A Light in the Void - 01/08/24 - Elarris
Sept 6, 2024 19:34:56 GMT
Andy D and Orianna Èirigh like this
Post by Elarris on Sept 6, 2024 19:34:56 GMT
With apologies to Damon Runyon
On Tuesday evening I always go to The Four Fair Winds to get myself chef Bobby’s beef stew, the beef stews from Bobby being very nourishing indeed, and quite reasonable. In fact, the beef stews in Bobby's are considered a most fashionable dish by one and all in Castleside on Tuesday evenings.
So on this Tuesday evening, I am in Bobby's wrapping myself around a beef stew and reading the death notices in the adventurer’s almanac, when who comes into the joint but Harry the Horse, Little Isadore, and Spanish John.
Now these parties are not such parties as I will care to have much truck with, because I often hear rumours about them that are very discreditable, even if the rumours are not true. In fact, I hear that many citizens of Castleside will be very glad indeed to see Harry the Horse, Little Isadore and Spanish John move away from there, as they are always doing something that is considered a knock to the community, such as robbing people, or maybe stabbing them, and throwing pineapples, and carrying on generally.
And furthermore, I seem to have mislaid the twenty-five G's cash money I owe Little Isadore and if I welch on my marker Little Isadore will have words to say and then some more.
But it turns out that Little Isadore has a story to tell and the story he tells me goes approximately like this, except a little more disrespectful because Little Isadore is by no means a gentleman, and it begins with a suit of armour.
--
This is not just any old pile of metal you might find laying around in some second-rate pawnshop on the wrong end of town. This armour is something special, and everybody who is anybody knows it. And there is a character by the name of Elarris who is sitting there, staring at this armour like it’s going to get up any minute and start dancing a rumba.
And who is to say it won’t, given the strange and mysterious ways of the world?
No more than some time ago, a fellow by the name of Mendal gets his hands on this armour after it is fished out of the remains of a Dwarven ship that has seen better days, which is a story there is no time for but is an impressive tale in itself.
Mendal, who knows his way around a hammer and anvil, not to mention a spell or two, gives this armour the once-over, adding a little craft here and a pinch of holy magic there. And let me tell you, this armour picks up a quality. I am talking about a presence that would make a prizefighter think twice before stepping into the ring. You leave this armour alone in any gin joint where the customers have a tendency to get lively, and pretty soon, the joint gets as quiet as a church on Monday morning. All the shouting and the jawing and the fist-shaking just sort of dies away like a stiff who owes the wrong people money. This armour is strictly no-nonsense.
So, Elarris, who is nobody’s fool and knows his way around a suit of armour, starts the laborious process of getting himself dressed up in it, which is no easy task.
--
First, he pulls on the arming doublet and hose, which is the kind of undergarment that makes you appreciate the value of modern conveniences, such as buttons. Then he starts layering on the mail choker and mail sleeves, because nobody likes it when something sharp decides to take a shortcut through their torso. Next, he straps on the greaves and sabatons, cuisses and faulds, all of which are carefully positioned to keep certain parts of his anatomy from getting ventilated by an incoming spear.
Over in Cormyr, which is a place where they do things up proper, this is the point where a couple of squires would step in to handle the breastplate and backplate, because these items are not exactly light, and the buckling process requires a certain expertise. However, this particular suit is made of mithral, which is light as a feather and strong as a bull, so Elarris manages the whole operation himself, like a one-man armour factory. He straps on the metal skirt to cover the delicate regions, and then turns to the arms.
It seems that Mendal, who is not only a genius with metal but also something of an inventor, has come up with a system of hooks and latches that lets Elarris slot the shoulder plates and upper arm protection into place without breaking a sweat. There is a nice solid click that lets you know everything is where it should be. Finally, Elarris snaps on the vambraces and gauntlets, and now he is all dressed up like a million bucks, ready to step out and knock heads. As it happens, Mendal is supposed to show up later to see his creation in action, and this is something Elarris is looking forward to.
--
Mendal eventually shows up, and it turns out he has an appetite that could make a lion think about becoming a vegetarian. Orianna’s baked goods are disappearing down his gullet like they’re being tossed into the Grand Canyon. Elarris, with his own mouth full of Orianna’s baked goods which are widely believed by the citizenry to be the finest baked goods and then some, tries to get Mendal to lend a hand with his first job for a dame by the name of Eroshira. The mission, as it turns out, involves taking a little trip to a place called the Plane of Vacuum to retrieve something that goes by the name of the Nine.
Mendal is a cautious sort of fellow and gives Elarris a look that could be interpreted as curiosity or maybe just a touch of heartburn from all the pastries.
The way Elarris figures it, this piece of the Nine is some kind of gizmo that keeps primordial death from swallowing up the universe, which is generally considered to be a bad thing.
Mendal has been around long enough to know that when something can go wrong, it generally will, and he mentions that based on previous experience, there is a better-than-average chance that this mission is going to hit the skids.
Elarris, who is nothing if not optimistic, suggests that what they need is a little magic to smooth things over.
Mendal, who is not without his own magical abilities, points out that he already has plenty and then some more. But the fact of the matter, it is widely agreed by all assembled, is that - seeing as how this Plane of Vacuum they are heading to is not likely to be overflowing with breathable air - they are needing the assistance of a wizard, and wizards, like honest gamblers, are hard to come by.
Mendal, who is always thinking ahead, says he will ask a fellow by the name of Archie for some help.
