Before the Dawn – Sheryl, the Fae-Touched – 17&24.11.2020

The mist started to clear, revealing a large, irised hatch, pieces of the orb they had destroyed scattered everywhere. Sheryl dismounted from Astra, starting to collect the pieces near to her when the iris started to open. She saw the silver pieces fall down into blackness and was about to go over when the inky black remains of the slain Chronoturg pulled itself to the ledge and then tipped itself over into the black void.

Curious, they all gather around, sharing furtive, uncertain glances as they see the black ooze. It does not drop suddenly as Sheryl thought it might. Instead it floated down a long, straight shaft that was lit with the same blue-green glow she had seen at the top of the seven towers. Once the ooze had descended forty feet, it landed on a gold plated floor with an enormous skull emblazoned on it, the mouth open to continue the long, dark tunnel. The ooze’s tendrils reached out to move itself off to the side, out of view.

Arkadius limps over to Sheryl, asking for some healing, anticipating their descent as Taz was already starting to kit up for climbing down. She looks him over, mindful that though their mission has taken an important detour, Vorsthold still needs their help. Deciding it would be best to conserve her spells, Sheryl passes over a superior healing option. Arkadius takes it gratefully, trying to pass back a greater healing potion to her, but she refuses it. Taz, meanwhile, was tying off a familiar rope of climbing she had seen him use before, but when he tossed it over the ledge it too floated down instead of falling as gravity would normally make it do. Taking one last look at the others to make sure they would follow, the red dragonborn walked off the ledge and gently started to float down, everyone else close behind with Sheryl and Astra bringing up the rear.

“It is odd. I want to use my wings, but know it is not necessary. And yet…” Astra said, haltingly as she and Sheryl gently floated down.

“I can only imagine how it must feel for you Astra, as one who was born to fly. But the spell effect will see us safely to the platform below,” Sheryl reassures her partner. “Like a feather falling gracefully to the forest floor.”

As Astra’s hooves gently alight on the gold skull’s surface in the chamber below, Sheryl takes in their surroundings. It is made out of the same volcanic glass as the rest of the tower, with a seven pointed star engraved in the stone where the ooze has retreated to. At each of the points rose a throne, inlaid with a golden skull holding an object clamped within its teeth: a black marble maggot, a black sickly looking flame, a gemstone, a ring, a book bound in human flesh, a fossilized egg. The one that drew their attention though was the throne made of sand, the gold skull tarnished to a matte black, the item clamped in its teeth a silver bound hourglass filled with a fine crimson sand.

The ooze had moved swiftly, already on the seat of the throne, inky tendrils reaching up to touch the black skull as a similar ooze started to bubble and pour from between the teeth clamped around the hourglass. Sheryl inhaled sharply, a moment of indecision making her hesitate. Bubbles was the one to act, lifting her hands and muttering something strange under her breath. The black ooze on the throne was suddenly pulled towards them and then stopped. Sheryl watched as Bubbles looked from the ooze to the skull, frown and then shift her attention to the black skull embedded in the throne.

As Bubbles starts to use her telekinetic magic to pull the skull from the throne, Sheryl sees something shimmer behind it – a thin red line like smoke, barely there for her to see, weaves around the black skull, tying it to the larger skull on the floor, and all the rest of the smaller skulls on the other thrones.

Whilst she was trying to figure out what sort of magic the red threads could be or what their purpose was, Bubbles’ telekinetic pulling slipped and the skull slammed back into place in the throne of sand.

“Now what do we do?” Bubbles asks the group.

“I want to try something,” Sheryl says, Astra turning to face the throne made of sand directly. The fae-bard pauses for a moment, almost hesitant. “I’m going to try casting my Shattering spell at it. Does anyone object?”

Sheryl looks at Arkadius first and he nods for her to go ahead. One or two of the others mumble but none say anything to object. Taking that as permission to do what she wanted, Sheryl closes her eyes, diving deep within herself to find the right tone. Once she had it, she took a deep breath in, opened her eyes, and sang.

The note was high and echoing, making the strings on her harp by her side hum in a sympathetic tone. It was also raw, a heat coming from her lips as her breath sustained the note, directing it at the tarnished skull, for once not supported by a chord of harpsong. The throne, sand, hourglass, and everything around the point she was focusing on started to thrum, low at first but building so the vibrations started to become visible. The sand throne begins to crumble as Sheryl is reaching the end of her breath, the seconds passing away as she sustains the note, pouring in the magic that flows in her veins, the very essence of everything that makes her who she is.

