RP:Dark Page

Part of the Dissonance Theory Arc

This is a Warrior's Guild RP.

Summary: As Rorin describes to Lionel the undead threat lurking in Lithrydel's frigid northwestern expanse, the two men, joined by Quntessa Dragana, traverse the dreary landscape en route to the Forbidden Library. There, Quintessa must comb through tomes in search of illuminating information on the runic texts of the strange stone obelisks the Warrior's Guild has recently located, as well as the stones' corresponding deadly earthquakes and vicious flora. What the changeling uncovers in her research strongly suggests that the heroes and antiheroes of the guild will soon be put to task against yet another grave threat to the world as they know it...

The Deadlands

There was nothing safe nor sacred in the ruins of the far northwestern frontier. The cold bit through flesh and brittle bone. In Frostmaw, ice was known to thaw. Such was seldom the case out here. Many names had been given to the roadless expanse of white and fallen stone and steel, where once-great castles were charred husks and hulking slabs of metal poked out of the ice in every direction. The Deadlands; the Everwhite; Hell Frozen Over. The trip which Lionel, Rorin, and Quintessa had embarked upon would have slain seasoned soldiers if they had foolishly opted to go it alone. Together, they stood a chance. And these three mortals in particular were capable of a great many things together. Yet when the snowstorm plowed through the blanket of snow and broken dreams, forcing the three of them and their horses and precious Bloodbeak to take up shelter and light a fire within the toppled tower of a millennia-old fort, a sense of despair seemed to fill the chilled air. And they were quite certain that they had espied a great many undead hurling around further on into the fort proper, their hideous bodies illuminated only by the forever-grey skies outside the portcullis. Once the storm had passed, and a meal was taken and hot tea brewed and drank, the remainder of the journey awaited them. Closer and closer they came to the Forbidden Library, a conspicuously well-tended labyrinth of halls lined with so many tomes deemed fit for only a few pairs of eyes. The Library lay at the heart of the Deadlands, but the azure flames lighting its outside lamps seemed as vital and proud as anything the ruins had ever harbored in halcyon days. A pair of stone gargoyles shaped like Nemean lions watched over the party, their ruby-red eyes moving with the mortals’ every step. Lionel knew that they would strike without mercy if the great red-and-gold doors ahead of him were opened by anyone seen as unworthy. He had only cracked open these doors once before, and now like then he worried that something had changed -- that his security clearance would have been revoked, so to speak -- and a struggle for their lives would ensue. The creaking of those doors did not help, but the gargoyles never moved. The fight never came. Relief swept over the Catalian. The horses were brought inside where it would be safe from further storms and a measure of warmth could spare their equine muscles from hypothermia. An elaborate complex, high-roofed and lit by further azure flames, greeted the travelers on their way in. Hallways of similar size and complexity veered off in several directions. Lionel sighed. “We’re here.”

Rorin was never far behind in the trek through the long forgotten and ever frozen north. He had walked this path once before, beside the queen of frostmaw, and then he had prowled the tundra wastes as a beast that had forgotten his humanity in favor of some twisted sense of Justice. Rorin rode atop a great winter dire wolf with a face like a gray mask, the canine Isangrim, and kept close around his tightly wound frame a cloak lined with fur. He had hardly spoken on the way here, not that there was much to be said, and when they arrived he looked back with reverent, even fearful silence. Rorin could see the dark shape of some enormous beast trawling through the skies, and a pitiful wail, some shrieking, moaning thing, that cut through the air and snow straight to the bone, as of to had come from all around them. It was not a ghost, no, but a worse and much more fearsome thing. A great white dragon, he was sure, nearly rotten to the bone, still hanging on by the twisted spirit alone as it’s ragged wings sailed and soared over the storm. Once inside the Library Rorin liberated himself of his full helm and inside was a boy with a nearly inhuman haunted look to his eyes. Rorin could have lived his life full over and twice again without having seen this place another time. He touched the pendant around his neck which gave a faint blue glow that nearly seemed alive somehow. The last time he had been here, Hildegarde had left him alone in the other room, and something truly terrible had happened. He could hear its call even now, deep inside him. With a slightly frustrated sigh he turned back towards the party and looked a tired and weary version of himself again. What were they doing here exactly…?

