by C. M. Carney
Water however…
Gryph’s entire world became pain as the surge of electricity arced through his body. It felt like the time his childhood friend Rob had convinced him that putting a fork into an electrical outlet would be ‘real fun.’
His muscles clenched and his health plummeted. Dozens of flashes blinded him as bolts of lightning exploded from inside the denizen’s shell. His muscles seized, but he refused to let the pain stop him. He pushed with all his strength and the arcing spike of metal sunk deeper into the denizen’s shell. He was close to passing out when the maelstrom ended.
You have scored a Critical Attack on Denizen of the Deep.
A Critical Attack is like a Critical Hit, but where a Critical Hit directly results from a skilled, lucky or sneak attack with a weapon (or unarmed skill), a Critical Attack is granted when a magical, poisonous or similar attack is delivered to a particularly vulnerable area.
You have scored a Critical Attack to the brain cluster of a Denizen of the Deep. +300% magical damage.
You have done 1,050 points of electrical damage to the Denizen of the Deep. (25 (base damage of Lightning Storm) x 14 (Current Air Magic Level) x 3 (Critical Attack Bonus)).
Gryph slumped in exhaustion as the last bits of the denizen’s life bled into the water. The giant corpse drifted in slow, lazy arcs, its tentacle arms floating freely as black ichor spilled from innumerable wounds. He was barely alive. His health bar blared crimson fury as it hovered just above 10%. The Halo of Air flickered a dire warning. He went to cast the lifesaving air spell again but found that his hands would not make the complicated series of gestures necessary to control and focus the mana. His muscles seized and relaxed in random patterns and his body would not obey his commands. Despite the pain surging through his body and his imminent death, he felt a ragged, uncontrolled chuckle in his throat.
The denizen’s body floated to a stop and Gryph could see the dim light of the surface several dozen feet above his head. Well, fuck, Gryph thought. He was about to die, again. On the bright side, I’ll get to see Simon again. The stupidity of that idea brought a horrid rictus grin to his face as every muscle in his body seized and relaxed at random. Through the twitching pain, Gryph felt a deep rumble build inside the denizen’s shell.
The rumble grew more powerful and Gryph’s mind couldn’t help flash back to the arboleth larva that had attacked him in the Barrow. He was just starting to wonder if this disgusting beast had something similar when his Halo of Air blinked out. He was drowning, again, and this time he couldn’t prevent it.
They always said drowning was an easy way to go, but the burning and ripping sensations shredding his lungs made Gryph want to slap the crap out them, whoever the hell ‘they’ were. The last of his air bubbled from his mouth and his eyes glazed over when suddenly the shell exploded like an over-microwaved hot dog.
Gryph shot upwards towards the surface like a cork from a champagne bottle. His health dropped further, but he couldn’t know if was due to the drowning debuff or damage from the denizen’s exploding brain. He shot upwards towards the light, towards the surface. His eyes grew heavy, and he decided it was time to close them.
17
Gryph coughed as a brackish liquid that was part lake water and part crustacean ichor erupted from his mouth like a geyser. He coughed again and again as strong hands held him up. The hazy gumminess in his eyes cleared, and he saw Tifala smiling down on him.
“He’s good. Give him a moment to catch his breath.” Another smack pummeled Gryph on the back and another volley of rancid liquid bubbled past his lips. Gryph waved his hand in a lame arc trying to swat away the next back smacking attack.
“I’m fine,” Gryph yelled, or tried to yell. It came out as more of a hoarse squeak, but it had the desired effect and Ovyrm stopped smacking him. “Is everyone okay?” Gryph demanded as Ovyrm helped him lean against the side of the boat. He noted the boat had a few cracks and was missing a couple of planks but was otherwise in good shape. These elves build to last, Gryph thought as he bounced gently as the boat continued its journey across the Deep Water.
“I feel like crap,” Gryph said.
“Crap is not something one wants to feel like?” Ovyrm said.
“No, no it is not,” Gryph said wryly.
“Then maybe this will help to ease the feeling of crap,” Ovyrm said and handled Gryph his spear. Gryph’s eyes went wide. “Your rope brought it to the boat. It has quite the mind of its own.”
Gryph vowed to investigate his oddly intelligent length of twine the first break he got. Whenever the hell that happens. He thanked the xydai.
“Too bad it didn’t drag the Denizen of the Deep’s corpse up,” Wick said, a slight pout on his face.
“Why in the hell would we want that stinking pile of fish guts up here with us?” Gryph asked.
“Loot man. That thing was a Legendary Beast. Do you have any idea what kinda sweet stuff we could have plundered from its corpse? You’re in the Realms now baby. You need to learn to love looting.”
Gryph knew Wick was right if a little creepy and gross. He’d learned that lesson the hard way after watching the warlock plunder a bunch of wyrmynn corpses during their first fight. “If we live through this, we’ll backtrack and loot to your heart’s desire.”
“Deal,” Wick said with a grin. “Maybe we’ll find something that can fix your hair.”
