The Shore of a Hundred Caves

[Patrick]

Off the coast of the kingdom of Lamiria many dangers lurked. Yet none were greater than the shores of a small island five miles from the portal city of Gazul. The island known to the locals only as the Dreaded Island carried the official name of Gazul-Tirion. Named so after the city close to it, and Tirion the first man to ever survive putting his foot on the northern shores of the island.

 

Whenever a stranger mentioned the island in one of the many taverns of Gazul a hushed silence was all he got as a reply. Rarely was the subject talked about and even rarer were the occasions when information was given about the island. A paranoiac fear of associating themselves with anything going on on the island seemed to seep through the otherwise normal town. As a mayor of Gazul had once put it several decades ago, the island was of a certain tabu.

 

Yet at a first glance there was nothing strange about the island. Standing in the port of Gazul the island looked like a lush paradise of green vegetation. If one would hire a boat to go closer to the island his initial analysis could be confirmed. A slowly rising beach reached the treeline after about a hundred and fifty meters and amongst the trees the songs of many birds could be heard. This side of the island was a popular destination for the rich and sometimes even the citizens of Gazul could be seen relaxing on the beaches.

 

It was the other side of the island which was the subject of nightmares. The tales, although rarely told were enough to scare away even the bravest adventurers. One only had survived setting his foot on the shore at the base of the cliffs. Thousands of small openings could be seen in the rock face yet only one hundred of them were large enough to be classified as caves. Exactly one hundred. The caves looked to be natural, but in reality they had been crafted ages ago by a race long forgotten. It was the hands of time and the forces of nature which then enlarged the caves and made the precisely dug tunnels look as if they had originally been a work of the waters of the sea.

 

Tirion, the one, whom they call the one who survived landing on the shore had lived two centuries ago. Of course he was not the only one to have stood on the shore and return, as others had done that, but he had been the only one to have entered one of the caves and return. He passed more than two months in the cave and he never spoke about what had happened with him during this period. He had been thought long lost when he returned to Gazul. But not even to his wife did he speak about what had happened to him in the cave and when he died in an accident three months later he took his secret with himself to the grave.

 

And the secret was thought lost forever. But a mere two weeks ago the shrine containing Tirion's ashes had been defiled, the guards slaughtered and the urn stolen. The council of Gazul feared that using dark magics evil mages would try to summon the spirit of Tirion and pry his secrets from his spirit. Indeed such was the case as necromancers of a cult from the far north had discovered information in ancient tomes, which should have forever remained hidden.

 

The tome, known as the Tome of the Seven Spirits of Nezarbul had for long been undecipherable. But two months ago the necromancers had begun to understand the writings and once they learnt the code used by the ancient scribes the rest of the tome was quickly decoded. Nezarbul was a name, which even fifteen decades after the demise of its carrier brought a shiver to every mortal's heart. The man, a simple mortal by birth had at the pinnacle of his power challenged the gods and won. His reign of terror and suffering lasted more than a milennia and profoundly changed the world. Yet he could never overcome his mortality and although he greatly extended his normal lifespan eventually he was going to die.

 

His closest followers were known as the seven acolytes and sensing his death approaching Nezarbul entrusted an artifact to each of the seven acolytes. As soon as the artifacts left his hand Nezarbul died as the artifacts contained his very essence, and all the power he had gained during his rule.

 

The acolytes were supposed to resurrect their master through a ritual he had devised but it was at this precise moment that the gods struck back and in an epic battle they defeated the acolytes. The gods killed six of the acolytes, but one of them escaped mortally wounded. He hid the three relics of Nezarbul he had managed to gather from the ruins of the battle and with his last breath wrote the Tome of the Seven Spirits of Nezarbul, which contained, using a complicated cypher, the locations of these three relics.

 

Although all the seven relics would be required to resurrect the spirit of Nezarbul, the control of even only one of these artifacts would bring power unimagined to any mortal.

