The sky alighted with the faintest hint of morning’s hues; a blend of pink, purple, and orange blended together through the mist, lighting the path for the woodland elf exploring the city streets. With no need of the sleep that consumed so many hours of humans, she liked to take advantage of the morning stillness that allowed for reflection on the events that had befallen them thus far. She hoped that Norris, a scholar at the The House of Oghma, in Suzail, would have some answers for them today about the mysterious Circle of Eight. Dawn broke, and she made her way back to the Leaning Post to collect her companions. Along the way, she gave in to the temptation to pick a coin purse off an unpleasant-looking man berating his apprentice. Serves the brute right, she thought, pocketing the gold.
Not an hour after Naivara’s return to the inn, a messenger arrived from the House of Oghma. “Norris is ready with the information you requested,” he stated plainly, seeming unhappy that he had been sent as the errand-boy for this task. They weren’t long in readying themselves; after a few mouthfuls of bread and cheese to break their fast they took their leave.
“This had better be good,” Torvald said, clenching his sword in reflex as they walked through the massive oak doors at the House. Naivara and Agril exchanged skeptical glances, while Ember, always the optimist, patted Torvald on the shoulder and smiled in a gesture of support.
Norris emerged from the shadows of the hall to greet them. “I hope your wait has not been too uncomfortable,” he said sincerely. Torvald drew breath as if to comment but Naivara swiftly jabbed her elbow into his side before he could speak.
“Please, tell us what you found,” she said.
“There wasn’t much, but I was able to track down some scraps of information about these symbols,” Norris began. “These symbols are from ages long past, long out of memory even by beings as old as elves. From what I can piece together, they represent the eight schools of magic, but I can’t quite say exactly what types of magic they are supposed to represent. They could be used to focus and amplify the power of ritual magic by the high mages, but this magic has fallen out of use and been forgotten since the fall of Netherel.”
“Now, the Circle of Eight was the greatest group of masters of each type of magic from across the whole world. The powers that they held, though, caused corruption amongst them and a struggle to become the supreme mage ensued. The group destroyed themselves through their own obsession and lust for power. Most of their arcane knowledge was lost. A new circle may have been formed, but if it has, it is likely a pale comparison to the original circle. However, the knowledge that was was when the circle destroyed itself could spell disaster if it fell into similarly corrupt hands as the former circle. I was unable to find anything specific regarding the cult and human sacrifices that you have witnessed, but the presence of these symbols is most concerning. It means that this potent and dangerous magic is once again in use.”
Pacing around the room, he continued. “The sword is indeed an enigma. As you know, it has been used in blood rituals, and that is never a good sign. Generally weapons like this are created by powerful demons, with rituals that would make the blood run cold of even the most heartless of men. The locations of these rituals do seem to happen in places where this old magic may reside. The Haunted Halls is one such place, and the gems in the mine you explored exude residuum, which amplifies magic. If more rituals are to take place, which I seems likely based on the information you have presented to me, they will likely be in places of power. Cormanthor, the Hall of Ruins, Hongadath, and Thaymount are all such sites. The name ‘Varzand’ did not occur in any of the texts I consulted, but it is a common name. The ball you possess is certainly an ancient magical artifact, perhaps created by a wizard, but as to why, I could not say. To experiment with it further may yield answers, but it may also cause harm to the one who examines it.”
“I’m afraid this is all I have,” Norris concluded.
“Thank you,” said Ember, throwing a knowing sideways glance to Torvald, who seemed to be on the brink of speaking his mind again. The others nodded their thanks in agreement and slowly made their way out, turning all of this new information over in their minds and trying to make sense of what they just learned. Pausing just outside the entrance, they came to an agreement that Cormanthor would be their next destination, which lay in the northeast direction of Suzail.
Torvald suggested purchasing horses, knowing that a long journey on foot would impede the progress of their quest. The others agreed and proceeded to the marketplace for these and other supplies. Almost immediately Torvald was drawn to a red mare pacing in her stall, eager to be released. “I think her spirited nature will serve me well,” Torvald mused, and named her Hestia.