--
So, they head over to Mendal’s place, and they run into Archie, who is just heading out the door. But standing there is Archie’s viol instructor, an Elven bard with the moniker Zaspar the Holy Fist, who is so full of confidence that he is practically bursting at the seams. Zaspar assures them that whatever problem they have, it can be solved, though whether this is wishful thinking or not is anybody’s guess.
With that, they pin Orianna’s security code to Zaspar’s pocket, just to be on the safe side, and they head for the pub, because when you’re about to take on the Plane of Vacuum, the least you can do is have a drink first.
--
There is a joint in town called The Three Headed Dragon, which, by its name, you might expect to be crawling with old-timers who have pointy hats, long white hair, beards that sweep the floor like the tail of a wedding dress and eyes that burn like coals ready to ignite at the first sign of trouble, being known all over town as the types of wizards you must not monkey with in any respect.
But this time of this particular day the Three Headed Dragon has no such characters in residence.
What it does have is a bandaged-up aarakocra by the name of Pyrin who is making plenty of noise in the corner, arguing over some drink or other like it’s a matter of life and death.
This aarakocra is not exactly what you would call prime recruiting material, but as the saying goes, you take what you can get and be grateful you got anything at all. So, our little party of would-be heroes decides to sign the kid up, give them the good word, and tell them to be at Orianna’s place at the crack of dawn.
--
Dawn comes rolling around, and the four of them assemble in Orianna’s kitchen, which is not the worst place to start a day. Elarris decides this is the moment to deliver a speech so bad it makes you think a sack of wet potatoes could do a better job talking sense. In fact, I am pretty sure the wallpaper starts peeling itself off the walls just to get away from the sound of it.
He tries to explain that everything they know is wrong, everything is dangerous, something needs doing, and they’re the ones stuck with the bill. But if you ask me, he does not exactly inspire confidence.
Lucky for them, Orianna shows up just in time to pull this operation out of a nosedive. She gives a speech that makes a whole lot more sense than what Elarris was peddling. Everyone starts nodding along, like they’re finally catching on to the score.
And just when they think things are starting to fall into place, a powerful magical light comes pouring through the back door of Orianna’s house, and who walks in but Eroshira herself.
--
Now, saying Eroshira is beautiful is like saying the ocean is a nice little puddle. It just doesn’t quite capture the situation, if you get my drift. Her eyes are like I do not know what, except that they are one-hundred-per-cent eyes in every respect and her face is the kind that makes carriages crash into one another when she walks by, sends sentries wandering off their posts with their mouths hanging open, and causes knights who have been on the same quest since they were in able to walk to suddenly forget what they were looking for in the first place. She is, as they say, a knockout, and then some.
Elarris, who by now has recovered from his earlier stumble, introduces her with all the fanfare he can muster. “This,” he says, “is Eroshira: The Sunstone Dragon, The Iridescent One, The Skies First Light.” And let me tell you, this is no exaggeration, because if anyone can live up to a billing like that, it’s Eroshira.
With that out of the way, Eroshira gets down to brass tacks. She fills them in on the situation, which goes all the way back to the First Ever War, a dust-up between the gods and the primordials that was so big, it made every other war look like a schoolyard scrap.
During this little altercation, the gods and primordials decide to bring in the heavy artillery, creating the behemoths and the archwyrms as their personal wrecking crews. The archwyrms, who are no slouches when it comes to throwing down, manage to take out the behemoths and lock them away using nine keys.
Now, here’s the kicker: some evil primordial incarnates are out there trying to get their grubby mitts on these keys so they can let the behemoths loose again, which would be a very bad thing indeed and a whole lot more than that as well.
Eroshira explains that it is up to this unusual bunch to help stop them, which, if you ask me, is the kind of job that makes you wonder if you might not have been better off staying in bed. But then, that’s the way the dice roll in this town.
But the dame lays it out straight: her key is the last one left and it’s in the mitts of Malignus—the original void, the big cheese of nothingness, a living hole in the middle of reality.
“Malignus took a swing at me,” she says with enough heat to make a volcano look like a camp fire for marshmallows. “I’m not exactly sending him a Christmas card. If you four stumble across Malignus, you’ll be flatter than a pancake before you can say ‘boo.’ So here’s the lowdown: no playing hero. Just grab the key and beat it before you end up as roadkill.”
Or words to that effect, because this is the way Little Isadore carries on, and nobody in this town wishes to have their speeches accounted for to the citizenry by Little Isadore, for he is a hard guy indeed. But I do not challenge his account of this speech in any way for a person who asks questions can get a reputation such as a person who wishes to find things out.
But Little Isadore tells me that Elarris clocks that Zasper is practically glued to Eroshira, staring at her like she’s the last bottle of scotch in a dry spell. The kid’s focus is so intense, it could give a hawk lessons in concentration.
Eroshira asks if they are ready to make tracks.
“No time like the present,” Elarris replies, which has the effect of making Eroshira look very pained indeed.
“Don’t say that,” she sighs. “There are many times exactly like the present. It is to do with quantum.”
--
Then she starts to shine and the light envelopes them, flakes of gold flash around them, enclosing them in her glory, and they hurtle across the planes of the multiverse in fractions of a second, leaving Elarris feeling more than somewhat dizzy and if it was me standing in the Plane of Vacuum I would thinking about my blood pressure, which is a proposition I never before think much until go around to see a croaker about my stomach, and he tells me that my blood pressure is higher than a cat's back, and the idea is for me to be careful about what I eat, and to avoid excitement, or I may pop off all of a sudden when I am least expecting it.