 

 

 

The rumors had proven to be true. The island indeed contained an unexplainable presence. Through the torture of half a dozen townsfolk Gern had learnt what he wanted. The artifact he and his fellow necromancers had come for was most probably in the depths of one of the caves of Gazul Tirion. Knowing of the fear of the locals towards the shore Gern had not even bothered looking for someone willing to take them there. They had stolen the biggest ship at the docks and had reached the northern shore of the island an hour before daybreak.

 

That was when strange things started happening. The ship although, but a month old started taking water and although no visible hole could be seen started rapidly sinking. Abandoning ship Gern and his two dozen companions swam to the shore. Three of them never made it through the waters and mysteriously drowned. All of them had been excellent swimmers.

 

Daybreak came and the caves were at last revealed. Here, a mere five yards of sand seperated the cliff from the seas. The Tome spoke of the forty-seventh cave counting from the rising sun and this was where the group, of now only twenty-two, entered.

 

The cave looked perfectly natural and it was only after several hundred meters that the original carved passage became visible. In the dim light created by their torches Gern inspected the passage. The thick layer of dust betrayed the fact that no one had entered here for decades, maybe even centuries.

 

The spirit of Tirion had refused to reveal its secret to them the night before to much of Gern's surprise and dismay. Never before had a spirit of a mortal managed to resist to him. All he had gotten from the spirit before it evaded his control had been a warning not to enter the caves.

 

A cold breeze could be felt from the passage ahead of them and as they advanced soon each of them started feeling cold. The passage seemed to follow a twisting spiral downwards of about one hundred and fifty meters diameter. After five hours of descending the monotony of their footsteps was broken by the sound of running water and a few minutes later they reached a source of water breaking through the inner wall.

 

Before Gern could warn against it two of his men drank from the water. They died bare seconds later, with expressions of intense pain on their faces. Leaving their bodies where they lay the group continued on. An uneasyness was starting to spread among them and were it not for fear of their leader some would have turned back.

 

The source of water flowed as a small stream along the inner wall and over the centuries had carved a foot deep gully. Strange creatures seemed to be in the water, yet whenever a member of the group tried to inspect closer the creatures seemed to disappear.

 

The last of the torches was used seven hours after they had entered the cave. Gern then selected two members of the group to light the way with their staffs. After the eighth hour of their descent they reached the first cave. Gern estimated they were now three miles underground.

 

An inspection of his group revealed that Heseliga, the youngest of them had disappeared. Only nineteen remained as they entered the only other passage leading from this cave. Here the air was unnaturally warm. Gusts of hot air at times nearly blew them off their feat and a glow could be seen at the end of the straight corridor.

 

The source of the heat turned out to be an open flow of lava in the next cave. A treacherous bridge led over the flow and towards the continuation of the passageway. It was when they were moving over the bridge that they were attacked. As if the rocks of the ceiling had come to life mythical creatures rose from their resting places and assaulted the group. Some remained fixed to the ceiling and hurled stalagtites at them, while others, having a greater freedom of movement grew wings and tried pushing the intruders into the flow of lava.

 

The necromancers unleashed their magic and defended themselves yet whenever a creature was destroyed a new one detached itself from the ceiling and running through the cave seemed to be the only possibility. Only eight of them reached the arch on the other side of the hall. The tunnel only lasted two hundred feet before reaching an extremely dark cave. Not even their magic was enough to light it up. A single stone stood in the middle of the cave. The inscription on it was in the same language as the Tome. Gern translated.

 

"Only seven may continue. Fire shall choose"

 

As he pronounced the last word the cave lit up and a fiery creature appeared swirling on top of the stone.

 

"You" - it said pointing at Gern.

 

A tight lump formed in Gern's throat. Then rage entered his heart. This was not going to be his last hour. He prepared to cast a spell, but was interrupted by the fire elemental.

 

"You choose who does not continue life in this world."

 

A coolness washed over him as he realised that his life was to be spared. Not even hesitating he pointed at Faffa the oldest of the group. The spirit made a movement, which could be interpreted as a nod and then as fast as lightning moved to where Faffa was standing. Faffa did not even have the time to gasp as the fire consumed him.

