Last Tuesday

Caladam watched from the other end of the table as the healer came into view. “Ahhh, Khyrian. Good to see you, friend.”

Erekose added a “Vedui’, Khyrian,” but it was likely more out of respect than familiarity — with the recent loss of his memory, the former High Councilor had little recollection of anything that had happened since well before the Minax invasion. Khyrian was certainly little more than a stranger to him.

In walked Khyrian, making his way around the table. When he found his seat, he made a brief gesture, and the ethereal steed began to dissipate, lowering him gently onto the chair before losing all substantiality. The healer let out a sigh, before looking up at everyone. “Hello, all.” His eyes scanned the others, resting finally on Azeron. His eyes narrowed slightly, taking in the paler complexion and the hair that had gone from a deep brown to nearly white with only a few splashes of color. A dark blue skullcap rested on Azeron’s head, perhaps to hide the hair somewhat, and it matched the dark leather armor that he wore. Rather than comment on Azeron’s obviously dwindling health, Khyrian decided to comment on the garb. “You look very roguish, Azeron.”

Azeron chuckled under his breath and nodded to Khyrian. “It is my new fashion statement.” They stared at each other, both understanding this game they played. They never asked one another about their health anymore. They knew they were dying.

Khyrian countered dryly. “A statement?”

The exchange was cut short by the opening of the door. In walked an dark-skinned elf with white hair. Caladam looked at him with a wary eye, even though he recognized him. Azeron simply greeted him. “Hello, Dolen.”

Dolenamo nodded a “Good evening” and stood near the entrance, quickly examining the others in the room. The half-drow had all the instincts of a warrior, and he made it a point to measure those he did not trust — or those who did not trust him. Caladam just watched him.

“I was hoping you’d make it this eve.” Azeron watched the measuring glances between Caladam and Dolenamo for a moment longer. He trusted both, and each was level-headed enough not to begin a petty squabble. But still, he wished that they were not so wary of each other. It would make their plans easier. Azeron motioned to Dolenamo, “Please... sit.”

At the other end of the table Erekose had been sitting, distracted by minutiae as he was prone to be. Caladam nudged him, prompting him to look up at Dolenamo. Erek, who did not recognize the half-drow, obviously mistook him for some intruder or invader, because a moment later he let out an audible “Eeep” and began gesturing superstitious wards of protection. His eyes darted between Caladam and Azeron — clearly hoping for an explanation — while trying to keep an eye on Dolenamo. Dolenamo, on the other hand, did his best to ignore the other.

Caladam must have found the exchange mildly amusing. Or perhaps he decided that it was going to be a very long evening. But for whatever reason, he stood up from the table and announced, “I think I’ll fetch a drink. A drink from the Arrow anyone?” Erekose blinked, perhaps wishing that Cal would stay — after all, Khyrian was weak and Azeron was in the thrall of the half-drow. Caladam turned towards the door. “I’ll be right back.”

Erekose became deathly silent when his ally left the room, and Azeron took the opportunity to speak. “How have you been, Khyrian?”

“Here?” Khyrian paused, with a quizzical look on his face. “I only just arrived.”

Now Azeron returned the look with a raised eyebrow. He repeated, his voice slightly louder. “I said... How have you been?”

“Oh.” Khyrian shook his head. “I am sorry. I suppose that may give an indication.”

Azeron frowned. He was about to ask more, but Caladam had returned from the Silver Arrow with something to drink. Azeron looked around the table at everyone. “Well, I suppose this is to be the attendance for the eve.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table and folding his hands in front of his face.

“Have we a topic?” Caladam chimed in. He hated it when guild meetings turned into sessions of mindless chatter.

Azeron nodded. “We do.”

“Good.”

Azeron continued. “One of utmost import.” He paused, taking a deep breath. When he spoke again, it was slowly, deliberately, and with a sense of dread. “Baal’morda, The Lord of the Dead.” At this, Erekose ceased to fidget with whatever had captured his attention, and sat up. He made it a point of looking serious and paying attention to Azeron. Khyrian lowered his head, a physical gloom capturing him at the sound of that name.

