Legends Realm dreams <1 of 4> From: bryan@stiatl.uucp (Bryan Donaldson) Date: Thu, 11 Aug 1994 23:07:18 +0000 Dream #1 The Obsidian Staves When the fires in the great magic guilds of Verana burn low, and only the ancient and powerful mages remain awake, talk often turns to dark and mighty artifacts that have been lost over the ages. Three such talismans are the Obsidian Staves, incarnated millenium ago by that dark race known as the Calamar. None would argue that the Calamar were an evil race (or are still, if they yet exist). So it is no surprise to arcane scholars that the Obsidian Staves each have uses which are not benign. Indeed their history is fraught with the blood of good and evil alike. It is said that the Staves were created by Migalzakk, a mighty necromancer among the Calamar in ages gone. The archmage worked nearly a hundred years towards their completion, extending his life more than once through secret means to do so. In the end, the staves were cut from the unholy tree that grew in Migalzakk's secret chamber, and given to their keepers to be used for the expansion of the domain of the Calamar. The Staves came into being in the days before the great summoning of the beast that slew the god Darsia. Inilzamar, the Staff of Darklight, was the first of the three taken from the tree. A black axe hot with the blood of slaves carved it from the trunk, and it was plunged into a cauldron filled with terrible and noisome mixtures. Inilzamar was later wielded by many a Calamar slavemaster, for its magic was of great help. The staff itself was long and thin, and cold to the touch. Cold grey light writhed along its length. The Staff of Darklight could spew forth great torrents of blackness, quickly encasing a large area in the condition that mortals call Winternight. The undead slaves of the Calamar could hunt or gather materials much more quickly and efficiently in such an environment. The second staff lopped from the black tree was Karchelokk, the Runestaff, and it was amazing to behold. For strange symbols whose meanings were known only to Migalzakk himself would appear along the length of the staff, with a loud hissing and the stench of burning wood. These would often disappear just as quickly, and remain a mystery still. The Runestaff contained the power to create arcane items like no artifact before it, and its keepers wasted no time fashioning many lesser works as they deemed necessary. When an item was made and ready to be imbued with mystic power, the Runestaff began to emit a low wail like a lost soul. Then with a great rushing sound the staff seemed to suck the very air from around it, wailing ever louder, until with a flash and deafening crash it struck the item, filling it with power according to its design. Many stouthearted Calamar chose not to view this process, for it was deemed evil even by that malign race. When the tree had been reft of two branches and was beginning to wane, Migalzakk himself snatched up a long and terrible knife from a nearby table and smote the tree to its core. The trunk writhed, and a booming echoed throughout the chamber. Carefully, the evil archmage seized the largest remaining branch and began to bend it, bringing the contortions of the tree to a frenzy. He spoke a word of unholy power, and silence slammed through the chamber: the tree stiffened, and the branch snapped with weird clarity. For a moment time stood still. Then with a deafening rumble, the floor of the chamber cracked down the center, and the black tree sank quickly into the widenening gulf. Before it disappeared, Migalzakk risked a glance into the opening. What he saw there is not known, but the mage immediately lost his senses completely; he remained a babbling madman to the end of his days. The last staff cleft from the tree was the greatest; it was Arzangram, the Staff of Summoning. This indeed was the staff later used by Calamar sorcerors to open the rift in space and bring through the evil beast which battled the gods and slew Darsia. Other instances of its use, if there are any, are lost. Even the wise in Verana would likely avoid these terrible staves, for who knows what Calamar malice may still lurk in them, and turn against their holders ? Most suppose that they are not destroyed, for the power required to do so would be almost unthinkable; yet their locations remain a mystery. Perhaps, as it is thought in wise circles, it is better so. Dream #2 The Vengarth Long ages ago, when the children of the world were but new-formed from the essence of the Elder Gods, there dwelt on the Great Lake a cold race of water-creatures. They named themselves the Vengarth, and the deep waters were their domain. They had little love for the light and the air; the icy, dark depths of the Great Lake found them at ease. They made their homes in cold shelves of black rock in the deepest part of the lake, and seldom ventured up from the long fathoms. The lake was not lifeless; many creatures strange and wonderful swam and floated in its depths in ages past, and all these the Vengarth knew well. Many creatures they bred and shepherded for food, for they were meat-eaters; others they kept for pets and the amusement of their rulers. Such aquatic beasts were never seen by surface dwellers, for they stayed at the bottom of the lake and did not venture upwards. Now the Vengarth were a proud race, thinking themselves strong, and after a time it seemed to them that the lake was too small for such a people as they. Therefore they sought to establish a dwelling above the lake, on an island in the center of it. Many Vengarth skilled in craft issued from the depths and began to construct a vast fortress city. Its towers and walls were of strong stone, and its gates of a strange metal known only to the Vengarth. In time the city was completed, and many Vengarth remained above on the island to dwell there. They caused a great mist to rise from the lake and cover the city, to protect the Vengarth from the bright rays of the sun. They