Quintessa wasn't one to be bothered by extreme cold or haunted battlefields from eras she wasn't even born in. Dressed in her winter garb, a fur-lined cloak, tinted googles, and her cherished black and red striped scarf that flowed in the frigid wind behind her, the changeling rode atop her Golden Cockatrice, Bloodbeak through he thick snow drifts. His plated armor glows faintly orange as the runic enchantments Quintessa had placed upon the metal plates keeps the giant bird warm. The great undead dragon that loomed overhead was a source of curiosity for the girl, not concern, and she paused every once in a while to spy it flying above and sketched out what she could see through the snow that swirled around them. Her hag-borne eyes could see through smoke and fog, but not this blasted snow. Still, the saurian made an excellent addition to her notebook. Eventually the trio reach the Frozen Library and Quinessa's mood is over the moons. "Look at his place!" the excited mage blurts out, her voice echoing through the empty library as she leads her mount inside. Bloodbeak didn't need to be ordered to stay put; he never wondered far from his mistress. "I can't believe I've never heard of this place before." Whatever dreadful feelings the men with her were feeling were completely lost on Quintessa as she pulls her goggles off of her mismatched eyes to rest on her head. This was just some old, abandoned building, nothing to fear. The changeling never was one for understanding that some places were considered sacred to others, and to her this was a ruin to be plundered and studied. Already the young spellcaster was hurrying over to the books that lined the shelves, her delicate fingers running along the spines of the tomes she read in her head. "The Art of Aramoth?! T-this is an original copy, written by hand!" Quintessa took the book from the shelf and slowly opened it, already getting distracted. "I've read this book several times. They really knew how to wage war back then..." She sighs in content, a lover of ancient knowledge through and through. "I mean, the followers of Aramoth are stupid for rejecting magic, but they got the other parts right."

The Forbidden Library

Lionel stretched his tired muscles and poured water for himself and the others. Quintessa had already ran off before the Catalian could point her in mission-befitting directions, but for the moment he decided to leave it be. The girl was in her zone now, and if there was any justice in the universe then being in her zone would ultimately help her to find what they were looking for. “Don’t wander too far out of sight,” Lionel told Quintessa. “Please. You’re as free as ever, but the Forbidden Library has certain design elements designed to scold the disrespectful. The fullness of this superstructure is known as the Temple of Judgment for a reason.” Lionel had seen a talented man go blind for life here; standing here again now, he could almost see it happening all over again in his mind’s eye. “Walk and talk,” he said to Rorin, ushering them forward to keep up with the changeling. They would allow Quintessa to take whichever route she chose, so long as she eventually took a route at all. Separate wings within the Forbidden Library were essentially their own sub-buildings, interconnected by the long and soberly-lit halls. The Library of Light was bathed in pearl fixtures and opal shelves; the Library of Darkness was all ragged edges of slate and sapphire and gold. But there was more -- other wings led to the Altars of Purity and Sin, respectively, where ancient rituals had been performed. Some were kinder than others, yet all involved the expenditure of blood one way or another. “I’m sorry we had to combine our chat with this searching mission, Rorin. But time is of the essence. During our brief stay at Guild HQ after our vegetable sortie down at the pagoda, I received word that another quake had been recorded deeper inside the Southern Sage. This one was worse than the last. Sixteen people died. Mostly elves.” He grimaced. “So here we are. Mixing one peril with another. But I’m listening. And I saw that dragon, just as certainly as I saw those zombies before it. What do you know about this infestation, and what do you suppose ought to be done about it?” Quintessa’s misadventures in the Forbidden Library were of her own making. Her choice of destination -- the Library of Light or Darkness -- would soon dictate her discoveries.