And what is causing Elarris more than a little concern is the extreme shortage of breathing air on the Plane of Vacuum and furthermore less light than a man is hoping to expect when facing a primordial innate in a most aggressive manner.
Elarris is figuring to make this a fast stick-up job without any foolishness about it, maybe leaving any parties he comes across tied up good and tight while the party make a getaway, as he is greatly opposed to the idea of a primordial innate coming out with the old equalizer and going whangity-whang-whang on Elarris’s nice new armour as he does not consider that dignified.
At this point in the narrative Spanish John breaks off and seems greatly puzzled indeed, because it appears that Elarris hears a voice in his noggin that is no-one but Calla, who was as dead as a door nail or worse until they got better and is now as sprightly as a horse doped with mustard under the tail.
And it seems that Calla is asking if Elarris is requiring of any advice from a concerned citizen such as Calla, who has by way of a little experience in such matters as primordials and of course being dead. And Elarris explains about the air and the breathing and requests that if Calla would be most obliged could they secure fissionable materials to dynamite the place being as there is something of a lack of the oxygen necessary for actual dynamite.
But then everybody has their minds taken of the whole breathing situation when Zaspar hauls off and proposes marriage and one thing and another to Eroshira.
Now, anybody in town will tell you that Zaspar is a guy with no Barnaby whatever in him, and in fact he has about as much gizzard as anybody around although I wish to say I question his judgment in putting the mooch on Eroshira because Eroshira is a doll who is very well thought of by all manner of gods and such types.
And indeed, Eroshira does not find the subject of marrying Zaspar interesting at all in spite of him explaining that his family has so many potatoes that it is really painful to think of, especially to people who have no potatoes whatever. But Eroshira, being a most high-class dame who has been knocking around the investment business since a few minutes before the dawn of time, has practically all the potatoes in the world, except maybe a few left over for general circulation.
So the whole idea becomes off the table and not to speak of in the future which is becoming a pattern with dolls and Zaspar who is most enthusiastic on the topic of matrimony to one and all.
--
And anyway, there is the pressing matter of a huge brass tower, which is hundreds of feet into the air if it is an inch and is by no means a steady proposition for it has many parts and gears and matters of that sort that are shifting and twisting and moving constantly.
It is enough to make a citizen dizzy, especially if they have high blood pressure.
Now, these citizens, being somewhat of the cautious type, set about considering the door to the tower for some considerable length of time and they are about having many concerns that the doors these days are all wired up with alarms and are a lot of trouble generally.
But once Pyrin places his mitts on the handle, the door opens like it’s been waiting all day, which makes the whole thing smell fishier than a dockside tavern, and sure enough, out comes a character that is most obviously Malignus for he is so much of the void that he is practically disappearing except that he is a big wide guy with a very ugly attitude and is most unwelcoming to all concerned.
Eorshira, being more than somewhat of a troublesome character herself, considers Malignus to be most disrespectful and the two of them set about discussing his attitude with all sorts of what have you and this and that.
So Elarris and Mendal and Pyrin and Zaspar run into the tower and commence figuring that if Malignus has been creating such a modern tower as this with spinning contraptions and the like, they will be taking plenty the worst of it, for of course they cannot figure Malignus to be domiciled in a residence without being rodded up somewhat.
And indeed, when they reach the top of the tower which is filled with lenses and crystals and covered in arcane runes they discover that what is in the middle of the room is nothing but a brass pedestal holding a brass trapezium. Now these citizens are no patsies, and they are certain that they are in a highly dangerous and disadvantageous position.
Pyrin, who is known all over this man's town as a guy you must not monkey with in any respect and the best second floor operator east of the Feythorne, cannot be certain that the situation is anything less than lethal.
And so Mendal, who is getting to be quite the big shot in celestial circles, decides to put in a call upstairs. He does not waste any time asking anyone’s thoughts on the matter and, quicker than a racetrack tip-off, an angel comes zooming down from who-knows-where, flapping its wings all serious-like, and crosses the room with the kind of speed that makes you think it's late for something important.. Next thing you know, the angel gets its mitts on the brass trapezium—which, as everybody knows, is the key to the whole operation, the big cheese of gizmos.
But just as it seems matters are getting settled, there is a thud so loud it would make a brass band sound like a string quartet. The wall of the dome decides it has had enough of standing around and busts wide open like it is in on some kind of joke nobody told the party about. And into the scene come two figures, piling in with all the grace of a couple of rhinos in a telephone booth. These characters do not even pause to tip their hats but barrel right into the angel so hard, it sails across the room, flapping like a newspaper in a windstorm.
Now, while everyone is blinking the dust out of their eyes, the party gets a good look at the scene, and wouldn't you know it, one of the figures now lying in a heap on the floor is none other than Eroshira. And let me tell you, Eroshira is not looking like her usual self. In fact, she is looking like she just went a couple of rounds with a streetcar and lost, what with blood spilling and a sphere of negative force holding her down like a cheap paperweight. And this sphere, has her pinned down tight, like it is collecting on a debt she forgot she owed.
Now, the party, being the enthusiastic types they are, decide it’s time to make a move. They surge forward like a mob of tipsters on payday, all full of steam and determination. But this Malignus character, who seems about as impressed as a guy reading yesterday’s news, heaves a sigh that sounds like he’s done this a thousand times before, gives a little wave of his hands, like he’s brushing off some lint, and quicker than you can say “disappearing act,” everybody but Mendal gets the old heave-ho to parts unknown, sent packing to other planes of existence.