named the city Vandrath, and its streets were lightless and cold. The Vengarth prospered therefore both under the lake and above it for a time, and their numbers multiplied. There was a certain high priest of the race, one called Avenkor, who worshipped a god long forgotten. The god was evil, and most of the Vengarth shunned Avenkor, for his heart was as black as the robe he wore. Avenkor dwelt in the city rather than in the deep waters, for in the concealing mist he could perform his wicked experiments and dark sacrifices to his god without attracting notice. Alas, Avenkor one day performed a ritual too powerful for him to control. A horrible spirit possessed his body, and all those living in Vandrath at the time. The spirit transformed their bodies, making them foul and sickening to look upon, with sharp claws and evil faces. With a single terrible mind, the transformed Vengarth dived into the lake to seek their deep-dwelling brethren. Too late did the Deep Vengarth (for so they were called) attempt to flee; a terrible strength possessed those transformed, and they slew their brothers one and all. Rending them limb from limb, they fed on their bodies and grew bloated. When the last of the former proud race were gone, the evil Vengarth returned to Vandrath upon the island, led by the horribly disfigured Avankor. They slew and devoured the creatures of the sea, their former pets and herds; for they were infused with a ravenous hunger that would not be sated. When they were gone, the Vengarth looked about in vain, for every living thing's blood was now shed to feed them. Hungering still, they dove to the bottom of the lake, never to return. Not long ago, the city was "discovered" by a wandering mage, and he made it a home for all those who would come -- homeless, beggars, and gypsies. Learing the terrible secret of the city with his magical arts, he wrought an evil pact with the Vengarth. For they had not died but remained ever at the bottom of the lake, feeding on lost souls who wander too close or one another. They would grant him great power and riches if he would give them living creatures to feed on, and he agreed. Many a craftsman has been found missing from his bed in the city during the night, and many splashes can be heard at sea shores of the lake when all others are asleep. Dream #3 Hall of the Giants The throne room of the king of the giants was an impressive place by any standard. It was immense, a subterranean cavern hollowed out by the labor of thousands of huge hands. It had been built for giants, and races of smaller stature often stood agape when entering its vastness. The cavern was fully half a mile long, and half as wide. Its ceiling stretched a hundred feet overhead, lost in the shadows. When unlit, it seemed to someone entering that he had just stepped off the edge of the world into an unending blackness, except for the wall behind him. The huge inky space could be sensed in front, and voices died long before they hit another stone surface. When illuminated for a festive occasion, it was a different story altogether. At the many feasts in ages past, the light of a thousand torches lit the length of the hall and giants as far as the eye could see laughed and sang with mighty abandon. Their mighty voices awakened a thunder in the stone that hummed just below the shouts and clanks that accompanied a legendary giantfeast, where generations of the merry people ate and drank while days passed in the outside world. There was no mightier underground place in all of Verana; what enchantment held up the great roof is unknown, but it never collapsed. It had been for as long as any in the outside world remembered, and few doubted that it would remain long after they were gone. The giants were excellent hosts, never turning away one who sought companionship, food, or drink. If few took them up on their generous offer, it was because not many could endure a roaring giantfeast and retain their hearing. Nevertheless, they entertained many hearty folk in their huge hall in all months of the year, and a few even sought them out, for the comraderie was unlike any other. The Giantking disliked many of the affairs of the outside world, prefering to restrict his involvement to trade. Politics in other lands did not concern him, and he maintained a strictly neutral view of the "whims of the realms," as he called them. Empires came and went, as did generations of giants, but the mind of the Giantking was the same. He would not take part in any war, nor denounce a nation in favor of another; the giants were a peace-loving folk, and a good tale satisfied them far more than a good fight. It is difficult, then, to determine how the giants were such fell fighters in battle. For when the occasion arose (the defense of their homeland against outside attack), they were foes to be feared. The axes, hammers, and mauls they wielded were too massive to be swung by any other race, and they took a fearful toll of foes in combat. It is said that Ragralderban, the mightiest giant warrior of yore, could level a dozen enemies with a single swing of his war-hammer. Most folk would hold this to be a wild claim -- until they had seen the giants in a fray. Now Verana erupts with war, and some wonder about the giants in their northern homes. For the Overlord has not yet raised his hand against them, hoping thereby to deter them from opposing his onslaught. Yet surely the giantking must know that the Dark One will not leave him unattended forever! The Overlord will not rest while a people as the giants roam as they will. The free peoples hope fervently for their help soon, for after that it may not matter. Legend #4 Misty Isle As the Dak made his way carefully across the godforsaken landscape, he wiped the sweat from his eyes. Sweat! Who would have thought? In this cold, clammy world of whiteness, the last thing he would have expected would have been . . . but no, it was probably just the moisture collecting on his body from walking