Rorin gently laid his hands on Quintessas shoulders and spoke with grave clarity. “Do not walk here freely and consider it your own. If you take anything from here but the knowledge it gives you, you will not live to see the sky again. I know that you are not a devout follower of well respected gods, but please hear this, for my sake if not for yours. This is not some junk yard or lost tomb. I assure you it needs neither guards nor caretakers to look after it. A place such as this has ways of watching after itself.” Rorin went off and shook himself free of the lingering idea he had any responsibility to this place. In reality, Rorin was more afraid he would never be allowed in these doors again if Quintessa went off and did something rash. He hated this place, but he needed it too. Not only as a reminder. There were still many mysteries of the Guardian he did to her understand, and the key stood somewhere surely in this hall. He breathed deep and recalled the visions he’d been given among the spirits sealed within the relic. Mulgrew, the ancient old mystic from these lands, had appeared to him, after some great battle for his soul. Among the swirling darkness and white of ashen snow she lead him away, carrying him really, towards some great part of his destiny. Lionel’s first words shook him as if from a deep sleep. Rorin rose, not having realized he had slumped down into Isangrim deep fur, and walked. He tried not to think about the undead too much, but really what else was he supposed to think about. “It comes from right around here,” he said at last, “a necromancer hiding out in the wasted. From Beyond the Gate. Don’t know where he came from exactly, but I do know some things about him. He’s holed up somewhere south of here, for starters, and he’s mad as any necromancer worth the salt for his grave is. He doesn’t want money or power, he just wants to see the world rot from the inside, while he watches it all. The undead he’s created decompose down to the bone, even here in the freezing cold, so that animals will feast on them or the water carries them. Spreads to every living them, except plants. Then he’ll just command the bones until even those turn to ash. There’s some legendary creature that was lost and buried under the ice here, a long time ago, but he must have found that too, because it’s wheeling around cawing and moaning outside. Powerful. But not too powerful. The Devout Guild can take him. I imagine a few from the warriors will want to tag along too. But the dragons got to first, like a goddamn guard dog it is, hunting out there, kicking up blizzards as it blows it’s frost breath into the wind. Protecting his lair, I suppose. Don’t know what else it could be. Something otherwise equally valuable I suppose.” Rorin sighed again, terse, before going on. “He’s planning something big too, real big, and soon. Don’t know what do what for, but it seems like he’s amping up his security, padding his numbers, biding his time. Gotta get to him before that happens.” That seems just about all he had to say on the matter as he trailed a finger on a books spine. What else was there to do…

Quintessa glances back at Lionel and gives him a pouty expression, "Okay, Dad," she mocks before her pout twists into a smirk and her creepy laughter echoes through the room. The changeling teased, but she would still comply, satisfied with the slower pace he requested. The hex blade runs her fingers over the cover of 'The Art of Aramoth' one last time before she returned it to its resting place. Quintessa was always respectful of books, after all, in the not-so-distant past books were her only friends. To Rorin, however, she rolls her eyes, "Oh, hush you big baby. I am protected by things much more powerful than some ghostly guardians or whatever you think is in here. Arh-Nuk is always with me. The Great Insectoid of the Dark Forest is always with me. Even Vakmatharas' influence is nullified by my aura. If you didn't want me exploring this place you should have never brought me here." With her annoyance made clear by her words, she turns away from the other teen and heads in the direction of the Library of Darkness. "Oh, I heard about that quake too," the odd girl throws over her shoulder at the two as they follow, her mismatched eyes pried away from the tomes to gaze upon them. "News reached Xalious before I headed back to Frostmaw, but I wasn't sure if it was related. I still need to speak to Odhranos about them." The changeling moves on, her digits idly brushing along the tomes again as she passes, scanning each for relevant information. "Necromancer?" Quintessa halts and turns around, an inquisitive look upon her face, "He doesn't sound like anyone in the Necromancer's Guild. I would certainly like to study his work- he sounds like a very dedicated practitioner of the dark arts. Perhaps if I could gather some samples of these rotting undead..." Quintessa was already plotting out in her head how she could acquire some of this cursed meat for her personal research. It would be a crime to allow such knowledge to be lost because of the prejudices some devout fools had against necromancers like herself. None the less, she had a job to do here and she could think about side projects later.