 

As soon as the deed was done the spirit disappeared, yet the light remained. Softly at first, but then getting stronger and stronger a rumbling sound could be heard and was accompanied by a shaking of the ground. The stone was slowly lowering itself into the ground and seven small stones were rising around it. The whole spectacle took but a minute after which the chamber went suddenly silent and a complete darkness replaced the previous light.

 

Nothing happened for several long minutes and then the stones started glowing and revealed a geometrical shape on the ground. A heptagon with a number written next to each side. Guessing at what needed to be done Gern ordered his companions to stand on the vertices of the heptagon and he himself stood at the one with the number seven. As soon as his foot touched the vertex all went dark again, and then six screams were heard at seven second intervals followed closely by the sound of bodies hitting the ground.

 

The seconds passed slowly after the sixth scream. One. Did retrieving the artifact require all seven of them to die? Two. Surely not. Three. Who would retrieve the artifact then? Four. Gern was not willing to sacrifice his life for the return of an ancient spirit. Five. He tried lifting a foot, but found that it did not want to budge. Six. Frantically he tried to break away, but it was as if he had been glued to the ground. He closed his eyes and prepared for death.

 

Seven.

 

Light erupted from the ceiling and lit then center of the heptagon. At first Gern could not see anything, but then he spotted a small cross. Trying to move he found that freedom of his legs had been given back to him. He walked to the center of the heptagon and stooped to pick up the cross.

 

He never made it. His hand had nearly reached the cross when he felt a sharp pain in his back and looking down saw a foot of steel sticking out of his chest. Falling sideways his eyes widened in shock as he spotted the one who had killed him. The eyes were the same as the eyes of the spirit of Tirion had been. And the smile was the same smile as the one with which the spirit had defied him.

 

And then darkness descended on Gern and he knew no more.

 

Tirion picked up the cross of Nezarbul. Such a small thing. During the two centuries that he had been the protector of its ancient power he had never understood the full power it held. When two hundred years ago he ventured in the came he met the previous protector. Through a complicated spell his body had been duplicated and the clone sent back to the real world to live its normal life, but he took over the duties of the previous protector.

 

He placed the cross back in the center of the heptagon and the cross seemed to fuse with the rock. Once again the ancient evil had been stopped from returning to haunt this world.

[Quincunx]

An elf of the human-height and egregious ears variety peeked around the doorway, cautiously, so as not to topple any of the towers of unfinished paperwork. "Oh my, a storyteller," she murmured after the story had finished. "Is that story part of your stock-in-trade. . .or is that you?"

[Patrick]

The storyteller looked at the one, who had adressed him and smiled.

 

"It is an interesting question that you ask indeed since I parttake in telling fictional stories, but I also imagine myself in the skin of others for gaming purposes. However the story I have just told here is purely fictional and was not created with a character behind it."

 

OOC: if you want to see some of my roleplaying then there are currently two active roleplays on a different forum going on. I'm dm-ing one of them and playing two characters in the other. On that forum I use the name of dplax.

 

http://www.ironworksforum.com/ubb/cgi-bin/...18;t=000541;p=8

http://www.ironworksforum.com/ubb/cgi-bin/...18;t=000534;p=5

 

You might notice that Cyril Darkcloud who is also a member here plays in those roleplays. It was him who told me about The Pen.

[Wyvern]

Patrick Durham fidgets in his applicant easychair as Rydia lingers at the door of the Recruiter's Office, her elven ears perking up ever-so-slightly as a cloud of dust waves through the Office air and sparkles for a split second. Patrick coughs at the dust and frowns, reconsidering his story explanation for a moment and wondering if a claim of historical accuracy might evoke a quicker response. Setting his chin on his fist, the applicant thinks for a few minutes, then turns to Rydia and says:

 

"Of course, the application, that wasn't fictional. Just the story part."

 

An awkward moment of silence passes as Rydia casts him a curious look, her ears half-curling into question marks. The quiet is promptly shattered, however, as a figure in a dark hooded cloak with runes graffitied over it hobbles swiftly into the room, breezing past Rydia and revealing a scaly tail that drags behind him as he walks. Halting in front of Patrick, the "mysterious" figure perks up his head to reveal an unrealistic lumpenproletariat mask covering his face. Handing the applicant a card with a rune on it, the figure deeply hisses:

 

"Greetings mortal applicant. Please, be seated."

