24th Day of the Arc of Halail

Ramirez called to the lagging elves and fear-filled human and elf; shaking Naurdil as much as he dared, the Sarcosan could not revive his ally.  Aranar, one of the freed elven refuges, stepped forward and volunteered to channel a healing spell, but just as he did so, Naurdil sat up and blankly stared at his companions.  With an eeiry look upon his white-on-white eyes, the elf babbled in olde elven; with Aranar translating it quickly became clear that Naurdil’s near death experience had left his shaken to the core.  With little time to contemplate his condition, both Ramirez and Bronn made it a point to keep an eye upon him for further unusual conduct.

Pushing onwards on the trail of Jedakal, the party returned to the sewer juncture.  Bronn was the first to spot a small form upon the pedestal and he motioned the elven scout, Galres, to trail his sights upon the creature.  Then the group called to the small figure, a halfling who nervously warned of orcish patrols and a party of strange elves.  His last comment gained the immediate interest of the group as they plied this halfling refugee with questions.  “To the west,” answered the small figure, as he made his own needs know.  Introducing himself as Tolo, the small halfling explained that he was stranded upon the pedestal during his evasion of the orcish partrols.

Harkush shouted simple instructions to the halfling and the slowly the clink of chains filled the chamber as the bridge raised to meet the party.  Quickly they moved towards the center, lowering the bridge that they had just crossed and raising the route to the west.  As they trotted forward, scouting for signs of their quarry they found it is droves.  Bludgeoned elves in their Blackwood armor littered the path they trod, as did another of the Fell creatures.  Though the three refugee elves, Aranar, Galres and Silaranus, deigned not to dress themselves in the armor, Naurdil freely took both armor from a slain elf and a cloak of the mace-wielding undead.  Strange glances passed between Bronn and Ramirez; falling back to Aranar they again ask the sage channeller if such action is characteristic of the battle-shaken.  The elf refused to cast doubt upon his kinsman, Naurdil, but perhaps even he had doubts as to the shaken soldier’s sanity.

As the group continued forward they came upon four seemingly dazed Blackwood elves.  The party quickly flew into action, slaying the elves with neither compunction nor delay.  It was as if these foul servants of Izrador were more focused on what had just passed them in pursuit of their prisoner.  They knew that their prey was close and hastened their steps.  The tunnel continued to climb upwards to the crest of Crown, they surmised and finally they reached a set of stairs that seemed to promise a lengthy climb.  Staring at this prospect and the possibility of traps, Naurdil seemed to remember something, some scrap of lore half-forgotten.  Believing this to be the beginning of the elven spire, he strongly suggested that they take a short-cut forgotten to time.  Though doubtful, the party followed the elf that had seemed to regain his speech.

Shortly they arrived at an opening into a gully, an overgrown garden that sheltered in the shadow of the spire.  With glances upwards, the others inquired where was this short-cut.  Moving about in the overgrown Arboreum, they all begin to sense a feeling of dread, as if they had disturbed spirits but lightly asleep.  The hair upon their necks stood up and the whistle of the wind was filled with the groaning of the lost souls tied to the now twisted spire.  Looking to retreat, they steeled themselves and continued the search of the abandoned garden.  In moments they located a stone arch etched to look like stone boughs.  As they approached the air beneath the air began to swirl to display a scene, real enough, of a withered tree that appeared almost petrified.  From legend it was known that the tower housed a heart tree atop the spire, thinking this the route to the top the party leapt through the arch and briefly into the Old Way.

In an instant they found themselves atop the spire and thrown into the midst of what could only be an internecine battle between the Devout and the Cabal.  A Fell creature was battling a cadre of Blackwood elves on the stairs leading up to their current level; but even more arresting was the chanting of the Erunsil that filled the floor.  A Danasil “stood” suspended above the ground, while his snow elf captor seemed to holding him in stasis.  Without a delay the warriors knew that they had to stop Lo’Sain before he could complete the ritual.  Whatever Jedekal knew it was clearly valuable enough for two of the four Night Kings to opening contest for the upper hand.

Before they could disrupt the Erunsil’s chanting, a ring of winter wolves, each more massive than the next, would need to be breached.  As the group ran across the flagstone floor Ramirez threw a wand to Naurdil with a sheepish grin, admitting that perhaps he should have mentioned this device before they had joined the combat.  Pausing Naurdil quickly identified the item as a wand of healing, its markings were of elven make, perhaps even from the craftsmen of the Queen herself.  This powerful aid would be used and virtually depleted in the fight to come.

