickering light from a basement window. Behind the shattered window he sees flames and faces, as through the window comes flying a large, muscular red monstrosity, with frightening leathery wings and vicious sharp, black horns. Its eyes are wild and the nightmare figure seems intent upon something clutched tightly in its inhuman talons. Before the creature and its hapless prey splash into the still waters of the river the man thinks he glimpses the helpless form of a small black cat, looking most distressed, struggling animatedly in the claws of the hideous, demonic beast. The waters surge and boil with activity for a moment then are calm. The man shakes himself free of the fear that had gripped him and begins to row with all his strength and fury, away upstream. For years later he would tell the tale of the haunted house on the riverfront, but there were many such tales from those times, and this one was no more unnerving or terrifying than any of the others. But his listeners would know that that house featured in many more than just one story, and all would agree that it must have been the Devil himself that the poor fisherman must have seen that night, and that he had been fortunate indeed to have escaped with his soul intact.
Meanwhile, as the small boat sped off across the water as if it being towed by a team of dolphins, Michele and the imp struggle together underwater. The imp is strong for its size, and its captor has to fight to keep it held tight. As it splutters and briefly considers drowning, just to get it all over with, she shifts herself a set of gills. The imp knows that he won't last, and so he signifies his submission by going limp in her hands. Michele relents and brings it to the surface for air. She has won.
Hauling herself and the half-drowned limp imp from the water and onto the small jetty by the water, Michele gradually assumes her human form. The imp, currently a very wet cat, acquiesces as she picks it up and clambers back through the broken window to the cellar within. The rest of the group has been at work dousing the fires that had sprung up in the wooden house, and as the two enter they gather around to peer at the captured creature. It coughs pathetically, and readies itself for a long and unpleasant evening.
The party likes the sound of this news not at all. Virek, it seems, is lurking in The Lodge, together with the assembled commanders of the Dark Lord's forces. It appears that he is too strong a target to attack directly, so a more subtle approach is opted for to deal with the imp infestation that the city is apparently suffering from. The call goes out among the group for a Conjuror, and after a protracted silence Schiolàn admits to having some conjuration powers.
A contract is drawn up between the imp and the party (specifically, Michele), and Schiolàn casts a spell to enforce it, after dispelling the compelling under which the imp is currently operating. In return for defecting completely to the side of the defenders of the city, and hunting down and slaying the other imps who serve Sasha Virek, the imp will receive six days of enchantments and empowerments from Schiolàn, in addition to accepting the contingency spell which accompanies the contract spell - if he breaks any part of his agreement, the spell activates, he is told (and he is also told how painful it will be). The imp quakes, but agrees.
Schiolàn, Christina and the imp walk off into shadow to find a rapidly moving time stream for the conjurations and empowerments to be conducted in. Several hours later they return: Schiolàn looks tired, the imp looks much healthier and bulkier, and Christina looks rather sun-tanned. All is well, it seems, and the imp assumes a new form (a cross between a snake and an owl - black and frightening). It flies away, promising to return with news of its successes, and the skulls of some of its victims.
The choice is this, then: help Chester, and in doing so maybe help the city, or attack the attackers of the city in the hope that this will disrupt their assault on Cârnford. A third option is also mentioned, but it isn't considered as a high priority - try to find the Prince. It is eventually dismissed as too involved a task, and one in which timeliness may not really be critical. The party members present express their opinions and the majority vote to help Chester, despite the fact that Christina claims he is a callous sociopath. Handel and Jyfféer remain mysteriously silent upon the matter and everyone comments to this effect, until someone points out that they are not actually present. The matter is dropped, and their reticence to decide is put down to the fact that they are totally unaware that they have to. The group is satisfied, and decides to hike off into the wilderness to locate Chester Fortune and the Machine.
Rivendell is a bleak place (despite the connotations of its name), built high on a mountainside. As the group approaches they can see that it has suffered greatly since they were last there. The walls and outbuildings of the place have all slipped down into the steep ravine beneath the monastery and many of the courtyards and practice grounds have crumbled and followed them. The place is home to a militant sect of the temple of The Cycle. They had built Rivendell as a fortress home for their studies of occidental martial arts, but now the monks work day in and day out to rebuild their former secure haven.
As the party approaches they are challenged by sentries and escorted to speak to the Abbot. Nimitz is his name, and the party members recall that he was named thus for the flat- topped, pseudo-military hairstyle that he wore (he and his wife were both from the Old World, originally). His hair is all gone, though, now - lost through worry and strife, he tells them.
Apparently, the devastation that befell Rivendell is due entirely to one man: Agathon Dragutin. Years ago, before the party had been gathered, or even emerged from their enforced hibernation, Dragutin came to Rivendell to see the handiwork of his then-friends, the Healer Helena and Nimitz the Monk. They had been horrified at his arrival there. They had hoped to keep their mountain stronghold secret from the likes of Dragutin, for while he was their friend, they trusted him not at all. He had been sent away with threats and strong words, but later he returned with Earth Elemental servants and replaced many of the foundation stones with magically formed blocks.
The blocks had been constructed from the desecrated corpses of Dragutin's sacrificial victims. He had spent days (well - actually, his servants had) stuffing them into wooden forms, crushing them, and then turning them into stone. His intent was to defile the holy ground upon which the monastery was built, and provide a way that he could exact his revenge upon his former friends by simply coming by one day and unbinding the magic which had transformed the corpses. The resulting mass of semi-decayed humanoid flesh would not support the walls or floors of the monastery, and thus it would come crashing down into the valley below.
