by C. M. Carney
(A) Chthonic Bow: Summons a bow made of crimson flame, smoke and sulfur that comes with a quiver filled with 1 chthonic arrow per 3 levels of Chthonic Magic Mastery. Unused arrow will disappear after 1 hour. Arrows do 1.5 points of damage per level of Chthonic Magic Mastery.
Now he had long been a fan of the Chthonic Weapons perks. Chthonic Bolt, which fired a shard of chthonic energy at his enemies. He’d love to upgrade the Chthonic Missile tree, but since he did not possess the Archery skill, he had no way of knowing what wonders lay beyond.
Maybe I’ll have Ovyrm teach me, he thought. Another thing to add to the list. He turned his attention to the Chthonic Melee Weapons tree.
Chthonic Melee Weapon:
This perk tree allows a warlock to summon chthonic melee weapons, either for oneself or for a summoned chthonic creature. The wielder must possess the requisite skill. The weapon will have various magical abilities per tier and the user must possess a complementary skill to use the weapon. EXP: Long Blades level 1+ to use a chthonic long sword.
(B) Chthonic Flame: Summons a weapon made from chthonic flame. The weapon does damage equal to a weapon of the same type +.25 points of chthonic flame damage per level of Chthonic Magic Mastery.
(A) Chthonic Magma: Summons a weapon made from chthonic magma, that possesses all the abilities of a chthonic flame melee weapon and can melt armor, shields and weapons, reducing their effectiveness. Each successful hit against armor or shield will reduce the effective AC by .10 points per level of Chthonic Magic Mastery. This loss is permanent. Magma damage is + .35 points of chthonic flame damage per level of Chthonic Magic Mastery.
Wick had used his first Specialty Perk Point to buy Avernerius a nice shining sword of flame. The abyssal terror was a, well, terror with the weapon. Wick bought the perk and chuckled like a boy opening a present on his naming day.
I’m gonna fuck you up Myrthendir, Wick thought with a mental grin, and examined his chthonic sub-skill trees.
Chthonic Enhancement Perk Tree
Tier
Might
Upgrade
Mutation
B
Weapon
Blood
Base
A
Armor
Ichor
Apprentice
J
N/A
N/A
N/A
M
N/A
N/A
N/A
GM
N/A
N/A
N/A
Chthonic Summoning Perk Tree
Tier
Brawler
Flyer
Avatar
Forces
B
Gorrath
Vulccoth
Base
Tornado of Claws
A
Carraxen
Shadowling
Apprentice
Chthonic Muck
J
N/A
N/A
N/A
N/A
M
N/A
N/A
N/A
N/A
GM
N/A
N/A
N/A
N/A
Chthonic Weapons Perk Tree
Tier
Crafting
Missile
Melee
B
Damage
Bolt
Flame
A
Defense
Bow
Magma
J
N/A
N/A
N/A
M
N/A
N/A
N/A
GM
N/A
N/A
N/A
Satisfied that his efforts would help save Gryph and horrified at what they had cost him, Wick closed out all his windows and opened his eyes. He nearly fell over, dizzy from the effort of tying his soul closer to the chthonic realm, but Errat caught him by the scruff of his shoulder. Tifala looked into his eyes, like a battlefield doctor inspecting a wounded soldier.
“I’m fine my love.”
“Did it work?” Ovyrm asked.
“Let’s find out.”
Wick downed a double dose of mana potions and waited for the bar to refill. Then he spread his arms wide and closed his eyes. A low chanting murmured up around them. Wick had always found it odd that when he chanted the words, they both came from him and from elsewhere. He tried and failed, to find the origin of the sound for the hundredth time.
The chanting reached a crescendo and a loud voice that both was and was not Wick’s exploded from his mouth.
“AVERNERIUS … I SUMMON THEE!”
The room filled with the sound of tearing as if a thousand upon thousand sheets of paper were being shorn in half. A singularity of crimson and smoke popped into existence a dozen feet in front of Wick. It pulsed and spun, crackling with energy.