This development does not go over too well with all the interested parties, and it indeed it becomes a matter of grave concern to all.
Pyrin, Zasper, and Elarris find themselves deep in the pits of despair and also in Hell, which, if you ask me, is not exactly top of the list when it comes to scenic destinations. But then again, I’ve been to Port Ffirst, and believe me when I tell you, Hell ain't exactly the worst place a guy could spend a weekend, especially if you know where to get a drink.
So it turns out that Calla, who is not exactly known for missing a trick, is giving a careful ear when Elarris pipes up with a request for fissionable materials and goes ahead and summons Adai, the First Star, a big-shot celestial body who never takes a day off. So, what does Adai do? Why, she hunts high, low, and sideways through every nook and cranny of the planes of existence, like a bookie chasing down overdue bets, and gathers up the whole gang, hauling them back to the brass tower just in time for the big show.
Which is when Mendal summons his god.
--
I want to be very clear that this not a metaphor. Mendal, with all the confidence of a guy holding four aces, calls for divine intervention like it’s something he does on the regular. And when I say Moradin shows up, I ain’t talking about some hazy, glowing outline or a choir of heavenly voices. Moradin steps into the scene like he’s got nothing better to do on a Tuesday afternoon but lend a hand. This is no small potatoes. In fact, it is a high-class piece of work and quite remarkable indeed.
Then Moradin, being a god who has plenty of ticker, gives Mendal more than the old convincer and indeed, it is a gift that would make even the toughest mugs stop and take notice. Mendal, now charged up like a dynamo on payday, lets loose a burst of radiant energy from his shield which sets about blasting Eroshira free from her bonds like they were nothing more than wet tissue paper.
Now this comes as something of a relief to Elarris, who is looking for all the world like he’s ready to take his last stand right between Eroshira and Malignus, and you can see he’s fully prepared to punch his ticket if that’s what it takes to save her. But before things get too dramatic, Eroshira, with a voice as clear and sharp as a morning bell, says, “You are the Herald of the Dawn—show him who you really are!”
And just like that, Elarris’s sword lights up with the kind of radiance that makes you feel like you’re seeing something from the very beginning of everything itself if not a little before. Elarris—who, up until now, is running something of a sandy on his kisser —suddenly gets the message. His face breaks into a grin wide enough to split the horizon, and without a second thought, he steps forward and lets loose with two mighty swipes of his sword. One, two, and Malignus finds himself on the wrong end of that blade, cut clean as a whistle.
Malignus, now with his pride in tatters and his plans going up in smoke, takes a moment to get his bearings. He looks around the room, sees Mendal, glowing like a sun with the power of his god behind him, Pyrin and Zasper fresh from being plucked out of oblivion by a star, and Elarris with that dawn-infused sword flashing through him like the final word on the matter. Then Malignus shakes his head like a guy who just lost his last bet, staggers back a step, and without so much as a goodbye, vanishes into thin air for if there is one thing Malignus loathes and despises, it is getting the old snickerty snack.
--
Eroshira, with a gleam in her eye and a voice like she has something to say, leans over and slips a few choice words to Adai. “Get them out of here, Adai, I’m about to torch the place.” And with that, Eroshira goes from zero to dragon in the blink of an eye. She erupts with all the grandeur of a cosmic event—wings unfurling to stretch a thousand feet wide, her power and majesty spilling into every corner of the room like a tidal wave of raw, untamed force.
Then, she opens her maw and breathes out a torrent of flame so blistering it could turn brass into molten lava on a bad day. This blaze, with its searing intensity, doesn’t just singe the edges—it melts the brass tower down to its very bones in one colossal blast. The entire structure crumbles into a heap of glowing embers and twisted metal, like a sandcastle being swept away by the tide.
But Eroshira isn’t finished. In a fit of fiery rage and celestial indignation, she lights up the whole place with an inferno that turns the once-grand tower into a swirling mass of smoke and ruin. Her wrath turns the scene into a smoldering wasteland, and when she’s done, there isn’t a single piece of the old establishment left standing—just a cloud of smoke and a very dramatic exit.
--
Back at Oriannas the conversation is somewhat muted, what with the divine intervention, the blade of the dawn, the psychic aid and the presence of a dragon and star when a noise echoes through every soul like the slamming of the gates of heaven.
Eroisha turns towards the roar and says as if to herself – “the nine pieces are assembled. The wyrmhold is open.”
--
Which is all Little Isadore knows because the he hears the story from a once successful handicapper who could dope out from the form what horses ought to win the races, and this handicapper was spoken of most respectfully by one and all, although of course when he begins missing out for any length of time as handicappers are bound to do, he is no longer spoken of respectfully, or even as a handicapper. He is spoken of as a bum. And Little Isadore stops listening to this bum and starts thinking of the beef stews from Bobby being very nourishing indeed.
And I say to Little Isadore that I feel it is something of a shame that he does not ask any more about these matters from the handicapper because it seems to be a story about most important matters. But then Little Isadore looks at me and I can see in his eyes that he is considering important matters, and when Little Isadore considers such matters he is bound to arrive at the matter of the twenty-five G’s I owe him, and this is a topic I consider it beneath me to discuss for the time being so I bid Harry the Horse, Little Isadore and Spanish John goodnight and that is that as far as I am concerned, and the fastest way to ensure that Little Isadore does not take an unfair advantage of the situation.