Library of Darkness

Lionel decided very early into the Rorin and Quintessa back-and-forth that he was going to stay out of it entirely. “I’m going to stay out of this entirely,” he ably declared, as much for their ears as his. Besides, more important things were in need of address, and Lionel knew himself well enough by now to understand that when even he was behaving seriously straits were probably dire. “Plants,” he mumbled back after Rorin had finished his explanation pertaining to the undead infestation. “You said this condition spreads to everything except plants. Well, it just so happens that mere days ago a party of misfits -- including one Lionel O’Connor, one Quintessa Dragana, and one Rorin Garecht -- chanced upon some rather tough ones. Man-eating, possibly poisonous, plants of substantial size and terrible bedside manner.” The wheels were turning in Lionel’s head just as much as his changeling companion’s. “Just tossing out prospects, but if during our book-readings and many-splendored travels we should happen upon a way to control those killer cucumbers ourselves maybe we can use them as a line of defense.” It was an appropriately absurd pitch for the former Prince of Catal and he knew it. Quintessa had led them all into the Library of Darkness by now, and its rows upon rows of books in peculiarly different shapes, sizes, and relative conditions intimidated Lionel whilst undoubtedly invigorating the young woman. It wasn’t that he disliked reading, but the thought that in all these books there might be only one tome with a clue for the origins of those obelisks and the meaning of words like ‘Xicotl’ was damned off-putting. There was every possibility that no tome in the entirety of the Forbidden Library would be of any help, though considering that he had personally found thirteen Catalian novels here in a single stretch of one main wing, Lionel held onto hope that that was unlikely. And indeed, moments into Quintessa’s search, she would stumble upon something quite promising. Branded in crimson and with splatters of old, dried blood on every page, ‘Xicotl: The Compendium of Known Intelligence, as Compiled by Maester Narek on Commander Rekir’s Behalf’ had been left tilted upright at a sideways angle against a row of other miscellany.

If Quintessa elected to thumb through it, she would find a wealth of detailed, full-colored sketches which seemed to depict Lithrydel in earlier, less inhabited times. This Lithrydel, not quite prehistoric but drawn by a man whose very name had long since vanished from known history, appeared to have been populated by groups of people belonging to several familiar races -- humans, elves, dwarves, orcs -- and others which stood out as partially or entirely unrecognizable. Indeed, there was so much to take in here, so many bizarre implications, that in all likelihood many contemporary scholars would have dismissed the book outright as a flight of fancies unless they had solid proof that it had originated here in what was perhaps the most vaunted, revered, and utterly feared vault the denizens of the realm knew existed. On a page filled with elegant script, much of it incomprehensible to Lionel and Rorin but with enough linguistic roots to the rune-writing on the strange quake-causing stones that Quintessa would be able to decipher it for true, a particular passage, bolded and in larger font, would have stood out most of all. ‘I hold these truths above all: the creature in question is unlike any person or thing I have ever encountered. Kings do not know its kind, nor do humble maesters know its mind. Xicotl views the surface world as a feeding ground, and we the sentients as thralls. It takes root, literally and figuratively, inside those it deems useful. And, like a parasite in need of hosts, it dictates thralls’ every motion. To Xicotl we are nothing but tools to an end. It is my steadfast belief that our civilization will not survive this beast. When the portals emerge, and the land begins to shake, know that it is not resentment by any vengeful god. The land is shaped by Xicotl’s will, and whosoever beholds Xicotl’s will, will die.’

Rorin squinted his eyes critically at Quintessa and began to nurse the idea he may have to kill her in the future. A terrible loss, to be sure, if for nothing than her figure alone. He was vaguely sure no one would miss her. Did she consider herself to have friends, family, acquaintances? What would Lionel say? Would he care? Another evil vanquished... but did Lionel had any sort of personal countenances or ties on Quintessa? He couldn’t be sure. To Lionel he merely half mumbled and continued to walk, looking all the more tired and frustrated to be doing so. Out of his pack peered a grey sparrow like beak, big as a working mans upper arm at its base, attached to a pair of large curious eyes sparkling with intelligence. Strange ear tufts poked out after it, the head of a Griffon new born perhaps only a few weeks old. It chirruped and seemed to take in its surroundings with an attentiveness far beyond its age, and Rorin smiled faintly at it, seeming calmed. Perhaps he should not have brought the child along, but it did comfort him so, and she liked the cold.