Agril spotted a deep chestnut gelding that two stable attendants were attempting to back into a stall. Showing no fear of the horse’s whinnying or bucking, Agril gently reached up and held the beast’s bridle with one hand and stroked his muzzle with the other. Their eyes meet and the horse stilled almost instantly. “I’ll take this one,” he said simply, and purchased it for his own, naming it Samson.
Naivara and Ember took their time, as is the nature of elves, and each selected a mare. Naivara’s was colored entirely dark brown, brown like trees of the woodland realm she had once called home. “I will call you Shadow Feet,” she said to the horse while handing the vendor his gold.
Ember’s was pitch black with a flowing mane to match. “I shall call you Raven,” she said, admiring the way the sunlight reflected off of the horse's gleaming coat.
Their horses selected, they made their way through the rest of the market. Torvald purchased alchemy supplies and a book on the subject of poisons. “Are you planning to poison us all at supper?” Naivara teased.
“These may come in handy,” Torvald replied, indignant, but he secretly hoped that he’d be right. Ember bought a healer’s kit (which she thought was very sensible), and they all stocked up on rations. Feeling that the day had been well spent, they headed back to the Leaning Post to stable their horses and spend one last night in Suzail.
Refreshed and ready to meet what challenges lay ahead, they departed on the road called Calantar’s Way the next morning. The day was spent mostly in silence, aside from mild pleasantries exchanged with fellow travelers they met on the road. They chose to camp with another group that felt trustworthy, but took turns taking watch in the night. The second day passed much the same, and soon they arrived in the small farming town of Hilp in the late afternoon. After finding the inn and obtaining lodging for the night, Naivara asked the barkeep if he had heard about any abductions in the area. “No, I can’t say that I have,” he admitted, scratching his beard.
“We’re headed towards Wheloon,” Torvald blurted, in a rare mood to speak. The elves cast disparaging glances his way; they didn’t approve that he shared their destination with strangers. Offended, Torvald muttered under his breath, “Surely not everyone is an evil sorcerer seeking to do us harm.”
“Well, before you head to Wheloon, you may want to speak with the constable here. He may have more information about strange disappearances, but I doubt it, as not much of note happens in Hilp,” the barkeep offered, and turned back to another patron. After finding the constable, they were disappointed to find that barkeep was right; he had not heard of anything unusual or of any abductions in the area either. Taking their losses, the group dined at the inn and turned in for an early start the next morning.
A small village called Gladehap lay just off the road on the way to Wheloon. “It has a reputation for harboring skilled craftsmen that attracts a wealthy crowd,” Agril informed the group.
“A village with well-traveled nobles may be just the place to find the answers we’ve been seeking,” said Naivara. They came to the Inn of the Dancing Sword, and asked to be pointed in the direction of the smithy.
Their faces flushed with the warmth of red-hot coals as they walked into the smithy’s workshop. A heavyset man with a ruddy face and thick beard did not look up from his scrutinizing examination of an incredibly intricate sword he held in hands. “That is a beautiful sword,” Agril praised, “I have never seen its equal.” The blacksmith glanced up, the corners of his mouth twitched almost imperceptibly, and thanked Agril.
“May I be of service?” the blacksmith asked.
“Yes, I hope so,” Ember said. “In our travels we have come across a peculiar sword of unknown origins, and we wondered if your expert eye could assist us in identifying it.” The blacksmith gave no indication that the transparent flattery had any effect; he merely nodded and Ember gingerly removed the sword from her pack. “Do not touch it,” she cautioned. “I was not so lucky when we first discovered it. Best to leave it be.” She laid it carefully on his workbench.
After several moments of studying the sword in silence, the blacksmith shook his head in puzzlement. “This sword does indeed appear to be well-crafted, so much so that I do not recall ever seeing one to match it. I cannot say if it was man, dwarf, or elf who created it. The eye on its hilt is also odd; I have never laid eyes on such a symbol before. It would not be surprised to learn that it was crafted by a mage, who may have also imbued magic into it. To know that for sure would require me to handle it.” He looked questioningly at Ember, his statement clearly a question.
“No need,” Ember said. “We would not want you to come to harm after you have been so kind to help us. Thank you.” She packed the sword away again and shrugged at her companions. They were no closer to discovering the purpose, or nature, of the sword. Perhaps the answer would reveal itself in time. “We should find someone to examine this magical sphere next,” Ember suggested as they left the smithy.
