Episode 74 - Be Careful What You Wish For
| The Assassins |
Azareth - Wizard 5th Level LE (PC) Craven - Fighter / Rogue 3rd / 3rd LE (PC) Creighton - Fighter 5th Level LE (PC) Keldirk - Rogue 6th level NE (PC) |
| Locale | In a cave, somewhere in The Outer Plane of Hades |
| Date | 26th Goodmonth 582 CY |
| Time | Late Afternoon |
... awake.
Keldirk's eyes snapped open, the rain had stopped and he could hear the sound of birds chirping in the distance outside. He looked around the cave and saw his equipment exactly where he left it but he could not remember where he was nor why he was there. He sat up and winced in pain, his hands moved to his side where he felt a familiar wetness. He raised his hands to his face to peer in the dim light of the cave and confirm what he already knew to be true - his fingers were wet with blood and the wound was deep. With practiced ease the young assassin donned his gear and moved to the mouth of the cave and peered outside.
The morning sun had not yet crested the eastern mountains and the town in the valley below had not yet begun to stir. The scene triggered something in his mind and Keldirk knew he had to start moving.
He needed to get out of there, and fast. They would find him if he remained here too long.
Keldirk carefully made his way out of the cave and started to make his way up into the hills. He loved his work and he was well suited for it, working alone had always been his way, though he admitted with a smile he could have done with some help on this most recent job someone to watch his back.
Still, no matter, the target was eliminated and Keldirk was alive and free, at least for now. He always worked alone and he had always survived - he will survive again. He was Keldirk and Keldirk never needed anybody; Keldirk worked alone.
Alone.
He had to keep moving.
The pain in his side was terrible and it was a struggle to keep putting one foot in front of the other. He could hear his pursuers in the trees behind him but there was nothing for him to do but keep moving. As painful as the wound was the pain of loneliness was far more intense made even more so when compared to the elation of just a few moments ago.
Keldirk could not remember ever feeling such intense emotion before. The pain of it forced him to stop moving and fall powerless to the ground. Loss, helplessness and fear fought for supremacy in his anguished mind, but what eventually won out was the absolute certainty that he was going to die here in this nameless forest; alone and unremembered.
If only he had someone with him, someone to help him along, to help fight, or tend his wounds or to tell his story if he didn't make it...
... awake.
Craven's eyes snapped open and the young swordsman took a deep yet strangely laboured breath. He looked about the room and recognised the trappings of the Angel's Junction. This was madam Fifi's room... no, not her room, this was his room.
The knowledge of his life slowly entered his mind, the sale of his share of The Whistler and the subsequent partnership with Madame Fifi, the passion filled nights in the arms of the masterful women now in his employ and at his beck and call. The joy when Madame Fifi shared his bed and made him feel like a god among men, nothing could compare with the life he had led. Such pleasure, such indulgence.
Such a waste.
Craven knew also now that his best years were behind him; he could feel how his once healthy and well muscled body had betrayed him. Day by day it was wasting away resisting all attempts at a cure, no priestly magic would work and Craven had long since lost any contact with his former associates. Craven was dying and he knew that there was nothing that could be done about it but wait.
At least he had his girls for company.
The effort of remaining awake proved to great and Craven felt himself slip under once more, but sleep stubbornly refused to take hold and he remained just below consciousness, aware of his surroundings but without the strength to move. The door to the room opened and Madam Fifi entered, still as beautiful and exotic as ever. She barely gave Craven a second glance as she ushered two muscular door guards into the room and closed the door behind them.
| Madame Fifi | Make sure you dispose of the body somewhere discrete I do not want any trouble with the watch. |
| Door Guard #1 | (draws his dagger) I'll do it. |
| Madame Fifi | Put that blade away you idiot I don't want his blood splattered over the furniture or ruining my lovely sheets. Gerrard will be arriving shortly, and I haven't got time to redecorate before he moves in. |
| Door Guard #1 | How then? |
| Madame Fifi | Use the pillow and smother him, then take the body down the back stairs and dump it somewhere. |
Craven could hear the words but it took his disease ridden mind a few moments that he was the subject of their plans. With that understanding came the certain knowledge that he was about to die in this bed; alone and unnecessary...