On Tuesday evening I always go to The Four Fair Winds to get myself chef Bobby’s beef stew, the beef stews from Bobby being very nourishing indeed, and quite reasonable. In fact, the beef stews in Bobby's are considered a most fashionable dish by one and all in Castleside on Tuesday evenings.
So on this Tuesday evening, I am in Bobby's wrapping myself around a beef stew and reading the death notices in the adventurer’s almanac, when who comes into the joint but Harry the Horse, Little Isadore, and Spanish John.
Now these parties are not such parties as I will care to have much truck with, because I often hear rumours about them that are very discreditable, even if the rumours are not true. In fact, I hear that many citizens of Castleside will be very glad indeed to see Harry the Horse, Little Isadore and Spanish John move away from there, as they are always doing something that is considered a knock to the community, such as robbing people, or maybe stabbing them, and throwing pineapples, and carrying on generally.
And furthermore, I seem to have mislaid the twenty-five G's cash money I owe Little Isadore and if I welch on my marker Little Isadore will have words to say and then some more.
But it turns out that Little Isadore has a story to tell and the story he tells me goes approximately like this, except a little more disrespectful because Little Isadore is by no means a gentleman, and it begins with a suit of armour.
--
This is not just any old pile of metal you might find laying around in some second-rate pawnshop on the wrong end of town. This armour is something special, and everybody who is anybody knows it. And there is a character by the name of Elarris who is sitting there, staring at this armour like it’s going to get up any minute and start dancing a rumba.
And who is to say it won’t, given the strange and mysterious ways of the world?
No more than some time ago, a fellow by the name of Mendal gets his hands on this armour after it is fished out of the remains of a Dwarven ship that has seen better days, which is a story there is no time for but is an impressive tale in itself.
Mendal, who knows his way around a hammer and anvil, not to mention a spell or two, gives this armour the once-over, adding a little craft here and a pinch of holy magic there. And let me tell you, this armour picks up a quality. I am talking about a presence that would make a prizefighter think twice before stepping into the ring. You leave this armour alone in any gin joint where the customers have a tendency to get lively, and pretty soon, the joint gets as quiet as a church on Monday morning. All the shouting and the jawing and the fist-shaking just sort of dies away like a stiff who owes the wrong people money. This armour is strictly no-nonsense.
So, Elarris, who is nobody’s fool and knows his way around a suit of armour, starts the laborious process of getting himself dressed up in it, which is no easy task.
--
First, he pulls on the arming doublet and hose, which is the kind of undergarment that makes you appreciate the value of modern conveniences, such as buttons. Then he starts layering on the mail choker and mail sleeves, because nobody likes it when something sharp decides to take a shortcut through their torso. Next, he straps on the greaves and sabatons, cuisses and faulds, all of which are carefully positioned to keep certain parts of his anatomy from getting ventilated by an incoming spear.
Over in Cormyr, which is a place where they do things up proper, this is the point where a couple of squires would step in to handle the breastplate and backplate, because these items are not exactly light, and the buckling process requires a certain expertise. However, this particular suit is made of mithral, which is light as a feather and strong as a bull, so Elarris manages the whole operation himself, like a one-man armour factory. He straps on the metal skirt to cover the delicate regions, and then turns to the arms.
It seems that Mendal, who is not only a genius with metal but also something of an inventor, has come up with a system of hooks and latches that lets Elarris slot the shoulder plates and upper arm protection into place without breaking a sweat. There is a nice solid click that lets you know everything is where it should be. Finally, Elarris snaps on the vambraces and gauntlets, and now he is all dressed up like a million bucks, ready to step out and knock heads. As it happens, Mendal is supposed to show up later to see his creation in action, and this is something Elarris is looking forward to.
--
Mendal eventually shows up, and it turns out he has an appetite that could make a lion think about becoming a vegetarian. Orianna’s baked goods are disappearing down his gullet like they’re being tossed into the Grand Canyon. Elarris, with his own mouth full of Orianna’s baked goods which are widely believed by the citizenry to be the finest baked goods and then some, tries to get Mendal to lend a hand with his first job for a dame by the name of Eroshira. The mission, as it turns out, involves taking a little trip to a place called the Plane of Vacuum to retrieve something that goes by the name of the Nine.
Mendal is a cautious sort of fellow and gives Elarris a look that could be interpreted as curiosity or maybe just a touch of heartburn from all the pastries.
The way Elarris figures it, this piece of the Nine is some kind of gizmo that keeps primordial death from swallowing up the universe, which is generally considered to be a bad thing.
Mendal has been around long enough to know that when something can go wrong, it generally will, and he mentions that based on previous experience, there is a better-than-average chance that this mission is going to hit the skids.
Elarris, who is nothing if not optimistic, suggests that what they need is a little magic to smooth things over.
Mendal, who is not without his own magical abilities, points out that he already has plenty and then some more. But the fact of the matter, it is widely agreed by all assembled, is that - seeing as how this Plane of Vacuum they are heading to is not likely to be overflowing with breathable air - they are needing the assistance of a wizard, and wizards, like honest gamblers, are hard to come by.
Mendal, who is always thinking ahead, says he will ask a fellow by the name of Archie for some help.
