Immersive Ink

| The all important reaction roll... 2d6=7; Indifferent. |

"You may speak -- if it pleases you -- though I know already why you come," Says the water spirit; her voice is honey and moonlight and far off yet immediately all around.

Highbough has no impression malice from the creature, only... a curiosity.

Wen would try to choose his words carefully. "I do not mean to intrude on your time, certainly not if you are already aware of why we have come. I must simply pass on the warning that the Goblins of the Hinterlands have conquered the nearby human settlement of Ket and may soon turn their attentions towards the IvoryWold, such a conflict may be reflected even here. We seek knowledge here in this sacred grove of means to stop the army, perhaps you could point us towards another whom we may burden with our fumbling words and confusing needs for truly I have no wish to offend you nor impose."

| An indifferent reaction allows an additional reaction check if an alternate proposition be made. One is, so 2d6=9; a positive reaction. |

The water spirit giggles, a delightful mixture of babbling brook and merry humour. The shut-eyed elves hear her splashing and frolicking in the pool, and she laughs gleefully for a good while. "My time!" she laughs, "'tis a jest for the aeons!"

When the spirit at last has herself under control she says, "Tiny people, whether these armies or peoples or so named places ever come to pass is nothing here and now. But for your humour I will humour you in kind..." your ears prickle with anticipation: "In a thousand years hence--along a single skein of all that is--your forebears will rise to craft the arms you seek that they might hope to prevail against their infernal foe--and take battle to the skein of their enemy. In your world all this is done in ages gone by, and those arms rest still at the hands of their masters beyond the Seal of Seyal. I will show you. Now."

Our heroes feel a sudden dismay and know in their hearts that the water spirit is gone. As is the buzz of insects, and of all life! Eyes closed or no, they feel a terrible, hot wind blasting around them, and the whole of the forest is suddenly a tornado of fire! They are helpless gnats caught in an impossible inferno that consume all the trees and blasts them down to char and cinder in a mere moments! Their own flesh is steaming and smoudering as the red sky roils with smoke and churning cloud, and forest floor is turned blistering ash, then naught but parched and cracked earth.

In the awful noise of the hot blasting wind, our three heroes--Highbough, Wen, and now Dorgan too!--find themselves standing upon a barren, red landscape, shielding their faces and eyes from the heat. The hard earth is pocked and filled with hundreds of half buried skeletons and strewn liberally with jutting arrow shafts and broken spears. This must surely be site of a huge battle! But where on earth they are seems impossible to know. Looming over the entirety of it all is a daunting stonghold cast of black rock. There is a malign and alien look about its construction... and a sign set in the stone over its main arch... but there is no movement to be seen at this distance...

"Where---Are---We---??" Wen manages to shout over the howling wind...

Wen would certainly be disoriented at the sudden change. He would look around to see if there is a better place to stand. "This is Hellish! Highbough can you make out the Sign on the Castle? Dorgan? How? Well met indeed I fear I may have gotten us to more then I can handle."

"DWARF! This is YOUR fault!" curses Highbough as he is wrenched from the lovely forest. He turns his back in disgust and focuses on the sign over the archway; perhaps it is written in the Infernal script he knows so well?

Dorgan snorts at the ancient elf. "My fault? No one forced ya to come here, Highbough. We both were greedy for a bit 'a power. Now we deal with the consequences. Let's move."

The dwarf will start off toward the stronghold, shifting his attention back and forth between his destination and the ground before him. He will stop and investigate further if any of these skeletons possess unbroken arms or armor.

Dorgan now has his shield firmly affixed to his arm, and Mads Cold Iron Axe in his other hand.

Squinting into the hot, sand-loaded wind at the broken weapons and armor that lie half buried in the baked earth, Dorgan does note that among the dead are Elves and Men... and something else. What the hell are they? Not goblins... something else.

Meanwhile Highbough does indeed recognise the rune... for 'tis an Infernal hieroglyph that states: Alcazar 74...

Wen look down at the battle field, and the dead Elves...."Highbough the spirit said 'our forebears will rise to craft the arms you seek that they might hope to prevail against their infernal foe', I wonder if the dead below are those beings. How close do we need to get to sense magic?"

"The rune says 'Alcazar 74' in the Infernal tongue," shares Highbough.

He casts Detect Magic (range 6") to scan for magic weapons/armor among the fallen.

Highbough begins in incarnation... but something here isn't right. In fact, nothing is.

Our three feel themselves being pushed and buffeted by the wind! Highbough thinks he may have caught a glimmer of sorcery, but suddenly it's all rushing away frrroomm theeemmmeeeeEEEEEEEEYYAAAGHHHH!!!

--- Vwump! ---

It's dark. Cool. And quiet.

It takes a moment for their reeling senses to adjust, but Highbough, Wen, and Dorgan find themselves back in the Grove, with Gallaine still sitting upon the ancient, moss covered stone.

"Hello there," she says.

The black void is gone.