Wick felt a deep sense of unease build inside him as the light of another plane of existence flowed over and through him. He knew the chthonic realm was a living entity that held a deep malevolence for beings from the mortal realms, but this somehow felt different.
The single point of light expanded vertically and then that slice between dimensions expanded into a doorway to the abyss. Distant cracks of yellow lightning surged through clouds the color of an old bruise, casting illumination on a writhing mass of demonic life. Amid the roiling sea of arms, legs, tentacles and other unidentifiable appendages a massive demon raced toward them.
A grim look of satisfaction crossed Wick’s face as he saw the changes Avernerius had gone through. It stood several feet taller than he remembered and its horns had grown several feet, curling inward like a ram’s. They burned in a corona of chthonic flames.
“Don’t look it in the eyes,” Wick warned as the beast reached the threshold between realms, and the others turned their gazes down. The demon passed through the field, then it flipped like a mirror image pulling the demon into this realm where it smashed full on into the massive stone doors.
The doors rumbled and shook, but otherwise held. The demon flexed its hands and Wick noted the large plates of stony bone covering the knuckles. They sprouted spines and barbs which not only protected the demon’s fists but added an extra oomph to its punches.
Dust and fragments of stone fell from the ceiling as the demon’s impacts sent shivers through the entire mountain. The noise was deafening and after a moment thin cracks appeared in the stone of the door.
Errat stood gaping at the demon, something between excitement and fear emanating from him. He reached out a tentative hand to touch Avernerius, when Xeg ported onto his shoulder and smacked his arm, for all the world looking like a sheep herder disciplining his dog. The warborn looked up at the tiny imp and Xeg shook his head in warning. Errat frowned and turned his eyes downward like a chastised child and backed away from the indefatigable demon.
More hairline cracks appeared in the surface of the door and Avernerius focused his fury on the largest of them. The crack grew wider and light poured from the fissure. The demon brought its fist back and pummeled it into the doorway. An explosion tore through the room, tossing Avernerius backwards. The force knocked everyone off their feet.
Errat was the first to stand and grinned his thanks at Xeg, knowing the demonling had likely saved his life. Ovyrm helped Wick up, but he collapsed back onto one knee as a trickle of blood dripped from his nose. Tifala rushed to his side, taking his head in her hands. A swirl of green light flowed around them and into Wick’s body, staunching the flow of blood.
“Are you sure you have control over this thing?” Ovyrm said, voice tense.
“I think so,” Wick said through gritted teeth. “He is very strong.” He waved his hand telling everyone to move back.
Avernerius regained his feet, unfazed by the explosion, lowered his head and charged the door. His ram like horns punched into the stone and the
crack in the door expanded. The light inside grew dim and then faded altogether.
The demon redoubled its efforts and soon large chunks of the door crumbled to the floor. The noise was deafening and just as Wick was sure his hearing would never be the same the demon stopped. Its breath came ragged, each exhalation pumping smoke and sulfur into the room.
Then a silence descended on the room, made more potent by the sudden absence of sound. Wick thought the demon had given up, but then it extended its left hand outward and a hilt of golden magma appeared in his hand and a blade of fire and smoke exploded upwards, its brightness forcing everyone to shield their eyes.
31
Gryph floated without care or need. A distant and dull boom rose from the depths and touched the edge of his hearing. It was like the heartbeat of an ancient leviathan awakened and hungry to feed. He forced his mind towards the sound and realized he was in the depths, hidden in darkness. Something was calling him back, something important. The weapon, a voice said inside his mind, a voice he realized was his own. With awareness came remembrance and with memory came panic. He pushed up through the thick nothingness to consciousness and pain came with it.
Gryph gasped in pain as full consciousness returned. He could not move, and flashbacks of the paralytic Dirge had used in the Barrow came back to him. The thundering boom that had drawn him back to the world of pain came again, and again and he understood that someone, or something, was trying to smash through the massive stone doors.