... awake.
Creighton's eyes snapped open. Today was the day, after months of hopeful searching, Creighton was to meet his mother. His quest had started in the village of Three-Trees and taken the burly warrior hundreds of miles to the front gates of an impressive estate, nestled high among the rolling hills that overlooked the vast Nyr Dyv and the small village of Kumbert. Creighton had been told that his birth mother had married Lord Kumberton, a wealthy landholder and head of the famous Dyv Winery, but he had no idea just how magnificent his mother's house would be.
Creighton could barely contain his excitement at the prospect of seeing her. He smoothed down his dusty travelling cloak and proceeded along the wide, crushed-stone road that lead from the gates, through the neatly organised rows of vines, to the white-washed walls of the grand Kumberton Estate Manor. Feeling somewhat out of place, Creighton knocked timidly on the door.
His mother, Lady Ashleigh, was as beautiful as Creighton was ugly. She had classically beautiful features that defied her age, was immaculately dressed and carried herself with the deportment of the truly noble. Her hair was tied back in a fashionable bun, and the price of her embroidered gold and blue dress could've kept a family fed for a month. What was more obvious, though, was that she was horrified to see the likes of Creighton on her doorstep, and mortified to learn that he was her long-lost son! That shock quickly turned to anger.
| Lady Ashleigh | Get out of here, shoo! Begone. |
| Creighton | But... but I've travelled hundreds- |
| Lady Ashleigh | I said go. (quietly and firmly) I abandoned you for a reason. I want nothing to do with you. You should never have come looking for me. You will ruin everything. |
| Creighton | But- |
| Lady Ashleigh | No buts, just leave. My husband would never understand. There is nothing for you here. |
| Creighton | Mother... |
| Lady Ashleigh | (spits) You have no mother! Now go! You're dead to me. |
Creighton returned to the small village of Kumbert, and jumped head-first into a bottle where he remained for over a week.
The drunken days were a blur to Creighton, but not to the locals. When not unconscious beneath a table, the burly warrior fought, swore, drank and smashed his way through the days and nights. In one confrontation, Creighton smashed the village wainwright's nose into a bloodied pulp. In another liquor-fuelled rage, he all but destroyed the general store. It was too much for the villagers to bear and, having witnessed Creighton's raw power, none dared approach him directly.
What the locals did hear, however, was Creighton cry his mother's name into his cups. The villagers, sick of the destruction, violence and vomit, petitioned Lady Ashleigh to do something, anything, with the crazed drunkard who called himself her son.
So it was, as Creighton awoke in his bed from one such drunken episode, he spied his mother standing with her arms crossed at his door. But she was not alone. Two men, soldiers or guards by the looks of them, stood before her. Barely conscious and incapable of voluntary movement, Creighton garbled out a cry of anguish.
| Creighton | Mother... |
| Lady Asleigh | You should've listened to me. Now it is too late. (to the soldiers) Make it quick. |
The soldiers approached Creighton's bed. The warrior tried to rise, but his alcohol-soaked body betrayed him. All he could do was stare pleadingly at his mother before the soldiers smothered him with his own pillow. Darkness came and Creighton's pain slipped away...
... awake.
Azareth opened his eyes and surveyed the world around him. He was momentarily confused by what he was looking at as the landscape seemed different to what he thought he had gone to sleep in. It took a few heartbeats for the memories to come flooding back and with them came a sense of accomplishment that took his breath away. He had done it.
The spell worked.
This spell was a crowning achievement to a lifetime devoted to his art, a lifetime which in itself was unremarkable, but here, now, with this spell, Azareth had his chance for recognition and glory. Truly, it had to be the single most powerful illusion of all time and it was his masterwork, his creation. A creation, Azareth knew, worthy of any member of the august Circle of Eight.