for hours through this soup. He was on the large island humans called the Misty Isle (for obvious reasons), and had been trekking for days in search of the mythical city called Talonshire. Now, however, as his feet squelched wetly through the gray mud that seemed to form most of this island, he was nearly ready to drop the whole idea and turn back. He stopped for a moment to catch his breath. He was sure he was inhaling mostly water, and his clothing was long since soaked through. Reaching behind his right shoulder with a practiced motion, he extracted his map from a pouch in his pack and examined it through the drips that fell from his hair. The map was soaked too, as was everything else in his pack, but he ignored that fact for a moment. The map was what had compelled him to journey to the Isle in the first place. Although old and worn, it seemed to show the approximate location of Talonshire -- a city which, he was sure, held riches that would keep a poor Dak quite well off for the remainder of his life. He had found the map completely by accident, on the body of a dead warrior that had washed up on the shore near his family's small farm some two weeks ago. Recognizing it for what it was, he quickly gathered some supplies, told his family that he would be away for a while, and bought passage from a reluctant merchant out of Umbris. The merchant had dropped him off (almost literally) on the Isle and sailed quickly away -- the superstitious fool! -- leaving him to his fate. Well, that was fine; when he arrived home with more wealth than anyone had ever seen, things were going to be very different. Except that now, as he squinted into the impenetrable gloom on all sides, he was not at all sure that the map was taking him where he wanted to go. If only there were a few cursed landmarks to follow, instead of this clinging fog. And now, as the silence seemed to press in on him like a weight, he began to recall the stories that they told about Misty Isle. At the moment, they seemed quite believable. No matter; he had decided, and he was not going back now. Adjusting his line of travel to what he hoped was the right direction, he whispered a quick prayer to Kolvathe and sloughed forward again. After several more miserable miles, he stopped. Perhaps it was his eyes playing tricks on him, but the fog ahead of him seemed distinctly darker than that on the other sides. It could be hiding a structure of some kind! Excitedly, he resumed his march at a much heightened pace. Soon he was close enough to see clearly (a relative term in this place, certainly) that there was a low wall of some sort ahead. He approached until it loomed over his short frame, and examined it. The wall was around eight feet high, and made of some dark rock he didn't recognize. Or maybe it was just very old rock . . . yes, there were chips and holes in it, and the surface was worn fairly smooth. Gods, the wall must be hundreds of years old. Daks are skilled climbers, and this one was no exception. Within five minutes he had scaled the wall, pack and all, and dropped lightly over the other side. Then he turned to see what awaited him. The first thing that struck him was that he must indeed be within the city, for he could make out buildings to either side and ahead. The mist seemed to thin out slightly here, and the effect was to make his vision seem exceptionally clear after the soup outside the wall. He also quickly surmised that the place was deserted, or at least the area he found himself in. The buildings were in sad disrepair, and some had even collapsed upon themselves. The moisture here was probably not good for anything permanent. Moving cautiously forward, he listened for any noises of life, but heard none. His footsteps seemed unnaturally loud on the stone (was it stone? Yes! No more mud, thank Kolvathe!), and his breathing harsh and raspy. The houses passed on either side of him like ghosts, seeming to move forward from out of nowhere and then disappear again as he went by. Always, his eyes searched for the gliny of gold or the shine of a precious stone, for he knew well the legendary wealth that was supposed to lay for the taking in Talonshire. Eventually he came to an area where the buildings fell away on either side, a courtyard or square of some sort. Large piles of broken stone now loomed out of the mist, and he picked his way carefully across them. Suddenly he froze. With his heightened Dak senses, he thought he had heard a noise ahead and slightly to the left. He stood motionless, his ears straining and his eyes peering into the gloom. Water ran down his forehead and dripped off his nose, but made no noise. There, off farther to the left! Now the noise was distinct, since there were no others to hide it; a soft shuffling noise, as of leather boots on stone. And with it a slight metallic scrape of some kind. He crouched lower, and forced himself to breathe lightly, listening with all his might. The noise came again, and then he saw its source. From behind one of the many piles of rock that littered the courtyard stepped ashort figure, about the same stature as himself. It was moving tword him, but not directly; it did not seem to notice him yet. The figure was garbed in a grey cloak, rather like the one the Dak was wearing, and its hood was about the same size too. On its back was a pack . . . With an involuntary gasp, the Dak realized that the figure was dressed EXACTLY like him! There were the worn boots, and the belt there could not be two of . . . thoughts of fear raced through his mind, but he could not decide what to do. The figure's hood was pulled down low over its face, so that he could not see it; but it had not noticed him yet, for it moved along at a course diagonal to his own. It was gazing at the ground, moving its head back and forth as if searching for something. As the seconds dragged on to minutes and the figure roved about the area, something very strange began to happen to the ground around the Dak. The ground