Confused beginnings of the Legend...

This Is The Legend As It Has Been Gleaned Thus Far...

Reigning in her massive white stallion she peers into the thick fog. Its swirling ghostly-white mist creating intimidating shadows out of the ancient gnarled woods.

“The wagons crossed here and camped at the edge of the woods. They can’t be more than a day ahead of us. Two at most. We’ll catch them if we go through the forest instead of around,” the scout announces, climbing back on his raven-black mount. “Hush girl; you can smell adventure, can’t you?” He strokes her long neck.

They look to the lady, sitting high on the white stallion, her shimmering iridescent dragon scale cape covers a glittering silver chainmail vest and a thick skirt of soft, supple goat skins decorated with emeralds; topaz; pearls; rubies; sapphires; in a pattern of flowers bursting into bloom. The skirt is worth a king’s ransom in gold coins; the cape is priceless.

“My lady?”

Her twinkling amethyst eyes gaze upon the young face of her tracker. She tilts her head and her musical voice questions, “Which of the seven carriages went through the wood?” Her gaze returns to the impenetrable line of sentry-like trees, their branches sweeping along the ground.

“My lady?”

A smile brightens her face. “We will go through the wood.”

“My lady? T’is not safe. Not as the sun sets and the moon rises. Look, even now it comes,” her mage implores.

The small band of mercenaries turned to his pointing finger; the silvery glow of the moon creeping over the distant hills. They turn back to their Lady.

“We will go through the woods.” She pats the pouch hanging from her neck and snaps the reigns, her mount obediently moves forward into the shroud and is quickly swallowed up.

“My lady?” the less confident mage gulps, swiftly clicking his tongue and urging his beast of burden forward, following the Lady’s chosen path. The assembly of spies, thieves, soldiers-of-fortune, knights and squires moves with her. “Orcs! Can you imagine? It was bad enough when she allowed dwarves to join us,” he continues to mutter.

The scout’s horse clip-clops quickly and is gone from sight; he is responsible for their fortune or misfortune as they now traverse the mythological laden Obsidian Blackwood Forest.

“Why is the Lady so stubborn?” he questions as he skilfully negotiates the narrow corridor between the insanely tall and viciously twisted Obsidian Blackwood and the equally nasty Devil’s Thorn underbrush, the light growing dimmer.

“My lady, we must stop and rest. The Blackwood grows too thickly to continue in the darkness,” the scout implores.

The cool air moves around them as if seeking to smother. “Very well,” the lady consents. “Set camp.”

She smiles; her eyes perceive the small creatures darting through the branches and along the smooth, Obsidian stone-like trunks. “Imps,” her lips curl downward. “A Wizard is nearby.”

In her modest tent of blue silk drapes with white tassels, a low fire burning in the brazier, she perches on an eiderdown pillow; her legs crossed her wrists lightly resting on her knees. She has stripped and sits nude, meditation rejuvenating her body, mind and spirit as the others sleep.

A small sound slices through her peace like the screech of a gull over a scrap of food. Instantly alert, her mind opens as she stealthily uncrosses her legs and comes to her feet. The almost soundless grunts alert her it is not a wizard she faces, but a Warlock. Her stomach churns with fear.

A small shadow crossing the tent’s entrance spurs her to tug a tunic over her figure. ”The pouch! Where is it?” Her mind stalls as she panics.

The curtain begins to pull back and faint light from the moon passes through. She spies the pouch on the small pillow next to her things.

The figure steps into the boudoir and in the time it takes his eyes to adjust she lifts her arm and hurls the fire shards she clutches in her hand. He is dispatched without a sound.

Leaping forward she gathers the pouch, flinging the lanyard over her head. She snatches her dagger, and the hollow-handle staff she must protect along with the pouch, and hurls herself through the door and under the cover of the unforgiving trees.

She is horrified at the carnage. Her party lies sliced to ribbons, their heads mounted on the wickedly long spikes of the Devil’s Thorn. “Oh mercy, mother mercy,” she breathes, tears filling her luminous eyes.

She brings her feet up under her as she rises lithely. She is only a level one sorceress, barely knowledgeable at all; only just learning to control her gifts – these Imps; these warlock’s toys have killed her friends; her protectors.

A rage burns within – they will pay. She moves confidently to the inferno in the centre of the camp. The chatter ceases as the Imps watch, curious and appreciative, their black eyes reflecting the flickering light, their smooth, pale, leather-like hides quivering as she removes the tunic she slipped on earlier in her rush. Her golden curves glow in the glittering flames. The Imps draw closer, mesmerised by her flowing locks and honey-coloured skin, their thick furry lips curving, revealing fang-like teeth. Imps are known to enjoy their baser activities.