Wick and the others? A thought came to him. Avernerius?
He opened his eyes. He was hanging upside down, tied and bound, his body enveloped in the arachnid’s webbing, long strands twinned around him and then disappeared up and into the shadows of the ceiling.
He wrenched his body back and forth in a feeble attempt to escape, but only aggravated his ill-healed gut wound further. Below him Myrthendir sat cross-legged, eyes closed, Gryph’s soul bound bag resting on his lap. The Prince Regent was muttering under his breath and his hands moved in intricate patterns over the bag.
He’s trying to break the soul binding like he did with the Seal of the Dwarven King.
Shock bit into Gryph. How is it even possible? The goddess who’d given him the bag assured him that nobody, not even the gods, could break the binding. Yet somehow this aberrant, this accident of horror and malice, had managed it once already.
He already has the seal. What horrors can he unleash with the eggs?
Gryph watched the elf lord struggle to force his hand into his satchel. The bag is trying to resist him. Sweat trickled down the elf lord’s brow, and a grunt of pain slipped past his lips, but he pushed harder and then he had access. His whole body shook for several moments as he cycled through the bag's inventory. A moment later he pulled his writhing prize free.
Myrthendir looked down upon the egg in triumph as the larva’s mind screeched its hate at him. Myrthendir placed the egg sack into a glass and metal box. As he closed the lid the telepathic screaming ceased.
Some kind of stasis? Like the bag.
Myrthendir returned his attentions to the bag. Sweat trickled down the man’s brow. Whatever method he was using to break the stasis took an extreme amount of effort. I have to get free.
The booms smashing against the door grew in intensity but were not enough to break Myrthendir’s focus. Maybe I can catch him unawares. Gryph suspected that the man was not stupid enough to leave Gryph to his own devices without keeping some kind of eye on him.
An answer came to Gryph in the form of an arachnid. His Night Vision spotted the creature before it emerged from the shadows clinging to the ceiling, but the glint of gold and brass as it emerged into the light, heightened the predatory zeal in every motion of the once friendly service machine. The foot-wide mechanical beast eased close to him its eyes bearing a specter of life.
A part of him is watching me, Gryph realized. Time to give that part a show.
“You don’t think the arboleth will accept what you are, do you?” Gryph said, staring at the cluster of crystals that were the construct's eyes. “An aberrant who is both Prime and El’Edryn, but also neither. You’re an obscenity. You have no place in this world or any other.”
Below, the elf lord moved slightly, his meditative state nudged by Gryph’s taunt. The booming against the door grew louder and more particles of dust fell like slow motion rain from above. I need to buy more time.
The arachnid stood tall, spreading its forelegs wide. A small nozzle pushed from what Gryph had thought of as the machine’s mouth and a wad of sticky, fibrous webbing erupted from the nozzle. It smacked Gryph in the face with enough force to draw blood from his lip. It only took a few points of his health, but he was now gagged. Guess he isn’t in a talking mood.
The elf lord returned to his task, his left hand still worked the intricate movements, but his right now hovered over the bag’s opening.
Gryph moved his body back and forth, pushing his momentum into a slight pendulum rotation as he looked for his spear. After a minute, Gryph found his weapon and frowned. Thick webbing held the spear to one the stone columns. The dark gray color told him it was already solidifying. Soon it would be as hard as stone.
His eyes moved back to Myrthendir, whose hand shook as if he was trying to push it through solid stone. The Prince Regent was sweating from the effort. The effort of breaking the seal is costing him dearly. I need to end this now.
He let his mind strategize and a few moments later he had a plan. Not a great one, but he’d take anything. He closed his eyes and let the mana flow through him. He focused his mind onto the glowing sphere of multicolored light as it pulsed into the center of his chest. His mind drew several strands from it and they pulsed and spun in many directions, ready for Gryph to unleash their pent-up power.