At last, she stops singing but her voice continues to echo all around them, the volcanic glass trapping her voice to throw it back to them. It builds and builds and builds, louder and louder and louder, and still the black skull with the silver hourglass clamped in its mouth does not break. Sheryl doesn’t look away, keeping her focus on her target, her features shifting, ears elongating slightly, the glow of her skin getting brighter as the diadem in her circlet gets hotter against her forehead.

Just as the sound starts to get too much the skull and hourglass shatter and Sheryl sees the red thread that held it in place snaps back, her magic and song leaping across to its retreating, unravelling thread. Like golden lightning, the magical note she sang dashes along the red chord to the others. The thrones on either side start to vibrate before their golden skulls explode too. With each burst the sound builds and builds, until all of the threads are thrumming like strings on a lute.

Sheryl watches, mesmerized by the destruction, barely noticing the others have clutched their heads in an attempt to keep the sound out of their ears. But then, as the last throne shatters into rubble, it all reverberates back at her. A concentrated wave of time magic strikes her and she feels years pass for her from one breath to the next.

“Merla! Merla! Are you alright?” Astra asks, panicked.

Sheryl breathes heavily, taking a quick look down at her hands. She doesn’t see a huge difference but now she knows what it is that has been happening to her – to all of them.

“Merla, please answer me!”

“Yes, Astra, I am… okay.” Sheryl breathed in again, trying to center herself. “The magic that struck me made me older…”

“By how much?”

The fae-bard pauses, not sure if she wants to answer.

“By at least a decade, maybe two, by the Material Plane’s counting…”

An echo Kruxeral’s voice darts through her mind: “We can grow together, as long as we don’t grow old together!”

I have bigger, more pressing problems to deal with right now.

Pushing worries about fey lovers and aging aside, Sheryl tries to listen past the ringing in her ears. The others are looking around but Sheryl thought she saw Arkadius tilt his head, listening for something before looking at her, worried. Then she heard it too. It was another sound, a distant screaming and it was coming closer.

Before she could say anything to the others, Arkadius suddenly turned around, spotting something the rest of them missed.

“Who are you?” he questioned sharply.

A figure revealed himself, an ancient man – or someone she thought was once a man – in red and gold robes of extravagant design with rings and gems adoring his fingers and neck. It was gaudy and opulent, and she would not say it did anything for the man. Still, this spectre showing up in this castle, on this Plane – The Plane of the Seven – at this precise moment, did not bode well for them.

“My name is Szass Tam. I am the Lich King of Thay.”

Sheryl goes very still, the heat in her veins retreating as a pricking sensation starts trickling down the scars on her back. None of the others react because they do not know. They do not understand who it is that has decided to appear before them.

“And who are you?” he asks politely.

“Hmm… You know what, I’m not going to answer that,” Arkadius decides, turning to look at the others.

Szass inclines his head, accepting, before turning to the rest of them, expectant.

“We have to get out of here, Astra,” Sheryl tells Astra, watching as the others introduce themselves. She frowns as Taz boastfully proclaims he killed Marduk before but Szass merely smirks at him. “He has somehow stopped time for the moment, but I have no doubt Marduk and the others are coming.”

“Agreed, Merla.”

“I will spare you a long and painful death,” Szass says, his voice weighted with a chilling power that makes the prickling sensation turn into jabbing pains on Sheryl’s back, “if you tell me why it is you are here.”

“I think not,” Sheryl cuts in with authority as she stares at the Lich King. Her eyes do not leave him as she directs her next comment to her companions. “Come, we must return to Vorsthold.”

He finally turns to look at her, taking in her small form on the majestic form of Astra.

“What is Vorsthold?” Szass Tam asks, his voice smooth and creeping.

Sheryl’s face remains impassive. “None of your concern.”

He smiles at her and Sheryl feels the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.

“Little one, the whole world is our concern…”

Szass Tam continues to smile at her as he steps back into the shadow, disappearing from their sight. The moment he is gone, the distant screaming starts up again. It is a lot closer now.

“Well he was interesting,” Bubbles starts to say to Ruk, but Astra steps forward drawing everyone’s attention.

“We need to leave, now,” Sheryl said, looking at them. “I do not want us to be here when six liches arrive. Not after what we’ve done.” She nods to the destroyed thrones around the room.

