There are several new figures in Tempered Vale. One is a petite, pale young woman in white and gold clerical vestments, marked with a symbol of a path winding into a sunrise. Her voluminous cloaks conceal a well-maintained crossbow and side quiver, and outdoor and in she wears a hooded winter cloak or monk-like habit. She doesn't say much, or look people in the eye, and in fact rarely raises her hooded head at all. Sometimes she seems to be praying, sometimes tending to the feather-winged orange cat in her lap, sometimes toying with an amber amulet. Sometimes it looks like she's pretending one of those things, so as not to look up.
She spends most of her time in a small private room at the inn, but early risers may see her leave the inn shortly before sunrise each day. Thereafter she can't be found, until a little after sunrise, where she prays at the small, outdoor shrine of Lathander and leaves a gold coin as offering. Unless someone else is at the shrine, then she waits at a discreet distance until they leave.
She has volunteered her aid as a healer to the Peacemakers, and so joined a group on an expedition to a cave to the southeast. An old man named Ronson asked the adventurers to retrieve a stone that he claimed could control the elements and help end this long winter. General Sildar confirmed that such a cave and stone existed, but could not vouch for the old man's character or motives.
Led by Anton the ranger, they set out. Two monks, Silas and Trym, Zaphire the warlock, a humble cemetery worker named Henry, and the timid cleric Aphelion. On the path ahead, they spotted shambling, dragging tracks, that several party members recognised: the undead. The party tracked the creatures and crept up behind, spying walking corpses with blue witchlights in their eyes. Henry lit incense in a heavy censer, and humming a Kelevorian hymn, strode forward boldly.
With the monks’ martial artistry, the warlock’s eldritch energies, and the cleric’s holy fire, the fight was over quickly. The gravedigger’s flail-like censer felled the blasphemous creatures, sending each with a word of prayer to his waiting god.
Henry and Aphelion tended to last rites and burned the remains, while the others rested. Then they pressed on. The zombies were on the same heading, it seemed, on the trail toward the cave in the foothills. The stone of the cave was worked and widened, and the inside was vast and cavernous. Precarious walkways led out into dark, echoing spaces, some with crumbling edges, some broken up into stepping-stone segments with terrifying ten-foot leaps between.
The party discovered a high platform lit by four oil braziers of coloured flame. One red, one blue, one white, one brown. An ominous black glass statue of a tentacle-faced humanoid stood at one end. Experimenting with the fires revealed that only the red one produced heat, and markings in a strange language revealed that each was aligned to one of the four elements of matter. The red flame burned with intense heat, the white oil caused objects doused in it to become buoyant and light. The brown one could repair and re-form stone, and the blue fire dripped water.
The braver adventurers drenched themselves in the "air" oil to enhance their jumps, and, shrouded ghost-like in white flames, hopped across the gaps in the walkway to explore more of the cavern. In one direction they found a pool of viscous, inky liquid; in the other a sort of shrine, comprised of six rough-hewn obsidian pillars and a plinth with a huge oval gemstone the size of a bread loaf. Suspended a few inches above the altar on fragile arms, the clear stone swirled with moving and mingling colors.
It was discovered that the black goo dispelled magic from anything it touched. The brown flame could repair damaged walkways, and in this process the party found that the gaps were not gaps at at all, but sections of invisible stone. This made movement around the cave much easier. The party used the brown fire to repair a crumbled statue, depicting a faceless, hooded man, with his hands upon the heads of two faceless children. When Henry applied the water oil to the man's blank face, he was beset by madness, and became hostile to the party. Only Trym’s quick thinking was able to help Henry regain his sanity, by dispelling the effect with a handful of black fluid.