Agathon Dragutin's plan worked. In fact, much of the monastery which still stood on sound foundations was pulled into the ravine along with the doomed sections, due to the strength of the mortar in the walls. The monks were decimated, as were Helena's people, but both have vowed to rebuild the fortress and start over. They do not believe that Dragutin will ever return there again, but still they post guards and sentries to watch the roads.
The party shudders at the images conjured by the story, and glance about them to be sure that they stand on solid ground. The monks explain that the ground has been sanctified once more and that all the bodies have been removed and buried. This sends a chill running down the spines of all present at the thought of such a task.
Feeling a little crummy to impose upon the monks, the group asks about the caves. It seems that they are known in the area. The caves are shrouded in mystery, and superstition, but one can be found who will lead the party there. Brother Edward will guide them, but it will have to be on foot. The monastery's vaunted Hippogriffs have been moved while rebuilding is carried out, and besides - Brother Edward is a very "down-to-earth" fellow (plus, he loathes the nasty, biting, ill-tempered creatures - having been made to tend them during his year as an acolyte).
Off our valiant heroes trudge, with little more in the way of whining than a quietly muttered, "They could have at least held a feast in our honor."
"Trolls!" comes the cry, "Six of them - four headed your way!"
Christina silently negotiates the dark mental passageways of one of the trolls, and it suddenly thinks of a great tactic, one sure to guarantee victory, and a fine fleshy feast to it and its fellows - run like Hell! After a brief time, in which its comrade hurls stones at the two flying figures, it runs alone. Shortly thereafter it is met and passed by its companion as the two of them hurtle away over the rough terrain for no sufficiently well-explored reason. Christina chuckles and examines her suntan. Schiolàn flies off to blow up a troll in the gully behind them.
Boom. Three left.
One for each of the other party members, as it happens.
Drake is first. He stands in the gully as the others draw back, pulling a startled monk with them. His feet are firmly planted in an heroic stance, clearly stating that the way is barred to any who try and pass. One troll gibbers and drools as it lumbers over to him. Two others neatly spring past, deftly avoiding Drake as if he were a teacher and they were hungry sixth graders in a school cafeteria. Like a teacher he ignores the others and devotes all his efforts at the figure in front of him, pretending that this was what he'd intended to do all the time. The bluff works - the troll attacks him (...as if it wouldn't!).
It swings and he parries. It is stronger than he expects, and he barely blocks the blow, taking a stinging slash on his cheek for his troubles. He ripostes, cutting the beast across the gut. His Blackfire sword burns the vile creature and it gnashes its slobbering maw, gurgling in pain from the wound and the fire [following the fight there was some discussion as to whether it moaned, groaned or gurgled - for posterity, it did indeed gurgle]. It staggers and makes a futile attempt to grab at him. He reacts, hopping back and placing his point in line. The creature fails to impale itself on his sword. Clever, thinks Drake, it feinted - I'll have to remember that. It jumps again, for real this time - hoping to catch him off guard, but Drake is too good for it. He easily avoids the lunge and slams his flaming steel deep into its chest. It howls as it dies and its perpetually hungry tummy growls for the last time before it is itself consumed by glowing black flames.
A second troll lopes up to Trebor. He readies his axe just as it lashes out at him, barely blocking the blow with the haft of his weapon. Seeing an opening he swings in low under its long arm. The blow connects, biting deep into the troll's thick, rubbery hide. Troll blood spatters on the rocks and the beast howls in rage at its carelessness, and pain. Off-balance, it lunges and nearly falls. As it stumbles Trebor dodges to the side and raises his axe high. Steel flashes in the fading light and the axe thuds into the back of the passing troll. A satisfying feeling - for Trebor, that is, not the troll.
Michele sees the third troll running towards her and the terrified monk, and she steps between Brother Edward and the onrushing monster. Indecision grips her. Reluctant as she is to kill the creature, she realizes that the young monk does not have the luxury of escape that she does. She briefly considers fooling it by becoming insubstantial, but before she can assume a semi-solid form the troll is upon her. It reaches for her as it runs up, its slobbering maw gaping wide, displaying rows of vicious, yellowed teeth. A flurry of action ensues, amid cries of concern and terror from the monk, cries of pain and shock from the troll, and cries of exultant blood-lust from Michele.
When all is done the troll lies there bleeding from large gaping slash wounds, its unnatural constitution gradually knitting its lacerated form back together. Michele stands over it, tall and imposingly red - partly on account of her tough, scaly hide, and partly from the rich, wet, burgundy-colored fluid spattered up her forearms and across her torso. She flicks a serpentine tongue across her black fangs and chuckles maniacally, turning towards the mortal human behind her. He pales in fear, not knowing whether he has been saved from a terrible fate just to fall victim to a far worse one. She shifts in front of him, and slowly resumes her natural form. Her eyes look wild and crazy, but in a blink she regains her composure and the monk relaxes.
The bodies are heaped and enflamed at the hands of Drake's sorcerous blade, and then the group makes its way onward.
"They're OK, but real filling if you eat them rare."
Nick (aka: Schiolàn)
Scribe's note
Some of the events described in the preceding narrative have been recorded some time
after they transpired and therefore may have been related slightly inaccurately (most specifically
the last combat sequence, which was a real mess to recall in detail). Apologies to those
concerned if your recollections differ from mine.