Gryph scowled and then looked at the rest of his friends. The entire Adventure Party was soaked, bloody and matted like a pack of homeless dogs, but they were alive. Then he realized the boatman, whose name he hadn’t even known, was not on the boat.
“His name was Raegys,” Myrthendir said as if reading Gryph’s mind. “We did not find his body.”
A somber quiet hung over the group, interrupted only by the wind and the sound of their boat skipping across the water.
“Guess he was right about Deni,” Wick said in a sad and wry voice.
Silence hung over the boat as Myrthendir glared at the gnome, but then an uncontrolled smirk crossed his lips and a chortle of laughter burst from his mouth. A few more snickers came from his other companions, but then Tifala unleashed a full-on belly laugh and the entire group lost control and embraced the cathartic release. Tears and laughter rumbled across the lake and a part of Gryph’s mind hoped the Dwellers could hear them and fear would bite into their souls at the sound.
A few moments later the laughter ended and Wick held up a leather-bound flask. “To Raegys,” he said and took a swig. The flask made the rounds with each member of the fellowship taking a swig and toasting the dead boatman. The amber liquid reminded Gryph of bourbon if sweeter, and his mind flashed to a sunset drink on the porch of the house at Bow Lake. A drink shared by three people who barely talked as they toasted the mother and wife who’d left them before her time.
“We owe it to Mom to not drift apart,” Brynn had said that day and Gryph, then still Finn, had nodded. The Colonel, ever incapable of sugarcoating anything, even when his children needed it the most, told them they were fools. Too much pain, anger, and betrayal had happened to keep them together, especially now that their lynchpin was gone.
Brynn, Gryph thought as guilt bit into him. It had been days since he had thought of his sister, and he was shocked at how quickly his entire reason for coming to the Realms had slipped from his mind. Or perhaps my priorities have changed, he thought looking around at the ragged group of people on the boat.
Gryph closed his eyes and pictured the goddess that Brynn had become. Ferrancia, the Messenger Goddess, and the part of Gryph that was still Finn Caldwell told him she was safe, for now. And there isn’t a damn thing I can do about it at the moment, so focus on the mission at hand.
Gryph turned to Myrthendir who looked as much drowned rat as Prince Regent. The tall elf noticed his gaze and the man’s pale blue eyes seemed to dig into Gryph. It was odd. Gryph had never been the trusting sort, but when he gazed upon the Prince Regent he saw a man of conviction, a man who tr
uly believed the path he was on was the right one, the noble one.
In the back of his mind a niggling voice bubbled to the surface. The Colonel also thought that he was on the right path, the noble path, a path that led to him leaving you for dead in a rat-infested alley. Myrthendir’s eyes narrowed as if he could see the conflict swirling inside Gryph and the player’s heart rate grew more rapid.
Gryph forced a wry grin across his face and spoke. “You look like crap.”
A look of shock, tinged with anger, crossed the elf’s face and Gryph knew that few had ever dared talk to the Prince Regent in this manner before. Several heartbeats thumped heavy in Gryph’s chest and then a full-on belly laugh erupted from the man. After a few moments, he recovered. “You’re one to talk.”
Gryph reached up and realized he was covered in slime, ichor and what was likely brain matter. Now that he was above water he discovered that much of the muck that covered him smelled like ozone charred seafood.
“Yeah, you make me wish I was standing next to a goblin latrine,” Wick said in a tone that still clung to anger but was softening. “On a hot summer day.”
“And you look like something an umber beast passed through its colon … twice,” Gryph retorted. Both men grinned and Gryph hoped it was the beginning of forgiveness he saw in the gnome’s expression.
“I do not understand this realms fascination with bodily function jokes,” Ovyrm said with a bewildered huff.
“It is the province of children,” Myrthendir said grinning.
“You smell like a child who doesn’t know how to wipe properly,” Wick said under his breath.
“We’re here … children,” Tifala said, her sweet yet exasperated tone reminding Gryph of every matronly teacher he’d had as a child.
All eyes looked up as the boat slowed on approach to the shore. Another stone quay jutted into the water, but unlike the one in Sylvan Aenor, this one was in ill repair. Stonework battled creeping vines in a glacial battle and so far the stone was losing the battle.
Beyond was a cobbled courtyard, tufted with weeds. The remnants of several dozen buildings jutted from the ground like the broken teeth of a long dead giant. Trees and scrub brush encroached upon the grounds from a forest that clung to the foothills before thinning out as the hills turned to mountains.
“Life thrives,” Tifala said under her breath as she gazed upon the sprawling green. Tifala brought the boat up to the quay and Ovyrm leapt from it, dragging the mooring line behind him. He tied it to a rusty, but still solid, iron ring and tugged several times to ensure it held. Then he helped the rest of the group from the boat.