Resuming the investigation, the "earth" oil was able to restore the rough black pillars to their true shape: each a human figure, each face and body contorted in agony. Each with a small, ugly, abstractly shaped statuette in a slot atop its head. The party experimented more with the liquids, finding that the blue flame reduced one statue to a glassy puddle. They found with horror that the thick inky substance turned another obsidian statue to a screaming humanoid, who rapidly aged and turned to ash as they watched helplessly. Being more careful now that they were aware of the souls trapped within, Zaphire attempted to reach out and telepathically communicate with the people. They moaned in torment and begged for release, speaking of a betrayal that had trapped them here long ago.
Carefully, Henry removed one of the ugly objects from a statue’s head, though it burned at his mind as he touched it. Steeling himself against the psychic assault, he dashed it to pieces on the floor. The statue moved, repositioning to a pose of calm prayer. The remaining torture objects were dislodged by the gravedigger’s shovel, and Zaphire heard the spirits depart with a telepathic thank you, brought to peace at last. Now the black ooze crumbled the statues to nothing, and the spindles holding the colour-swirl stone released it to rest on the plinth.
Steeling himself once more, Henry grasped the egg-shaped stone. He felt a cold sapping of energy from his palms, and a transparent bubble formed in a wide radius, perhaps fifty feet across. The bubble blinked out when not in skin contact, seeming to be powered by a leeching necromantic force. When several people touched it at once, the bubble widened further still.
Departing the cavern with their prize, the party found that the soap bubble sphere around the stone shielded them from the cold winds, and the temperature inside was notably milder. Ice began to thaw within its perimeter.
Then Ronson, the old man from town appeared. He asked them to hand over the stone. When the heroes refused, he changed, shedding the guise for a gaunt, skeletal form that Henry recognised. The Ghostlord, it seemed, was also unhappy with the winter cold, preferring the warmth of his desert region.
The party used a vessel of the magic-devouring black substance to hold the stone ransom, threatening to destroy it if the creature did not let them pass. The Ghostlord gave the ultimatum: they would not leave with the stone, so either surrender it, destroy it, or be destroyed. They chose to sacrifice the stone with the ooze, and the Ghostlord departed without another word.
"Henry, did we do the right thing?" asked Aphelion the next day on the chilly streets of the town. "That stone was a thing of evil, yes. But it could have done good for this land. It's so cold here." Aphelion hugged her winged cat and drew her cloak close with a shiver.
"I have to believe destroying that thing was the right thing to do, Aph. Imagine we could have found volunteers enough to power it, to give their bodies to necrosis in the name of protection of Tempered Vale. Imagine we didn't need to turn to a lottery or prisoners, harvesting the lives of the unwilling. Could we protect the whole town? A farmer's field? Two? Ten acres? 100? Could we trade blood for crops and shelter in this horrible winter?
"Imagine we could. Imagine we did. What of Drellin's Ferry? Whytecliffe? Witchcross? Vraath? Conyberry? All the other places in these frigid reaches should be cast to the winter while we burn lives at the altar of comfort?" The joy normally creased into Henry's face had faded. His features were tight and grim.
"No. That is the way of selfishness and cowardice. If blood must be spilled, let us spill it at the altar of life. Let me be first at that altar. Spill it that this wretched winter be ended and the whole region can bask in summer sunshine once more. It is wrong for a pocket of quavering cowards to debase themselves, clutching an egg and watching their neighbours freeze and starve and scrape and strain unto death."
Aphelion shrank even deeper into the recess of her hood. "You’re right. Of course you’re right." She grasped at her amulet. "A costly candle at best, when this night needs nothing less than a dawn. Tell me though: do you believe wicked things can do good, sometimes? Or are they always destined for ill?"
"Ho, ho! Shall we plumb the ancient texts for wisdom and warmth?" He laughed heartily, the joy returned. "Certainly, I believe all things can be used to forward a good cause, as we, dare I say, good things, were used to evil ends not a day ago.
"Some are lucky to receive the boon of an opportunity for redemption before Kelemvor reclaims our bones, but that boon need not be rare. Let us grant it to everyone we can. Surely, that alone is a light in this world."
