A Test of Compre-hen-sion - 15/01/2020 - Milo
Jan 17, 2020 16:53:03 GMT
Grimes, Markas Virnala, and 2 more like this
Post by Milo Brightmane on Jan 17, 2020 16:53:03 GMT
Milo sank to his knees, exhausted. He had done all he could, and now he waited for a swift death. Instinctively he raised his hand against the attack, but no attack came. Instead, the whistle and thud of a crossbow bolt finding its target. Then from behind him, a surge of heat and energy exploded outward and rippled across the battlefield. He turned, and his gaze was filled with pure white radiant light…
A low, solid chair was dragged over to the forge. The dwarf slumped into it thankfully and brushed his red hair out of his eyes. The fire crackled softly. Milo looked into it, studied where it burned hottest, watched as black coal turned white with ash.
“I was late meeting the group. You know why. I explained that things had escalated slightly. More than even I knew, at the time… I told them about the phoenix, showed them my hands to prove it. There was some discussion about how to get to the Feywild. I had only ever gone by the tree to the south, but I thought there must be other routes. Someone suggested the Gilded Mirror, which would have been faster but on arriving we found the portal there inactive. Closed for repairs, apparently. So, we went south. The Feythorn is large but a few of us had travelled it before and were able to find the path.
“We found someone on the way. Strange half-elf, went by Imp. Sounded like he’d teleported there accidentally and got lost. We promised to drop him off back at town once we’d finished, but for that he’d have to come with us. Thank goodness he did, or things might have gone very differently.
“We found the ash tree. I suppose it had always been an ash tree… Never mind. Well, we walked around it, and it felt like climbing a low hill, but the last turn took us into the centre of a crater. Purple earth, purple trees around the edge. Bubbles sent out her familiar, Viceroy, but all it could see was trees which blocked its view no matter how high it flew, though they didn't look all that tall from where we were standing. We would have attempted to climb the side of the crater but one step took us all the way to the lip, standing on the edge. Feywild shenanigans…
“However, the trees formed their own barrier, so close together and swaying, though there was no wind, it was impossible to pass through or make any kind of path. Wil tried to force his way through but was pushed back. Imp tried to climb, to no avail. Bubbles danced along with the trees, matching their movements. That’s when I reached out to you. I thought about the dream in which Kaifaerion came to me, and when you first spoke to me from the forge. And the scars on my hands began to ache and throb in time with Bubbles’ footfalls, in time with the trees. Holding them together I saw, for the first time, how the gap between my fingers formed an eye. And looking through, I found the way.”
Milo looked again at his hands, the feathery scars now a dull white, and thought about how they had once blazed orange and gold, and looking through them he had seen a path stretching away through the trees – how his vision had been drawn down that path, colours flying past him like a rainbow, to a small clearing, and in that clearing a mountain which towered above him. From the mountain came a light which grew brighter and filled Milo’s vision, and when it subsided he was looking through his hands at the entrance to a path between the purple trees.
“I led the others down the path, and we walked for… some time. I couldn’t say how long. You know that the Feywild doesn’t follow the usual rules. The tree were… red? Though at the entrance they had been purple, all the way down, except I also remember them being red… It’s hard to think straight about it, but as we walked we moved through colours, though the shades never changed. When we thought about it they were just different… Purple, green, yellow, orange… and red. And they’d always been that way, in the hard packed earth.
“At one point the trees bent over to form an archway, and they had always been an archway, and the soil was freshly turned, and it had always been freshly turned. Once the trees had always been red, we emerged into a clearing, and eventually we met Zesto.”
The clearing had been a challenge, in every respect. The trees once again formed an impenetrable barrier, and the only way out was back the way they had come. In the centre of the clearing was a circle of square, white marble stones, their inside edges stained black with soot. They were warm to the touch, but could not be moved. Looking again through the phoenix’s eye between his palms, Milo had seen a towering inferno, a column of fire reaching up from the centre of the circle. On Milo’s suggestion that perhaps they should start a fire in the circle, Imp had revealed themselves to be a magical practitioner, sending a bolt of fire into the ring. The same fire Milo had seen leapt up before them, but now eyes and a mouth flickered before them in the flame, and bellowed out in a language Milo had not understood. Wil and Mace had revealed it to be Primordial, perhaps the oldest language, and the words a riddle – ‘Give me that which you have, but others use.’
Milo rocked with laughter in his chair next to the fire. “We were so foolish! We tried everything. Wil tossed in a spear, which of course burned up. Imp tried giving it advice, to learn another language, if I remember rightly. I don’t think it liked that… I had no clue, my only thought was perhaps healing magic. I was about ready to toss in that ointment of keoghtom I’ve been saving when Mace suggested it meant ‘trust’. But how to give our trust to a column of fire? While we were debating the ground of the clearing had begun to burst into flame, and we realised we would have to make a decision soon or burn to death in the middle of the Feywild. So we joined hands and jumped into the fire, trusting it not to harm us. Ha! Zesto was confused, and a bit annoyed at us I think.”