He was ready and the fate of thousands, if not millions, of people would come down to timing and luck.
He activated his Ring off Air Shield, his mind shaping and forming the field of solidified air. He hoped the webbing was incapable of resisting the force exploding from the shield. If not he’d be hanging up here until Myrthendir had what he wanted. He knew the elf lord would kill him the second he no longer needed him. The sound of rushing wind battled a crunching tear as the hardened webbing exploded around Gryph in a halo. His bonds cut, Gryph’s body was again the victim of gravity and he fell, his head speeding toward the stone floor ten feet below.
He spun, tore the gag of webbing from his mouth and landed on his feet as three tendrils of mana sped down his arms. Two pulsed into the bracers at each wrist while the third made his arm as rigid as stone. The repeated booms of the monster trying to smash through the massive door brought a surge of joy to Gryph’s heart. I need to buy time.
Gryph extended his arm towards his trapped spear and a cylinder of rock flew from the outstretched palm. He’d cast this Flying Stalactite with a flat nose instead of the spell’s standard sharp tip. It cracked into the hardening fibers trapping his spear like a battering ram as Gryph tugged with the magnetic force of his bracers.
The stone’s impact cascaded shards of the hardened webbing and the stone of the pillar in a wide arc, but the spear held fast. Gryph pushed more mana into the bracers and he willed virtual muscles to flex.
Behind him, he felt Myrthendir stir, and panic rose like bile in Gryph’s throat. He forced himself not to look back, concentrating all his will into the bracers. He felt the tearing of the webbing before he heard it and his spear was free and flying to his outstretched hand.
Gryph spun and brought the tip of the spear down, activating Penetrating Strike, Impale, and Yrriel’s Bite. He heard the thunk of metal on wood as Myrthendir parried his blow with his staff. Sparks of electrical discharge flowed harmlessly along the spear’s tip and the aberrant elf grinned at Gryph through malevolent eyes.
“Too late,” Myrthendir said, and he held the second arboleth egg in an upturned palm like Eve holding the forbidden apple. Gryph’s eyes went wide with shock and
he spun his spear back readying another attack.
Gryph thrust forward but another foul screeching rose in his mind and he winced in agony. He pushed his way through the pain and stabbed with his spear, but first one, then two, then a dozen strands of thick webbing wrapped around his wrists, arms, torso, and legs, tugging him from all directions.
Myrthendir pushed the second egg into another of the stasis devices and walked to the Nexus table at the center of the room. There he placed the Seal of the Dwarven King into the slot and pushed down. The clang of metal on stone rose in the chamber and a circular pedestal rose up from the stone table.
Gryph struggled against his bonds bringing the spear’s tip down upon one of the sticky strands of webbing. He sawed at it, slicing through the splice strands.
“Drop the spear,” Myrthendir said almost absentmindedly, like an exhausted teacher scolding a teen with a spitball.
Gryph struggled more and the strand of webbing snapped. Another two replaced the one he’d cut, and they wrenched his arm into an impossible angle. The pain forced him to drop his spear, its dull clang of metal on stone echoing through the suddenly silent room. Both men knew what the absence of sound meant.
“Looks like your friends have given up. Guess it is just you and me now.” Myrthendir closed his eyes and held his hand over a rune covered section of the Nexus table and the walls of the column spun back down into the table, revealing a hollow that contained a skull, a skull bearing a crown of simple iron, encrusted with jewels.
The Iron Crown rests on the brow of the last Stone King, Gryph thought hearing Errat’s words in his mind. Then a rather macabre thought occurred to him. I'm staring at my own skull.
Myrthendir reached into the hollow in the pillar, hands hovering an inch from the crown. He closed his eyes as if performing some reverent ceremony, then he pulled the band of cold iron up to his brow. He set the crown onto his head, opened his eyes and stared at Gryph. The movement cast a multihued halo around his head and he smiled.