Aphelion gave a tiny smile. "I hope you’re right. Thank you, Henry." She met his eye for the first time, briefly. Henry saw a glint of catlike yellow eyeshine beneath the shadow of the girl's hood. And then she whisked her cloaks about her again and hurried off into the snow.
She spends most of her time in a small private room at the inn, but early risers may see her leave the inn shortly before sunrise each day. Thereafter she can't be found, until a little after sunrise, where she prays at the small, outdoor shrine of Lathander and leaves a gold coin as offering. Unless someone else is at the shrine, then she waits at a discreet distance until they leave.
She has volunteered her aid as a healer to the Peacemakers, and so joined a group on an expedition to a cave to the southeast. An old man named Ronson asked the adventurers to retrieve a stone that he claimed could control the elements and help end this long winter. General Sildar confirmed that such a cave and stone existed, but could not vouch for the old man's character or motives.
Led by Anton the ranger, they set out. Two monks, Silas and Trym, Zaphire the warlock, a humble cemetery worker named Henry, and the timid cleric Aphelion. On the path ahead, they spotted shambling, dragging tracks, that several party members recognised: the undead. The party tracked the creatures and crept up behind, spying walking corpses with blue witchlights in their eyes. Henry lit incense in a heavy censer, and humming a Kelevorian hymn, strode forward boldly.
With the monks’ martial artistry, the warlock’s eldritch energies, and the cleric’s holy fire, the fight was over quickly. The gravedigger’s flail-like censer felled the blasphemous creatures, sending each with a word of prayer to his waiting god.
Henry and Aphelion tended to last rites and burned the remains, while the others rested. Then they pressed on. The zombies were on the same heading, it seemed, on the trail toward the cave in the foothills. The stone of the cave was worked and widened, and the inside was vast and cavernous. Precarious walkways led out into dark, echoing spaces, some with crumbling edges, some broken up into stepping-stone segments with terrifying ten-foot leaps between.
The party discovered a high platform lit by four oil braziers of coloured flame. One red, one blue, one white, one brown. An ominous black glass statue of a tentacle-faced humanoid stood at one end. Experimenting with the fires revealed that only the red one produced heat, and markings in a strange language revealed that each was aligned to one of the four elements of matter. The red flame burned with intense heat, the white oil caused objects doused in it to become buoyant and light. The brown one could repair and re-form stone, and the blue fire dripped water.
The braver adventurers drenched themselves in the "air" oil to enhance their jumps, and, shrouded ghost-like in white flames, hopped across the gaps in the walkway to explore more of the cavern. In one direction they found a pool of viscous, inky liquid; in the other a sort of shrine, comprised of six rough-hewn obsidian pillars and a plinth with a huge oval gemstone the size of a bread loaf. Suspended a few inches above the altar on fragile arms, the clear stone swirled with moving and mingling colors.
It was discovered that the black goo dispelled magic from anything it touched. The brown flame could repair damaged walkways, and in this process the party found that the gaps were not gaps at at all, but sections of invisible stone. This made movement around the cave much easier. The party used the brown fire to repair a crumbled statue, depicting a faceless, hooded man, with his hands upon the heads of two faceless children. When Henry applied the water oil to the man's blank face, he was beset by madness, and became hostile to the party. Only Trym’s quick thinking was able to help Henry regain his sanity, by dispelling the effect with a handful of black fluid.
Resuming the investigation, the "earth" oil was able to restore the rough black pillars to their true shape: each a human figure, each face and body contorted in agony. Each with a small, ugly, abstractly shaped statuette in a slot atop its head. The party experimented more with the liquids, finding that the blue flame reduced one statue to a glassy puddle. They found with horror that the thick inky substance turned another obsidian statue to a screaming humanoid, who rapidly aged and turned to ash as they watched helplessly. Being more careful now that they were aware of the souls trapped within, Zaphire attempted to reach out and telepathically communicate with the people. They moaned in torment and begged for release, speaking of a betrayal that had trapped them here long ago.