Azareth rose and admired the vista of his creation, an entire world within his own mind - a creation capable of placing its subject in any environment the caster chooses and thereby shape their experiences or drive them into madness should he desire it.
As he continued to admire his handiwork his joy was slowly being eroded by the growing realisation that something was not quite right. He knew with absolute certainty that the spell worked but somewhere at the back of his mind was a growing seed of despair. With surprising suddenness that seed blossomed into understanding, he was trapped in this world of his creation. Unable to break free of the mental prison he himself had built and thus was indeed doomed to die a slow and horrible death as his body weakened and wasted away in the real world.
A life wasted in the pursuit of an illusion, doomed to die a failure; alone and unappreciated.
The group awoke as one, the memory of their dream fresh in their mind, clear memories coupled with a deep sense of loss - as though one of their most earnest hopes had somehow been taken from them. Needless to say the mood of the camp was sombre as they considered resuming their seemingly hopeless trek. For a long time they sat in a resigned, depressed silence, and it was only when their stomachs began to rumble did they finally stir.
Breakfast was trail rations that somehow seemed even more devoid of taste than usual. The lingering taint of the acid rain permeated the cave, while outside all that remained of the demon dog was a small collection of bleached white bones. The effort of swallowing the bland food was almost more than they could handle. Only when the assassins drank from their water-skins was there any relief to their burned and tortured throats and they felt able to face the challenges of the journey ahead of them.
| Creighton | This place is hell. |
| Azareth | (sighs) Indeed. |
| Craven | We should get moving. I don't want to have to spend another night here if I can avoid it. My dreams last night were... unpleasant. |
| Keldirk | No argument from me. |
The group gathered their things, and set off for another day's journey. Keldirk quickly scouted outside and returned to declare that the sky was a clear and uniform-grey - no sign of the potentially deadly storm clouds.
| Azareth | (standing at the entrance to the cave) Let us hope that the weather holds. I doubt we would be so fortuitous to find another cave out there should the acid rain return. |
The land stretched as far as the eye could see; a barren landscape devoid of feature, colour or hope. The thin ribbon of road was barely noticeable from the cave entrance, and it snaked away into the distance, both left and right.
| Craven | We continue that way, agreed? |
| Keldirk | Why not? |
Off they marched, and marched and marched and marched. After many hours their march became a plod then barely a trudge. Their already poor spirits diminished further with each footfall, their dream of a safe return to Oerth fading with every dull, depressing mile.
Thankfully the rains did not return, nor were they accosted by any wandering monster. With their heads down, absorbed in their own thoughts, the assassins crawled along the featureless road. Minute after minute, hour after hour, the miles were eaten away in gloomy silence.
Even the rest breaks yielded little or no respite. The food was awful and the tepid water in their wineskins was in short supply. It had become the most torturous of treks - dull, dangerous, soul- destroying and worst of all with no apparent end in sight.
Even the briefest of conversation between the adventurers was an effort. It was better to remain silent, keep your thoughts to yourself, and live in the now than to remember how life was, or how life could be. This place, this Hades, feasted on the dreams of men, twisted memories and devoured all hope.
When the assassins were too tired to continue, they rested. Sleep - thankfully - refused to come, and after a few hours they picked themselves up and stumbled on. The road remained featureless, a packed earth with no intersections or landmarks. Keldirk had long ago ceased his direction marking; why bother when there was only one road.