certainly seemed in better shape than it had a minute ago; now he could make out flagstones, and well-made ones at that. Much of the grime of years that had covered the place before seemed to be gone. In fact, the stonework he now stood on was easily the finest he had ever seen in his life! As he examined it, he glanced at one of the mounds of rubble that littered the square. Incredible! It was not rubble at all, but a HUGE pile of the brightest gold he had ever seen! He blinked, but it was still there -- gems and jewelry mixed in with gold and silver coins and other crafted items. Involuntarily, he took a step forward. Then he remembered the mysterious cloaked figure that looked so much like himself, and reluctantly took his eyes from the treasure mound to search for it. It was nowhere in sight; probably wandered off into the mist somewhere. No matter; here in front of him was what he had come for, so he had best get it quick and get out. Moving over to the mound, he pulled a large sack from his back and began to fill it with the choicest items from the pile. Occasionally, he grabbed a handful of coins and threw them in for good measure. Very quickly the bag became heavier than he could comfortably carry, but he continued to grab the gleaming hoard and stuff it in. There was a tap on his shoulder. He started in sudden fear; unable to release his grasp on the bag, he began to shake, unable to stop himself. He felt a cold draft on the back of his neck, and a heavy grasp upon his shoulder. His breath left him in a loud hiss. Slowly, inexorably, the grasp turned him around, and he was unable to muster the strength to fight it. He squeezed his running eyes shut, dreading to look at what he might see. The grasp left his shoulder once he had turned around -- but then there was a bony clutch at his NECK! His eyes flew open. The figure was before him, having somehow come up silently behind while he gathered the treasure. One of its arms was now clutching him about the neck -- but it was not an arm at all! Instead, a death-white bone protruded from the cloak, and skeletal fingers squeezed his throat. With its other arm, the figure threw back its hood -- to reveal a blackened skull, with eye sockets black as the abyss, that burned into the Dak's soul. Its teeth were rotting out, and the foul breath of death wafted into his face. With a shriek of fear, the Dak began to thrash frantically, desperately clutching at the dead arm that was squeezing the life out of him, while the horrible undead grin of the skull filled his vision. At last his struggles became twitches, and eventually his body was still. The gruesome specter dropped the Dak's body in a crumpled heap on the ground and shuffled off into the gathering gloom. It stooped to pick up the bag that the Dake had been filling and emptied it back onto the mound. A load of rocks came tumbling out and settled back onto the pile of rubble that had lain there for centuries. Dream #5 Aken-Daharii Long ages ago, when this ancient world was not quite so ancient, there was in the western part of Verana a great range of mountains. Its peaks thrust upwards sheer and treacherous, dwarfing any mountains before or since. Hardy indeed was the traveller that scaled even the lower slopes of the lesser peaks; on the dire heights of Drangast, greatest and oldest of all mountains, no foot had ever trod. Its three windswept spires scraped the highest heavens, and only the loftiest of eagles made their nests high upon them. Centuries before the coming of the dragons, say the ancients tomes, a great mage came upon the mountains from across the wide lands to the east. He was called Aken-daharii, and few since have matched his knowledge of arcane lore. For he was of the Illidari, the half-divine race who strove to thwart the Calamar's designs of dominion over Verana. Seeing the height and majesty of Drangast, the Sky-Peak, the magician took thought for a secure place upon its heights. For he wished to establish a watch-tower that allowed him to see far out across the plains to the east and west, to keep watch on any arising evil. Aken-daharii despised evil, and the Elder Gods granted him great power to combat it. With mystic arts he ascended to the highest spire on Drangast, and began the long labor of building his arcane fortress. Webs of air he wove around the spire, to confuse and beguile unwanted trespassers; he reared the rocks of the surrounding mountain to sheer and dreadful heights. When his defenses were full-wrought and the dwelling in the spire complete, he caused them to be removed even from the sight of normal creatures, so that one unskiled in the arts might gaze straight at the fortress and see only weathered rock and blue sky. Then there was peace for a long age in the land for many leagues to the east and west. For the vigilance of the mage was unrelenting, and evil stirred but for a short time under his watchful care. Several centuries passed, and there came a dark and forbidding wind from the northeast. Aken-daharii frowned in concern, for he could not divine the purpose of the wind, though he feared it was evil. The wind bore on its grim wings a fell cloud, which seethed with energies and forces not of this world. The cloud wavered not, but bore straight down on the peak of Drangast with grim speed. With a great noise it reached the foot of the mountain, and immediately began to writhe upward along the slopes. Aken-daharii watched with unease, but his heart knew no fear; such are the ways of men's hearts, but not of the Illidari. The foul cloud rose swiftly up to the edge of the mages defenses. Then he was surprised indeed, for it moved cunningly through his magical barriers and passed effortlessly over the sheer cliffs. Aken-daharii knew that a power had come that might be more than a match for him; nevertheless he gathered his energies, and they were very great. He strode fearlessly out upon the topmost tower of his fortress, and with him went the blue fire of his might. The