Aquisitions (III)

After a long journey down the blackened corridor, and the quick search of many old rooms and personal quarters along its length the StrifeLord of Intrigue reached a grand summoning chamber. Its vaulted ceiling depicted great victories and heroic stories of the rise of Cyric and its walls were carefully and artistically painted with murals, faded but still evident, of the conquests and exploits of faithful of the One and All. At the center of the room, a grand black throne stood, with the skeletal remains of some long forgotten Strife Wizard seated upon it. More notably, the hands of the figure clutched a dusty but undeniably powerful artifact. A black staff bearing no marking aside from the silver spiral circling its entire length. After recasting his detection spell, the figure slowly crept forward, toward the black throne, and the treasure its seated occupant, held. Seeing no danger, even after a long pause at the throne itself, the figure reached for the staff. As the StrifeLord grasped the Staff, the skeletal figure seemed to leap out of its reverie and begin to cast a spell. The StrifeLord reacted quicker and drew his silver capped rod from its belthoop and dashed it explodingly into the side of the creature's head. The antimagic of the rod broke through the creature's defences and crushed its skull instantly. The form crumpled to the floor in a pile of rags and bones. Replacing the rod and picking up a few pieces of the skull he remembered some words Raistlin had once uttered. Never be too dependant on magic my friend, for it can be the downfall of our kind. Smiling to himself on how his antimagic rod had pierced the creature's mantles, it was only too true. At this he looked at the object in his other hand with renewed interest. Welcome Setzer, the staff telepathically spoke. You are the new Magister. Finally, Setzer thought. We can truly begin what we so long have desired to do. S.

Aquisitions (II)

Now in a large hallway, and up to his knees in running water the cloaked form articulated a few arcane words to a light spell and saw his robes runes increase in their intensity. A couple slight sharp hand gestures and he floated above the frigid underground stream. His detection spell still active, he proceeded down the hall and avoided or disarmed any wards or traps found and travelled down the tunnels he had once walked as a neonate of the Prince of Lies. He came to a large room that seemed to list to one side, as if the entire plateau had shifted in a great quake. One half lay dry, with a doorway clearly visible and the other lay in deep water, its doorway nearly completely submerged beneath the watery depths. Concentrating on the now much clearer whispers in his mind, he discerned that the dry path was the one to take. Relieved, he landed lightly on the dry floor and after a brief scan of the archway, and the hall beyond he moved gingerly through it. A thunderous snap sounded as his protective spells absorbed the brunt of the hidden ward. Stunned, and sent sprawling he shook off the daze and regained his senses. Muttering an oath not so polite to Raistlin's heritage he narrowed his eyes at the now apparent ward. It was definitely Raistlin's, the stylized 'R' being a clear indication. Watching in silence as it slowly faded he scanned the room again as he recast his protective mantle against lightning. He stood and stretched his statically charged muscles and then continued, more cautiously, down the corridor to a dim glow at the other end. He found himself standing in a large circular room with several other exits, some viable and others collapsed and impassible by normal means. The glow emanated from a single sphere hanging in the air at the center of the chamber. The chamber seemed to silence the mind whispers that had brought the StrifeLord here. Glancing at the other exits, there was no indication of the correct one to take. Most certainly, the wrong direction would lead to several wards and potentially fatal injuries. He unstrung a symbol from his belt and sneered as he gazed upon the emblem bearing a Flame surrounded by Eight Stars. A Holy symbol of Mystra recently taken from the corpse of a high ranking Wizard within that faith. Completing another arcane phrase, the object softly glowed and levitated from his hand. It suddenly cracked and fell into dust on the floor. The Lord looked at the marking the dust had formed. An arrow pointing directly to the first exit to his left. S.

