The Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come and pass, leaving memories that become legend. Legend fades to myth, and even myth is long forgotten when the Age that gave it birth comes again. In one Age, called the Sixth Age by some, an Age yet to come, an Age long past, a wind rose in the mountains of the Spine. The wind was not the beginning. There are neither beginnings nor endings to the turning of the Wheel of Time. But it was a beginning.
Onward the wind swept, moving to the east. The still waters of Lake Leonia turned muddy at its banks; the mountain Helgrind began to shriek and howl, and the priests in their bedchambers wept at its anger. They knew the portents that the wind carried.
Further west the wind, and against the stone walls of Meilan it crashed, setting banners aflutter and the minds of troops ill at ease. The Varden army was nervous, now in the start of its campaign. Outside the city, where once crops grew to feed the city, the fields stank of blood and fear and battle. The next year’s harvest lay in the soil, and fed on corpses.
From his vantage point atop the city walls, Eragon gazed at the army before him. They stood with rapt attention at the man who they called Shadeslayer, for he symbolized their hope for an idealized past, symbolized the world as it should be, symbolized everything good and right and true. Men need heroes, in war. Raising his sword into the sky, the Rider spoke a word and the blade burst into flame, a pure streak of light as the sun set around them. And the world changed.
For as the blade ignited and burned, so too did the great Tree Syrclle, thousands of leagues to the north. The Elves did not notice, for the importance Tree had been forgotten thousands of years ago. Back when the drow ruled below and the elves above, until the drow were sealed away. Back when the Tree was created.
As the sword Brisingir slowly descended from its heights, a cut was made. No man or woman alive would ever see the small hole that it made, but it was there. And through it came one who was yet to be born. In the caverns of the mountain Helgrind, the Dark One’s Will gathered, and was woven once more into the pattern, free of the prison that Rand Al’Thor had placed.
The Aelfinn and Eelfinn looked upon the world, and saw the chaos that the Rider had wrought, and smile, for the bargain made would be kept, and their debt repaid. Old deals were voided, and a small group from a world they had created was returned. A young man’s belt unraveled as its buckle sizzled and melted as they wove their will. The Aelfinn and Eelfinn nodded, their bargain fulfilled, and withdrew once more to their Tower of Ghenji, where they waited for one to approach once more…
A large man lies in the on the peak of the mountain of the Hadrac Desert. He sleeps dreaming of metal and fire. Well that is until one of his short soldiers wanders over to him and taps his shoulder.
"Ugh Eddie?" the short man asks.
"Five more minutes Mom." The man replies rolling over.
"No more minutes Eddie. Bladehedge is gone." The deformed little man states before slamming his head down into Eddie Riggs's stomach. Since that head had been hardened by years of being forced to mine by bashing his skull against rock that really hurts. Eddie wakes up with a scream of pain.
"Dude. Not cool." Eddie says as he looks around. The headbanger was correct Bladehedge was gone or they were somewhere else. "Oh crap when did this happen?"
A older man leaning on a large mechanical bike takes a cigarette out of his coat pockect and lights it up before turning to address Eddie. "Dunno. We woke up and here we are."
"Okay let's just get our bearings here before we go crazy. Who's with us Killmaster?" Eddie asks as he reaches for his guitar that was lain carelessly beside him.
"Not many. You, a bouncer, some barons, a bouncer, few of Ophelia's Razor Girls, some headbangers, Magnus and myself." The Killmaster explains. "This isn't your time is it?"
"I don't think so. Let me check." Eddie takes the guitar and plays a few chords and several nearby rocks violently explode. "Nope not my age."
"Well it sure as Hell ain't home." A medium height man, slender as a post says. "We'll be able to go back right?"
"I don't know Magnus. First I'd like to get a feeling of where we are. Get the Headbangers and Razor Girls on the bus. Wait for us at the bottom of the mountain, Riders you're with me." Eddie says playing a few more notes on his guitar that summons a large machine. Big enough to hold two people and able to mow down dozens with it's powerful projectiles. The machine Eddie called "The Druid Plow". "Let's ride boys."
With that Eddie Riggs the fabled Roadie of the Age of Metal, lead his convoy of three Fire Barons and the Killmaster down the mountain and into the larger Desert.