--
So, they head over to Mendal’s place, and they run into Archie, who is just heading out the door. But standing there is Archie’s viol instructor, an Elven bard with the moniker Zaspar the Holy Fist, who is so full of confidence that he is practically bursting at the seams. Zaspar assures them that whatever problem they have, it can be solved, though whether this is wishful thinking or not is anybody’s guess.
With that, they pin Orianna’s security code to Zaspar’s pocket, just to be on the safe side, and they head for the pub, because when you’re about to take on the Plane of Vacuum, the least you can do is have a drink first.
--
There is a joint in town called The Three Headed Dragon, which, by its name, you might expect to be crawling with old-timers who have pointy hats, long white hair, beards that sweep the floor like the tail of a wedding dress and eyes that burn like coals ready to ignite at the first sign of trouble, being known all over town as the types of wizards you must not monkey with in any respect.
But this time of this particular day the Three Headed Dragon has no such characters in residence.
What it does have is a bandaged-up aarakocra by the name of Pyrin who is making plenty of noise in the corner, arguing over some drink or other like it’s a matter of life and death.
This aarakocra is not exactly what you would call prime recruiting material, but as the saying goes, you take what you can get and be grateful you got anything at all. So, our little party of would-be heroes decides to sign the kid up, give them the good word, and tell them to be at Orianna’s place at the crack of dawn.
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Dawn comes rolling around, and the four of them assemble in Orianna’s kitchen, which is not the worst place to start a day. Elarris decides this is the moment to deliver a speech so bad it makes you think a sack of wet potatoes could do a better job talking sense. In fact, I am pretty sure the wallpaper starts peeling itself off the walls just to get away from the sound of it.
He tries to explain that everything they know is wrong, everything is dangerous, something needs doing, and they’re the ones stuck with the bill. But if you ask me, he does not exactly inspire confidence.
Lucky for them, Orianna shows up just in time to pull this operation out of a nosedive. She gives a speech that makes a whole lot more sense than what Elarris was peddling. Everyone starts nodding along, like they’re finally catching on to the score.
And just when they think things are starting to fall into place, a powerful magical light comes pouring through the back door of Orianna’s house, and who walks in but Eroshira herself.
--
Now, saying Eroshira is beautiful is like saying the ocean is a nice little puddle. It just doesn’t quite capture the situation, if you get my drift. Her eyes are like I do not know what, except that they are one-hundred-per-cent eyes in every respect and her face is the kind that makes carriages crash into one another when she walks by, sends sentries wandering off their posts with their mouths hanging open, and causes knights who have been on the same quest since they were in able to walk to suddenly forget what they were looking for in the first place. She is, as they say, a knockout, and then some.
Elarris, who by now has recovered from his earlier stumble, introduces her with all the fanfare he can muster. “This,” he says, “is Eroshira: The Sunstone Dragon, The Iridescent One, The Skies First Light.” And let me tell you, this is no exaggeration, because if anyone can live up to a billing like that, it’s Eroshira.
With that out of the way, Eroshira gets down to brass tacks. She fills them in on the situation, which goes all the way back to the First Ever War, a dust-up between the gods and the primordials that was so big, it made every other war look like a schoolyard scrap.
During this little altercation, the gods and primordials decide to bring in the heavy artillery, creating the behemoths and the archwyrms as their personal wrecking crews. The archwyrms, who are no slouches when it comes to throwing down, manage to take out the behemoths and lock them away using nine keys.
Now, here’s the kicker: some evil primordial incarnates are out there trying to get their grubby mitts on these keys so they can let the behemoths loose again, which would be a very bad thing indeed and a whole lot more than that as well.
Eroshira explains that it is up to this unusual bunch to help stop them, which, if you ask me, is the kind of job that makes you wonder if you might not have been better off staying in bed. But then, that’s the way the dice roll in this town.
But the dame lays it out straight: her key is the last one left and it’s in the mitts of Malignus—the original void, the big cheese of nothingness, a living hole in the middle of reality.
“Malignus took a swing at me,” she says with enough heat to make a volcano look like a camp fire for marshmallows. “I’m not exactly sending him a Christmas card. If you four stumble across Malignus, you’ll be flatter than a pancake before you can say ‘boo.’ So here’s the lowdown: no playing hero. Just grab the key and beat it before you end up as roadkill.”
Or words to that effect, because this is the way Little Isadore carries on, and nobody in this town wishes to have their speeches accounted for to the citizenry by Little Isadore, for he is a hard guy indeed. But I do not challenge his account of this speech in any way for a person who asks questions can get a reputation such as a person who wishes to find things out.
But Little Isadore tells me that Elarris clocks that Zasper is practically glued to Eroshira, staring at her like she’s the last bottle of scotch in a dry spell. The kid’s focus is so intense, it could give a hawk lessons in concentration.
Eroshira asks if they are ready to make tracks.
“No time like the present,” Elarris replies, which has the effect of making Eroshira look very pained indeed.
“Don’t say that,” she sighs. “There are many times exactly like the present. It is to do with quantum.”
--
Then she starts to shine and the light envelopes them, flakes of gold flash around them, enclosing them in her glory, and they hurtle across the planes of the multiverse in fractions of a second, leaving Elarris feeling more than somewhat dizzy and if it was me standing in the Plane of Vacuum I would thinking about my blood pressure, which is a proposition I never before think much until go around to see a croaker about my stomach, and he tells me that my blood pressure is higher than a cat's back, and the idea is for me to be careful about what I eat, and to avoid excitement, or I may pop off all of a sudden when I am least expecting it.