Zesto had been some form of humanoid being, flesh and fire weaving around each other across their body, shifting and changing as they watched. They had revealed that the answer to the riddle was simply to speak the word ‘Trust’ in Primordial, though clearly the group had done enough by actually showing trust as they had not been burned alive. Speaking to Zesto, Milo had explained why they had come – a phoenix had reached out to him, in danger, and asked for his help.
“I’ll never forget their response. ‘You say you come to protect Kaifaerion from danger, yet danger travels with you.’ I didn’t know what they meant, but I turned, and the glade behind us was full of people and creatures. Tieflings, azer, half-dragons, fire spirits, humans. All sorts. One of the azer stepped forward, and he said ‘Milo Brightmane. I am Apanthrakahno, and we are the Order of the Eternal Pyre. Thank you for guiding us here.’”
The group had turned to look at Milo who had protested ignorance. He had never met this group before, and had certainly not guided them through the Feywild. The long, long tunnel of trees they had followed had been entirely clear of other people in both directions, which they had frequently checked. And yet here this Order stood. Apanthrakahno explained, “You led us here with the beacon you carry,” at which Milo’s bag had flown open and shone out a bright, orange light. Shielding his eyes, Milo reached in and pulled out a book. A book he recognised.
“I had seen it at Kirhan’s while I was researching the phoenix,” Milo explained to the fire. “I thought it was about a cult called ‘The Order of the Phoenix’, but I had misread the ancient dwarfish. The words for pyre and phoenix are extremely close, for obvious reasons, as you know. But it had no mention of actual phoenixes, so I had discarded it. Clearly it was foolish of me to have done so…”
The book hadn’t been in Milo’s pack when he started the journey. In his hand the book’s light lessened to a glow, sickly and orange, like bile. He had thrown it to the ground, scared and disgusted by it. Looking back to the Order, he had seen for the first time their pendants which glowed the same baleful orange. And a memory had come to Milo like a shock of lightning – of looking down at the battlefield from the walls of Zot Goran, not so long ago, watching great gashes of orange light split the land apart. The same light, the same feeling of nausea and unease that it brought. Despite Apanthrakahno’s thanks for guidance and for opening the way, his offers of greatness should Milo help them reach the phoenix, and assurances that they only wished to worship it, Milo knew then that they could never be trusted.
“I tried to command Zesto not to let them through, but he wasn’t mine to command. ‘All who seek passage will be granted passage’. And the Order turned to the surrounding trees, walked into them,” Milo demonstrated with walking fingers, “and disappeared. Of course we had to go after them. At least I did. I followed Apanthrakahno, but with hindsight I’m not sure that mattered. We all went to our own place…”
Through the tree, Milo had blinked as he found himself in Portal Plaza, back in Daring Heights. But everything was different. The buildings were there, almost the same, but instead of stone and bricks they had been formed of knotted branches and roots. Trees grew instead of chimneys, and gave out blossom like smoke. The portal itself remained the same, but now Milo saw what he had not seen before – the trees which had marked the edge of the glade, now gone, revealed the exact edge of the teleportation circle, and the circle itself was made of the same white marble of the ring in the glade. Other strange aspects of the journey here now also fell into place – the freshly turned earth under the arching trees could only have been the grave dirt just outside Daring’s southern gate.
People milled around, going about their day but, like the buildings, they seemed more plant than humanoid. Roots grew from feet, leaves grew from twig-like fingers, eyes replaced by twisted knots of wood or flowery bulbs. And these were not just creations of the Feywild. Faces Milo recognised, friends and associates, passed by as if he were not there, and indeed he had wondered if he really was – the people and the places seemed intangible, almost see-through, and Milo was not convinced this was a real place. A white light in the distance to the north stretched from the town into the sky, and Milo knew it marked the place where, in the real Daring, his smithy would be. He had begun to walk down the road which would lead to Castleside when he felt a presence walking along side him.
“It was Athron.” He paused in the retelling, as his eyes glistened. When he started again his voice cracked gently. “My, uh, my oldest friend and mentor. It had been so long since I last saw him. It still has been, I suppose. That certainly wasn’t him in there. The things he said… Athron might be a crotchety old bastard, but he always supported me. I’m not sure he ever truly believed that you had spoken to me, but he trusted that I would do the right thing, and gave me the push I needed. But that man… he told me I was delusional. You had never spoken. Or I had made it up, wanting it to be true, wanting to be special. He mocked me, said I was on a ‘great holy quest’ for nothing at all. That I couldn’t help these people, and I would leave them to their fates like a coward. And there was something about that place, how it plays with your emotions, I almost believed him. His words almost made me sit down in the street and weep, and wait for death, because I’d been so foolish.”
But the scars on his hands had throbbed and ached, and a warm glow had emitted from them. They were real. And the events which had started so long ago and led to these scars were also real. He had turned to confront the unreal Athron with his rekindled conviction, but instead there was only one of the many citizens of this dream-like Daring, who wandered away unaware of Milo’s presence. So Milo had kept walking.