 

Patrick raises a brow, having not lifted himself from his seat yet, and reluctantly mutters:

 

"I, uhhh, I am seated. Mr....?"

 

"Acolyte. Mr. Acolyte." The cloaked figure adjusts his robes in a haughty manner. "And thank you for the informative response, these Almost- errr, ancient acolyte lumpenproletariat masks don't have eyeholes in them like they used to."

 

The "acolyte" lets out a short and ruthless laugh, taking a bold step forward and tripping over his own tail in the process. Patrick cringes as the cloaked figure sails head over heels into a stack of papers, stumbling over them and crashing into a desk, which in turn rolls over and knocks down a grandfather clock, breaking its time frame. The applicant's jaw drops open as he witnesses this series of catastrophes, and he immediately lifts himself from his chair to help the cloaked man once things have stopped falling over.

 

"Hey, are you alright?" Patrick stoops down and extends a hand. "Man, that was some..."

 

"Hurrrk, I'm..." The cloaked man's tail stiffens in pain for a second as he squirms on the ground. "I'm immortaooooow! An Acowlyte. G-geld donation needed in my presence. Here, see my papers."

 

The cloaked figure rolls until he's sitting upright by the sideways desk, and pulls out a piece of paper from his cloak, adjusting his mask slightly as he hands it to Patrick.

 

"This paper." Patrick stares at it in surprise, taking it from the "acolytes" claw and looking over its contents. "It's... well, it's blank."

 

"What?!" cries the "acolyte," tearing off his lumpenproletariat mask in frustration to reveal the scaly visage of Wyvern. "That wasn't supposed to- owwww! Oh come on, I don't get it, I chanted it didn't I?" The overgrown lizard takes out a folder from part of his cloak, unfolding it angrily. "Just it like it says, whatwasit... 'I have a sham/slowly whining. This little yelp/in pains *ow* plight can reside?' No, no that'sss not it."

 

Wyvern sighs and shakes his head, removing the hood from it and cringing for a moment. Casting a weak smile towards Patrick, the lizard nods and rummages through the mess that's been made of his Office until he comes across his Acceptance Stamp. Hissing a little, he promptly stamps Patrick Durham's application ACCEPTED.

 

;-)

 

OOC: On a more serious note, a nice story and an ACCEPTED application, Patrick Durham. Welcome to the Mighty Pen! I apologize for the lengthy waiting time (those graffitied runes may look sloppy, but they took a while), and I hope that you find the Pen a welcoming community to share your works in. I look forward to reading more of your material, and would like to welcome you once again.

[Patrick]

Patrick beams with a happy smile on his face when he sees the lizard reach for the acceptance stamp. He takes the stamped paper from him a bit too fast, nearly tearing it apart in the process.

 

"Thank you. No one is perfect." - he says with a smile then turns to leave the office and to check out the rest of the Keep of the Mighty Pen.

 

OOC: thanks for the acceptance.

Edited March 10, 2005 by Patrick Durham

[reverie]

applauds...

 

Great Story, and welcome...

 

revery

the dreamlost

"streams of things"

the dream continues...

[Patrick]

Patrick turns to reverie, whom he had only noticed after four days (OOC: sorry about that) and nods his thank you's.

 

 

"Your kind words are welcome and I hope I shall one day be able to reciprocate them."

Edited March 14, 2005 by Patrick Durham

[Cyril Darkcloud]

There is a certain pleasure

in the hearing of things

mysterious, distant and

forbidding.

 

Attention is sharpened

by the promise of hearing

the words and the meanings

hidden in secrets’

whispering speech.

 

But nothing, in the end,

is quite so pleasing to the ear

as the spoken cadence

of a tale told well

by the voice of a friend.

 

Welcome, to the Pen, Patrick!

 

I’m glad to see you decided to apply and I’m looking forward to reading your work.

[Patrick]

Thank you Cyril for having made me aware of this site! And thanks also for the great welcome poem!