Then, suddenly, after many hours of walking, Creighton stopped short. Craven, having ceased paying attention and barely conscious, walked directly into the hulking warrior's back.
| Craven | Oomph. Hey, what gives? |
Then he saw it. They all saw it. A grey marble wall of impossible height had appeared alongside them, following the road at a parallel and vanished into the horizon. Further along, perhaps a mile away, was a long line of (what they assumed were) people, queuing in a somewhat orderly fashion before a pair of massive gates.
| Creighton | Will you get a load of that?! |
| Keldirk | Where did that wall come from? (looking around, fearfully) This cannot be good. |
| Azareth | It wasn't there a moment ago. Was it? |
| Craven | (shakes his head) No idea. |
| Creighton | What do we do now? |
| Keldirk | There's nowhere to run, no cover, nothing. This place... Damn it! |
| Creighton | Should we go back? |
| Craven | Back to what? There's nothing to go back to. |
| Creighton | Good point. |
| Craven | Let's proceed with caution, then. We need to remain as inconspicuous as possible. Cloaks up, hide your faces, and don't talk to anyone. Yes, that means you Creighton. |
| Creighton | (despite himself, smiles) |
The closer the assassins got to the line of people, the more nervous they became. They had absolutely no idea what to expect. Their pulses began to race and adrenalin started to flow in their veins. Fear was a welcome sensation to them all - at least it was something. After so long feeling nothing, it was good for them to once again feel alive.
The assassins joined the tail of the long, rag-tag line of people queuing up to enter the gates. The queue was at least a mile long and wasn't moving forward at any appreciable pace; the assassins knew they had a long wait ahead of them. From their current vantage point they couldn't see the front of the line, let alone the gates or what awaited them there.
The people in the line were of all the known races, and each age-group had representation in varying degrees. There was a scattering of the young, more middle-aged and an innumerable number old. Those in the assassins' immediate vicinity did not speak nor seemingly did they pay any attention to their surrounds. They simply stood, their shoulders hunched, heads down, only shuffling forward when the queue advanced.
They all wore heavy cloaks, made of grey sack-cloth, stained around the hems by a thick layer of dull-grey dirt. Keldirk risked a peek under the hood of one elderly woman, fully expecting to see the tell-tale signs of undead, but was surprised to see that the woman appeared to be alive, if only just, as her breath stank and there was a dim acknowledgment in her eyes as she looked at Keldirk. But the spark in her eyes disappeared as quickly as it came, replaced by what seemed to be a fatalistic resignation of a horrible future. Her look sent shudders through the normally unflappable Keldirk.
| Keldirk | (whispering to the others) Alive, but barely. |
| Azareth | (concern written plainly on his features) Notice that they all wear the same cloaks, carry no weapons nor equipment. We are going to stand out like sore thumbs. |
| Creighton | How about we kill the last four in line and steal their cloaks. |
| Keldirk | Are you mad? |
| Creighton | It was just a thought. |
| Craven | We don't want to start any fights, Creighton, we are outnumbered ten thousand to one. No, our appearance can't be helped. We'll just have to play it by ear. For now, be quiet; let's not draw any more undue attention to ourselves. |
The line moved along at a snails pace. The assassins kept their heads down, absorbed in their own thoughts, and ambled forward with the queue. To their left stood the ever-present wall of grey stone, rising to an astonishing height and stretching behind them to the horizon.
The assassins were only dimly aware as others joined the back of the line, but from where they appeared nobody could say. They all wore the same grey, sack-cloth cloaks and kept their heads down. Like the others, they paid no heed to the strangers in their midst.
Time passed...
| Creighton | (nudges Azareth and whispers) There has to be a thousand of them behind us now. |
| Azareth | (risks a glance back) Nearer two thousand, I would say. |
| Creighton | Where did they all come from? |
| Azareth | Worry about things within your sphere of control, my friend. These people are of no concern to us. Now quiet, we approach the gates. |
Up ahead, clearly visible now, was a sight that stunned the four adventurers. Standing before massive iron gates was a gargantuan, three-headed mastiff, covered in thick bronze fur with a serpent for a tail. Each of the creature's three necks were encircled by a massive iron ring of spikes, each a foot in length.
One of the gates was open, and people were slowly filtering in, seemingly unconcerned by the monster standing over them. The gigantic dog stood a little to one side, its three sets of slavering jaws dripping streams of drool into the area immediately before the gates, and watched as the line of people passed beneath it.