And what is causing Elarris more than a little concern is the extreme shortage of breathing air on the Plane of Vacuum and furthermore less light than a man is hoping to expect when facing a primordial innate in a most aggressive manner.
Elarris is figuring to make this a fast stick-up job without any foolishness about it, maybe leaving any parties he comes across tied up good and tight while the party make a getaway, as he is greatly opposed to the idea of a primordial innate coming out with the old equalizer and going whangity-whang-whang on Elarris’s nice new armour as he does not consider that dignified.
At this point in the narrative Spanish John breaks off and seems greatly puzzled indeed, because it appears that Elarris hears a voice in his noggin that is no-one but Calla, who was as dead as a door nail or worse until they got better and is now as sprightly as a horse doped with mustard under the tail.
And it seems that Calla is asking if Elarris is requiring of any advice from a concerned citizen such as Calla, who has by way of a little experience in such matters as primordials and of course being dead. And Elarris explains about the air and the breathing and requests that if Calla would be most obliged could they secure fissionable materials to dynamite the place being as there is something of a lack of the oxygen necessary for actual dynamite.
But then everybody has their minds taken of the whole breathing situation when Zaspar hauls off and proposes marriage and one thing and another to Eroshira.
Now, anybody in town will tell you that Zaspar is a guy with no Barnaby whatever in him, and in fact he has about as much gizzard as anybody around although I wish to say I question his judgment in putting the mooch on Eroshira because Eroshira is a doll who is very well thought of by all manner of gods and such types.
And indeed, Eroshira does not find the subject of marrying Zaspar interesting at all in spite of him explaining that his family has so many potatoes that it is really painful to think of, especially to people who have no potatoes whatever. But Eroshira, being a most high-class dame who has been knocking around the investment business since a few minutes before the dawn of time, has practically all the potatoes in the world, except maybe a few left over for general circulation.
So the whole idea becomes off the table and not to speak of in the future which is becoming a pattern with dolls and Zaspar who is most enthusiastic on the topic of matrimony to one and all.
--
And anyway, there is the pressing matter of a huge brass tower, which is hundreds of feet into the air if it is an inch and is by no means a steady proposition for it has many parts and gears and matters of that sort that are shifting and twisting and moving constantly.
It is enough to make a citizen dizzy, especially if they have high blood pressure.
Now, these citizens, being somewhat of the cautious type, set about considering the door to the tower for some considerable length of time and they are about having many concerns that the doors these days are all wired up with alarms and are a lot of trouble generally.
But once Pyrin places his mitts on the handle, the door opens like it’s been waiting all day, which makes the whole thing smell fishier than a dockside tavern, and sure enough, out comes a character that is most obviously Malignus for he is so much of the void that he is practically disappearing except that he is a big wide guy with a very ugly attitude and is most unwelcoming to all concerned.
Eorshira, being more than somewhat of a troublesome character herself, considers Malignus to be most disrespectful and the two of them set about discussing his attitude with all sorts of what have you and this and that.
So Elarris and Mendal and Pyrin and Zaspar run into the tower and commence figuring that if Malignus has been creating such a modern tower as this with spinning contraptions and the like, they will be taking plenty the worst of it, for of course they cannot figure Malignus to be domiciled in a residence without being rodded up somewhat.
And indeed, when they reach the top of the tower which is filled with lenses and crystals and covered in arcane runes they discover that what is in the middle of the room is nothing but a brass pedestal holding a brass trapezium. Now these citizens are no patsies, and they are certain that they are in a highly dangerous and disadvantageous position.
Pyrin, who is known all over this man's town as a guy you must not monkey with in any respect and the best second floor operator east of the Feythorne, cannot be certain that the situation is anything less than lethal.
And so Mendal, who is getting to be quite the big shot in celestial circles, decides to put in a call upstairs. He does not waste any time asking anyone’s thoughts on the matter and, quicker than a racetrack tip-off, an angel comes zooming down from who-knows-where, flapping its wings all serious-like, and crosses the room with the kind of speed that makes you think it's late for something important.. Next thing you know, the angel gets its mitts on the brass trapezium—which, as everybody knows, is the key to the whole operation, the big cheese of gizmos.
But just as it seems matters are getting settled, there is a thud so loud it would make a brass band sound like a string quartet. The wall of the dome decides it has had enough of standing around and busts wide open like it is in on some kind of joke nobody told the party about. And into the scene come two figures, piling in with all the grace of a couple of rhinos in a telephone booth. These characters do not even pause to tip their hats but barrel right into the angel so hard, it sails across the room, flapping like a newspaper in a windstorm.
Now, while everyone is blinking the dust out of their eyes, the party gets a good look at the scene, and wouldn't you know it, one of the figures now lying in a heap on the floor is none other than Eroshira. And let me tell you, Eroshira is not looking like her usual self. In fact, she is looking like she just went a couple of rounds with a streetcar and lost, what with blood spilling and a sphere of negative force holding her down like a cheap paperweight. And this sphere, has her pinned down tight, like it is collecting on a debt she forgot she owed.
Now, the party, being the enthusiastic types they are, decide it’s time to make a move. They surge forward like a mob of tipsters on payday, all full of steam and determination. But this Malignus character, who seems about as impressed as a guy reading yesterday’s news, heaves a sigh that sounds like he’s done this a thousand times before, gives a little wave of his hands, like he’s brushing off some lint, and quicker than you can say “disappearing act,” everybody but Mendal gets the old heave-ho to parts unknown, sent packing to other planes of existence.