Carefully, Henry removed one of the ugly objects from a statue’s head, though it burned at his mind as he touched it. Steeling himself against the psychic assault, he dashed it to pieces on the floor. The statue moved, repositioning to a pose of calm prayer. The remaining torture objects were dislodged by the gravedigger’s shovel, and Zaphire heard the spirits depart with a telepathic thank you, brought to peace at last. Now the black ooze crumbled the statues to nothing, and the spindles holding the colour-swirl stone released it to rest on the plinth.
Steeling himself once more, Henry grasped the egg-shaped stone. He felt a cold sapping of energy from his palms, and a transparent bubble formed in a wide radius, perhaps fifty feet across. The bubble blinked out when not in skin contact, seeming to be powered by a leeching necromantic force. When several people touched it at once, the bubble widened further still.
Departing the cavern with their prize, the party found that the soap bubble sphere around the stone shielded them from the cold winds, and the temperature inside was notably milder. Ice began to thaw within its perimeter.
Then Ronson, the old man from town appeared. He asked them to hand over the stone. When the heroes refused, he changed, shedding the guise for a gaunt, skeletal form that Henry recognised. The Ghostlord, it seemed, was also unhappy with the winter cold, preferring the warmth of his desert region.
The party used a vessel of the magic-devouring black substance to hold the stone ransom, threatening to destroy it if the creature did not let them pass. The Ghostlord gave the ultimatum: they would not leave with the stone, so either surrender it, destroy it, or be destroyed. They chose to sacrifice the stone with the ooze, and the Ghostlord departed without another word.
"Henry, did we do the right thing?" asked Aphelion the next day on the chilly streets of the town. "That stone was a thing of evil, yes. But it could have done good for this land. It's so cold here." Aphelion hugged her winged cat and drew her cloak close with a shiver.
"I have to believe destroying that thing was the right thing to do, Aph. Imagine we could have found volunteers enough to power it, to give their bodies to necrosis in the name of protection of Tempered Vale. Imagine we didn't need to turn to a lottery or prisoners, harvesting the lives of the unwilling. Could we protect the whole town? A farmer's field? Two? Ten acres? 100? Could we trade blood for crops and shelter in this horrible winter?
"Imagine we could. Imagine we did. What of Drellin's Ferry? Whytecliffe? Witchcross? Vraath? Conyberry? All the other places in these frigid reaches should be cast to the winter while we burn lives at the altar of comfort?" The joy normally creased into Henry's face had faded. His features were tight and grim.
"No. That is the way of selfishness and cowardice. If blood must be spilled, let us spill it at the altar of life. Let me be first at that altar. Spill it that this wretched winter be ended and the whole region can bask in summer sunshine once more. It is wrong for a pocket of quavering cowards to debase themselves, clutching an egg and watching their neighbours freeze and starve and scrape and strain unto death."
Aphelion shrank even deeper into the recess of her hood. "You’re right. Of course you’re right." She grasped at her amulet. "A costly candle at best, when this night needs nothing less than a dawn. Tell me though: do you believe wicked things can do good, sometimes? Or are they always destined for ill?"
"Ho, ho! Shall we plumb the ancient texts for wisdom and warmth?" He laughed heartily, the joy returned. "Certainly, I believe all things can be used to forward a good cause, as we, dare I say, good things, were used to evil ends not a day ago.
"Some are lucky to receive the boon of an opportunity for redemption before Kelemvor reclaims our bones, but that boon need not be rare. Let us grant it to everyone we can. Surely, that alone is a light in this world."
Aphelion gave a tiny smile. "I hope you’re right. Thank you, Henry." She met his eye for the first time, briefly. Henry saw a glint of catlike yellow eyeshine beneath the shadow of the girl's hood. And then she whisked her cloaks about her again and hurried off into the snow.
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