black cloud assaulted him there. A deathly howling arose from it, and it swirled about him madly. Ghastly limbs formed of its vile essence, and they groped at the mages slim form. Aken-daharii's power roared back in answer, and the air sang with unearthly music. Searing blasts rocked the cloud, and limbs fell away like shredded ash. From afar it seemed that an exceedingly great storm pounded the spires of the Sky-Peak. The mage answered each black grasping hand with blue death; but each shield of mystic energy he threw up was torn down by the cloud as it reached for him. After many hours, Aken-daharii felt his power waning, while the evil cloud seemed as strong as ever. In his heart he knew that it could not be defeated by one alone, so he intended to escape its grasp and bring word to others of his kind. Returning together, they would confront the monstrous vapor and defeat it, learning also from whence it came. Or so he thought. At once he began to intone a spell of power, one that would move his body through space to another place. It grieved him to leave his works and fortress behind, yet he could see no other way. His voice rose to a great volume as he chanted out the final words of the incantation. Time stopped for an instant; even as the body of Aken-daharii faded out of existence, a huge black hand formed by the could darted from it and caught hold of his half-substantial upraised arm. The spell spiralled wildly; strange evil symbols suddenly rang through the air. For the first time, Aken-daharii knew fear (and great pain) as his body was wrenched from its planned destination to another place altogether; only the near-immortality of the Illidari saved him from destruction. Blue and black sparks flew from the fortress tower as a glowing gateway formed into the Other Place that the mage had unwillingly gone. His power was such that the cloud could not close the mystic portal; yet neither could Aken-daharii summon the energy to bring himself back through it. With a last great shout, just before his body slipped completely away Elsewhere, the wizard spoke a Word of Permanence on the gateway, locking it forever into existence. The evil in the cloud assailed the gate and smote it in fury, but could not break it; to unmake it would require divine energies, and the Elder Gods would not intervene. The cloud receded, spent at last, and Drangast lay quiet. The fortress lay in rubble from the great struggle. No creature dared to approach the terrible ruins for many years, for it was said that gods had fought there. Eventually the peaks crumbled in ruin with time, for the battle had weakened them; they brought down much of the great mountains with them, and proud Drangast was no more. The strange gateway to Another Place was buried; lost, but assuredly not destroyed, unless the Gods themselves have broken it. And some tales, nearly forgotten, say that Aken-daharii has not perished in the Other Place where he is trapped; he struggles ever to find a path to Verana. But the gateway has moved, and evil grows strong; the Illidari have departed, taking no further interest in the wars of this world. Save one . . . . Dream #6 The Lost Calamar Long ago, when the Elder Gods ruled the world and the heavens awaited their bidding, there walked on Verana a mighty race of immortals. They were the Calamar, Masters of Verana, and all creatures looked upon them with awe and fear. They were a beautiful and proud race, and very skilled in the arts of magic; but their hearts were cold and their souls evil. They strove ever to make all beings in the world their minions, and in this they succeeded greatly. For they were strong-willed, and none would gainsay their will when it was united in purpose. The plains trembled beneath their footsteps, and the mountains rang with their power. They walked where they would, and for long ages Verana was enslaved in misery. The Elder Gods did not stay them, for it was their will that the fate of Verana be determined by the actions of those who dwelt therein. They were saddened indeed to see the actions of the Calamar, but they were loath to intervene. In time the Calamar built vast cities, and their might was grown very great. Having dominion over Verana, they were not satisfied with it. In their hearts burned envy for the Elder Gods, and they coveted the divine realm for their own. They did not reveal this desire, but it grew with time, as such things do; the world and the works of their hand seemed cold and unrewarding to them. Thus the council of leaders of the Calamar took counsel in secret, saying, "Are we not also immortal? Wherefore do the Elder Gods dwell in the uneneding splendor of the heavens, while are made to live on cold Verana? Surely justice were served if we also would take our rightful place at their side." These were dark words, but darker still were their thoughts. The Calamar began a mighty work in secret; it was their purpose to create a powerful being, wholly subservient to their will, that would allow them to stand against the Elder Gods and win the heavens from them. In their folly they knew little of the dark spells they cast, for it was lore that even they had long left alone; evil incantations and grim conjurings never before attempted were hurled into the work. For nearly a century they labored deep beneath the mountains, and in the end they succeeded. The power born of that labor was black as the void, and supremely evil; the Calamar shrank back in fear from it, for it was far greater than they had imagined. It roared, and broke its bonds, and it slew many Calamar as it sped to the surface, leaving behind a wake of death for those who had been deathless. Its hunger was great, and it flew straight up into the heavens, for it sensed the presence of the Elder Gods there, and thought to feed on their powerful essence. The Gods were alarmed, and arrayed themselves for battle; and the clash of their meeting darkened the sun and cast Verana into an evil night. Darsia, brave God