Eventually he turned onto Short Street where the Hammerfall Smithy could be found, but blocking the way was a pair of enormous gates of dark wood and iron. Looking back the way he had come, Milo saw instead a bridge, leading away into a howling, frost-filled gale, and he knew where he was. Returning to the gate, he knew it now as the Caravan Door, the main entrance to Citadel Adbar. It stretched up, far higher than the real gates ever had, and they were closed against him. In that moment he thought of home, his true home, and knew that he would never be able to go back again. He had betrayed them by leaving, the Doors told him as much – if he was truly welcome home they would be open and inviting. Instead these gates that had repelled sieges thousands strong were shut and locked. He felt tempted to turn and cross the bridge into the freezing tundra, unwelcome and undeserving. But in that cold place he felt a warmth in his chest, and in his hands. The knowledge came to him from outside himself – he would return home one day, having fulfilled his purpose. He would fight his way home, if necessary. At that, he had raised his warhammer, the dark adamantine collecting a patina of white snowflakes, and brought it down upon the doors which had stood for over a thousand years, repelling orcs and drow and giants, which… cracked. Great splinters flew from the solid iron, and the doors fractured across their width. Another blow sent out more fractures, like lightning, and at the third blow the centre of the doors collapsed inwards, the lines of the cracks forming great wings which swept upwards and burned with a radiant fire. Raising his hand against the light, Milo pushed on through the hole in the door, finding himself back on the street, his smithy not ten paces in front of him.
“That place had one more last-ditch challenge for me. The cobbles in front of the door were covered in keys, more or less identical, and I knew one was the key to the smithy. I knew we were running out of time, the Order had started before us, and who knew where the others were. I admit I panicked a little. I tried keys willy-nilly, but none of them worked. It didn’t take me long to figure out that this wasn’t about the keys. None of this had been what it seemed. There was no trick to getting back in here, any more than there usually is. Because, as much as Adbar is home, this is home now too. And I carry it with me.”
Milo had reached into his pack, and withdrawn a thick iron key. It looked like all the other keys, and like the key he always used, but the head of the key was a pair of wings, brightly picked out in bronze and copper and gold. He placed it in the lock and turned. As he did so, he felt the rest of his companions step up behind him, escaped from whatever trials they had been through, and together they stepped through into the smithy.
Everything was as usual. The forge had crackled gently, as it was doing while Milo told his story. The anvil stood solidly, the many tools hung on racks, perfectly ordered. But they had not entered a building. Where usually smoky walls stood instead gave way to a plain, colourful grasses waving gently in a breeze none of them could feel. Not half a mile away was the foot of a mountain, but such a mountain as Milo had never seen. It seemed made of pure metal, unmined, unsmelted, but not ore either. This was purest elemental metal from which the greatest weapons of legend were forged, and it towered over them. At the base of the mountain a cave mouth could be seen, and they had all felt the pull toward it. Upon reaching the entrance the cave gave way to a broadly curving tunnel, which they had followed. Like the walk with through the trees, who could say how long this journey up through the mountain had taken.
On the way they passed friezes, carvings in the tunnel walls. They were worn and cracked, and gave a sense of endless time having passed since their creation. Each showed the same scene, almost. A phoenix nested to one side; attackers in varying numbers and strengths; and between them the defenders. Sometimes a group held the line, sometimes a single figure stood against a vast horde. But it was the same scene, over and over. Between these, Milo had begun to recognise other pictures. At first they had been mundane images – a sword, a cooking pot, a nail. Then he saw a breastplate, forged musculature bound with flora and etched with words of bravery and honour.
“It was the breastplate I made for Baine. And yet it was carved into the metal walls, as if it had been there for thousands of years. I traced my fingers down it and saw Baine in battle, a sword deflected away. My craft performing its purpose. I crossed to the cooking pot and touched that too, and saw a family gathered around the fire, laughter in the air, stomachs full. Every item carved into this mountain, I had made. And every item I had made was carved. Markas’s spear, made with your power. Axes, the shield I repaired for Darius. But building anchors too, and tools, cages for Mystigon. Everything. I hadn’t realised how much I had made. The mountain reminded me of my gift, and the effect I’ve had on the world, even through tiny actions. Through every nail.”
The tunnel had led, eventually, to a large platform which jutted out into an enormous cavern, the centre of the mountain. From far below a glow and a hot wind told them they were at the core of a volcano. At the tip of the platform a mess of wood was sunken into the floor. From the centre of the nest the phoenix peered up at them with rheumy eyes. It looked old, its feathers ragged and pale. It had explained to them the eternal cycle – at the end of its life it must return here to its nest, at which time the Order of the Eternal Pyre would attempt to capture it, and the chosen of Moradin would stand against them. Milo had asked what the Order stood to gain from taking the phoenix, and was told that its powers of resurrection would be channelled to return life to one who must never live again. Before they could find out more, the bird began to shine. “They come,” it said. “Ready yourselves,” and with a cry it burst into a great flame which scattered its embers across the sunken nest.
“Stand aside!” a voice had called from behind them. Turning, the azer Apanthrakahno stood in the centre of the platform, flanked by others – a red-skinned genasi whose hair flickered like flame; a hulking efreet with burning hands and blazing eyes; and a human, half their face obscured by thick red scales, one hand curled into three taloned claws. “We have a great and holy duty to perform.” Milo unstrapped his shield, and brandished his hammer, feeling the others next to him ready their own weapons or begin preparing whatever magics they had. “So do I!” Milo shouted in return. “You can’t have them.” The azer frowned deeply, his eyes like coals burning into Milo. He gestured quickly, and before any of them could react a ball of fire flew from the scaled human, exploding at their feet and scattering them apart. Milo cast a spell of protection on himself to guard against fire, and charged towards the other dwarf made of fire and bronze.