Quenthel Baenre meditated in her chambers within the Dark Elf city of Menzoberanzzan. She let her mind drift and listen to the hollowness of the caverns around her, the dripping of water from stalactites, the skittering of vermin across stone. And like all priestesses, she listened for anything that approached her chambers, ready to strike it down in an instant.
A song called her across the astral plane, a black and red weaving that tugged at her soul and body. Quenthel followed it, and let out a scream of pain. A dozen orange suns burst over a charred landscape of black sand and sunken pits. Running, feeling her vision blur, the priestess dove into the pit that called to her. It was not much of an improvement; the jagged landscape was torn and dusty, filled with high mountains and a sky of spider web. Beneath her, Quenthel felt an ocean of arachnids clawing up at her, but something was painfully piercing her spine and keeping her aloft. The spikes turned Quenthel around to reveal a bloated spider's body with the eight-eyed face of a painfully beautiful drow smiling down at her.
The spiders did not disperse, but they stopped their ravenous clicking as Quenthel was lowered into them. A mixture of hatred, fear, and love burned in the Baenre as she closed her eyes, bound her head, and formed her hands into the high praise of drow sign language. Spiders crawled all around Quenthel, and she could already feel them beginning to enweb her boots and legs as she growled, "What is thy bidding, Mistress?"
The Samurai known as Jack had traveled across the land for well over three years. Always looking for a way to go home. Always searching, always tracking down rumors and legends. And now he was here.
In a forest clearing lies a strange, tall grey pillar, covered in thousands of strange symbols. And standing on the pillar was a man.
The fellow was tall, taller than the Scotsman, and sinewy, but with shoulders too wide for his narrow waist, and skin as white as the finest paper. Pale leather straps studded with silver crisscrossed his arms and bare chest, and a black kilt hung to his knees. His eyes were too big and almost colorless, set deep in a narrow jawed face. His short cut, palely reddish hair stood up like a brush, and his ears, lying flat against his head, had a hint of a point at the top. He leaned towards Jack, inhaling, opening his mouth to pull in more air, flashing sharp teeth. The impression he gave was of a fox about to leap on a cornered chicken.
"Do you abide by the treaties and agreements? Do you carry iron, or instruments of music, or devices for making light?" His voice is low, rough. Like a growl.
There is nothing. Not even blackness. Just nothing. Then nothing becomes something, becomes a doorway in the dark.
The crew find themselves in the midst of a vast desert, one where even the largest, most epic concert ever devised could not fill. The sand goes to the horizon, and the heat of the day beats upon you relentlessly. But wait. In the distance is a dark shape; a man, lying upon the ground, exhausted and waiting for death.
Lolth deems to not take note of your plight. The Spider Queen is furious, a cold fury that years of experience had taught the High Priestess was never good. Yet there was triumph as well; a sense of satisfaction that far exceeded any raid or house cleansing.
"How long has it been since we last spoke, Quenthel Baenre?"
All around, the great trees brooded, ominous presences who's branches met over the trail, intertwined like a giant at prayer, filtering all but a few solitary shafts of light grudgingly illuminated the way forward. Moss covered the branches and the scaly bark of the trunks resembled nothing so much as the scaly hide of dead serpents, with hints of gnarled faces in the twisting bark. A stillness as old as the vast primeval forest, broken only by occasional stirrings in the undergrowth. Here, no birds dared sing.
This was no enchanted forest. This was an ancient place beyond the realm of the elves, the seasons, forgotten by all but the oldest beings, a place where even the passings of the ages did not touch.
Their was an indescribable sound that smote the air like a thunderclap, blowing leaves of nearby trees, and a lean, black armored figure appeared to fall a few feet with a muffled curse. A few meters away, an enormous, reptile landed in the same way with a rumbling, dangerous growl.
Malus pulled himself to his feet, shaking. Damned Scorcery!
Well, little Druchii, here you are. The end of the rope, so to speak. Hopeless. Helpless. Useless. Your dreams dust behind you, everything you’ve cared about destroyed, and now even your bloody-mindedness won’t do you any good. All you have suffered, all the blood you have shed, for nothing…
“Like you’re any better off.” Malus growled under his breath. “You’re as lost as me.”