As the assassins neared the front of the line they watched on in horror as the dog-beast suddenly bent down and snatched up a poor unfortunate soul, crushing the figure in one of its powerful jaws. A torrent of blood rained down as the dog chewed, showering the area in gore. The others in the line seemed not to notice or care. Heads down they simply trudged on, through the gates and into the land beyond.
| Craven | (fearful) Oh shit. |
| Azareth | Shit indeed. |
| Keldirk | We have to get out of here, and pronto! |
| Azreth | Too late for that, now. Look, one of the heads is watching us. |
True enough, one of the heads had locked its gaze onto the assassins. All four adventurers shrunk against that powerful, supernatural gaze. Cowed and quivering in fear, they had no choice but to proceed, coming to a halt some fifteen feet before the gigantic beast.
| Dog Head #2 | I am Cerberus, Guardian to the Gates Of Hades. |
Cerberus' breath washed over the assassins, the overpowering and pungent smell of death causing Craven and Azareth to immediately vomit.
| Dog Head #2 | You are not petitioners. Why do you seek to enter my master's domain? Speak now or your lives are forfeit. |
The right-most head of Cerberus was paying no attention to the adventurers. Instead it continued its vigil over the line of people as they moved through the gates, behind the assassins. The centre and left heads were firmly fixated on the assassins, the left head in particular barely hiding its savage hunger.
As Azareth rose from his haunches and wiped the last traces of vomit from his lips, he noticed that the pool of Cerberus' drool was bubbling in the tightly packed dirt, the smell of acid and poison strong in the air. This guardian of Hades was not to be trifled with.
| Azareth | (clearing his throat, digs deep to gather his courage) We... we... we come to make a request of your master. |
Cerberus didn't immediately react; it simply continued to stare with unblinking eyes of pure hate. Azareth was unsure how to proceed, knowing a mistake now could mean his life - all their lives.
| Azareth | May we pass the threshold, almighty Cerberus? |
| Cerberus | Know this, human, to pass beyond is to surrender your future. There is no exit from the realm of the dead. |
| Azareth | (glances at his colleagues, who remain ashen faced and immobile) I understand, mighty guardian. |
| Cerberus | Then reveal your offering and I will consider your request. |
| Azareth | Offering? Right. Just a moment. |
Azareth called the others into a huddle.
| Azareth | What now? |
| Craven | What kind of offering does it want? |
| Creighton | Does anyone have any dog food? |
| Keldirk | Moron. |
| Creighton | Huh? |
| Keldirk | We are dog-food. |
| Creighton | Got it. |
| Craven | What do you think it wants? Money? Magic items? A pledge for service? |
| Keldirk | Let's try magic items. I have this magical dagger. (passes it to Azareth) Here, mage, offer the dog this. |
| Azareth | Are you sure? |
| Keldirk | Not even remotely. But we have to try something. The left head looks mighty hungry. |
| Craven | Do it, offer the dagger, Azareth. |
Azareth turned and kneeled, holding the dagger high.
| Azareth | Mighty Cerberus, we offer you this magical blade. It is a treasured weapon, one that we value above all other material possessions. Please take this as a token of our respect, and payment to proceed into the land beyond. |
Cerberus considered the dagger for a moment then, without warning, the middle head lunged forward and snatched the dagger from Azareth's outstretched hand. Holding the dagger between its massive teeth, Cerberus then tossed his head up, and swallowed the blade whole.
Azareth, amazed that he wasn't dead, snatched his drool-covered hand away and wiped it immediately on his robes. Despite his best efforts, the acidic, poisonous spittle of the daemonic hound had badly scarred his hand, an injury that would forever refuse to heal.
Cerberus looked away and, seemingly satisfied with their offering, continued to survey the procession of petitioners. The assassins took their chance and dashed forward, scurrying through the massive gates and into The Underworld, the realm of Nerull, the God of Death.
| Normal Text | Character's words or descriptive text if part of a paragraph |
| Italic Text | Character's thoughts or actions if surrounded by parenthesis |
| Bold Text | Character is shouting. |