Wednesday, June 13, 2018

Malgrym's Tale, 15th of Mirtul, Year of the Ageless One; 447 North Reckoning.

At first it was a sort of madness that grilled his brain, the whisperings of a thousand voices, the urgings of demonic spirits that drove him into solitude. Being captured by the Sabrak Clan for all those terrible weeks not only increased the number of the voices in his unholy choir, but gave them a terrible name he dare not speak … only to be called That Which Lurks.

When given the shot at freedom from the Dwarves, he barely gave the Ivory Scimitars so much a thanks as he fled the unholy temple. He wandered in a fog for days, living off what he could in the wilderness … slowly drowning out the voices. This evil would spread to men of the Heartlands if left unchecked. Such a torment would break lesser men, but Malgrym reclaimed his wits and headed north to Kelton.

In captivity, he’d heard flippant conversation about a Grand Temple in the Southlands, a place even the mad Dwarves of Sabrak shuddered to mention; an underground stronghold beneath Mount Sklagarra in the Troll Mountains. Malgrym drank deeply from his bowl of wine as he relayed his knowledge to the Wizard Ramne, as pipesmoke filled the Conclave Tower with a deep richness in the air. Molo of the Five Wives, a Calishite Wizard, turned his dark eyes from Ramne to Rabralthion, Master Wizard of the Conclave. The weight of Malgrym’s tale demanded action, for the village of Kelton had just recently been absolved of a terrible lizard cult, and in not-so-far away Easting, this dark religion of That Which Lurks had stricken enough citizens to warrant the attention of The Purple Dragons of northern Cormyr. Rabralthion instructed Ramne to collect what allies he could trust and he would lead the Conclave south to investigate and find a way to stop this vile cult of madness.

Ramne wasted little time making his way across the courtyard to Aldemier Manor, but as it was, the Ivory Scimitars had been summoned to Iriaebor. He then made his way to the house of his elf-friends, Dorian and Lywillyn. The High Elves greeted him with tea, and listened carefully to what Malgrym, a ranger they both knew well, had said of the growing evil. They committed both bow and blade to the journey and followed the old Wizard back to the Conclave Tower.

As Lathander’s rosy palm of light first crested the horizon, the band of wizards and Elves were already trekking south into the grasslands. Rabralthion had arranged for horses for the Conclave, but the Elves and Malgrym preferred to run. By midday, a curious sight along the Eshpurta Road was seen. The Elves waved the mounted wizards back beneath a small grove of trees as they moved in for a closer look. A massive campground had been staged along the tradeway and a caravan of merchants were being held up by what was clearly Amnish soldiers, their banners brazenly flying in territory that was not theirs to claim. The Elves reported back to the Wizards and Rabralthion quickly charged his apprentice, Braith Kalywynn, to ride hard to Iriaebor and deliver the news of their sighting to Lord Bron herself. The Conclave would continue on their mission, which they all agreed was of probable greater importance.