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Scribe - Indigo Shift
In the six-hundred and third year of the New Age, a trio of Tanasian
malcontents attempted an overthrow of the Cymrilian government. The Lyceum Arcanum's support of the
Wizard King, which included the opening of vaults and reading of documents which
strengthened His Majesty's position and popularity, proved to be the downfall of these
would-be usurpers.
Nymandre, caught and convicted of treason, was placed in stasis within an
impermeable orb. Ebonarde fled to parts unknown, as did Naryx of the Gloved Hand. They say
Naryx fled to the jungles of Chana, but no one knew for certain.
I'd like to say I remembered it as if it were yesterday, but I was a year
old at the time. Seventeen years later, in the year 620 N.A., is when we stumbled across the other
two. The year in which both my companion and myself did a lot of growing up in a hurry.
I am simply a Cymrilian Swordsmage. Nothing more, but certainly nothing
less. My companion at the time was an escapee from a Kang experiment involving slavery and the
cold tribes of Harak. An experiment which ended badly. My Harakin friend and I kept each
other alive in our travels of the continent for over a year. This is just one of many such
stories.
We ended up in Chana under unusual circumstances. Which, when you think
about it, is the only way one finds his way into those stinking jungles in the first place.
We'd fled Za Raiders in the Wilderlands, riding west as fast as the graymanes would run. When we
came upon the Dead River, we followed it south to the coast. At the mouth of the river, we
traded our mounts for a small boat, and sailed to Tarun, the capitol of Faradun. Amazingly enough,
we made it intact.
In Tarun, we found work as procurer's assistants. Which meant we took
things the Farad wanted to sell. We were destitute, and did not have much choice.
Our employer, who shall remain unnamed, was in search of a magic robe,
which was said to make its wearer invulnerable to attack. Its current owner (and wearer)
resided in the jungles of Chana. Our employer chartered a vessel which carried us to the
northernmost crook of the Bay of Cicz, about forty miles due south of Chasmrock.
We found him in a matter of days, living in the overgrown ruins of a temple
of some sort. He was, of course, wearing the robe, a strange white and silver garment which
seemed to carry with it a phosphorescent glow. Most likely, it was that and the robe's
protective abilities which allowed him to earn the fear of the local Chanan Witchfolk, for the man was
no native. He appeared Cymrilian. Or, more likely, Tanasian. He had quite a small army
of Chanans in the works, which my companion and I noticed with more than a fair share of
concern. Because of this, we were being as clandestine as possible, hoping perhaps to sneak
into the temple under cover of night and remove the robe while the man slept.
From our treetop hiding place, we watched as another Tanasian approached
out of the jungle and started conversing with him. The newcomer wore a single glove on his left
hand. With an icy, taloned hand gripping my heart, I realized we had found Ebonarde and Naryx.
After explaining what it all meant to my barbaric counterpart, we agreed that nightfall and
stealth would indeed be the best bet.
Unfortunately, however, we were discovered not long after Naryx departed
again into the jungle. Ebonarde held his Witchfolk at bay and bid us attack him directly. Which
we did, in vain. No matter where we struck him, or what we struck him with, he felt none of the
death we were dealing that day. I didn't even consider magic an option. This man was a
recognized master long before I was born.
Ebonarde found all this amusing. His constant laughter was driving my
friend into a frenzy of bloodlust. He threw down his four-bladed axe and rushed the Tanasian
barehanded. The Harakin laid into him with a barrage of punches and kicks. All of them a
diversion from what he was really attempting: to grab the man and hold him fast.
My stunned mind eventually caught up to his train of thought, and the two
of us removed the robe. We leapt back, anticipating Ebonarde's attack. What happened
instead will haunt me the rest of my days.
It was the screaming that stopped us in our tracks. Ebonarde was screaming
in agony as every wound dealt to his person from the moment he put on the robe manifested
itself in the single instant we tore it off. Cuts, swordstrokes, lacerations, magical attacks
and clawmarks brutalized his body, as if dealt by ghostly assailants. This, apparently, was the
"catch" to the magic robe: it didn't stop the attacks, it merely held off their effects while the robe
was worn. Needless to say, when it was done, we could barely recognize him as a man, let alone
as Ebonarde.
