Dream a Little Dream (Chapter 4 - Sightseeing in New Tunaria)

[Solerei]

.oO(I am going to incinerate his entire sock drawer.  How could he leave the door unlocked? How? Does he even know we...bah!)

"Yes, yes, I can get us inside.  Stop fussing about the armor. You clanked. It had to go. You look fine in leather.  Now, wait here a moment."

Solerei slips forward around the bend in the canyon and vanishes into the shadows as she approaches the two strident, and apparently unarmed guards at the gate to Fellwithe.  Two taps later, and the gate is unguarded.  She returns and fetches the others, Flann still complaining about his lack of metal accoutrements, Terryl looking disgusted, and Vannis looking nervous.  Not unexpected.  She'd look nervous too if she had to put up with the three of them for very long.

"C'mon, Vannis, let's go see what yer dreamin' about."  She's not convinced this is a wise use of resources.  Poor lad has a few frisky dreams, and now they're off to the middle of one of the most disturbing places she's had the misfortune to visit.  Beautiful.  Amazing.  Towering buildings and sloping hills, sapphire water and gilt ornaments.  But disturbing.  There are folk here who should nae be here.  Servants o'Mistmoore, dark elves and worse.  She's come in before, workin' fer freedomers from Somborn.  But she's nae too sure about them either. 

"Off the side of the bridge, and quiet now...we can skirt it all the way to the front."

They cross the far end of the bridge, walking between the towers of Purification and Devotion.  They're strong on that here.  Purification. Devotion.  She doesn't feel Tunare as she aught.  Though she's a servant o'Lord Marr now, she's not forgotten the Mother.  And with her temple right here in front of them, now, as they slink through the Hall of Truth, she still doesn't feel Her calm presence, the soft soothing glow of nature.  There's something unnatural here.  And every instinct Lord Marr's honed in her is screaming that it's wrong.

"Past the smithy, up the hill...there's a narrow canyon.  Some guards, we may have to quiet down a bit.  NAE, ye blasted priest, ye can nae borrow armor from the smithy!  Yer lucky I let ye wear aught but socks! Aye, socks! And nae, I'm not red! Stop laughing! I'll...bah, aye, Vannis, aye, the girl.  I know. We're goin'."

Stealth, for this lot, seems to include a number of loud thumping sounds and suddenly clear pathways.

"Nae, Vannis, lad, get yer head back to the earth! Tha's a guard tower.  Ye know, guards? The ones we nae want to meet?  They'll nae have prisoners in there.  Terryl...ye still breathing? Aye, aye, just checkin'."

Shuffling.  Thumps.  A few curses.  Onto a grassy swathe.

"Aye, unicorns. Pretty...aye.  Flann, yer nae wanderin' off after 'em.  Ye've got a horse. Over here." 

The towers of the Castle of Thex loom over them, cool water swirling in pools around the base, guards arrayed in parade dress on the terraces.  The sun is sinking...dusk...shooting golden sparks across the water and dusting the stone with a soft, molten light.  A beautiful place.  The birds aren't singing.

They step through an archway in a grey stone wall, into a fell place.  Thexian gravestones, patrolled by Tunarian palladins.  .oO(What in Her own sweet Name does Tunare want with this lot?)  A dark tower at the end of the yard.  A monument to a king.    They clear the yard.  Mercy, even for Tunare's priests...or those as call themselves that...does not seem appropriate to the moment.

"There."  She points to a doorway at the base of stairs leading down at the back of the tower. The back of this Thexian king's mausoleum.  "I nae know where it goes, but it's yer best bet, lad.  She was nae with the prisoners on the isle o'the condemned.  They're all of the other races. None o'the Tunarians.  Ye said she was an elf."  .oO(How do these call themselves that? I don't see my Da in any of them. So cold. So empty!  Pure.  This is nae pure.)  "She was nae in their mage tower...though what they're doin' in there is somethin' I'll hae to see to soon enough. " 

"Aye, if ye must, Flann, ye can take the armor off that palladiny lad there on the floor. He'll nae be needin' it, for Tunare or whatever else he's been up to.  Fer a man who cheerfully wears one sock in company, ye're worried awful about yer attire ta meet this girl!"

Through the open tower doorway, the last of the golden light of sunset spills into the mausoleum, with brilliant surges of crimson and umber, fading too quickly to darkness as the sun hides her face behind the cliffs that surround the city.  The perfect city. 

[Flann]

Terryl endured one shock after another. This New Tunaria, the Felwithe of this day, made his skin crawl. He sensed Solerei's fascination with the architecture, but also shared her feeling that something was missing. The Mother. He heard the normal seeming elves paying lip service to Her, but Her spirit was not here, where it should have been very strong after Her return. Something was very wrong, and he sensed the murky tendrils of Mistmore had put a strangle hold on this place, now.

Elves had always been a bit standoffish... he should know, he had been treated rather unkindly by the denizens of Felwithe at one time... but this was something completely and horribly worse. As he followed the others, Solerei clearing the path and Flann in his laughable pink outfit healing her, he could not bring himself to strike. He would call a spell, and it would not complete. He was hard pressed to trudge along behind. Vannis, very young yet, and completely out of his league here, was understandable. But an annointed Battlewizard of Tunare? Why could he not strike!

The muzziness of his thoughts, the scattering of his will, remained the same all the way to the final tower, where Solerei said it was possible the girl was being held. It was as if a veil was lifted. His thoughts clarified. Dropping to his knees, he prayed to Tunare.

Flann was fiddling with the straps of his new armor, complaining it was just adamantine, no real protection, and the boots didnt fit, where can he get some boots? when he noticed Terryl praying. Hmm maybe he oughta pray too.

Vannis and Solerei, both a little less reverent in their own way but not completely disregarding of the gods, prepared in other ways. Approaching the door, Vannis laid his hand on it. He knew instantly that this was the way to the girl. He nodded at Solerei, and she grasped the handle.

"OK boys, enough praying. We have a girl to save. Get ready! I'm opening the door. No telling how much racket..."

Flann, on his feet now, waits. And waits.

"Ya can open it, Sol, we be ready."

Vannis notes the effort Solerei is putting forth, and says the one thing he can, though obvious.

"T'dor be lokked, blessit."

And the door springs open, nearly knocking Solerei over.

[Flann]

The leering shape that leapt through after the door opened nearly takes off Vannis' head with a clawed swipe. He ducks and rolls out of the way, hoping to get beyond the reach of this thing that moves so freakishly fast.

The smell of seared flesh and a crackling roar, and Vannis doesn't think the thing is after him anymore. It does not even scream as it stands, frozen in place, burning.

Flann was caught a bit flatfooted, concerned for Solerei as the door belted her one and sent her flipping backwards into a ready crouch, but he whips out his mace and readies himself if the flaming figure does anything other than, well, burn.

Solerei eyes Terryl with a bit more respect. She saw the bar of fire lance out and catch the creature, the after-image still in her eyes. Blinking, she gives the thing a quick roundkick that sends it flying from the doorway. Peering in, she sees stairs leading down. Sconces line the walls, but no torches.

"We're gonna need light. Light a torch off that thing before it goes out."

Vannis and Flann hurry to obey, but Terryl gets there first. He obeys Solerei, as every battle leader must be obeyed. Instantly and without question.

Terryl returns to the stairway, torch in one hand, other hand crooked and ready to cast. The battle state descended on him the instant that creature emerged, senses twanging to hyper-alertness. The Mother has returned his powers, it seems, those he left behind when he was returned to this world. At least for the nonce. Terryl intends to use them, and woe to any vampire who gets in their way. He eagerly awaits his battle leader's orders.

He has missed this.