Much of the battle was a blur. Milo had never fought so hard in all his time in Kantas. He clashed with the azer, hammer and shield against hammer and shield. Around him he caught glimpses of the others in their private battles – Wil taking on a monstrous form and forcing the human sorcerer to the edge of the platform and into the roiling abyss below; the huge ape-like demon summoned by Bubbles grappling and trading blows with the efreet. At one point a gust of air brushed his cheek and he turned to see the fist of the genasi less than an inch from connecting, frozen in place, Imp behind him holding the spell. Milo sent a spectral anvil crashing into the genasi before receiving another blow from the azer. Pushing himself backwards to create some space, he sent a beam of radiant light towards the fire dwarf, piercing its torso. It coughed up blood that burned on the ground like lava before launching itself at Milo, pummelling into his shield until the force of it drove him to the ground.
Milo sank to his knees, exhausted. He had done all he could, and now he waited for a swift death. Instinctively he raised his hand against the final attack, but no attack came. Instead, the whistle and thud of a crossbow bolt finding its target. Looking up, he saw the azer stumble, grope at the bolt protruding from its eye, and collapse onto the ground. Away to his left, Milo saw Mace lower his crossbow and smile grimly at a job well done. From behind him, a surge of heat and energy suddenly exploded outward and rippled across the battlefield. It tore through the efreet and the demon, and they evaporated into flecks of darkness which burned away like so much coal dust. He turned, and his gaze was filled with pure white radiant light. The light formed great ephemeral wings which stretched out and out.. From beneath them a phoenix rose, and fluttered to the edge of the nest. Milo applied some healing magic to himself and slowly, unsteadily made his way over. The phoenix was tiny, no larger than a sparrow, but it looked at him with absolute authority.
“Thank you, Milo Brightmane.” The voice entered his head without the trouble of going in by the ears.
“What else could I have done?” Milo responded wearily. “You were in danger.” He looked back at the remaining corpses of the Order of the Eternal Pyre before asking “Is that the end of it? Are the Pyre finished?”
“I do not think they are finished,” the phoenix spoke. “This was not all of them. My sight is clouded, but I sense something else drove them.”
Milo thought back to the first encounter with the Pyre in the Grove of Ashes, when their pendants had burned with that sickly orange fire, the same fire he had seen in K’ul Goran. “There’s something bigger happening here. I don’t think this was just about you. I don’t know what, but I’ll do my best to find out… and stop them.”
As he said this, Milo realised he was no longer kneeling to look at the phoenix. It had been growing imperceptibly, and now stood only a little shorter than the dwarf. It’s words came again.
“It is rarely ever about just one of us. Which is why I cannot be of much assistance to you in this. There are others I am charged to aid. Do not think yourself abandoned though. Moradin and I will always be with you – in one form or another.” Milo thought that if its beak had allowed it, the phoenix would have been smiling. “To that end, I will leave you with a gift, small though it may be.”
Milo felt an itch in his hand. Looking down, one of the scarred feathers was raised, and something like a splinter was sticking out of the skin below it. He picked at it, and pulled, and painlessly a real feather emerged from beneath his skin, gold and red. He cradled the feather gently in the palm of his hand, before closing his fingers on it carefully.
“Thank you. I know exactly what to do with it.” Taking one of the cloths which, this morning, had bound his hands he wrapped it instead around the feather before returning it to a pouch.
“I have to ask…” he pauses, hardly able to look at the radiant creature. “Why me? Moradin spoke to me from the fire, sent me to Kantas, but why me? With so many others who have studied his word, worked their whole lives for a moment like this.” He shook his head. “I don’t deserve it.”
“Not all sparks that are struck create flame. You are right – you are not special. Not yet. But your light burns brighter by the day. And Moradin sees this.”
A phrase heard long ago, spoken by one of the sonnlinor when consecrating repairs to one of the great forges, came to the front of Milo’s mind. “‘He is the fuel by which I burn.’ I understand. What will you do now?”
Kaifaerion stood then, stretching to their full height and span, towering over the dwarf, filling the shape which before had been only light. “I will return to what I was doing before: shedding His light where it is needed most. Thank you again, Milo Brightmane, for your protection – and your faith.” At this, the phoenix pushed away from the nest and rose on the thermals of the volcano away and out through the vent high above.
“And then we returned home,” Milo concluded, abruptly. “Parts of the journey had felt as if they’d taken years, but when we got back to town it was the same day we had left. I wonder if it had really taken any time at all…” His story told, he pushed the stool back to the table it had come from, but then paused, and leaned on the edge of the anvil.
“You know, on the way back down through the mountain, I caught sight of another frieze. It was the closest to the platform, and… it was us. It must have been. Us against the Order. But it looked just like the others, as if it had been carved hundreds, maybe thousands of years ago. So strange that we hadn’t noticed it on the way up…” He peered at the flames, but they continued to crackle gently. “Alright then. I suppose it doesn’t really matter. But now,” he said, unwrapping a swatch of the cloth to reveal a golden glowing feather, “now its time to work.”