T’zarken chuckled, and Malus winced as the demon moved, like a nest of vipers coiling around his heart, leaving freezing trails behind. What was worse was he had grown use to the sensation, familiar with it. He hated that almost as much as he hated the daemon and the pain of it.
You are a fool, Malus. I told you once, I do not suffer in my prison. I will be free, the only question is when. And what is time to me? While your hope just failed. You have nothing, Malus. Nothing at all. He chuckled again, a sound that beat Malus like a hammer from the inside of his skull. Slither, slither little worm. Run and hide and cry and beg, you will not escape me.
“I’m not dead yet!” He shouted, suddenly not caring. He wanted to be found, wanted someone to see him so he could kill them, but even that wouldn’t relieve the terrible, thwarted anger he felt. He was so close… so very close...
It wouldn’t end this way. He wouldn’t let it. He had killed his father, burned down the city he’d hoped to one day rule, killed his closest retainers and the majority of his family, betrayed everything that mattered and everything that didn’t. He had suffered up and down the length of the old world, sacrificed all he had and more. It couldn’t be for nothing. It couldn’t end like this.
He stared down at the enormous ruby on his hand, from which black veins thick with corruption pulsed in time with something that was not his heartbeat. To thin he considered himself strong. If he had been, he would have cut off his finger rather when he couldn’t remove it, regardless of how little good he suspected it would have one.
No, you’re not. T’zarken said. You still have five weeks at last count. And here you are, nowhere near the wastes.
Malus looked up. “Where am I then?”
T’zarken replied. Not a good sign. The first age. Aenerion has not yet been born, Not for uncountable generations. The warpgate has not failed, and the old one, remains sealed beyond the bore, wrapped in darkness dreaming dreams of power, waiting to awaken.
“How do you know all this?”
The same way I know everything. I have seen this happen again and again. For a being outside time, it’s almost amusing. My prison is in Shayol Ghul, coiled in the lake of fire. The blight does not exist, nor do the wastes that came next.
“Where is that? How do I get there?” Malus asked, pushing his luck, but T’zarken only chuckled coiling tighter. Malus winced again, as some of the ichor that occupied his veins where his blood should be dripped between his clenched teeth.
“Figures you wouldn’t be useful.” He grumbled, then patted Spite. Mounting unsteadily, he patted it again on the flank. “Up Spite, up. Up great beast of the dark earth. Ride for ruin, and the worlds ending. Lets end this, one way or another.”
Last edited by Cracklord : 04-01-2010 at 08:48 PM.
Jack places his hand on his sword and stares up at the man. He doesn't know what treaties this man is talking about but he knew this was his way back to his home time.
"Who are you? I simply seak to return to my own time."
"Nothing out here but sand mate." On of the fire barons states after they had rode about for a while.
"So I noticed. Okay we got to get out of this desert before we dehydrate. Like under the stage lights." Eddie thinks out loud. "Any of you happen to have experience with deserts?"
"Sorry Mate, we lived up North in the snow." the fire baron replies dreeily.
"Okay so we go back to the bus and make our way west. Hopefully we'll find an Oasis or something along the way." Eddie shifts the gears of the Druid Plow and heads back to the bus to lead his crew out of the desert.
It is the job of the roadie to keep the crew together even in the worst of gigs after all.
The Void, an endless plane that connects to all worlds and times. It's nothingness is only interrupted by things that had been engulfed by it, including castles, towns, continents, and sometimes worlds; all merely tiny islands in the endless sea. Strange demons called this place home, as did any unlucky enough to be banished here, for there is rarely any chance of escape. But now for a certain swordsman, there was.
A strange grey-skinned man in red Genji armor and outlandish pants, accompanied by a green wolf, had been sitting on a lonely chunck of rock, when he saw another chance of escape. He had been regurgitated out by the void numerous times, only to be pulled back in again. But then again, these excursions into actual worlds beat sitting on a floating rock for eternity, so he crossed into this doorway to see what awaited him this time.
As soon as Malus mounts his horse, he hears several bowstrings being pulled taunt. As he looks around, he sees a pair of light-skinned elves, dressed in armor far less ornate than his own. There was a certain degree of decoration and elegance to its design, perhaps, but it seemed almost strictly utilitarian. One of them speaks.