of Law, stood forth and met the Dark Power as it rushed upward, and there ensued a bitter struggle. But the Power was too great even for the God. It slew him, and cast him down upon fair Verana while the other Gods watched in horror. The great body of the Law-God struck the world with such force that a gigantic rift was torn into it, and it stands to this day. For long the Dark Power struggled against the Elder Gods, but it did not prevail. The Gods overcame it, and contained it, and banished it shrieking back into the void from which it came. Then they turned their wrath upon the Calamar, who cowered before them; for in the battle with the Dark Power the Calamar had seen the strength of the Elder Gods, and it far surpassed their own. The Gods were angry, and took thought for how they might punish the Calamar; they were deserving of death, but the Elder Gods loved them still, in spite of their folly. They decided to shut them away on a great city on Verana, one that the Calamar had built on a vast plain. After this was done, the gods raised up mountains exceedingly high around the city, and wove into the mountains great power, that the Calamar might never leave the place of their banishment. Their other dwellings the Gods razed to the ground, erasing all memory of their presence in the world. Then for many ages the world knew peace, and the Elder Gods kept awatch on the Calamar. They contented themselves with fashioning powerful and beautiful items with their hands and their arts, and never again did they unite in one will for a single purpose. In all the long years, no being ever entered the Lost City, save one. He was a great mage of the Illidari, a race that came into being after the banishment of the Calamar, and his name was Aken-daharii. He was drawn there against his will because of a spell gone awry. Great was the surprise of the Calamar when the mage arrived in their city, for none had ever come before. But their hearts were filled with malice, and they rose up against him and sought to capture him. Aken-Daharii defended himself, but he was weary after a long battle, and the Calamar were many. In the end they took him alive, and threw him in a great cage far below the city. For long years the mage sought to break free of the bonds that held him, but to no avail. No more have found the Lost City of the Calamar, and none have come out of it into Verana, save one -- the Overlord himself. Dream #7 The Unlifesword The great Swords of Power are seven in number, and they are ruled by Valkyari, the great elven-forged Blacksword. Though the making of the swords were wholly separate events, some power unknown long ago united them into a hierarchy. Each blade is fashioned with its own magic, however, and the dark history of each sword contains many a tale worth telling. It is with a nervous galance and hushed tones that people speak of Rafarthane, the Unlifesword, for its enchantment is perhaps the most hideous of all. Dark tales tell how the wielder of the blade must undergo a hideous transformation, becoming a nightmarish, undead apparition of their former self. In battle the sword howls with the despair of the souls of Hell, and send many on their way to that grim place. Worse yet, the wielder may summon those already dead back to a gruesome kind of life, to obey their every whim. Truly an evil weapon, the Unlifesword has sent many a stout heart into chilling terror. Yet it was not always so. The ancients say that long ago, at the first rising of the moon, the sword was forged by an unsurpassed human weaponsmith called Alberron. During those days the humans were but newly arrived in wide Verana, and they had few among them who knew the secrets of metal-work. But Alberron possessed lore in smithing unknown even by the dwarves, and with this secret knowledge he fashioned a great blade, calling it Hirluin, which in his tongue was "moon-sword." Some few friends of Alberron often took an interest in the blade, as it was an ongoing work; for three weeks the smith remained in his huge forge, heating and pounding and re-heating and shaping the steel to his liking. But when the time came for the final casting, Alberron closed his forge and would permit none to enter on the last day. For he was to perform the secret rites that would bestow upon the sword its power. The day passed and the smith's friends waited anxiously outside his workshop, hoping for a first glimpse of the fine blade. As the evening shadows lengthened, they grew troubled when Alberron did not emerge from the forge. Finally they grew impatient and pounded on the great oaken door of the place, calling for Alberron to give them some word of his progress. But no answer came. At length they decided to break into the forge, fearing that some mishap had occurred in the final casting. This they did, freeing the huge door from its mountings after some time. A bizarre scene met their eyes inside. The forge was cold, having been out for hours. Around the forge were scattered broken shards of pottery jars that had contained unknown powders, for these were blown about the room as well. It seemed that some great blast had thrown many of the contents of the room to the floor and ruined them. Slumped up against a wall by the forge was Alberron, his eyes vacant and locked in a stare of death. In his hands he clenched the blade of the sword, which had been set on the hilts; it was driven completely through the smith's chest. Rushing to their friend, the group knew they were too late; something had gone horribly wrong. Upon closer examination, the blade of the sword was not the bright silver steel it should have been, but an evil-looking mottled green and black. The thought that Alberron Must have taken his own life was dispelled when it could be seen that the smith's hands were cut and bloody from tryingto keep the sword out of his body . . . Suspecting the blade of being greatly evil, the high priestess of Alberron's village ordered that it be thrown back into the