“As you know, we delved into the Dungeon Hythloth recently and were able to rescue our friend here.” Azeron looked at Khyrian and saw the oppression on his face. He secretly wondered how much of their friend they had actually managed to rescue from the dungeon... and how much still resided there. “We've eagerly awaited to hear about his experiences there before planning a second trip to the Dungeon.” He took a breath to continue, but the door opened yet again. This time, it was Talanithus that entered.

“Tal... Good to see you here.” Caladam nodded to the elf.

Khyrian looked up. “Hello, Talanithus.” He managed a weak smile.

“Excellent to see you again, mellonamin.” Tal’s face wore the usual smile, untouched by the levity of the topic being discussed. “I was told there would be topless mud wrestling?”

Azeron looked over at Tal, who had now taken a seat. “Tonight’s discussion is a serious one, Tal. We’re here to gather all we know about Baal’morda.” His look was stern, and he hoped that Talanithus would be able to appreciate the importance of the discussion.

Then, without warning, Dolenamo pushed against the table, rising to his feet. “I am out of time Az... I feared such.”

A hundred thoughts went through his mind. With everything that was to be discussed, and with Dolenamo’s current condition, Azeron’s first thoughts were that Dolen was about to die. He quickly pushed them out of his head and responded. “What do you mean? You must go?”

Dolenamo nodded. “Sorry, mellonamin.”

Azeron nodded, relieved that that was all. “I understand. I will try to contact you.”

The half-drow nodded again. “Good enough.” He headed toward the door and offered a “Quel undome” before leaving. The instant that the latch on the door caught, Erekose let out an audible sigh of relief.

A silence hung in the room for just a moment before Azeron started again. “I suppose we should get underway.” He looked over to Khyrian, who responded with a deep breath and a nod. “Khyr... since you know more than most, you should begin.”

There was a pause. When he started, the infirm Khyrian spoke in a hushed tone, as if he was afraid something terrible might overhear him. “I do not wish to tell you all that I know. Much of it should not have to be experienced by anyone, and I am not proud to say that I have already done so. But what you should hear, this I will tell. These things have been gathered from many sources across the land of Britannia - and even beyond. The story, as I know it, goes something like this...”

Every eye was now transfixed on Khyrian. The room hung on his every word. Khyrian swallowed hard, his mouth parched in fear of speaking his next word...

“Baal’morda. He is a being of purest evil and great power. But he seeks most to devour the souls of men. He delights in our torment and feeds on our very lifeforce. Long ago, he unleashed upon this world a force that was nearly unstoppable. It came in the form of men. His servants. His pupils. His slaves. He bestowed upon them a measure of his dark power — but they were forever bound to him.”

Both Azeron and Khyrian startled at the sound of the door opening again. This time it was Katiri who came in. Azeron nodded quietly at her, motioning for her to sit. She simply stared back for a moment. Seeing the two of them there — Azeron, with his white hair and thinning face, and Khyrian, a husk of a man and a picture of what Azeron would become — filled her with more dread than she could imagine. Her eyes moistened and she hurriedly found her way to the table. As she sat, her eyes closed and her hands folded tightly as she determined not to cry.

“I do not know how many there were, but they held power across all the lands that we know. They were not rulers or dictators, but they pulled the strings of those who were, and manipulated those who did rule. They...” Khyrian paused, his voice choking for just a moment. “They did many terrible things. But the worst was to bring to us what we call ‘The Affliction’.” Azeron looked over at Katiri to see her trembling. Unable to watch, he fixed his gaze at the table and listed as Khyrian continued.

“Several hundred years ago, great plagues ravaged all the lands. No one seemed safe from it. Thousands died from its debilitating...” He paused again. This was painful to speak of, and everyone in the room could see it etched on the healer’s gaunt face. “...its rotting and draining effects. But these lives were not taken in vain.” Khyrian dropped his head, and for a moment, took on a mocking tone. “They were given to feed the servants of Baal’morda and to sustain the vile daemon itself.” His jaw clenched at that, reliving some personal memory. “This plague, as I said, covered all the lands as it was spread by the Dark Lord’s slaves. And even the skilled healers of that day were baffled. Though, there were some who help some small power over it. At least, for a time.”