Aquisitions (I)

Lightning flashed and struck the earth with a resounding crack and a lone figure, clad in a dark cloak stood on the massive stone escarpment that was once an ancient clanhold of the Church of Cyric. Once known as the original Church of Strife, its towers pierced the skies with spear-like points and its battlements loomed over the surrounding country like a great and terrible shadow. Now, it was no more then a massive mound of rubble and recollections of a forgotten age. Its battlements reduced to piles of rock covered in moss and dirt, and its glories and treasures buried deep under the plateau that was now buffeted by chill winds and ceaseless rain. As the figure picked his way through the surface remains of walls, hallways, and rooms he began to recall several fond memories of his time as a member, then leader, lost, then found again devotee of Cyric. These memories had brought this silent and powerful Cyricist to this lost place. As the wind rushed through the cavernous openings of the plateau it caused shrill banshee-like cries to echo in the mountainous region. The traveller paused a moment, and listened, his fine pointed ears heeding the calls of the tormented souls still bound to the castle. His sharp icy blue eyes scanned the large room he was in. The old library of the keep now stood as a burnt husk, with its ceiling open to the elements. Rainwater cascaded down the walls giving the slick black stone an almost liquid appearance. It was not the water that caught the figure's attention, but the way that it seemed to collect in a shallow at one end of the room and swirl in a tiny whirlpool. Had it not been raining, he might not have noticed the hidden and cracked seal over the secret staircase. His thin pale lips curled into a smirk at Raistlin's ingenuity. Raistlin knew his friend had always loved the rain, and therefore would be most likely to understand its nature and its secrets. The form drew a few pinches of dust from within his the confines of his robes. Careful to keep it from the elements he invoked a spell of water destruction and watched passively as the water in the shallow faded into nothingness. He quickly moved to the seal and uttered another spell, this one of detection to discern any wards present. None of consequence being found, he uttered a third and final spell and was rewarded as the Dark Sun seal descended, into a spiral staircase which he quickly walked down. Not long after reaching the bottom, the figure watched the staircase elevate itself back into its dark seal at the center of the library. S. 

-9- Loose Ends

It was four weeks since Bosch set out for the northern lands, and at the start of the fifth week, Clausius received a message. Thanking the kenku courier once again, Clausius opened the brown envelope and scanned over the letter written hastily on parchment. "Is that from Bosch?" asked Arrhenius as he stood nearby packing away the contents of a shelf. "Yes, and it is very good news that I must share with everyone." Clausius pulled himself up atop his desk and stood out over the main collection. One by one, the Keepers turned to acknowledge him as he cleared his throat and read the letter out loud: Keepers, I cannot begin to explain how, but I have reached the end of the Long Road where I now am given word that there are several abandoned mines available for our cause. I have also met an interesting individual who has joined us in hopes that we can help him out as well. He is a podrikev of exceptional intellect and command of the weave, and I am certain that with his help, we can have the archives reassembled very quickly. I wish I could give more detail, but Dagon and I are preparing to leave for the mines as I write this to you. By the time this reaches the archives in Myth Drannor, we will have found a place and will most likely be on our way back to help in any way we can with the move. An appropriate spell anchor will be left for our transportation needs. With warmest regards, Bosch Muffled conversations erupted from the Keepers as Clausius lifted his hand to gain their attention once again. "I have communicated with the Wizards Council and they have concluded that Bosch is who he claims to be. Success in his quest has proven him to own a true Keeper spirit, and I would now ask that the faction discuss the terms of his reinstatement as leader of the Keepers of Antiquity." The conversation resumed among the faction as Clausius stepped down from the desk. As he made his way through the collection, he passed the rows of boxes and displaced artifacts. "It is rather sad to see the archives in such a state," commented Traelith as Clausius passed by. "I sympathize with you Trae, but greater things necessitate change. All of us working together now offers the resources to create something more splendid than ever dreamed of before. We just need the courage to uproot ourselves from how things are." Traelith nodded as Vaishu broke into the circle. "Clausius, dont you think one month is not enough time to have all of this moved and resorted? I mean, we can get it there in a week, but putting it all back together is going to take some time." Nodding, Clausius replied, "And that is where we have been very lucky to have found a podrikev. With Dagons help, we will have it assembled very quickly." "And what future does this place have once it is empty?" asked Dusk. Clausius stopped at this question and turned his head. "There are some loose ends to tie here in the ruins. I have an appointment with my dreams."