Quintessa grins darkly as she spots a familiar name. "Xicotl." she says out loud as her pale hands grip around the compendium with much delight. "I think I found what we are looking for. It's a book written by a Maester for some commander. Known Intelligence?" Quintessa was about to peruse the pages when an errant thought popped into her head; Sometimes these old books were cursed. "Canfod hud." she says as she waves her hand over the cover, her wicked aura engulfing the tome for a moment before she was certain that it was safe to read. "Fascinating." she utters, mismatched eyes absorbing the information contained within the pages, "It appears to written in runic code- I can barely understand much of it, but with time I could produce a cipher. Perhaps if I-" Quintessa suddenly cuts herself off as her eyes narrow at the pages, "Elazul's Bite, listen to this: ...the creature in question is unlike any person or thing I have ever encountered. Kings do not know its kind, nor do humble maesters know its mind. Xicotl views the surface world as a feeding ground..." The changeling read the words aloud as if she putting on a play, her pleasant voice ringing out to carry to both of the men that joined her. "...It takes root- like a parasite in need of hosts. To Xicotl we are nothing but tools to an end. Our civilization will not survive this beast. When the portals emerge, and the land begins to shake, know that it is not resentment by any vengeful god. The land is shaped by Xicotl’s will, and whosoever beholds Xicotl’s will, will die." The changeling lets her words linger in the air for a moment before she clears her throat. "Sounds pretty grim, eh?"

Lionel hadn’t the foggiest familiarity with the title of the tome, but the blatant usage of such a keyword in their search as ‘Xicotl’ was all he needed to hear. As he watched Quintessa cast her cleansing spell, he silently thanked the stars that he had been fortunate enough to avoid his demise during his previous visit; how many books had he sifted through? It was remarkably strange to listen to Lady Dragana mouth a curse involving Elazul -- a bemused smirk tugged at Lionel’s lips as the memory of Elazul’s destruction by Hellfire’s blade rippled through him. Still, fortuitous victory did not erase the appropriateness of the profane outburst. There were few things in Lionel’s life that had ever been so menacing as a bite from dearly-dusted Elazul. After Quintessa had finished theatrically reciting the terror-inducing text, the first thing that Lionel did was gently slap the visibly disturbed Rorin on the shoulder. “Back into the thick of things, eh? No sooner do we crash Kahran’s party than some hitherto-unknown jackass from the anal annals of aeons best left forgotten goes and schedules a party of its own. I’d say suit up, but I can count the number of times on two hands that I’ve ever seen you unsuited.” There it was again -- the fixture of self-preservation that was Lionel’s abstract wit, arriving as always as soon as real fear began to latch onto his heart and mind. He couldn’t let the two of them down; he couldn’t show them that in truth, he was petrified that without that slayer of demigods called Hellfire, he was now just a man of thirty-two, human to his core and surely no more capable than this ‘Maester Narek’ who had predicted doom for he and his. Predicted doom that, judging by the lack of discernible evidence through Lithrydel that Narek’s people ever existed, was more than likely accurate. Lionel O’Connor had fought the worst and won, but he had never done it without the fire that had burned strongly from within. Now that fire was extinguished, and as clearly as he could feel the chill air within the Forbidden Library, so too was he covered in chill dread. But for all the self-doubt which lingered, Lionel had absolute confidence in the men and women under his command. Confidence that those with the kinds of powers the likes of which Rorin and Quintessa possessed would as ever be the make-or-break factors in any war to come. His stature and countenance predicated on that and that alone, the former prince successfully stuck to his wit, seemingly unfazed by the latest in a too-long line of never-tell-me-the-odds.