“I do not know who of you has heard of the Sacred Order of the Ankh, but they are the ones who founded the enclave at the Crossroads. At least, their remnant did. In that day, they were unmatched in the ability to heal and restore life and vigor. Their art was well beyond what we even have hints of today. They alone were able to treat those afflicted with the curse of Baal’morda, though they had to struggle mightily against it. In fact, even they had little hope of overcoming its dark power... until a discovery was made.”

“Somehow, a cure was found. In fact, it went beyond an actual cure for the wasting sickness itself. It was a ritual that would sunder the ties to the dark lord and his minions. It came to the Order at the time of their greatest need — for they were nearly destroyed by the vast armies of loathsome abominations that were raised against them by the servants of the dark lord, the Scions of Baal’morda. But through a much garbled history, I discovered that this ritual was performed. And though it had the desired results, its price was terrible. There was great retribution from the fiend himself. I believe he knew that his undoing was at hand, and he had to prevent it from happening. The Order of the Ankh was crippled by Baal’morda himself, and they scattered around the world.”

“The ritual did indeed achieve its purpose, for all those then afflicted were released from their bondage. But Baal'morda was not destroyed and neither were his Scions... not all of them. Though many were hunted down and killed, or were discovered hiding amongst the populace of this or that city, a few did still remain and they continued to serve the dark lord.”

The silence in the room hung like a black cloud. Khyrian took a long, slow breath. Katiri clenched her hands to avoid trembling... not noticing that her knuckles had turned white. Caladam tapped his fingers on the table, obviously deep in thought.

Khyrian voice was nearly a whisper. “I know that some of the Scions still exist, for I...” He stammered for a moment. “I am still... Afflicted.” He looked up at his longtime friend and spoke what everyone already knew. “As is Azeron, now.” Katiri stared down at the table, biting her cheek to keep from crying. Erekose raised a brow, listening to things he could not recall.

“I was...” Khyrian cleared his throat and tried to start again. “I have borne this for many years... always seeking a cure, a release. I was so proud of my learning and knowledge in the healing arts, but they have not served me in this.” He paused again, regaining his train of thought, and beginning again.

“After the Order had been scattered, much was lost and a great deal of time passed. But slowly, the remnant was gathered — or perhaps, the students of that remnant. But the Order was restored as well as it was able, and everything salvaged was recorded and kept in the Enclave. It was there that I first went to discover a cure, but it greatly lacked the information that I needed. Through much hardship, I have finally gathered most of the original Ritual of Sundering.”

Azeron arched a brow. “You have?”

“Before I left, we had discovered a part of it... In the Dungeon Deceit, I believe.”

Both Azeron and Caladam nodded. For an instant, they both glanced over at Erekose, wondering if he might have some recollection of his part in that expedition. But that was, of course, impossible.

“We knew from it, that other portions may be found. And I believe I have most, if not all of the actual ritual.” Khyrian’s gaze dropped to the table. Somehow, discovering the ritual hadn’t lifted his spirits. Azeron watched him and knew that there was something he wasn’t saying.

Caladam spoke. “And Hythloth? Why were you there?”

The question caught him off guard, and Khyrian shuddered. After a moment’s pause, he answered Caladam. “That was... It was not what I had originally intended. I was not... In my weakness, I... succumbed to hatred. I was tormented beyond sanity. I lost myself. I should not have been there. My only intent then was to end it all. I had to destroy him.” He laughed pitifully at himself. “I am fortunate that I was discovered there by you. I would have stepped into my eternal damnation.”

Caladam measured the answer for a moment, the countered with another question. “You thought you would find... it down there?”

“He would be there,” the healer nodded. “He IS there.”

Caladam nodded, taking in the information. Azeron frowned, wondering what Khyrian had experienced in that dungeon.