"We were warned about the approaching drow'" He says the word as if unfamiliar with it. "Surrender."
The Fifth Age
"We are the Eelfinn, Samurai. And for now, we alone know the secrets of the Portal Stone. Now answer, Samurai. Do you carry iron, or instruments of music, or devices for making light?" Jack's skin shudders in the being's continued presence, as if somehow filthy. A constant prickling at the edge of his awareness.
As Eddie and his Crew return to the mountain, they come across a man, half starved and dressed in ragged clothing. "Help...me," he manages to gasp out.
Just as the man is about to cross the threshold, he is stopped by a man, tall and barefoot, arms and legs and body wound about in layers of yellow cloth, and Gilgamesh was suddenly not so sure if it was a man. Or human. It looked human, at first glance, though perhaps too graceful, but it seemed far too thin for its height, with a narrow, elongated face. Its skin, and even its straight black hair, caught the pale light in a way that reminded him of a snake’s scales. And those eyes, the pupils just black, vertical slits. No, not human.
"You have brought no lamps, no torches, as the agreement was, and is, and ever will be. You have no iron? No instruments of music?”
"I carry only my Father's sword and the clothes on my back." Jack says but does not leave his defensive stance. Something seems truly off about these Eelfinn.
Eddie stops driving as he comes across the man. "Guys hold on there's someone out here."
Eddie makes his was over to the dying man. "Are you alright man?"
"Eddie, of course he's not all right. The bloke's dying in the desert, get him on Killmaster's rack already." A fire baron shakes his head.
"Yeah, yeah." Eddie picks the man up and sets him on the speaker bed of the Killmaster's Thunderhog. A fine bike, with a bass made from the webs of the metal spiders. It extends an aura of healing around all who hear it's music no matter what it is that ails them. "Lay down some base, Killmaster."
"Ugh I hate being the field medic." Killmaster replies but plays the song as instructed hopefully help the man get back on his feet.
"And where do you wish to travel, Samurai Jack? A return to your own time, a futile attempt to kill Aku after you failed first? Or do you wish to destroy him utterly?" That leather seems off somehow. Far too pale for one thing...oh. That sort of leather.
The man jerks and twitches at the sound. While he is healing, his hands firmly cover his ears in vain attempt to shut out the music.
Malus dismounts. His pale skin is weathered, scarred and leathery, and he possesses little of the beauty elves are famous for. Just the same, no one could mistake him for a drow. He grimaces, gone so quickly its barely noticeable, then dismounts.
His gauntleted hand is nowhere near the pommel of his sword, and he keeps his moves slow and cautious, as though approaching a wild nauglir.
"Honored cousins, you are mistaken. I am no drow." He says, working hard and succeeding, just, in keeping the sarcasm out of his voice. If they knew the truth...
"I am Malus, highborn of Nagarythe, once of the house of Saphery." True enough. Improvising, he adds "I have come to your lands on a matter of honor, and family pride. To that end I am hunting a fugitive, and I have traveled many miles, crossing the great ocean on a matter of urgency. I must speak with your lord at once."
Spite growls, as he sniffs the air, and Malus keeps his back to the Cold One.
A shadowy figure stirs in the recesses, an eyeless face drinking in the caverns. Shaidar Haran lives again.
With a snakelike movement he pulls himself upright, sighing in contentment as the dark energies balm his spirit. He feels revitalized.
Without seeming to move he is upright and making his way further from the tiny bore that is the Dark ones prison, a cold smirk on his face. At last he comes to a wall, and, at some unknowable command, they slide open.
Nothing yet. Well, so be it. Reality is twisted and malleable already. It takes him but a single step to cross the entire cavern.
Without so much as a word, Shaidar Haran went forth.
Last edited by Cracklord : 04-02-2010 at 12:05 AM.
The two turn to each other, nod once, and keep their bows at the ready. "Drow."
One of them, tall and reeking of arrogance, smirks. "Your first mistake was assuming that there were other, impure elven races remaining. Your second was mentioning a kingdom that nobody has ever heard of. Now, then. Will you surrender to us, and face the judgement of my Queen, or will you die here like the abomination that you are?"
