Chapter 3 - Carabas and the Descent into the Forges
The Forges were built when the city of Redvalley was part of the Ohir Empire (thus, the spooky statues that hold back the Mist, etc.), wrought by that race and their allies, the Drolopes. Meow meow meow. A dry and dusty tale, but thusly could Wynn give advice on the place, which basically added up to “don’t look too closely at the walls.”
Riiiiight.
As a Catling, of course, I have a fondness for dark, enclosed places. They make one feel secure, hidden, safe.
The Forges are … sort of the opposite. Glowing crystals hardly illuminate. Cyclopean architecture. The sense of dark magic and darker things lurking beyond it.
Not homey. Not safe.
Wynn examined a clumsy trap left by the looters who’d left guards outside. But by then we’d heard sounds from down below, deeper in the Forges, the signs of looters seeking during the city’s fall to make off with its riches, riches that belonged to others, that the people of the city might need.
That made it an imperative that we confront these nattering, cheering villains, and put an end to their villainous villainy!
I immediately leapt to the fore, volunteering to creep on padded feet – well, comfortable and stealthy booted feet – to spy out our prospective foes. Careful and crafty was I, descending into the tunnels below, cutting through workrooms and vaults, until I came out right atop a many-tiered stoa, looking down upon a frightful scene below.
Amidst banked forges and vaults of various types, stood a massive stone, several paces across and tall, hollowed in places, studded with colorful crystals. About it were dozens of thieves and brigands, one of them clearly their dastardly leader, all of them …
… yelling and jeering at the stone? What madness was this?
Aha! After a moment, my sharp eyes spotted two figures at the stone, about some undiscerned work, which work was prompting the threats of the gang. In return to soft words from one about them giving patience to their “mistress,” the brigand leader offered more vivid promises of bloodshed. To which more words were exchanged, indicating that one of those fiddling with the great stone was a Harbinger!
Of great alarm was that claim, so I knew my most important goal was to report back this precious intelligencing. Quickly and quietly away I dashed, to report to the others, “They have a Harbinger!”
Our own Harbinger, Rowan, insisted this a perfect moment to stroll down and chat with his compatriot, though he’d told us that many of this number had sided with the Overlord. But he seemed unconcerned with this, as well as with the three-score brigands who were also on the scene.
Well, to enter such a tableaux with a healthy swagger is a rare treat, not to be missed. And so we did.
Ann remained with our hapless neighborhood rescuees above, with Hambone to keep her safe. Virens’ new friend took overwatch with his crossbow. But Virens himself, Rowan, Wynn, and I marched, bold as brass, into the chamber, following the directions I’d winkled out at great risk.
The Orc and Harbinger made their presence known with loud, stomping steps, to alarm and intimidate. I, of course, had no need for such puffery – those who watched knew full well the threat I posed, should they behave untowardly. The brigands all took a step back – as well they might, my kitlings!
The man on the outside of the stone (for his companion was hidden within) was a human Harbinger, of (I was later told) handsome mien, well dressed, a sword by his side and a slight sneer on his lips. It turned out that he and Rowan knew each other, his name was Ecki of Bornaer, known in whispers and pub chit-chat as the most skilled of the Harbingers, if not the most powerful – a level of skill that it is said he knew well and respected himself greatly for.
Rowan called him by a pet name of “Edward,” doubtless harkening back to their previous acquaintance.
They exchanged some meaningless metaphyscial twaddle interspersed with not-so-veiled threats, and then matters became far more interesting. Ecki’s companion was one of the Overlord’s own generals, Silflae, known for their mercy and an implacable sense of honor and duty. What I’d not known before was that they were of Ofir, one of Wynn’s people, and they were dressed in darksome armor once worn by the protectors of the great tower of Nelres. As they were revealed to us, climbing out of the stone, in one hand, or floating just above it, was a crystalline matrix of wires and mesh, and even as it slowly rotated, they spoke words of great cruelty and provocation at Wynn –
– words that drove them mad, and into a headlong attack upon the General!
How would I be called to save my fellow? Ah, that will be a part of the tale you will especially want to hear, if some one of you can pour a bit of drink for your storyteller!
cf. Chapter 03: The Fellowship and the Descent into the Forges