“I believe we passed a shop that sells oddities on this street a little ways back,” Naivara said. She led the group to an unassuming storefront that certainly did not appear to be the grandest of shops, but appeared well-established nonetheless. A small bell rang as they opened the door. They were greeted by the sight of small tables and shelves that held a variety of mysterious objects. At first glance the items appears to be scattered haphazardly, yet somehow, there seemed to be an order to it all.
A small woman with graying and frizzled hair materialized from a curtain behind the counter. “How may I help?” she asked, eyes moving up and down each member of the group. Her gaze lingered the longest on Torvald, as if she suspected he may break something by merely breathing in the wrong direction.
“Yes, we were wondering if you would have a look at this,” said Ember, producing the sphere from her bag.
“Ah I see,” the shopkeeper replied, grasping the ball with long, delicate fingers. She moved a few pieces here and there and two gold coins slipped out. “It certainly displays fine craftsmanship, and the workings appear to be quite intricate. I can manipulate some of these pieces to move, but as to the purpose or origin, I do not have answers. I have never seen anything like it; perhaps it manufactures gold?” she supposed. “You may want to take it someone practiced in the arcane arts. I am not a practitioner myself, and this may have its mysteries hidden by magic.” Her forehead wrinkled as she drew her brows together. “Alas, there are no such practitioners here in Gladehap, but you may be able to seek one out in Suzail, or in Sembia to the east, if you are traveling that direction.”
Deflated, Ember accepted the sphere back from the shopkeeper’s outstretched hand. “Thank you. You have been most helpful,” she said sincerely. “Would you be so kind as to point us in the direction of the apothecary?”
As the group walked out of the shop, Torvald grumbled, “I don’t know why you keep thanking everyone. None of these people have been very helpful.”
“I’m surprised you waited until we were out of earshot to say that,” Naivara said, giving him a sideways glance. “The information is helpful. We know that whoever, or whatever, made those things is not known today. They are likely part of the ancient magic that Norris described at the House of Oghma.” Torvald merely grunted in response, not wanting to admit that Naivara was right.
The apothecary’s shop was not far. Inside, rows of glass jars lined the walls, all neatly labeled with the contents. “Hello,” Naivara greeted the shopkeeper. “I wonder if you may have any healing potions available for purchase?”
“I do, but they do not come cheap,” she replied. “One is 200 gold.” Naivara shook her head. This would deplete their entire purses and then some.
“Is it possible for you to teach me healing?” Ember ventured.
“It is an ancient art that takes many years of study to accomplish,” the apothecary replied. “Indeed, my apprentice has only rudimentary skills and he has been studying for years.”
“I understand. Would you perhaps then examine this sphere that we have in our possession? We are unable to discern its purpose or origin,” Ember said.
After a few moments, the apothecary handed the sphere back. “Perhaps I am not the right person to ask. My knowledge lies more in potion-craft, not trinkets. I can say that I have never seen such an item.” Ember wasn’t surprised; a pity they had not sought out a wizard in Suzail when they had the chance. Before leaving, Torvald purchased several ingredients he learned of in his book of poisons, determined to show that it would in fact prove useful.
Twilight had just begun to cast its shadows on the streets of the city as they exited the shop. Their errands finished for the day, they began to make their way back to the inn of the Dancing Sword. As they walked, Torvald and Ember could not say what exactly it was drew their eyes, but they noticed a figure walking through the crowd. The woman was clad in a cloak, but the hood was down, so her raven hair shone and caught the last glimmers of sunlight fading from the sky. The crowded street pushed her into the group and she murmured a cursory pardon as she continued on her way. Torvald and Ember had to look twice, but her voice cast a chill of recognition deep within them.
“Was that…"Ember began. "...I think it was!” Naivara finished.
“Follow her!” Torvald exclaimed, none too softly.
The graceful agility of the elves guided Ember through the crowd as she attempted to catch up to the woman. Naivara, with the practiced skills of a thief, closed the gap between them with Agril at her side; the only member held back was Torvald, frustrated by the way people seemed to block his path at every turn.