Shaidar Haran, free and unbound, was loose upon the world. But none knew of the Fade, not of his kind nor name nor master. The Dark One had been sealed that his very name was lost to Time. And as memory fades into nothing, legend into myth, those that currently walk the earth know that they, and they alone, are superior to the heroes and villains of old.
A tall, thin creature stands before the Hand of the Dark. Human-looking, with red hair and pointed teeth. A sly tone, one that would have been fearsome had it not been addressed to the Lord of the Myrddraal issues forth from pale lips.
"You have disturbed the sanctity of the Helgrind. I am the Shade Raasshtlyanan. FEAR ME!"
The Fifth Age
"You seek to travel backwards in time, back to when you rode against Aku and was defeated. But were you to come back the instant after you left, you would still lose. But there is a moment where your foe may be defeated. The Portal Stone may access many times and places. What shall our bargain be, Samurai Jack?"
"It sounds as if a cat has been dragged screaming across a hot iron," the man wheezes out. He turns his head towards Eddie, and the roadie recoils in horror. The poor soul's eyes have been removed; not a trace of them remain in his head. "Who are you?"
The dark elf clenched his teeth as he heard T'zarken laugh. Not doing so well, are you? You are usually so good at this. Malus fought the bloodlust. He was stranded, with no allies. The sword felt hot at his side, a burning heat that forced back the demon, until he was barely noticeable. Most of Malus wanted to draw it and keep killing until all of them were dead.
He had learned, at great cost, never to go along with such impulses.
So he would give them one more chance before he left their corpses for the crows.
"Great lord, you question my word." He said. "You question my honor, and with it, you pay me insult that can only be repaid in blood. More so, you both call my nobility into doubt, and the honor of my house and my family. In Aenerion's time, the only answer was to kill you, your family, and all your retainers and servants. Since, however, no elf would admit to parenting something like you, I will have to settle with you alone, unless you produce a swine." He stepped forward, suddenly confident. And again. And again, until he was barely two sword legnths away from the blustering elf.
"You don't seem to be drawing your sword. I can only assume you are as stupid as you look, and you spoke without thinking. As such, I will allow you to keep your life, if you get on your knees and swear an oath of service, and forfiet all rights, serving as my body slave until I deem your shame expunged. Unless of course, you are a craven, in which case I will indeed be shot, but your men will know you are a coward who hides behind insults and the swords of his betters, afraid to face one elf driven past the point of exhaustion." In case that wasn't enough, he spat the black ichor onto the ground.
T'zarken was laughing. Ah, Malus, you can always be replied on to respond to any threat with as much violence as possible.
"Shut up." Malus muttered, then looked up. "So, name your weapon, and your time, or start begging."
The Myrddraal drinks him in. He sees many things. A small-minded, primitive creature, a craven bully. He also senses potential. He sniffs the air, then walks forward, using his height to tower over the thing. At last he laughs. He lets the sound fade then his hand snakes out, grabbing the shade around the neck. Without a modicum of effort, he lifts the shade a foot up until they are eye level and the being is dangling. A thoughtless twitch leaves the creature grasping for it's magic.
"You are nothing. Yet. Would you like to be something?"
Last edited by Cracklord : 04-02-2010 at 12:04 AM.
"Yeah well it was only the bass track. You should hear the full version some time." Eddie explains before seeing the man's face.
"By Ormagodden's fangs! What happened to you? No eyes and wandering around this hellish desert." Eddie seems quite repulsed before straightening up. "Thats freaking badass man! Anyways my name's Eddie we are um an advanced scouting party for an invading army-"
"What? No we just kinda woke up on that-" One of the Fire Barons begins to say before...
"Ixnay on the ruthtay, Baron." Eddie interupts "We kind of got lost in this desert. You wouldn't happen to know what the fastest way out is?"
"Take me to where Aku can be defeated." Jack says simply.
"You have not named your price, Samurai Jack." The Eelfinn grins, yellowed teeth revealed. "I will chose it."
The creature grabs hold of the Samurai's arm, and with it's long nails cuts the man's finger. A single drop of blood oozes to splatter onto the Portal Stone, onto a rune.
"Thus is our treaty written; thus is agreement made. Thought is the arrow of time; memory never fades. What was asked is given. The price is paid."