Throwing themselves at the wolves first, this band of resistance traded steely blows for icy blasts, often coming away the worst for the dealing.  After precious seconds ticked away, several of them were able to worm their way past these snowy defenders only to face a sorcerer unique in might.  Breaking Lo’Sain’s concentration finally the attackers received what they both desired and dreaded, the evil mage’s full attention.

Meanwhile, the undead monster continued his progress virtually unchecked.  Though the twisted and evil elves were vicious foes themselves, the steady thud of the Fell creature’s bludgeon did not stop.  Rather, Sunuleal’s foul servant methodically cleared the opposition before him, slowly inching up the stairs into the chamber.

Lo’Sain drew an icy blade and swung it hard at the closest attacker, Bronn, just as Tolo and Ramirez continued their fight against the largest of the winter wolves, an alpha male whose icy breath was almost enough to kill in a single blast.  But the three, Bronn, Ramirez and Tolo were nimble warriors, evading the blast so often that when one was caught it was a surprise.  But even as they evaded the creature’s freezing breath, they could not turn aside its piercing bite.  Naurdil healed as he could with the rose-branch wand, barely in time.  Their elven companions were also in the fray, but whether through illness, fatigue or equipment they could not muster the same offensive or defensive results.  Quickly these allies fell to the bite and blasts of the wolves.

Where was Elenon wondered the warriors; looking back it seemed that he was locked in battle with another elf channeler, his original foe from some many arcs ago, Arowraith.  Ramirez attempted to aid the Erunsil in his battle, but steely bindings wrapped themselves about the Sarcosan.  Bronn continued his efforts to wrestle Lo’Sain to the ground, but finally decided to keep stabbing with his blades.  Progress was slow and it seemed like it would not be enough, but suddenly a boney “spear” pierced the elven mage’s chest, followed by a shrill call.  The foul undead beast, Zaindral, who camped atop the spire, had launched its attack.  With a single swoop it has impaled Lo’Sain and took flight with its prey.  The sounds of their fight trailed into the window of the spire, but soon were lost among the remaining clamor and din of battle.

Confusion covered the battle, great deeds of heroism echoed those stone walls witnessed only by the combatants and the withered tree, but as the dust cleared the warriors had slain all their foes.  The elven allies were dead and gone, slain atop the spire.  Fearing more attackers, they fled the way they had come; though this time with Jedadkahl slung over their shoulders.  Racing back through the Old Way, winding through the Arboreum and into the sewers, the party had the hubris to think the danger was behind, when all the while they dashed towards greater danger.

At the junction of sewers the party quickly made it to the pedestal, then began to lower first one bridge and raise another.  But just as they tried to lower and raise the next stone platform the shuffle of hob-nailed boots and the echo of orcish bellows filled the massive chamber.  Orcs from two directions charged into view, bowman and javelin hurlers at the ready.  In a frenzy the battered and beaten warriors would once again be forced to defend themselves.  They traded missile fire, striking more orcs than they thought to, but the ranks were dressed and the servants of Izrador pressed onwards.  Harkush could not seem to work the infernal dwarven mechanism and slowly the bridge was made ready for the first set of orcs to cross.  The group began to hack at the suspension below the bridges, though the progress was slow at best.

In a fit of halfling vigor Tolo charged one group of orcs throwing himself at them in a valiant, yet foolish, attempt to stem the tide.  With an economy of strokes, Tolo lay on the bridge downed by so many vardatch hits; just as he fell Elenon let loose a deep shout from his lungs, sundering one set of chains that held the bridge level.  With a sickening twist and shudder, the stone spindle cantered to the left and the halfling’s unconscious form slide off and down into the waste below.  A noble death?  Perhaps for a halfling, but most would consider drowning in shit the ultimate ignominy.

Working the remaining chains the group sundered the supports and Harkush was able to raise the next bridge while the orcs peppered the fleeing “heroes” with their wicked barbed arrows.  Fleeing pell-mell, the party rambled, sliding and slipping their way to Eligos’ refuge.  Though he wrinkled his nose at their stink, the Baden retainer granted them sanctuary reluctantly. 

Within this place of relative calm, they healed and rested; though when asked for channeled healing Naurdil could only shake his head for none was there.  The comrades studied their companions for signs of treachery, others collapsed in exhaustion, while others threw themselves at Eligos’ tomes.  A day and night passed while passage was arranged.  Word came that the boat was ready for flight.  Readying themselves they took their leave of Eligos and Harkush.  Harkush’s wishes were warm, calling for good luck and safety.  “But of course, with the Norfalls,” nodded the sewer guide, “You will of course be safe!”  Elenon, Naurdil and Ramirez each silently mouthed the name of “Norfall” unsure what this development could portend.

XP Awarded: 7,850