Episode 21 - "Consider Yourselves... Elendil!"

Sword of Air

Episode XXI

"Consider Yourselves... Elendil!"

As the masked assassin races across the water towards the meditating Elven Queen, a strange red glow appears in its eyes and a jagged crown of iron grows from its head. It veers suddenly towards the Fellowship on the ledge above, the focus of its murderous intent magically manipulated by Zimlok’s crown of madness.
Mherren summons a sphere of glowing fire between his hands and, murmuring the name of unholy Demogorgon over and over beneath his breath, unleashes three scorching rays towards the assassin, who is now sprinting towards them, skipping over the waters of the Veil with knife held aloft. Two fiery beams scorch it and cause it to stumble, yet still it comes, its eyes narrowing with grim determination.
Lightstrike gestures and incants a few arcane words, and the nebulous form of his unseen servant materialises and races towards the onrushing figure, attempting to relieve it of its two curved scimitars, but the assassin is too nimble and leaps at Mherren. Cursing, the Wereleopard Rogue morphs into leopard form and leaps across to defend the Queen, misjudging the distance and bellyflopping into the water.
Haji Baba entangles the assassin in mid-flight with the wickedly barbed vines of her thornwhip, and Zimlok attempts to hold it, but the sorcery of his crown of madness crackles and fizzles and the spell fails as the two magical energies conflict and disperse.
As the thornwhip vanishes and the figure clambers to its feet, it looks around to see a horrible demonic imp hopping up and down and hissing on a nearby rock. The assassin’s eyes widen in terror and it begins to back away from the dancing, spitting Quasit. This time Haji Baba attempts a magical hold, and the frightened assailant is frozen in place.
Zimlok whips out his trusty trampoline and, for no discernible reason other than blatant showingoff, leaps acrobatically over Mherren’s head to lean threateningly into the assassin’s face, his beak just inches from the quaking attacker. Mherren also leans in, tearing away the assassin’s dark red mask to reveal the face of a human woman, pale with fear but nevertheless defiant.
“Who sent you?” growls Mherren, but the woman remains tight-lipped.
Again: “Who sent you?” As he stares at her he grasps his onyx amulet and mutters a demonic command word, and the captive assassin’s eyes grow even wider as her lips, tongue and vocal cords move without her willing it.
She can barely stop herself from blurting out a name, but, setting her teeth, she replies only: “He sent me.”
“I need a name! Was it Light Touch?”
“Hah! No, it was not he. Although you are right, I am a Red Mask. But I work for another now…”
“Who? The King?”
But the command has faded and the woman chuckles to herself as Haji Baba binds her with rope.
As she does so, Lightstrike deftly slips a ring from the assassin’s finger that has caught his eye. It is a heavy, gold signet ring engraved with the letter “S”, almost identical to the one they found half-buried along with “Jim” and Sharpchin’s loot in the Old Margreve. This one would appear to be a ring of water walking; narrowing his feline eyes, he wonders what magic might imbue the other?
While the comrades are interrogating the assassin, Gilmoras the Mummer calls out to his Queen, who still levitates undisturbed in tranquil meditation. The pale blue light in her blank eyes dissipates and she sinks down amongst the petrified, alien-looking flowers of her rocky island. When she realises what has transpired, she thanks our heroes and implores them to meet her at the Aelinbril at dusk.
“This one refuses to talk,” says Haji Baba. “What shall we do with her?”
“Kill her,” replies the Queen coldly, angry at her sanctuary in The Veil being invaded. But at the protestations of the Fellowship she reconsiders, and soon guards arrive to take the captive away for further questioning.
The heroes leave with Gilmoras, passing back through the gap in the falls and floating over the churning waters below. The craft lands in the water with barely a splash and cuts swiftly through the waters of the Aeardolen despite their being barely a breeze in the great cavern of the Morgrod.
They bid farewell to Gilmoras, who embraces and kisses them all in an over-the-top, overly squeezy fashion that nearly gets him a goodbye fist from Mherren. As they part, the Mummer gives Zimlok a meaningful stare that makes the Wizard feel distinctly ruffled and uncomfortable.
As the companions wander through Hrivenost, they hear the tink, tink of a blacksmith’s hammer and push through a heavy curtain into a nearby hovel to find a muscular Elven smith, dripping with sweat and beating and folding a red-hot longsword. He plunges the weapon into cold water to a hissing gout of steam and introduces himself as Tavis, the Queen’s Armourer. He offers Mherren a decorative but sturdy ceremonial plate armour breastplate – the only piece that would fit the Half-Orc’s burly form. But the item is expensive and Mherren graciously declines for now.
Next, they visit a locksmith, where Lightstrike purchases a beautifully ornate set of thieves’ tools, and soon it is time to go to meet with Queen Caerdonelle.
They find her behind the Winter Palace, sat cross-legged beside a large, still pool that appears to reflect the stars, although there is none overhead. She looks strangely haunted in the soft, blue glow of the Jewel Lamps, her face still painted half-black and half-white.
“I am glad you came,” she says. “I am grateful for your fortuitous intervention today. Fear not, I shall discover who sent the Red Mask by the morning. We Elves are known for our kindness, but we can be cruel also…
She continues: “Now, I believe you have come to Qualimor in search of Elovyn Sorrowsong? It is true that I had to intervene so that the King would let her stay and research the Sword of Air. He is wise, but – hasty. Sometimes his zeal to protect his people prevents his seeing the bigger picture. I believe she found valuable information in the Noldothrond, and she was taking it to consult with a nearby sage, but – as you know – she has disappeared. If you will sit with me, the Aelinbril shall tell us more…”