“But I...” There was a pause as Khyrian thought of what to say. “We cannot simply confront him in that way. Not yet, at least. The ritual must be performed. It will sunder all the Afflicted from him — his source of sustenance...” He took another moment to consider his words carefully. “Then... perhaps then, he may be destroyed.” But at that, Khyrian began to shake his head. He put his face in his hands, and spoke a muffled something into his palms.

“What?” Azeron asked.

Khyrian lifted his head, revealing a look of defeat. “The ritual cannot be performed without all the proper preparations and components, and that I do not have.” His hands went to his forehead, pressing hard as if hoping to relieve great stress. “We lack one.”

Caladam gave a blank stare.

“There is mention of a Silver Ginseng in the manuscripts, but I know neither where to find it or how it must be prepared.” Khyrian’s head had gone back into his hands.

“Silver Ginseng?” Talanithus mused out loud. “I have never even heard of it.”

There had been a great deal of lore discovered on various expeditions. Few had studied it and tied clues together as well as Caladam. So it was he that answered Tal. “The one the daemons captured and fled with... That was our reason for going to Hythloth in the first place.”

Khyrian looked up. “Oh?”

Caladam continued. “The balrons reside there. Twas one of their kind that took the silver ginseng in the manuscripts. That led us to Hythloth.” Azeron nodded his confirmation of the statement.

“Interesting,” Tal mused. “So perhaps one has it still?”

“Or tis hidden there... or at least some clue.”

Khyrian, his head still in his hands let out another defeated sound. “We can pray not. That could be our undoing, if the fiend himself holds the very element that is needed to thwart him.” He looked up at them again. “We cannot hope to defeat him without performing the ritual. But, if the Silver Ginseng is indeed in his hands, then we cannot hope to perform the ritual without first defeating him.” The healer closed his eyes. It was evident that his strength was nearing an end.

Across from him, Talanithus began hypothesizing. “Perhaps it is not... Daemons are known for their factitious nature. Perhaps some other daemon possess it as leverage against Baal’morda in their own conflict?”

Caladam looked curious. “A theory, Tal? Or do you know something we do not?”

“I don't know anything for certain... but nor do we know anything regarding the Ginseng now either.” He nodded, satisfied with his conclusion. “Keeping an open mind might be the best option.” Khyrian, now visibly fatigued, laid his head on the table.

Everyone at the table stared at Talanithus for a moment, wondering what ‘keeping an open mind’ might accomplish, with so much hanging in the balance. Caladam spoke. “Does everyone agree that Hythloth would be the next logical step to take?”

Azeron nodded. “It seems a grim proposition, but it is our only lead.” Katiri nodded her head slightly in agreement. Erekose sat back, his fingers idly feeling the hilt of his sword. “If Khyrian is right, and the ritual needs to be performed before we have a chance to defeat the creature, then we will have a hard time of it.”

Caladam thought for a moment before offering a response. “We could use stealth. Fight our way down, and let someone skilled in such... investigate the lowest depths.”

He tried to come up with other possibilities, but Azeron could only agree. “I’m hard-pressed to think of another course of action.”

Cal could see the worry on Azeron’s face. “I just do not know where else to go with what we have.” He paused. “...And Mikhail has been planning for such an expedition I believe.”

Azeron nodded. “He has.”

“I think he would make a good expedition leader,” Cal offered. He looked over at Talanithus. “There was talk of asking you to assist us, Talanithus. We will need one with your talents.” Azeron nodded in agreement.

“Of course,” the elf smiled. “If there is anything I can do to help, I will.”

At that, Khyrian straightened up in his chair. “If you all will forgive me, I must go.” He closed his eyes and made a few slight gestures. A moment later he was enveloped in a grayish, ethereal mist. Wispy tendrils lifted him up from his seat and slowly began to coalesce into the cohesive form of a horse. A few moments later, Khyrian rode atop his translucent steed again.

Azeron looked over at Khyrian as he began to ride out of the guild hall. A frown came across his face as he watched his friend ride out. At the table in front of him, Talanithus and Caladam discussed ideas and details of the descent into Hythloth. But Azeron offered little else to the conversation that eve. There was more on his mind. Much more. And time was running out.