The Witchfolk began to rush in, but hesitated out of superstition, which
allowed us to flee into the jungle. In our terror-borne haste, we'd left the cursed robe behind.
We'd barely had the foresight to grab our weapons.
It was a gift from the gods that we were found a day or two later by Nagra
Shamen, who took us to their village and gave us food and shelter. I conversed with them in
Sign and discovered Naryx of the Gloved Hand had been dealing with an otherworldly monstrosity
known as "Father Chana". Our benefactors, working with another extradimensional entity
"Father Nagra" asked us for our help.
We were taken to a mountaintop littered with ten-foot stones carved in a
long-dead language. It was here, at sunset, where we met with Father Nagra, who told us where to
find Naryx: in an underground temple hidden in a series of large, forgotten caves two days to
the east. Father Nagra was an unsettling entity to be around when he was near, no sound
existed save that of his voice but he was a benign individual, alien demeanor notwithstanding.
The Nagra led us to the caves, which were guarded by Chanan Witchfolk. My
magic assisted the Shamen, while the Nagra warriors and my barbaric counterpart made short
work of the surprised Chanans. We stripped the bodies of weapons to use ourselves: poison darts,
daggers, and a wrist-viper I acquired for my own.
We descended into the dark, wet caves as stealthily as possible. They
twisted and turned maddeningly, suddenly opening upon a scene straight from the darkest
Oblivion. Heavy stalactites dangling overhead, a small lake of water the color of onyx,
almost a hundred Chanans, and Naryx, dressed in summoning robes, positioned behind an altar,
calling forth Father Chana.
We struck instantly, a flash of lightening which took our adversaries by
surprise. Each paired off with his own: the Nagra Shamen fighting Witchmen, Nagra warriors
attacking Chanan spearmen, the Harakin slaying Naryx' bodyguards. Which left Naryx for me.
I attempted a bolt of Arcane force, only to have it dispelled with the
words half-out of my mouth. I erected an Arcane Barrier quickly after that, only to have it
shattered by a single Necromantic Bolt from Naryx. The Harakin rushed in, only to be wracked by
another Necromantic Bolt which left him almost dead.
Then my training took over: when fighting warriors, use magic. When
fighting wizards, use the sword. I laid into him with my blade, striking him every time he attempted
to cast a spell. He produced a Necromantic Dagger, which he used to quickly disarm me. I
stepped back to avoid that festering blade, and he took this as his cue to finish the spell of
summoning, a course of action not in the best interests of myself and my companions.
I grasped his cloak with the hand upon whose wrist slept the drugged
wrist-viper. I tapped the little beast, and it struck instinctively, burying its poisoned fangs deep
into Naryx' chest. He made a small sound as his gaze fixed on me, wide-eyed. Then he fell over,
quite dead.
I turned to take stock of the battle, only to notice everyone, Nagra and
Chanan alike, running back up the caverns as fast as possible. It was then that I felt The
Presence.
I turned back to the altar to see an enormous...thing, rising out of thin
air and racial memories long since buried away. I cast a spell of levitation upon myself and my
comatose companion, and flew out of that cave with him in tow, as the cavern itself started to
collapse under the magical energy of Father Chana, fully summoned and unrestrained.
The image burned into my mind is the glimpse I dared right before turning
the corner and flying to the blessed sanity of daylight. The full visage of Father Chana, thirty
feet in height, black to the point where my eyes slid off him into the Void, threatening to take my
mind with them.
It was a face I couldn't even begin to describe, but will never forget.
The Nagra Shamen nursed myself and the Harakin back to health over the
course of the next two weeks. Father Nagra was of the opinion that Father Chana was buried and
dead in the caverns underneath the jungle.
But after what I saw... to this day, I'm not so sure.
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