She stirs the waters before her, which shimmer in unnatural, geometric patterns and the familiar blue light flashes across her eyes as they roll up into their sockets. As the ripples settle, hazy images form and scatter in the waters and her voice takes on an unsettling, deeply sonorous tone:
“By the Twins’ holy breath, I see a dark future ahead. The world poisoned and filled with demons… countless demons pouring forth from below the earth. They do not lust for power; rather, they bring only disease and wanton destruction!
“The Priest of Arden – Elovyn Sorrowsong – she was on to something. She knew her God had helped to prevent disaster the last time this Great Evil arrived in the world. He is burning to tell her, but he cannot. Alas, I am not able to see so far into the past to tell you more.
“Find Elovyn – seek out what she has discovered here in the Noldothrond. I see her, yes… walking in the Galentaur, somewhere near the great rift to the north and east of Qualimor. She has been bewitched. Something else wants to know of what she has found.
“Once you have her safe, then seek out the Sword of Air! It is the only way to stop this spreading darkness! But do not bring it here. We could not resist its lure, nor control its desire to find He who cursed it.
“If Eoneril took it for himself, or the Witch of the Forest, or Mordenkainen, who even now I see journeys in desperation to meet with Orc and Ghoul, and fouler things yet, in a bid to bring them to our side… nay, if any of them, or us, had the Sword, then it would surely corrupt them and turn them wholly to His will.
“I am sorry to lay such a heavy burden upon you, my children, but… it is down to you now. Find it, I beseech thee! The World-Swallower must not have it! I dare not speak His name, lest he turns his bulbous eye upon us.
“For already he is at the gate, waiting with his ravening horde, straining and howling behind the Sundered God’s still-beating heart in the lost caverns of the Mad Priests. You must destroy it! It is the only way!
“But I fear it will be far from easy to find the Sword. It was taken to a secret place. It is hidden even from me, from the waters of the Aelinbril. But I do see this much… a young mage... he found something that hints at the Sword’s whereabouts. That is all I can make out – the rest is clouded in mists and shadow. Even the young mage is… ethereal to my vision… oh… it’s fading… it’s… gone…”
The blue glow vanishes once more from the Queen’s eyes and she appears to sway a little as her pupils return and her gaze focuses once more on the four bold adventurers before her.
“Step forward, child,” she whispers softly to the brutish Warlock. She takes his scarred, tusked head in her pale, delicate hands and an unearthly radiance seems to permeate Mherren’s form as she chants quickly in an arcane form of monotonous Elvish. Finally, she releases her grip and slowly removes the headband of intellect.
Mherren blinks and looks about him with a stupid expression on his face.
“Well, I never thought I’d be so happy to be so dumb!” he says with a grin, and he kneels theatrically before the Winter Queen.
“Thank you for restoring our friend,” says Zimlok. “I know his kind is not normally welcome in the land of Elves. We are truly grateful for your good will and trust.” He hesitates: “O Queen, we fear there may be more than Duergar and Grimlocks where Elovyn has gone. We suspect the presence of Illithid in the Underdark. Mind Flayers. Do you know where we might learn more of these creatures?”
Caerdonelle looks disturbed. “That is grave news,” she says. “The Illithid are vile, alien creatures that feed on the brains of mortal creatures and enthrall whole species to the will. I bid you visit Barad Aegtûl. There you will find the Deep Purgers, an elite force of Qualinesti who have sworn to defend Qualimor against the denizens of The Deeps. One among them, Enna Nailo, is knowledgeable of such things. I suggest you speak with her.”
Zimlok nods curtly in what he hopes is a gesture of noble respect, nearly knocking off his own hat in the process.
“Queen Caerdonelle,” says Lightstrike. “Do you know of a Wild Elf called Tanueviel? She is a friend of ours. Has she come here?”
“Alas, I do not know that name,” answers the Queen regretfully. “There is a small embassy of Kagonesti on Tol Dru. Perhaps you could inquire after your friend there?”
Lightstrike flashes her a wide, toothy grin that only a Tabaxi would deem appropriate in royal company.
“I will provide you all with horses for your journey,” promises the Queen, smiling indulgently. “Ask for my Fist – that is, the Colonel of my Royal Guard. She will select for you fine steeds from my stables. And should you wish to pay my armourer a visit, he will fit you out with whatever you need for the cost of materials.”
The companions make to bow and take their leave.
“Wait! I have something for you all,” she pronounces, and presents the heroes with some healing potions and magical gifts – an immovable rod, a trap-detcting wand of secrets, a ring of spell-storing with two shadow spells readied, and an amulet for each of them to bypass the Silmbandi and return safely to Qualimor. She also agrees to have her mages restore Zimlok’s wand of reduce and enlarge.
“Consider yourselves Elendil,” she says with a smile. “I wish you well on your quest to find the lost Priest of Arden, Elovyn Sorrowsong.”
Her words remind Zimlok of a song he knows, and after they all solemnly take their leave of Caerdonelle Mystra, the irrepressible bird pipes up with a catchy little number that Gilmoras the Mummer would have been envious of, had he heard it.
“Consider yourselves, Elf Friends; consider yourselves, part of the family…”
And off they go, whistling and jigging into the distance, blissfully unaware of the great peril that lays before them…