“But are we sure there isn’t anything else for us to do here?” Taz objects.

Sheryl gives him a bemused look. The distant screaming gets a little louder, a little closer.

“We destroyed the orb. Vorsthold still needs our help. Marduk and the others are coming – do you not hear that?”

“But did we really destroy it? And Vorsthold,” Taz looks to Ruk and Bubbles, the elf half nodding along to Taz’s words, “is it even there? Are they even alive?”

“What is this dragonborn on about?” Astra asks her, huffing, but Sheryl does not answer. She does not understand what Taz is trying to say or do. They did what Lady Macida asked of her with her last act of bravery. Sheryl even went the extra mile by destroying the lich’s phylacteries – or, at least, that’s what she believes she has done. What more is there for them to do here?

The screaming gets louder.

“Someone died to get us here,” Taz says and Sheryl feels his words like an icy cold slap to the face. “We should make sure the orb is fully destroyed and there isn’t anything else.”

And there it is.

Sheryl’s expression grows dark as she stares down at the red dragonborn. Her voice comes out low. From somewhere behind her she swears she hears a soft caw of a raven.

Kraa!

“Fine. Look around. But if you are not connected to me when I am ready to leave I will leave you behind and that won’t be my problem.”

Taz does not even bat an eye at her declaration. He merely turns and starts to prepare to go down the shaft they had entered to explore the levels below.

The screaming continues to get louder.

Arkadius steps up beside her on her left. She looks at him, the anger she has been feeling building within her at the others – at Taz – subsides a little as she reads the expression on her best friend’s face. He studies her, noting the mature lines on her face no doubt as she notices the silvered sides of his hair have gotten wider. He lays a hand on her arm and she nods at him, thankful. Bubbles and Ruk are looking at the remains of the thrones whilst Traavor skulks in the shadows trying to find anything interesting but staying close by. Taz has already gone down the shaft, his rope of climbing tied off in an expert knott. Sheryl’s brow darkens and the tension in her shoulders comes back as her heart starts to pound. She waits with Arkadius beside her, keeping an eye on the others.

The screaming suddenly stops.

From the opposite side of the chamber, closest to the tunnel they had floated down, comes a loud, resounding crack like a splitting rock. A tear in the fabric of reality appears and through the rift comes six dreadful figures. Leading them is a familiar man in blood red robes, his face a mask of fury as he takes in the destruction they have wrought.

Marduk howls in rage.

From the very depths of her lungs Sheryl belts out a commanding call woven with the heat of the sun on Saliyusuli Veránal: “Get your asses to me NOW!”

It is a funny thing, time: As Sheryl granted a speed and vigor to her companions which they probably have never felt before, her own internal measure of it slowed down. She suddenly became the eye of a hurricane, the center of a universe of shooting stars, all spiraling closer to her on a collision course.

Marduk’s eyes are menacing as he glowered at her.

“Do you even know who you are facing?!”

Sheryl unhooked the Material Plane tuning fork from her belt. The Arkadius was already touching her, Traavor reaching for him, Ruk and Bubbles reaching for each other’s hands as they started to close the circle.

“Do you?” she asks right back to the lich.

Marduk raises his hands as do the other frightening figures around him.

Puffing, Taz slots himself in, closing the circle.

Sheryl gently taps the tuning fork against a ring that appears to be wrought of dark smoke, it’s mundane tone a comfort to them all.

“I don’t think you do,” she says.

Marduk’s hands start to glow with a sickly green light as his face twists further with uncontrollable fury.

Sheryl smiles and it is pure, unabashed fey wickedness.

“Not today.”

There is a familiar pull at her navel as the magical hook grabs hold of her, Astra, Arkadius and the others just as Marduk and the liches unleash a torrent of horrible green, eldritch death magic at the spot they were in just as they are Plane Shifted away.

---

Daylight radiates from the driftglobe floating around her, making Astra’s mighty wings glitter and shine in the huge, darkening cavern under the mountain in the city of Vorsthold. Rainbows dance across the cold stones all around as she beats her wings. Sheryl sings across the battlefield, casting synaptic magic laced with the chaos and revelry of the Summer Fey, blasting scores of undead within its radius with psychic energy that befuddles their minds with life and vibrancy. From behind her, Arkadius does the same but on the other side of the battlefield, manipulating the shadows to aid their dwarven allies to succeed in not getting overcome by the magic.