"My weapon is this, drow," the he-elf sneers, gesturing to a rather finely-crafted, and well-used sword. "And my time is..." Startled by a sudden noise in the treetops, he looks up and gapes in horror.
Where once was only the comforting boughs and branches of the trees, now too was a man in a white robe, a gray noose attached to his neck, suspended above the ground by one of the most perfect swords Malus had ever seen. The sword lay across two thick branches, and bore the weight of the man, yet it did not break.
"I did not choose this!" the man moans, gesturing vaguely towards his eyes. "It was him! I was a mere butcher, who sought to protect the apple of his eye, his lovely daughter. But he came and caused all of this! Bound! I am bound to go where he wills it, such is my curse. Damn you, Eragon Shadeslayer!" Fevered hands, half-withered and shaking reach towards the ground, and the man crawls northward, unable to resist the compulsion.
"Almost five, if I recall correctly, mistress. Barely a span in the great weave." The spiders are starting to crawl up Quenthel's legs, and she realizes the test. Soon the spiders will cover her and begin biting. If she so much as swats at one, she will incur Lolth's wrath. The only thing to do now is throw herself on the Spider Queen's mercy.
The dark elf doesn't flinch. He's gotten good at hiding his reactions over the years, and now had the self control to ignore most
Instead, he eyes the elf, and smiles a feral grin. "Well, as long as your brandishing that thing, you might as well use it. Cut him down, then we can satisfy honor."
With no further ceremony, he draws his sword. It's hilt felt hot to touch, and the eldritch blade seems to leap from it's scabbard with an ominous hiss. He felt T'zarken withdraw as hungry fire seared Malus from head to toe. It was agonizing.
With no ceremony, he cut The white robed man down, although he had to fight to keep the sword from shearing the samurai's neck as it wanted to. Later, he'd have questions for that man. For now, all that mattered was blood.
Khaine was hungry.
Shaidar Haran smiled. "I am the chosen of The Dark One. My will is his will. His power flows in my veins." He draws him close until they were almost eye to eye. "Would you like to taste it?"
Last edited by Cracklord : 04-02-2010 at 04:26 AM.
"Another void demon? Bah! I serve ExDeath no longer, thus I am not bound to any deals or whatnot he made. Perhaps you have me mistaken for another who has made a deal with you, for I leave the Void as I wish."
Enkidu is in a position to strike at the man, braced to jump, and growling, evidently he does not like this man-thing.
The serpentine being stares levelly at Gilgamesh. "You are a fool. You know nothing of the true nature of the world." He makes an offhand gesture.
There is nothing. Not even blackness. Just nothing. Then nothing becomes something, becomes a doorway in the dark.
There is something like rapture in the Shade's eyes. "Yes."
"Wrong." Around the High Priestess, the spiders burst, covering Quenthal with ichor. The Spider Queen's wrath is tangible; Quenthal feels long, shallow cuts opening across her body. "It has been far longer than that. For you it was only a moment, but I know now what they were planning. I have felt every moment of our imprisonment, every second of the past thousands of thousands of years. Go forth, and see our new world."
The pain stings Quenthel out of her reverie instantly. She takes a moment to examine her chambers and then moves quickly. Something has happened, and she needs to know what. A crystal ball rests at the other end of the room, adorned with a spider, of course. Desperate times call for desperate measures; it's time to call on her siblings.
By all accounts, the Baenre siblings are civil for a drow family. They all manage to stay far away enough from each other yet close enough for the good of the city. This is to say that none have found suitable puppets or replacements that would be worth the effort for a coup. Quenthel is the strongest priestess that Lolth has ever had on this world. Gromph is one of the most powerful arch-mages in the realms. And Triel has been a sly enough politician to prove herself a dependable third party and blessed by both. Still, if any one could get a leg up on the other, they would try, moving through enough secret channels to appear innocent in face of failure.
Quenthel touches the crystal ball and communicates through it, "Brother, Sister, I require an immediate audience with both of you. The Spider Queen has given me a revelation; we must act quickly."
A sword swipes through the air, and Jack is freed by a dark, ominous-looking fellow with dark skin and a hard face.