“So there it is,” he said at last. “The text mentions portals. I don’t think we’ve seen those yet, but suffice to say we have few pieces to this puzzle. Quintessa, I brought an old Haathian artifact with me which should grant you the information from this book without necessitating its theft and our subsequent damnation.” Reaching into his satchel, Lionel withdrew a material remnant of the ancient race of scientific geniuses responsible for the creation of the menacing insectoids that Lionel, Rorin, and numerous other adventurers had fought against tooth and nail three years ago. The artifact looked akin to some sort of device, a device that was angular, a rectangle with a fitted lens. Lionel had to squeeze the device tightly, and once he had done so it shook for several seconds and then clicked like the lock upon some chest. “Got it. And that’s for the best. This thing only had five charges when we found it inside a Haathian temple. Now it’s down to two.” Lionel handed Quintessa the odd contraption. “Keep it secret. Keep it safe. A vision of every page in that book will appear to you whenever you desire. Cross-reference everything inside with anything you unearth at the Black Library in Vailkrin. Depending on your findings, we’ll either have a clue or half a clue. Right now, I’m leaning toward half.” But it was a start. A far better start than could have been. Now Lionel would watch over the changeling for however much longer she needed to spend here -- within reason -- and then the three of them would leave. There was much work to be done. The good of Lithrydel yet again depended, in part, on the good that the few might do.

Rorin looked up as Quintessa spoke and began to nod along. At one point he put a hand into a pocket and produced a few almonds into his mouth. The crunching seemed to help him think. “So, this Xicotl thing, is some sort of... plant life intelligence? And it uh, infects people. So when those elf guys turned to ash, that must have been the will of this Xicotl right?” A big old plant thing convincing people to die for its big old plant cause. “Neat.” Neat, right. He had a million questions already but he figured it would be a while before he had any answers. Where did it come from, how did it find them, how could it survive this long? Lionel slapped his shoulder and the consternated look of concentration disappeared from his face. “Aye! Right, here here.” He actually smiled until Lionel took out a Haathian relic. A sheer crossed his features and the fingers of his right hand began to tap as he unconsciously turned away. Rorin returned to ease as he walked back ambling towards the main library with hands on his hips. He had no sense at this moment of the terrible fear or Lionel’s immortality, right now he was convinced everything was going to be just fine. After all, Lionel was a hero of legend! Rorin actually felt slightly embarrassed to recall the trading cards, posters, and well thumbed booklets of Lionel’s adventures that had traveled with him from his childhood at the old temple. Yeah, everything was going to be just fine. Wasn’t it?

Quintessa returns the book to its place before she reaches out to take the strange device that seemed to be able to copy instances of time for later recollection by the user, and she looks over it with curiosity. "Yes, Commander, not a soul will know about this potentially immersion-breaking object. I'll read it until I memorize The Compendium of Known Intelligence. Whatever they knew about Xicotl, I will know within a fortnight. You can count on it." Quintessa had no idea who or what the Haathians were but she would no doubt be interested in learning more about them, so much, in fact, that she would be closely examining this artifact once she returned to her office in Xalious. The changeling's mismatched eyes fall upon Rorin before drifting down to his griffon and she smiles softly at the creature. "How cute," she says before placing the Haathian artifact in her satchel and reaching out to pet the tiny lion-bird. "I studied griffons at the Mage's College," she tells the paladin, "If you ever want some advice about training one, let me know. This little fellow will grow up quicker than you think and it might be trouble if he starts hunting farmer's cows or horses." She meets his gaze, only just now noticing that they were the same height, and a smirk tugs at the corner of her mouth. "We are guildmates, after all. I take that bond seriously." Those eyes of icy blue and warm hazel flicker over to Lionel and she parts her lips to ask him a question, "Do we have our orders?" She was starting to get how to Warrior's Guild worked by now. "If so, I'd like to get to it. I've got much more work outside of the Warrior's Guild waiting for me."

Lionel observed the little bird and nearly cringed with joy, his heart fluttering despite the serious nature of the team’s predicament. It was a good thing none of the mustache-twirlers he had helped put six feet under through the years ever seemed to be fully aware of just how much Lionel loved animals. If any of them had dangled so much as a hamster in front of him he may have surrendered. “What?” He blinked and then acknowledged Quintessa, snapping out of his stupor and back to the real world, where pragmatic archaic gods used men like hammers and shifty necromancers raised gaunt white dragons over snowy expanses. The real world. “Yeah,” Lionel confirmed. “I have a bit of personal business to take care of out Chartsend way, but I’ll return within the week. In the meantime, make for the Black Library as soon as you can. Rorin, do what you always do.” Vague, but reliable advice nonetheless. “We’ll reunite soon. The clock is ticking on those earthly tremors and I want to find these ‘thralls of Xicotl’ before more lives are lost.”