Ruk and Bubbles launch devastating arcane assaults of their own from the highground of the citadel, whilst perfectly aimed crossbow bolts shoot out, flying underneath Astra’s hooves towards the mighty Dracolich preparing to breathe death upon the dwindling numbers of Vorstborn paladins. Farther afield, Sheryl can see Taz, Baine and Frankie locked in melee combat with Marduk, the lich’s cries of rage getting louder as the dragonborn is a blur, followed by burst after burst of dawnlight as Baine unleashes all the radiance of the Morning Lord. Two of the six liches get caught in Arkadius’ magic whilst the remaining three stand trapped in a Force Cage, unable to escape, whilst their undead hordes and being assaulted with might and magic.

But it is not enough.

“Astra, quick! We must help-”

Taz, Baine and Frankie are thrown back as shadows appear out of Marduk’s crushed body, exploding out. The big half-orc manages to stay on his large celestial hound but Taz get’s the wind knocked out of him. He starts to stand up, and Sheryl starts to think all will be well. But then one of the undead shadows peels off, dashing over to the red dragonborn. With one hit he is knocked out, blood splattering the floor as Taz collapses, unmoving.

Her harsh words to Taz after their return to the Material Plane; the promise she and Arkadius made that should he die again, to no bring him back; seeing the Vorstborn getting boiled and torn asunder by undead; General Ada pinned down as necrotic hands start to pull and tear at her; the Archmage barely holding back the Dracolich; it all swirls around her and she feels, for the first time, the belief in herself, the hope that they will make it through this, start to fade.

For the second time that day time seems to slow down, everything getting quiet. There is only the sound of drums in her ears, the movement of breath in her lungs, and a quiet, familiar song in her heart.

Please, let this not be our end.

A clear, high ringing pushes its way into her soundscape. Sheryl starts to hear singing. Or is it chanting? Then two more voices join in, one male, one female. The song quickens the drum beating in her ears, and though it is beautiful, her heart squeezes knowing before her head does what, or rather who, is missing.

Lady Macida…

A gargantuan, ancient bronze dragon comes soaring in, three figures riding on its back. Lady Antonia calls out and Lady Cheryn and Ser Lytton answer her, line for line.

        Though darkness may all men afright,
        Comes the Dawn, to banish night.
        Against the shadow, what defence?
        Comes the Dawn, to drive it hence.

Kanorax – for it was the same bronze dragon she knew, but older and more powerful – circled around them.

        Ours the Light! And ours the Fury!
        In righteous judgement comes the Dawn!
        Mornings might is virtues glory
        Beware ye wicked, comes the Dawn!

Lady Cheryn leaps from Kanorax’s back, slamming down onto a shambling mound that was about to engorge a dwarf paladin. Meanwhile, Ser Lytton leaped across to the Dracolich, his sword aglow as he brought it down on the undead drake’s spine.

“By Summer’s Light and Morning’s Dawn, let us end this!” Sheryl calls out, rallying her resolve along with all who hear her.

---

In the aftermath of the battle, Sheryl finds Arkadius. Standing at 7’6” from the potion of growth she drank before the battle, her towering friend did not have to bend down to her height when she cast Greater Restoration upon him, removing the ten or so years he had aged when they were on the Plane of the Seven. He grumbled about her height, saying he would dispel it but she playfully batted his hand away, telling him to save his magic to help clear the city. When she cast the spell on herself, she felt the years foisted upon her burned away, the unconscious worry about the changes being permanent, receding.

Sheryl and Astra then went to find Lady Cheryn, Ser Lytton and Lady Antonia. She very easily and with an otherworldly grace, dismounts from Astra, the winged unicorn not having to kneel down for her mistress. Coming over and taking in the proud knights, the fae-bard feels an echo of the chant they had sung earlier in her heart. Sheryl stops, touching the imperial topaz in her circlet with two fingers before laying her hand on her bossom, bowing her head.

“Lady Macida’s bravery saw us to the Plane of the Seven. We were able to destroy the orb,” Sheryl states, pulling out the pieces from her handy satchel, the silver glinting softly as the light from the gem in her circlet touches it. Sadness colours her face and though her eyes shine a bit brighter, no tears fall. “I am sorry, there was… nothing I could do to help her. She is- was… a light in the darkness.”