Turning and swaying seductively she beckons them to come closer, dazzling them with her beauty and voice; the song she weaves haunting their minds, lulling them to a peaceful state.

As she senses their numbers within the circle she clenches her hands tightly and spins once, twice, thrice! She flings open her hands and liquid flames burst forth lapping the pelt of the Imps scorching their pale hides to a blackened misery; their screeches deafening.

She drops and breathes deeply. A minute no more. The sounds of their death silenced. The forest ceases whispering.

She stands as a new sound, the sound of the Veran reaches her sensitive ears. A deep panic fills her and she rushes to gather her tunic and skirt; her cloak and boots. She pulls them on snatching her dagger and staff as she runs lightly to the pens. Sadness washes over her when she reaches the paddock. The animals have been slain. Their bloodied carcasses filling the air with the stench of copper.

“I will avenge you my brave friend,” she vows, removing the ornate bridle, turning and walking silently into the wood disappearing into the dark, menacing forest.

She can hear their steel-like beaks snapping and tearing at the flesh of the animals as she stealthily runs along in the pre-dawn darkness. The reverberation causes bile to rise in her throat; she refuses to acknowledge her companions are probably also part of the buffet.

The feast is not enough and she can hear Veran flying low overhead as they search for her. They will not be so easily fooled by the sight of a naked Elf. A different battle will need be fought.

They are closing in. Their beaks and claws snapping the brittle Obsidian over story, raining it down upon her, slicing her soft skin. They can smell fresh blood, their carrion-appetites whetted.

She pushes forward, her keen eyesight and hearing aiding her. She slides to a halt as the close-knit trunks give way suddenly to a wide thicket. The creatures have beaten her here.

The small clearing drives the red-feathered winged creatures into frenzy, swooping downward and gliding dangerously close to her as she stands at the edge of the copse. Moving around the closed circle, she stops suddenly as she spies a corridor through the grove.

The Veran scratch her limbs as she dives through the opening rolling into another orchard. This one twice as large as the other. She looks around, frightened, but no Veran have followed through, or fly overhead. She sighs in relief.

Her eyes and ears quickly determine she is alone. She stands and steps forward, her foot snapping a branch. She freezes. Nothing comes at her, so she continues moving forward into the clearing, cautiously. A thick, unnatural fog reflects daylight.

Suddenly, she rubs her eyes. The mist is dissipating and, in the centre of the clearing stands an enormous stone and wood Tavern! She moves herself forward and enters slowly, closing the heavy wooden door and walking into the large open space.

“Hello. We’ve been waiting for you.”

She jumps and spins around, her hands closing around her weapons tightly. “Who is there?”

A soft laugh echoes in the large room. “We are the Inn Keepers. Imprisoned here by the High Priest of the Great White Tundra many centuries ago.”

“But you’ve been waiting for me. Why?” She continues to peer about, her sword drawn, her staff swishing.

“You are carrying the Winter Queen’s gems, the Jewelled Hollow Staff and the Jewelled Dagger.”

“But they’re not mine. They belong to Diamond, the Winter Queen.”

The eerie voice continues, “The legend says a young sorceress will end the Spell of Night that keeps us bound forever, innkeepers of the Tavern. The legend claims the sorceress will have the gems of the Winter Queen, the Dagger of the Spring Daughter and the Staff of the Summer Son. The Sorceress will use these to free us from our bondage before the Veran find the opening to the Tavern, and the location of the foul Night Creatures cave."

“What happens if they discover the openings?” the sorceress asks, peering about, still trying to locate the source of the voice, unsure she wants to know the answer.

“All hope will be lost. We shall never be free and the deadly Night Creatures will be released from their cave at Yismre by the Veran to wreak chaos and death.”

Another dis-embodied voice joins the first, “We have obscured the opening to the thicket, but I fear the Veran know you carry the treasure. You hold the key. It is only a matter of time.”

“What is it you want?” she implores, her voice high.

“To be free.”

“Free? You’re like, what? Phantoms? Ghouls?”

“Spirits without a resting place, if you please.”

“Whatever. And you want me to just hand over the Winter Queen’s stuff?”

“Oh goodness, no!”

“Well, that’s good. Then what?”

“We need you to open the portal in the cellar, enter and bring us the Firestone that is hidden in the depths.”

“What? You want me to go looking for some rock? I have duties and a responsibility to safeguard these items and return them to the Queen.”

“You can refuse, of course; it is your choice, but, dear child, the Veran can smell you, and I fear they may have been bewitched.”