“VARZAND!” Ember yelled, startling those around them. One man turned in her direction but she could see he posed no threat. She continued her pursuit of the woman with the raven hair. The crowd thinned and they were able to push the rest out of the way until they were finally within reach of the woman. Ember, determined to bring the chase to a halt, roughly bumped into the woman saying “Hey!”, which caused her to finally pause.
“What?” she replied, a nasty snarl twisting her face.
“You look familiar,” Ember accused.
“I’m trying to get on with my evening,” the woman said curtly before turning to leave.
“What plans?” Ember said as the group closed in.
“Dagger!” Torvald hissed to Naivara. “Give me your dagger!”
“No!” she adamantly replied, knowing that an attack now would certainly not be to their advantage.
Ember pressed on: “Varzand still hasn’t taken care of us.”
“I don’t know what that means,” the woman replied, her face a careful mask concealing any emotion.
She’s lying, Ember thought. Out loud she asked, “Are you following us?”
“No.”
“We know who you are.”
Torvald interjected, “What do you call yourself?”
“I am Alaxador Obarskyr.”
They collectively gasped. Her surname was that of the royal family – she was King Foral’s eldest daughter. How could she fit into the practice of these dark rituals? Was this the wrong woman?
Naivara regained her composure. “Tell us what you know of the Circle of Eight.”
“Nothing that would interest you,” the princess replied, eyes narrowing as if thinking.
Ember, sensing that the potential for harm was increasing with each passing moment, eased their questioning. “Oh, I think we must have you confused with someone else,” she apologized hoping the others would follow her cue.
A moment later, a sword appeared in her hand. The same sword they witnessed her wielding in the cave outside of Minroe. Alaxador raised it, seeming to consider if they were worth the trouble of dispatching. An eternity seemed to pass which was surely just only seconds. She let go of the sword allowing it to fall, instead it disappeared instead.
The group, feeling frustrated and more than a little stunned by this encounter, made their way back to the inn. As the innkeeper greeted them, Ember asked if he knew anything about the princess Alaxador. “She is said to be practiced in the arcane arts. She is seen here from time to time, acquiring rarities that cannot be found in other towns.”
“Is she known for practicing the evil arcane arts?” Torvald asked.
“She has always been a model royal: regal and very philanthropic. The people love her,” he said matter-of-factly.
Nodding, Torvald thanked the man. After a meal eaten in silence, they settled into their rooms, a palpable tension surrounding them, unsure of what might befall them in the night now that their whereabouts were known. Leaving the town after dark was not an option, though, as they would be much more vulnerable to creatures, both human and otherwise, that skulked about in the night.
Taking turns on watch eased nerves only slightly, and none slept well, least of all Torvald. Tossing in the bed too small for his muscled and bulky frame, he dreamt he was surrounded by flames. A deep, loud, omnipresent voice said, “Learn.”
“Teach,” Torvald replied in the dream.
“Learn,” the voice only said again.
“Learn what?”
“Live.”
“Explain yourself.” Torvald’s brow furrowed in his sleep.
“Help.”
“Help what?”
“Redeem.”
“I haven’t done anything!” dream Torvald cried.
“Learn.”
“Who are you?”
“Redeem yourself.”
“How?”
“Vengeance.” The voice oddly softened a bit at this.
“Against whom?”
“Learn.”
“What do I do next?”
“Learn…to live,” the voice concluded. The flames rose and roared around Torvald in his mind. He woke with a start, jolting up in his bed drenched in sweat. It was morning.
Naivara, the last to keep watch, noticed Torvald’s shaken demeanor and asked if he was all right. “I’m fine,” he curtly replied, and Naivara shrugged and turned away. He decided not to tell the others about the dream. He was unsure of its meaning and did not care to add to the many troubles that already faced them. He looked down and realized his fists were clenched; as he opened them a ruby the size of a large pebble fell onto his sheets. It was a faceted gem, clearly crafted by someone with knowledge and skill. This, too, he decided to keep secret until he knew more.
During her watch, Ember had been fiddling with the magical sphere. She was determined to discover the secrets it held, but each of the buttons stubbornly refused to yield. And yet, she felt like she was on the edge of something, but she couldn’t say what.