forge from whence it was made. The forge was heated and this was done, but the blade would not melt or even become hot; when it was removed the metal was as cool as if it had never been thrown in. Alarmed, the priestess ordered several men to take the sword and cast it into a chasm that lay some three days journey to the south. The men left, and were never seen again. Then the priestess cursed the blade, and renamed it Rafarthane, the Unlifesword; and she condemned the actions of Alberron as evil. Time has long since swallowed the ancient village of Alberron, but his evil sword has been wielded by several evil generals and creatures of the netherworld. Some heavy curse lies on it, some say. Yet for twenty years now the Unlifesword has not been seen, and the seer's of Verana who seek its location come up fruitless. Perhaps the blade has finally been unmade. Perhaps not . . . Dream #8 The Mightsword It is said that no weapons in Verana are more eagerly sought by so many than the Swords of Power. Seven in number, they were forged long ago, and each contains great power. No single smith had the skill to craft such blades as these; rather, they were forged by seven different mortals at different times. It is unknown how the swords were bonded into a hierarchy; perhaps some god willed it so. The Seven are ruled by the Blacksword, the most feared weapon in all Verana (and with good reason). Often stories of the black blade overshadow those of its lesser brothers, for its history is long and dark. Yet the other blades are mighty, and many lives are caught up in their tangled tale. One such story is that of Ardelade the Valiant and the Mightsword Vilifant. The world was younger, and the people of Verana walked it with lighter hearts. Those were the years of the Long Peace, the time after Talsinal's defeat of the Dragon Lord and his vast army. There lived in Talthain a great captain who had led many of the country's forces in that battle. His name was Ardelade. He came not from Talthain, but from a land far to the east, across the Darsian Rift; yet he was not barbaric in appearance, as many easterners were, but handsome to look upon. Ardelade came with only his great sword, a huge steel-grey blade that he wore ever at his side. The king of Talthain made Ardelade a commander when he learned of the man's skill with this blade; none had ever defeated him in combat, and he pressed a murderous onslaught against his foes. He was a natural leader of men, it seemed, for the men who followed him would die willingly for him; such loyalty was seldom seen, even in the King's Guard. The truth was that Ardelade wielded none other than Vilifant, the legendary Mightsword, although none but himself knew it. It made his fair appearance even more so, and inspired almost fanatical loyalty in all who followed him. In combat its magic came to life and he reaped many lives, for it was a blade unmatched in power except by the Blacksword. As might be surmised, the hearts of many ladies in the kingdom were turned toward the handsome knight, for his comely appearance and modest ways were paired with manners that he could not have learned in the barbaric east. Always he gave the praise to another, or to his men; he seemed uncomfortable with the acclaim of the people. As fortune would have it, one who looked upon Ardelade with love was none other than Tanamarne, daughter of the king. She had many suitors, but refused them all; her heart was given to brave Ardelade. Often she would gaze at him at a banquet, or a holiday celebration, for he was splendid in his polished armor. But when he looked at her she would quickly turn away, blushing; and Ardelade wondered at this. for he was all unaware that he made a knightly figure. Indeed, the princess Tanamarne was fair, but Ardelade was only a soldier (even if a captain), and he was certain that Tanamarne could not wish for him. Time passed, and the Long Peace stretched on. Ardelade's company was disbanded along with many other soldiers, for there was no need a large army in Talthain after the war. Ardelade guested often at the palace of the King, and the king held him in higher esteem than any other of his realm. So well did the King love Ardelade that he would have happily given him the hand of his daughter Tanamarne, and much land and wealth besides. And Tanamarne loved him greatly, but would not speak of Ardelade to her father. So Ardelade was blind to the longing of the princess, and confused by what he saw in her eyes. Well did he enjoy her company, but always with her father, at a meal or for long evenings in the King's study talking of the kingdom. At such times Ardelade did not bring the Mightsword with him, but Tanamarne did not seem to care. Ardelade was restless, for the wielder of Vilifant must lead men into battle or become so. He was always the first to volunteer to take a scouting mission, or some other task; his heart was in his work, and in his heart there was room for nothing else. Years passed, and Tanamarne's hope turned to sorrow. For she perceived that Ardelade did not want her, though in truth it was not so. Ardelade simply thought that the princess could not possibly have an interest in a man such as he. His forays grew farther and longer, and with the growing shadow in the west there was no shortage of tasks to be done. He was away from the palace for weeks sometimes, and Tanamarne began to despair. One black day, Ardelade led twenty men into the mountains for a raid on a small band of orcs that had been sighted moving eastward. They did not return for several days, and the king grew troubled. He sent small groups of men out to search for them. The men found signs of a battle where the orc-group had been camped; there were many orc -bodies and three members of the raiding party killed there. But of the rest of Ardelade's band there was no sign. The King's Rangers found tracks leading away westward into the mountains, and they moved swiftly along the trail. About three miles along