“So if I refuse I risk being pecked to death by those over-active Peregrine turkeys out there? What do I do with this rock, this Firestone?”

“Bring it here, into the great room.”

The young sorceress recalls a folklore, relayed as the children sat around the fires before bed, the Shanachie spinning tales to entertain the families in hopes of having food and shelter with those she entertains. The Mysterious Tavern legend was whispered almost reverently. Had the young sorceress just discovered the Tavern? Were the tales true? Would she now earn the praise and riches for solving the riddle that drove some to madness?

The great room sports several round tables with chairs leaning against them. It houses an enormous bar along the back wall with a mirror to reflect the room when the bartender’s back is turned. A slight breeze through open windows moves the stifling air. The room has a peculiar odour, stale booze mixed with lead and cigar smoke.

The young sorceress nods, making her decision, thinking of the fame and glory this will bring. “Where is the portal?”

“In the cellar. Go through the door on the side of the fireplace, down the stairs and in the room to the left. Ignore the other doors, they do not concern you. Enter the room and go to the north wall where you will see the outline of a fireplace. Read the words written on the wall aloud; step inside the opening, turn around and feel along the top lintel; you will feel a smooth stone. Remove it and return it here, to the Great Room. We shall do the rest.” The scratchy voice coughs tiredly.

The young sorceress nods slowly, her eyes dancing, “I will do it!” she declares, moving toward the small door to the cellar. “The first room to the left?”

“Yes, my child.” The voice urges eagerly.

The sorceress goes though the cellar door onto a deep landing, the walls of which are covered with pigeon-hole niches filled with bronze statues. She starts down the steps, pausing briefly. She looks back, then down into the darkness. A sense of dread steals over her and she tries to shake it off. Her fingers close around the pouch, her other hand tightening around the staff.

The words of the antiquated, shrivelled Sorcerer, her guide, flowed in her mind:

 "Do not lose this. It contains far more power than the world can ever wield. It must be placed into the hand of the Queen herself. Failure is not an option. We must prevent the seal from being breeched. I would go myself, but the threat of assassination of the Autumn Wind keeps me here. They will not suspect a fledgling. Guard it with your life. We will send you with an unconventional guard and we will send out groups of hunters to confuse the enemy. Watch yourself; trust no one. The components must reach the Queen. The Wheel must not stop.”

The sorceress stands in the darkness, her eyes adjusting quickly to see the small bugs that scurry and cobwebs that hang in the unused passage. A swift decision sees her remove the pouch and place it in a niche behind a bronze statue of a dog closing the glassed door carefully, setting the staff on a rail running above the niche, before continuing her quest.

The Firestone is just where the voice of the old lady said. The sorceress draws the stone down and gasps at the heat it emanates. She secures it under her cloak and darts back up the stairs, grabbing her staff and hurries through the cellar door to the main room.

Three wavering ghostly figures stand shoulder to shoulder in front of the fireplace. The young sorceress gasps, startled, nearly dropping the stone and her staff.

“Sorry to startle you my child. We can only hold these forms for a brief period,” the one explains. “Did you find the stone?”

The young sorceress holds the stone out to them. Their excitement seems to reflect light from the stone’s interior and she feels it grow even warmer.

“What do I do?” she asks, enthralled, her pulse seeming to beat with the stone, giving it a life of its own.

The three step forward and clasp the stone, their alabaster-fingers bony and ethereal. The sorceress can feel the wind gusting and hears their guttural uttering’s as the three waver, their excitement growing.

She glances at the ghosts, questions filling her violet-eyes.

The Firestone drops from her grasp. Her staff falls next. “What is... what is happening?” she looks at the three as they shimmer and rustle.

“NO!” The one spectre shouts. “Where is the pouch, girl?!”

“Oh, dear lawrd!” one ghost who hasn’t spoken yet cries.

“Girl, the pouch? The winter’s Queen’s pouch!?” her voice grows dim. “The pouch!”

“What is happening?” the frightened sorceress screams noticing her body becoming transparent. “What is happening!?”

The ghostly figures are fading. “The pouch. We need the pouch!” Their words ring in her ears as they fade to emptiness.

“NO!” the sorceress screams, frenzied.

“The pouch!” she runs to the door and tries to grasp the handle. Her transparent fingers cannot hold material items any longer. “No!” she screams, dread and tears rattling her frame. She panics, frantically grabbing at the handle until she stumbles and finds herself on the other side of the thick door.

Frightened, she realises, as a ghost, she can now vaporise and reappear in a different place. She also understands her feet no longer touch the floor.