My thanks to Lykksie for the picture of the phoenix scars, and to JSD for the original sketch and awesome DMing.
A low, solid chair was dragged over to the forge. The dwarf slumped into it thankfully and brushed his red hair out of his eyes. The fire crackled softly. Milo looked into it, studied where it burned hottest, watched as black coal turned white with ash.
“I was late meeting the group. You know why. I explained that things had escalated slightly. More than even I knew, at the time… I told them about the phoenix, showed them my hands to prove it. There was some discussion about how to get to the Feywild. I had only ever gone by the tree to the south, but I thought there must be other routes. Someone suggested the Gilded Mirror, which would have been faster but on arriving we found the portal there inactive. Closed for repairs, apparently. So, we went south. The Feythorn is large but a few of us had travelled it before and were able to find the path.
“We found someone on the way. Strange half-elf, went by Imp. Sounded like he’d teleported there accidentally and got lost. We promised to drop him off back at town once we’d finished, but for that he’d have to come with us. Thank goodness he did, or things might have gone very differently.
“We found the ash tree. I suppose it had always been an ash tree… Never mind. Well, we walked around it, and it felt like climbing a low hill, but the last turn took us into the centre of a crater. Purple earth, purple trees around the edge. Bubbles sent out her familiar, Viceroy, but all it could see was trees which blocked its view no matter how high it flew, though they didn't look all that tall from where we were standing. We would have attempted to climb the side of the crater but one step took us all the way to the lip, standing on the edge. Feywild shenanigans…
“However, the trees formed their own barrier, so close together and swaying, though there was no wind, it was impossible to pass through or make any kind of path. Wil tried to force his way through but was pushed back. Imp tried to climb, to no avail. Bubbles danced along with the trees, matching their movements. That’s when I reached out to you. I thought about the dream in which Kaifaerion came to me, and when you first spoke to me from the forge. And the scars on my hands began to ache and throb in time with Bubbles’ footfalls, in time with the trees. Holding them together I saw, for the first time, how the gap between my fingers formed an eye. And looking through, I found the way.”
Milo looked again at his hands, the feathery scars now a dull white, and thought about how they had once blazed orange and gold, and looking through them he had seen a path stretching away through the trees – how his vision had been drawn down that path, colours flying past him like a rainbow, to a small clearing, and in that clearing a mountain which towered above him. From the mountain came a light which grew brighter and filled Milo’s vision, and when it subsided he was looking through his hands at the entrance to a path between the purple trees.
“I led the others down the path, and we walked for… some time. I couldn’t say how long. You know that the Feywild doesn’t follow the usual rules. The tree were… red? Though at the entrance they had been purple, all the way down, except I also remember them being red… It’s hard to think straight about it, but as we walked we moved through colours, though the shades never changed. When we thought about it they were just different… Purple, green, yellow, orange… and red. And they’d always been that way, in the hard packed earth.
“At one point the trees bent over to form an archway, and they had always been an archway, and the soil was freshly turned, and it had always been freshly turned. Once the trees had always been red, we emerged into a clearing, and eventually we met Zesto.”
The clearing had been a challenge, in every respect. The trees once again formed an impenetrable barrier, and the only way out was back the way they had come. In the centre of the clearing was a circle of square, white marble stones, their inside edges stained black with soot. They were warm to the touch, but could not be moved. Looking again through the phoenix’s eye between his palms, Milo had seen a towering inferno, a column of fire reaching up from the centre of the circle. On Milo’s suggestion that perhaps they should start a fire in the circle, Imp had revealed themselves to be a magical practitioner, sending a bolt of fire into the ring. The same fire Milo had seen leapt up before them, but now eyes and a mouth flickered before them in the flame, and bellowed out in a language Milo had not understood. Wil and Mace had revealed it to be Primordial, perhaps the oldest language, and the words a riddle – ‘Give me that which you have, but others use.’
Milo rocked with laughter in his chair next to the fire. “We were so foolish! We tried everything. Wil tossed in a spear, which of course burned up. Imp tried giving it advice, to learn another language, if I remember rightly. I don’t think it liked that… I had no clue, my only thought was perhaps healing magic. I was about ready to toss in that ointment of keoghtom I’ve been saving when Mace suggested it meant ‘trust’. But how to give our trust to a column of fire? While we were debating the ground of the clearing had begun to burst into flame, and we realised we would have to make a decision soon or burn to death in the middle of the Feywild. So we joined hands and jumped into the fire, trusting it not to harm us. Ha! Zesto was confused, and a bit annoyed at us I think.”
Zesto had been some form of humanoid being, flesh and fire weaving around each other across their body, shifting and changing as they watched. They had revealed that the answer to the riddle was simply to speak the word ‘Trust’ in Primordial, though clearly the group had done enough by actually showing trust as they had not been burned alive. Speaking to Zesto, Milo had explained why they had come – a phoenix had reached out to him, in danger, and asked for his help.