Gryph nodded his thanks to the xydai and then turned his attention towards the face of the mountain. It rose several thousand feet above them, a jagged peak crested by snow and veiled by wispy clouds. It would have reminded Gryph of the Italian Alps if not for the two massive statues carved from the face of the mountain. They were powerfully built bearded men that Gryph knew were the ancient Thalmiir. The armored figures stood proudly and soared at least two hundred feet into the air. The one on the right held a massive hammer while the one on the left hefted a brutal double-edged axe. Both were adorned in overlapping plates of armor. Flecks of silver, gold, and platinum still clung to parts of the mighty warriors suggesting that in their prime they’d been sheathed in the precious metals.
This had been a rich and mighty city, and a deep sadness overcame Gryph at its current state. Nothing is permanent. Change is inevitable. Gryph scowled to himself as the phantom voice of his father recited one of his oft-repeated mantras.
As he got closer, Gryph saw that the statues also doubled as watchtowers. Hidden in the nooks and folds of the statue were battlements, balconies, and slits that once provided mighty dwarf warriors the ability to defend their city. Now the worn defenses were home to bird and beast.
Between the two massive stone warriors, an artificial tunnel pushed into the face of the mountain. The wide thoroughfare cut at least five hundred feet into the rock. A glance up showed Gryph more defensive bulwarks. Assaulting this place would be a suicide mission, Gryph thought.
Ahead of them, a pair of stone doors lay open. Like the statues and the mountain itself, the doors were of a massive scale, reaching nearly to the waists of their guardian sentinels. The Thalmiir had cut them from the living rock of the mountain and wind and time had worn their once intricate carvings.
The group did not speak as they approached the entrance as if all of them understood the solemnity of this moment. Gryph used his racial ability Night Vision to peer inside the massive edifice and saw that the huge tunnel continued deep into the mountain.
A rustling noise in the scrub brush to Gryph’s left drew his attention, and he held up a hand, stopping the others. His heart pounded in his chest as he sought the source of the noise. Silence reigned and Gryph realized that even the bird sounds so common in the valley had ceased. He was almost ready to move forward again when the rustling returned, louder this time and the leaves of a nearby bush shook.
Everyone took aim. Ovyrm had his bow. Wick and Tifala held raised hands. Myrthendir held his staff at the ready, a low thrum of mana pulsing at its tip. Gryph began the motions to cast Flying Stalactite. The rustling grew louder and then a small, red head popped between the leaves and a pair of large yellow eyes peered at them. A wide grin split the creature’s face revealing far more teeth than it could possibly need. A hiss bubbled from deep inside that mouth as the creature stepped further out onto the branch.
The eyes went wide and the beast disappeared with a pop of fire and smoke. A pulse of energy from Myrthendir’s staff blasted the bush apart, and then another pop brought the smell of sulfur to the group’s noses.
“Bad, bad, pale pretty man,” came a high-pitched screech of a voice as Xeg, the imp of the chthonic realm, pummeled the side of Myrthendir’s head with his tiny red fists. “No try kill Xeg. Xeg just try say hi to ugly dumbheads.”
Myrthendir was in shock, vainly swatting at the imp that was using his head as a punching bag. Each blow did little damage, but the hell beast’s tiny claws and teeth were razor sharp.
“Xeg, stop,” Wick yelled. “He is a friend.” Xeg did not seem to hear, or perhaps, like a small child, the red beastie did not want to hear. It continued to pound its fists into the Prince Regent’s head, occasionally slapping him across the face with its tail for added insult.
“Bad try kill Xeg, tall pretty face feel wrath of Xeg.”
Gryph ran up and grabbed the squirming creature around the waist. The tail which seemed to possess an ill will all its own smacked and poked at Gryph. “Xeg cut the crap.” The chthonic creature seemed no more interested in listening to him than he had Wick. I really need to talk with Wick about his control over this beastie, Gryph thought.
“By Orthendir’s blade, what the hell is that thing?” Myrthendir howled, trying to take aim with his staff again.
Xeg squirmed in Gryph’s grasp like a cat desperate to avoid a bath, and Gryph felt blood well from a dozen tiny cuts on his face, neck, and hands. The imp's clawed foot cut a deeper slice into Gryph’s cheek and he was becoming pissed when Tifala’s sweet voice cut through the cacophony.
“Xeg, I have a tasty sweetie for you,” The gnome woman said in a calm voice, holding out a small item wrapped in paper. Xeg stopped instantly as if his titanic battle versus Gryph’s face was a long-forgotten event and jumped from Gryph’s head to Tifala’s shoulder.
There he cooed as Tifala handed him the sweet and rubbed the underside of his chin.
“This infernal demon belongs to you?” Myrthendir raged and glared at Wick.
“Xeg no belong nobody pretty dumb pointy,” Xeg hissed and looked ready to renew his attack on the tall elf. Tifala held the imp lightly and sang in a low voice, instantly calming the beast like a newborn baby.
“Throw it aside and I will send the demon back to the Blasted City,” Myrthendir yelled as trickles of blood flowed from a dozen small wounds. His crazed eyes
made him look like the last survivor of a massacre.