“The pouch?!” she returns to her original task.

“No, no no no!” she cries frustrated after hours spent trying to dislodge the statue and claim the pouch. Attempts to vaporise and reappear prove useless. The space needs to be large enough to accommodate her actual physical form. “I don’t have a physical form!”

Days; weeks; months; years; decades; millennia pass, the time means nothing to her form, she has frozen in time. She grows doubtful anyone will ever end the spell she is under; so few ever enter the Obsidian Blackwood Forest anymore. Those who do have remained guests of the tavern for as long as she, never aging.

She tends the Tavern, sweeping and dusting, learning of many secret hiding places filled with wonderful treasures. She also discovers some etchings which allude to the possible failure in reincarnating the original ghosts.

One secret she must locate still eludes her. For, even by holding the pouch, so much time has passed (the etchings show) she will need the Malachite Ring of the Winter King, Zoisite for the spell to be broken. She does not know the location of the Winter Palace of King Zoisite; however, there is a parchment hidden among the many she has seen in the walls of the Tavern. She only needs to discover the parchment-map to learn the location.

The dagger and staff now rest behind the bar on a shelf above the mirror, along with the Firestone.

Discovering the ability to hold her form solid, by accident as she reads through some of the scrolls. The spell can only be used infrequently for short periods of time, up to 24-hours, as it exhausts her energies to near death.

Washing the leaded-glass panes of the tall windows, she hears voices and runs into the Tavern to the upper floor. She looks through the upper windows and spies movement through the Forest near the path. Her heart leaps.

Casting a ‘Detect Magic’ spell over them, she is pleased with their curiosity as a glow appears about the secret opening. She watches until they turn along the invisible corridor.

“Maybe these are the brave souls who can solve the quest and reincarnate me!” She rushes to the ground floor to greet them. Bitter tears and disappointment follow as those who enter are not able to end the curse, these are mere adventurists.

She needs the parchment and the stone to reverse the nightmare and release her to the fates.

0o0

The legend grows taller and the rewards grow larger as the tale is passed from troubadour to troubadour; spun around rapt listeners as winter winds keep them inside the warm Public House. This troubadour has crashed through the doors of the pub during a fierce storm, keeping them all inside the stuffy environment.

“In a copse in the centre of the Northern Obsidian Blackwoods forest. Energy seems to emanate from a building; a Mysterious Tavern. Both evil and good energies,” the ancient minstrel spins the tale. “The Tavern’s roads, (tracks, really) lead through the Obsidian Blackwood Forest in a winding, treacherous path barely wide enough in some places to allow a single carriage to pass.” He pauses to allow the dangers to instil in the children.

His voice resonates in the silence, “Most seekers pass right by the well-hidden corridor and find themselves hopelessly lost in the unforgiving frozen forest. To those who are gifted, the path is revealed, still, only the bravest accept."

“Few risk the magicks of the Order to claim boasting rights. Those who do are quickly tempted by the stories and lore the Inn Keeper spins, and few resist the temptations of the fabled reward.”

The minstrel inflects a pleasant voice of the Inn Keeper, captivating as he speaks, intoning a female, “Somewhere in the Tavern’s walls lies the incantation that will free me and close the portal to the cave forever. This is the quest for the tempted; for with the FireStone and parchment is rumoured to be a great treasure. Unfortunately, the tavern is unforgiving and holds its secrets well.”

He pauses and lights his pipe, “For a thousand-thousand-thousand years the brave; the adventurous; the desperate, straggle into our now bustling city, one-at-a-time or groups, in their search for fame, wealth and glory. None have succeeded and all have perished in their fervour. You see, none but three has ever returned from their ill-guided journey.”

“The tale is avowed true by three well-respected scholars. They warn the grip of the treasure holds so tight you can think; dream and imagine nothing else.

“One day the door to the Tavern opened wide to bring another visitor, and they tripped, or were pushed, out. Once outside the spell broke and they, each one of them, ran until they reached our town. Went mad they did. Yabbering on about ghostly apparitions; noises and the occasional visitor disappearing.”

“Those who enter the Tavern are said to be greeted by the young Inn Keeper, seductive and accommodating, none are aware she will seal their fate. The animals say she casts a spell that is so subtle you are enticed to stay the night, just one night, and are forever company for the sorceress, goaded to find the lost scroll and release her, and the others, from their prison.”

0o0

Will You Accept the Quest and Help the Sorceress to Escape Her Prison and Protect The World from The Night Creatures... or worse?

The Quest Begins...

FLEDGLING DUNGEON MASTER,
khrys...