After that, Sheryl spoke with the now ancient bronze dragon, Kanorax. She marvels at his majesty, knowing that out of all of those who have been affected by the time altering magic, he has benefitted the most.

Sheryl explains to him that whilst they were in the Citadel of the Seven, Szass Tam appeared before them. For a revered ancient dragon, Kanroax’s expression unmistakably changes from patient listening to intense and deeply disturbed. Together, they go to the War Council and the Knights of the Dawn, appraising them of this deeply concerning development. Sheryl owns up to mistakenly saying the name “Vorsthold” when trying to convince her companions to leave with her immediately but no one seems to have any harsh words for her, though she had been prepared for it.

Rangrim and the Archmage Duron have her explain multiple times and in intricate detail what she saw and what happened when she shattered the silver hourglass, and the subsequent destruction of the other thrones.

“What you describe does sound like a lich phylactery,” Kanroax says, looking at Sheryl curiously, now in his dwarf form. “But it would be very unusual for them to keep them all together, or have them ‘linked’, as you describe.”

“So, we might not have destroyed all of them,” she says, slightly deflated.

“Hmm,” he intones, thinking. “Perhaps it was some kind of compact between them against betrayal, as a sort of mutually ensured destruction?”

Her eyebrows raise up, as Rangrim and Duron ponder this. The magic Sheryl encountered was not known to her but now, thinking about it, what Kanorax said makes more sense.

Their meeting did not last long after that as much still needed to be done in Vorsthold – namely, clearing the remaining undead from the city which, incidentally, did include a lot of Vorstfallen. Sheryl manages to catch up with Kanorax later that first day however after the potion of growth had worn off and all of her magic had been spent. He is once more in his gargantuan bronze dragon form, looking over the dwarven city from one of the higher ledges that lines the wide cavern. Sheryl waves to him as she and Astra fly up and he makes room for the winged unicorn to land.

Dismounting, Sheryl takes a moment to survey the city. It has changed drastically since she first saw it. The marks of the undead can be seen everywhere. But the hope for the future, of rebuilding and of alliances forming makes the destruction seem less harsh somehow.

“What will you do now, Kanorax?” Sheryl asks the dragon, turning to look up at him. “Will you stay and continue to assist the Vorstbon?” 

“Kantas is my home,” he states, his voice a gentle rumble in his chest. “The main threat of the undead is resolved – Marduk appears to have been slain by your companions and if those were in fact phylacteries you destroyed,” one brilliant blue dragon eye half winks at her, “then any lich that was slain in the final confrontation is now gone for good. That said,” he looks out at the city, a familiar intense and troubled expression coming to his brow, “the Thayan threat still looms.”

Sheryl looks back to Astra, who comes over to lightly bump her muzzle into her shoulder, feeling the guilt and worry simmering beneath her mistress’ thoughts.

“I will go back to my lair,” he continues. “I must reflect, maybe relax a bit. This has been a strenuous time for everyone.”

Sheryl nods. Then a thought occurs to her.

“Do you know of the other metallic dragons that have been active in the Dawnlands recently?”

“I am aware of others of my kin in Kantas. But dragons, especially mature ones, do not usually socialise with their own kind – outside of mating.”

Sheryl feels a flush come to her cheeks. “Oh. Right. That… makes sense, I guess.”

“Are you going to ask him?” Astra inquires. “Or are you going to keep stalling?”

“I’m about to, yes. Just let me gather my thoughts.”

Sheryl looks up and sees Kanorax is looking directly at her. She has a moment of anticipation, the excitement of the unasked question buzzing behind her lips.

“The first time we met you gave me a surprised look. The second time when we fought the Chronoturg at the Pavilion of the Dawn, it was curiosity. The last time you bowed to me in a manner I have only ever seen in the Fey Courts… Tell me, what is it you smell from me Kanorax? How did you know to bow in that way? Have your travels seen you in the Faen Realms?”

He does not answer her right away. Sheryl waits patiently, uncertain how much she wants to hear despite finally having asked the question.

“Your past – and indeed, your future – are not for me to speak of, si penaal.” Sheryl’s eyes widened in surprise. “Suffice to say that many threads are interwoven with your fate, and not as you may think.”

He lowers his head down to her small height. Sheryl is not scared as he does so, but that doesn’t stop her heart from starting to race as she feels an unmistakable charge in the air as Kanorax looks at her.

“Be watchful.”