it, the mystery was solved as a grisly sight met their eyes. It had been an ambush; that much was apparent. Amid scores of orc-corpses were the men of Ardelade's band, every one slain. They had fought well, for the orcs were many, but in the end every one lay dead. Ardelade was there, and the captain of the King's Rangers wept bitterly over his body. Orcs were piled in heaps about the great warrior, for he had slain almost a hundred of them. Yet in the end many blades and arrows had pierced him, and at last he fell. The Mightsword Vilifant was gone, and none knew where it had been taken. When news of Ardelade's death reached the palace, the King wept openly, for he had held Ardelade as a son. But Tanamarne grew pale, and would not speak; neither would she eat or drink, but shut herself in her chambers, seeing no one. In vain did members of her household beg her to come out and take food, for she was sunk so deeply in grief that she scarce heard them. Two days passed, and Tanamarne ceased her crying. In black despair, she arose from her bed and went to the window, her only thoughts of her love that was wasted and lost. With a cry, she threw herself from the window, out onto the rocky slopes below, and ended her life. Thus did a great knight and princess perish, and the Mightsword fall into unknown hands. Where it has gone, none can say; but if evil hands now wield the great weapon, there will soon be cause for dismay among all people of Verana. Dream #9 Loss of The Blacksword It is said by those who remember that in the days of the one Great Forest, the greatest of the elven-smiths forged the Blacksword. The true name of both smith and sword are now forgotten by many, though perhaps they can still be found in some ancient tale. The labor required by the elven-smith was long and arduous, and much of his power went into the forging of the blade -- power that could not be recalled. Perhaps the smith made his home near what is now Valandain, the forest of the elves, for he made many journeys to the high elven court. Gradually, through pride and fear, the heart of the smith was turned against his people. He kept for himself many of his items of power, rather than sharing them as he should have done. It may be that the Blacksword was his last and greatest work, for after its forging, the legends do not tell of the great smith again. Of his son, however, some few things are known. After the death of his father, young Deraldar's heart was troubled. Fearful that his own people might try to take his father's store of things of power, it came into his mind that he might move his family and the hoard far away, to some secure place where they might not be reached (save by great strength of wizardry or force). Such a place he knew of, and it was indeed distant; high mountains far to the west, of which his father had sometimes spoken. There he might meet dwarves and, knowing litle of dwarven kind save that they too had renowned forges, it seemed to him that they might be more like in mind than his own people. The day of Deraldar's leavetaking is unknown, for he sent no messenger to the elven court. It was weeks later, when some visitor happened upon the smith's deserted dwelling in the forest, that his absence was revealed. Then the elf-queen was troubled and sorrowful, for in her wisdom she knew that a spirirt of fear and greed held Deraldar, as it had his father. Long and fruitless was her search for the smith and his family, for they were gone far to the west long before. But Deraldar and his family never reached the mountains, for the records of the dwarves do not show it, and their memories would not forget such a coming. It may be that evil found him on the road, for the forest away from the elven court was a treacherous and fell place. Some remember that a darkness overcame the train in a sorcerous part of the woods, and his family was overcome by a sleep like death. Deraldar lept from his wagon and drew the Blacksword, and it glittered with dark fire. Yet he could find nothing to attack, for the evil cloud was insubstantial and he carved the air uselessly. Then a great host of orcs issued from the dark forest and assailed Deraldar. Unable to protect his family, he was forced back while they were all slain where they lay. At this Deraldar's heart grew hot within him, and with the great weapon he slew the orcs in heaps. Through the afternoon and into the night he fought, and the Blacksword ran red with the blood of his enemies and the light of the dying sun. Yet the orcs seemed endless, and Deraldar felt his own strength waning. As the last light of day faded, he made a final mighty effort to press through the orcs, and the Blacksword flashed with power as they went down before his murderous onslaught. But they grasped him with their hands and weighted him down, until he could lift the sword no more. Then a great black troll-captain strode forth and smote Deraldar with his fist, and he fell stunned to the ground. The captain towered over the elf, and his evil breath burned his face. "Well met, sower of greed and slayer of kin!" the troll roared. "My master will be well pleased to learn of your death -- and to accept such a prize as this!" And he stopped and pulled the Blacksword from the elf's limp hand. Then he reversed the blade and speared Deraldar to the ground with a viscious thrust. Thus ended the life of the son of the greatest elven-smith of yore. Straightaway the Blacksword flared with angry fire and scorched the hand of the troll-captain, and he cursed and dropped it in pain. Here in the annals the tale of the Blacksword ceases, for it was borne away to the west with an evil army. It may be that none know where it lies today. If the elves know, they do not speak of it, for their sorrow is too great. -- Bryan Donaldson bryan@stiatl.salestech.com Sales Technologies, Inc 3399 Peachtree Rd, NE If one is born into an era of decadence, Atlanta, GA (404) 841-4000 one may as well enjoy it while it lasts. Referenced By Up