“I’ll never forget their response. ‘You say you come to protect Kaifaerion from danger, yet danger travels with you.’ I didn’t know what they meant, but I turned, and the glade behind us was full of people and creatures. Tieflings, azer, half-dragons, fire spirits, humans. All sorts. One of the azer stepped forward, and he said ‘Milo Brightmane. I am Apanthrakahno, and we are the Order of the Eternal Pyre. Thank you for guiding us here.’”
The group had turned to look at Milo who had protested ignorance. He had never met this group before, and had certainly not guided them through the Feywild. The long, long tunnel of trees they had followed had been entirely clear of other people in both directions, which they had frequently checked. And yet here this Order stood. Apanthrakahno explained, “You led us here with the beacon you carry,” at which Milo’s bag had flown open and shone out a bright, orange light. Shielding his eyes, Milo reached in and pulled out a book. A book he recognised.
“I had seen it at Kirhan’s while I was researching the phoenix,” Milo explained to the fire. “I thought it was about a cult called ‘The Order of the Phoenix’, but I had misread the ancient dwarfish. The words for pyre and phoenix are extremely close, for obvious reasons, as you know. But it had no mention of actual phoenixes, so I had discarded it. Clearly it was foolish of me to have done so…”
The book hadn’t been in Milo’s pack when he started the journey. In his hand the book’s light lessened to a glow, sickly and orange, like bile. He had thrown it to the ground, scared and disgusted by it. Looking back to the Order, he had seen for the first time their pendants which glowed the same baleful orange. And a memory had come to Milo like a shock of lightning – of looking down at the battlefield from the walls of Zot Goran, not so long ago, watching great gashes of orange light split the land apart. The same light, the same feeling of nausea and unease that it brought. Despite Apanthrakahno’s thanks for guidance and for opening the way, his offers of greatness should Milo help them reach the phoenix, and assurances that they only wished to worship it, Milo knew then that they could never be trusted.
“I tried to command Zesto not to let them through, but he wasn’t mine to command. ‘All who seek passage will be granted passage’. And the Order turned to the surrounding trees, walked into them,” Milo demonstrated with walking fingers, “and disappeared. Of course we had to go after them. At least I did. I followed Apanthrakahno, but with hindsight I’m not sure that mattered. We all went to our own place…”
Through the tree, Milo had blinked as he found himself in Portal Plaza, back in Daring Heights. But everything was different. The buildings were there, almost the same, but instead of stone and bricks they had been formed of knotted branches and roots. Trees grew instead of chimneys, and gave out blossom like smoke. The portal itself remained the same, but now Milo saw what he had not seen before – the trees which had marked the edge of the glade, now gone, revealed the exact edge of the teleportation circle, and the circle itself was made of the same white marble of the ring in the glade. Other strange aspects of the journey here now also fell into place – the freshly turned earth under the arching trees could only have been the grave dirt just outside Daring’s southern gate.
People milled around, going about their day but, like the buildings, they seemed more plant than humanoid. Roots grew from feet, leaves grew from twig-like fingers, eyes replaced by twisted knots of wood or flowery bulbs. And these were not just creations of the Feywild. Faces Milo recognised, friends and associates, passed by as if he were not there, and indeed he had wondered if he really was – the people and the places seemed intangible, almost see-through, and Milo was not convinced this was a real place. A white light in the distance to the north stretched from the town into the sky, and Milo knew it marked the place where, in the real Daring, his smithy would be. He had begun to walk down the road which would lead to Castleside when he felt a presence walking along side him.
“It was Athron.” He paused in the retelling, as his eyes glistened. When he started again his voice cracked gently. “My, uh, my oldest friend and mentor. It had been so long since I last saw him. It still has been, I suppose. That certainly wasn’t him in there. The things he said… Athron might be a crotchety old bastard, but he always supported me. I’m not sure he ever truly believed that you had spoken to me, but he trusted that I would do the right thing, and gave me the push I needed. But that man… he told me I was delusional. You had never spoken. Or I had made it up, wanting it to be true, wanting to be special. He mocked me, said I was on a ‘great holy quest’ for nothing at all. That I couldn’t help these people, and I would leave them to their fates like a coward. And there was something about that place, how it plays with your emotions, I almost believed him. His words almost made me sit down in the street and weep, and wait for death, because I’d been so foolish.”
But the scars on his hands had throbbed and ached, and a warm glow had emitted from them. They were real. And the events which had started so long ago and led to these scars were also real. He had turned to confront the unreal Athron with his rekindled conviction, but instead there was only one of the many citizens of this dream-like Daring, who wandered away unaware of Milo’s presence. So Milo had kept walking.