The orb illuminates to reveal Triel and Gromph's faces. Apparently, the pair had been meeting together before Quenthal's summons.
"Quenthal. We have news for you as well."
"Civilization? This is the desert I am in, is it not? West and South of here, but it is a journey of dozen's of leagues." Moaning in agony, the man continues his journey Northward, bound by some unseen force into doing so.
The doorway is the same as before; the serpentine being still at its threshold.
"Do you begin to understand? Answer my question, and you shall receive three of your own. Thus was the bargain made at the Beginning."
"I suppose that our messages are related. The Mistress was vague; speak your piece, unless you want me to be present for this meeting as well." Quenthel is concerned about the two of them meeting together; drow don't meet. They plot.
Gromph speaks first. "It is my belief that we are no longer where we were half a cycle ago. Something has affected the magic; it seems...different. I discovered this fact at the beginning of an experiment; I immediately informed Triel, as this affects our civil society far more than the priesthood of our goddess." What is left unsaid, of course, is far more important. I told her, and not you. You might have never known.
Jack looks around his surroundings and at the man who freed him. "Thank you for freeing me, sir but I must be on my way."
Jack jumps up to his sword held on the branches and pulls it down.
"Well you heard the bloke. Let's get the bus and get out of here." The Fire Baron says without much care.
"I'm not leaving someone to die in the desert. Let me try something." Eddie pulls out his guitar Clementie, infused with the energy of the Age of Metal the guitar was a powerful conduit for magic and Eddie knew just the spell.
The solo enscribed upon the ancesteral sword of Lars Halford, the song that broke the spells keeping the headbangers in Lord Lionwhyte's mines, the battle cry. Eddie invokes the magic of the powerful shredding solo to possibly lift the poor eyeless man from his curse.
The man stops at the sound of the music, hands covering ears. Angrily, he turns around and stomps back towards Eddie. "Will you stop that noise! That offends the senses and makes my duty even more wretc..." Then, realizing what had just happened, envelops the man in his arms. You can hear him sobbing, but his empty sockets produce no tears. "Thank you. Thank you."
The creature steps aside, and beckons. "Follow."
Beyond the doorway, there is not a straight line to be seen anywhere except for the floor itself, as he trails behind. Even the ceiling is always arched, and the walls bowed out. The halls are continuously curved, the doorways rounded, the windows perfect circles. Tilework made spirals and sinuous lines, and what seems to be bronze metalwork set in the ceiling at intervals was all complicated scrolls. There are no pictures of anything, no wall hangings or paintings. Only patterns, and always curves.
What he saw through those round windows was unnerving, to say the least. Tall wispy trees with only a drooping umbrella of branches at the top, and others like huge fans of lacy leaves, a tangle of growth equal to the heart of any briar-choked thicket, all under a dim, overcast light, though there did not seem to be a cloud in the sky. There were always windows, always along just one side of the curving corridor, but sometimes the side changed, and what surely should have been looking into courtyard or rooms instead gave out into that forest. He never caught as much as a glimpse of any other part of this palace, or whatever it was, through those windows, or any other building, except . . .
Through one circular window he saw three tall silvery spires, curving in toward each other so their points all aimed at the same spot. They were not visible from the next window, three paces away, but a few minutes later, after he and his guide had rounded enough curves that he had to be looking in another direction, he saw them again. He tried telling himself these were three different spires, but between them and him was one of those fan-shaped trees with a dangling broken branch, a tree that had been in the same spot the first time. After his third sight of the spires and the strange tree with the broken branch, this time ten paces farther on but on the other side of the hallway, he tried to stop looking at what lay outside at all.
“Here,” the peculiar, yellow-wrapped fellow said, gesturing with one of those thin hands to a rounded doorway twice as large as any Gilgamesh had seen before. His strange eyes studied Gilgamesh intently. His mouth gaped open, and he inhaled, long and slow. The stranger gave a writhing hitch of his shoulders. “Here your answers may be found. Enter. Enter and ask.”
"But of course I have no questions to ask. I am content with the knowledge I have, secrets of the universe are irrelevant to a swordsman. Besides Enkidu does not seem like you void demon, and if a silly wolf such as he does not like a person, then I should be quite wary of them. Besides, being that you are a void demon, this could all likely be a trap."