This development does not go over too well with all the interested parties, and it indeed it becomes a matter of grave concern to all.
Pyrin, Zasper, and Elarris find themselves deep in the pits of despair and also in Hell, which, if you ask me, is not exactly top of the list when it comes to scenic destinations. But then again, I’ve been to Port Ffirst, and believe me when I tell you, Hell ain't exactly the worst place a guy could spend a weekend, especially if you know where to get a drink.
So it turns out that Calla, who is not exactly known for missing a trick, is giving a careful ear when Elarris pipes up with a request for fissionable materials and goes ahead and summons Adai, the First Star, a big-shot celestial body who never takes a day off. So, what does Adai do? Why, she hunts high, low, and sideways through every nook and cranny of the planes of existence, like a bookie chasing down overdue bets, and gathers up the whole gang, hauling them back to the brass tower just in time for the big show.
Which is when Mendal summons his god.
--
I want to be very clear that this not a metaphor. Mendal, with all the confidence of a guy holding four aces, calls for divine intervention like it’s something he does on the regular. And when I say Moradin shows up, I ain’t talking about some hazy, glowing outline or a choir of heavenly voices. Moradin steps into the scene like he’s got nothing better to do on a Tuesday afternoon but lend a hand. This is no small potatoes. In fact, it is a high-class piece of work and quite remarkable indeed.
Then Moradin, being a god who has plenty of ticker, gives Mendal more than the old convincer and indeed, it is a gift that would make even the toughest mugs stop and take notice. Mendal, now charged up like a dynamo on payday, lets loose a burst of radiant energy from his shield which sets about blasting Eroshira free from her bonds like they were nothing more than wet tissue paper.
Now this comes as something of a relief to Elarris, who is looking for all the world like he’s ready to take his last stand right between Eroshira and Malignus, and you can see he’s fully prepared to punch his ticket if that’s what it takes to save her. But before things get too dramatic, Eroshira, with a voice as clear and sharp as a morning bell, says, “You are the Herald of the Dawn—show him who you really are!”
And just like that, Elarris’s sword lights up with the kind of radiance that makes you feel like you’re seeing something from the very beginning of everything itself if not a little before. Elarris—who, up until now, is running something of a sandy on his kisser —suddenly gets the message. His face breaks into a grin wide enough to split the horizon, and without a second thought, he steps forward and lets loose with two mighty swipes of his sword. One, two, and Malignus finds himself on the wrong end of that blade, cut clean as a whistle.
Malignus, now with his pride in tatters and his plans going up in smoke, takes a moment to get his bearings. He looks around the room, sees Mendal, glowing like a sun with the power of his god behind him, Pyrin and Zasper fresh from being plucked out of oblivion by a star, and Elarris with that dawn-infused sword flashing through him like the final word on the matter. Then Malignus shakes his head like a guy who just lost his last bet, staggers back a step, and without so much as a goodbye, vanishes into thin air for if there is one thing Malignus loathes and despises, it is getting the old snickerty snack.
--
Eroshira, with a gleam in her eye and a voice like she has something to say, leans over and slips a few choice words to Adai. “Get them out of here, Adai, I’m about to torch the place.” And with that, Eroshira goes from zero to dragon in the blink of an eye. She erupts with all the grandeur of a cosmic event—wings unfurling to stretch a thousand feet wide, her power and majesty spilling into every corner of the room like a tidal wave of raw, untamed force.
Then, she opens her maw and breathes out a torrent of flame so blistering it could turn brass into molten lava on a bad day. This blaze, with its searing intensity, doesn’t just singe the edges—it melts the brass tower down to its very bones in one colossal blast. The entire structure crumbles into a heap of glowing embers and twisted metal, like a sandcastle being swept away by the tide.
But Eroshira isn’t finished. In a fit of fiery rage and celestial indignation, she lights up the whole place with an inferno that turns the once-grand tower into a swirling mass of smoke and ruin. Her wrath turns the scene into a smoldering wasteland, and when she’s done, there isn’t a single piece of the old establishment left standing—just a cloud of smoke and a very dramatic exit.
--
Back at Oriannas the conversation is somewhat muted, what with the divine intervention, the blade of the dawn, the psychic aid and the presence of a dragon and star when a noise echoes through every soul like the slamming of the gates of heaven.
Eroisha turns towards the roar and says as if to herself – “the nine pieces are assembled. The wyrmhold is open.”
--
Which is all Little Isadore knows because the he hears the story from a once successful handicapper who could dope out from the form what horses ought to win the races, and this handicapper was spoken of most respectfully by one and all, although of course when he begins missing out for any length of time as handicappers are bound to do, he is no longer spoken of respectfully, or even as a handicapper. He is spoken of as a bum. And Little Isadore stops listening to this bum and starts thinking of the beef stews from Bobby being very nourishing indeed.
And I say to Little Isadore that I feel it is something of a shame that he does not ask any more about these matters from the handicapper because it seems to be a story about most important matters. But then Little Isadore looks at me and I can see in his eyes that he is considering important matters, and when Little Isadore considers such matters he is bound to arrive at the matter of the twenty-five G’s I owe him, and this is a topic I consider it beneath me to discuss for the time being so I bid Harry the Horse, Little Isadore and Spanish John goodnight and that is that as far as I am concerned, and the fastest way to ensure that Little Isadore does not take an unfair advantage of the situation.