Eventually he turned onto Short Street where the Hammerfall Smithy could be found, but blocking the way was a pair of enormous gates of dark wood and iron. Looking back the way he had come, Milo saw instead a bridge, leading away into a howling, frost-filled gale, and he knew where he was. Returning to the gate, he knew it now as the Caravan Door, the main entrance to Citadel Adbar. It stretched up, far higher than the real gates ever had, and they were closed against him. In that moment he thought of home, his true home, and knew that he would never be able to go back again. He had betrayed them by leaving, the Doors told him as much – if he was truly welcome home they would be open and inviting. Instead these gates that had repelled sieges thousands strong were shut and locked. He felt tempted to turn and cross the bridge into the freezing tundra, unwelcome and undeserving. But in that cold place he felt a warmth in his chest, and in his hands. The knowledge came to him from outside himself – he would return home one day, having fulfilled his purpose. He would fight his way home, if necessary. At that, he had raised his warhammer, the dark adamantine collecting a patina of white snowflakes, and brought it down upon the doors which had stood for over a thousand years, repelling orcs and drow and giants, which… cracked. Great splinters flew from the solid iron, and the doors fractured across their width. Another blow sent out more fractures, like lightning, and at the third blow the centre of the doors collapsed inwards, the lines of the cracks forming great wings which swept upwards and burned with a radiant fire. Raising his hand against the light, Milo pushed on through the hole in the door, finding himself back on the street, his smithy not ten paces in front of him.
“That place had one more last-ditch challenge for me. The cobbles in front of the door were covered in keys, more or less identical, and I knew one was the key to the smithy. I knew we were running out of time, the Order had started before us, and who knew where the others were. I admit I panicked a little. I tried keys willy-nilly, but none of them worked. It didn’t take me long to figure out that this wasn’t about the keys. None of this had been what it seemed. There was no trick to getting back in here, any more than there usually is. Because, as much as Adbar is home, this is home now too. And I carry it with me.”
Milo had reached into his pack, and withdrawn a thick iron key. It looked like all the other keys, and like the key he always used, but the head of the key was a pair of wings, brightly picked out in bronze and copper and gold. He placed it in the lock and turned. As he did so, he felt the rest of his companions step up behind him, escaped from whatever trials they had been through, and together they stepped through into the smithy.
Everything was as usual. The forge had crackled gently, as it was doing while Milo told his story. The anvil stood solidly, the many tools hung on racks, perfectly ordered. But they had not entered a building. Where usually smoky walls stood instead gave way to a plain, colourful grasses waving gently in a breeze none of them could feel. Not half a mile away was the foot of a mountain, but such a mountain as Milo had never seen. It seemed made of pure metal, unmined, unsmelted, but not ore either. This was purest elemental metal from which the greatest weapons of legend were forged, and it towered over them. At the base of the mountain a cave mouth could be seen, and they had all felt the pull toward it. Upon reaching the entrance the cave gave way to a broadly curving tunnel, which they had followed. Like the walk with through the trees, who could say how long this journey up through the mountain had taken.
On the way they passed friezes, carvings in the tunnel walls. They were worn and cracked, and gave a sense of endless time having passed since their creation. Each showed the same scene, almost. A phoenix nested to one side; attackers in varying numbers and strengths; and between them the defenders. Sometimes a group held the line, sometimes a single figure stood against a vast horde. But it was the same scene, over and over. Between these, Milo had begun to recognise other pictures. At first they had been mundane images – a sword, a cooking pot, a nail. Then he saw a breastplate, forged musculature bound with flora and etched with words of bravery and honour.
“It was the breastplate I made for Baine. And yet it was carved into the metal walls, as if it had been there for thousands of years. I traced my fingers down it and saw Baine in battle, a sword deflected away. My craft performing its purpose. I crossed to the cooking pot and touched that too, and saw a family gathered around the fire, laughter in the air, stomachs full. Every item carved into this mountain, I had made. And every item I had made was carved. Markas’s spear, made with your power. Axes, the shield I repaired for Darius. But building anchors too, and tools, cages for Mystigon. Everything. I hadn’t realised how much I had made. The mountain reminded me of my gift, and the effect I’ve had on the world, even through tiny actions. Through every nail.”
The tunnel had led, eventually, to a large platform which jutted out into an enormous cavern, the centre of the mountain. From far below a glow and a hot wind told them they were at the core of a volcano. At the tip of the platform a mess of wood was sunken into the floor. From the centre of the nest the phoenix peered up at them with rheumy eyes. It looked old, its feathers ragged and pale. It had explained to them the eternal cycle – at the end of its life it must return here to its nest, at which time the Order of the Eternal Pyre would attempt to capture it, and the chosen of Moradin would stand against them. Milo had asked what the Order stood to gain from taking the phoenix, and was told that its powers of resurrection would be channelled to return life to one who must never live again. Before they could find out more, the bird began to shine. “They come,” it said. “Ready yourselves,” and with a cry it burst into a great flame which scattered its embers across the sunken nest.
“Stand aside!” a voice had called from behind them. Turning, the azer Apanthrakahno stood in the centre of the platform, flanked by others – a red-skinned genasi whose hair flickered like flame; a hulking efreet with burning hands and blazing eyes; and a human, half their face obscured by thick red scales, one hand curled into three taloned claws. “We have a great and holy duty to perform.” Milo unstrapped his shield, and brandished his hammer, feeling the others next to him ready their own weapons or begin preparing whatever magics they had. “So do I!” Milo shouted in return. “You can’t have them.” The azer frowned deeply, his eyes like coals burning into Milo. He gestured quickly, and before any of them could react a ball of fire flew from the scaled human, exploding at their feet and scattering them apart. Milo cast a spell of protection on himself to guard against fire, and charged towards the other dwarf made of fire and bronze.
Much of the battle was a blur. Milo had never fought so hard in all his time in Kantas. He clashed with the azer, hammer and shield against hammer and shield. Around him he caught glimpses of the others in their private battles – Wil taking on a monstrous form and forcing the human sorcerer to the edge of the platform and into the roiling abyss below; the huge ape-like demon summoned by Bubbles grappling and trading blows with the efreet. At one point a gust of air brushed his cheek and he turned to see the fist of the genasi less than an inch from connecting, frozen in place, Imp behind him holding the spell. Milo sent a spectral anvil crashing into the genasi before receiving another blow from the azer. Pushing himself backwards to create some space, he sent a beam of radiant light towards the fire dwarf, piercing its torso. It coughed up blood that burned on the ground like lava before launching itself at Milo, pummelling into his shield until the force of it drove him to the ground.
Milo sank to his knees, exhausted. He had done all he could, and now he waited for a swift death. Instinctively he raised his hand against the final attack, but no attack came. Instead, the whistle and thud of a crossbow bolt finding its target. Looking up, he saw the azer stumble, grope at the bolt protruding from its eye, and collapse onto the ground. Away to his left, Milo saw Mace lower his crossbow and smile grimly at a job well done. From behind him, a surge of heat and energy suddenly exploded outward and rippled across the battlefield. It tore through the efreet and the demon, and they evaporated into flecks of darkness which burned away like so much coal dust. He turned, and his gaze was filled with pure white radiant light. The light formed great ephemeral wings which stretched out and out.. From beneath them a phoenix rose, and fluttered to the edge of the nest. Milo applied some healing magic to himself and slowly, unsteadily made his way over. The phoenix was tiny, no larger than a sparrow, but it looked at him with absolute authority.
“Thank you, Milo Brightmane.” The voice entered his head without the trouble of going in by the ears.
“What else could I have done?” Milo responded wearily. “You were in danger.” He looked back at the remaining corpses of the Order of the Eternal Pyre before asking “Is that the end of it? Are the Pyre finished?”
“I do not think they are finished,” the phoenix spoke. “This was not all of them. My sight is clouded, but I sense something else drove them.”
Milo thought back to the first encounter with the Pyre in the Grove of Ashes, when their pendants had burned with that sickly orange fire, the same fire he had seen in K’ul Goran. “There’s something bigger happening here. I don’t think this was just about you. I don’t know what, but I’ll do my best to find out… and stop them.”
As he said this, Milo realised he was no longer kneeling to look at the phoenix. It had been growing imperceptibly, and now stood only a little shorter than the dwarf. It’s words came again.
“It is rarely ever about just one of us. Which is why I cannot be of much assistance to you in this. There are others I am charged to aid. Do not think yourself abandoned though. Moradin and I will always be with you – in one form or another.” Milo thought that if its beak had allowed it, the phoenix would have been smiling. “To that end, I will leave you with a gift, small though it may be.”
Milo felt an itch in his hand. Looking down, one of the scarred feathers was raised, and something like a splinter was sticking out of the skin below it. He picked at it, and pulled, and painlessly a real feather emerged from beneath his skin, gold and red. He cradled the feather gently in the palm of his hand, before closing his fingers on it carefully.
“Thank you. I know exactly what to do with it.” Taking one of the cloths which, this morning, had bound his hands he wrapped it instead around the feather before returning it to a pouch.
“I have to ask…” he pauses, hardly able to look at the radiant creature. “Why me? Moradin spoke to me from the fire, sent me to Kantas, but why me? With so many others who have studied his word, worked their whole lives for a moment like this.” He shook his head. “I don’t deserve it.”
“Not all sparks that are struck create flame. You are right – you are not special. Not yet. But your light burns brighter by the day. And Moradin sees this.”
A phrase heard long ago, spoken by one of the sonnlinor when consecrating repairs to one of the great forges, came to the front of Milo’s mind. “‘He is the fuel by which I burn.’ I understand. What will you do now?”
Kaifaerion stood then, stretching to their full height and span, towering over the dwarf, filling the shape which before had been only light. “I will return to what I was doing before: shedding His light where it is needed most. Thank you again, Milo Brightmane, for your protection – and your faith.” At this, the phoenix pushed away from the nest and rose on the thermals of the volcano away and out through the vent high above.
“And then we returned home,” Milo concluded, abruptly. “Parts of the journey had felt as if they’d taken years, but when we got back to town it was the same day we had left. I wonder if it had really taken any time at all…” His story told, he pushed the stool back to the table it had come from, but then paused, and leaned on the edge of the anvil.
“You know, on the way back down through the mountain, I caught sight of another frieze. It was the closest to the platform, and… it was us. It must have been. Us against the Order. But it looked just like the others, as if it had been carved hundreds, maybe thousands of years ago. So strange that we hadn’t noticed it on the way up…” He peered at the flames, but they continued to crackle gently. “Alright then. I suppose it doesn’t really matter. But now,” he said, unwrapping a swatch of the cloth to reveal a golden glowing feather, “now its time to work.”
My thanks to Lykksie for the picture of the phoenix scars, and to JSD for the original sketch and awesome DMing.
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