Why Does an Archmage Live in a Cave?
Foreword
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This is a true story that takes place sometime around the turn of the century (AR 100). This story was relayed to the writer verbally by Angela Amana in the year AR 156. In order to turn the story into prose, some minor embellishment was added. None of these changes add or alter any key facts.
Chapter One: Disturbing Rumors
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'"As the silver moon waxes and wanes, so too does life."'
Angela Amana, prepared for travel, wandered away from Cordor. Filled with determination and a sense of purpose, she set off on her journey. None had come with her, though she called for aid. Whether through conflicts in schedule or lack of interest, the point was the same: she was on her own.
The mage quickened her step as she took the road out of the city, a resolve fueled by thoughts of the disturbing rumors that had begun her mission: that the Malarites had been increasing their raids, searching for, capturing, and sacrificing Sel nites. Her mission was clear: she had to know if the rumors were true, and, if so, put a stop to them, through sheer force of will.
Her destination was obvious: the Forest of Despair, and in it, the Malarite Temple.
She arrived at the Forest and traversed through its woods, unusually quiet, without the typical number of Malarite raiding parties and patrols. Noting this, she increased her pace as she drew closer to the temple, a speed fueled by a brazen fury. If they were not in the woods, then they were likely in their temple, and this led truth to the rumors. Perhaps a sacrifice was already in progress. She began almost running. Suddenly, a rustling: a few Malarite warriors, some hundred feet away. She came to an abrupt stop, and the Malarites looked in her direction. They had seen her.
The fireball's blast knocked the Malarites off their feet before they even had time to draw from their quivers. Two of them were killed instantly. The mage, a Flameborn, regarded the third with a cold glare. He scrambled up to his feet and ran for the temple doors, which were mere yards away. A second blast ensured he never reached them.
As a Flameborn mage, she had the ability of accessing the weave without limit, and could thus conjure an endless array of evocation magic in the enemy's direction: fireballs, ice storms, darkness, and more. She was capable of immense power; a living siege weapon. And siege she did.
The Flameborn entered the temple, using a gust of wind to burst open the doors. She began traversing the corridors of the place, doing little to hide her presence; on the contrary, thunderclaps announced her arrival as she entered each chamber, groups falling prone from the sound, followed by a fiery inferno which kept them down. She continued through the place, confident in her success.
Powerful though the Flameborn was, magic requires concentration, and being surprised can be a Mage's worst nemesis. At one point, approaching a corner in the maze-like temple, a group of Malarites suddenly rounded it, surprising her. Whether her concentration was slightly off, or she was just a split-second unprepared for the onslaught, before she knew it, they had surrounded her and began their attack. In that split-second of shock, she would have looked quite vulnerable to the Malarites, and they no doubt thought her death would be bloody and long.
Surprised though she was, Angela reacted quickly. Some precise words and a quick gesture, and a cloud of smoke and embers was formed, her at its center. If you've never stood at the center of an Incendiary Cloud, imagine the very air you breathe being on fire, and then double it. The spell is typically used to take advantage of choke points and eliminate enemies from afar, as its magic knows not friend from foe and will burn alive _all_ that remain in its vicinity (even the caster). The Flameborn, though, possessed a wholly unnatural resistance to fire; she could withstand a fount of lava, and certainly could withstand the cloud of intense heat. "Surround me if you wish," she thought, "it will be your death, not mine."
She followed up her Cloud almost immediately with Darkness, watching as the Malarites suddenly stumbled about, flailing with their weapons wildly. They were in close quarters, though, and she was in a risky position.
The Malarites, though staggered at the sudden inferno that this corner had become, continued to assault her as best they could, relying on sound and deduction to try and gauge her position in the pitch-black corridor, though they were screaming in pain from even holding their metal swords. One of the warriors wearing plate mail began to shed it in desperation. Piercing through the sounds of battle, Angela heard a loud thwip, and staggered back. She glanced down to find an arrow stuck into her side. "Damn," she thought, gritting her teeth. "How?" She locked eyes with the archer, whose eyes appeared to pierce the magical darkness, and sent a ball of fire in his direction.
She summoned a magical dagger, which flew around the darkness and took care of the remaining warriors. As they thrust their weapons toward the direction of the dagger, they were rewarded with only air, and they succumbed to fire and metal.
The assault ended when the last of the group was burnt and bloodied, and she leaned against the wall, catching her breath and examining her wounds.
She was badly injured; the onslaught had left multiple lacerations and punctures in her body. An arrow was sticking out of her side and she was bleeding badly. The kind of wounds that would cause a less brash adventurer to cut their losses and run, thanking Tymora that they were not in the Fugue.
Angela did not panic. She knew she was close, and had come too far to turn back now; certainly not when doing so would leave the Malarites free to continue their sacrifices. She looked down at the arrow; the shaft had already become practically dust in the intense heat of the Cloud. She concentrated and manipulated the forces of positive energy, casting the spell of Greater Ruin, and precisely controlling its effects to cure her wounds. The arrowhead fell out of her body, falling to the ground harmlessly. She continued concentrating, and her lacerations began to close up. The bleeding stopped. She sighed with relief, and took a moment to clear her head.
She stood up, her confidence unwavered, and continued her descent. She maintained a cautious pace, at each turn expecting to find a group of foes, but the passages were empty. Something wasn't right.
As she rounded the next corner, she began to hear it, then: voices. Was it a conversation? She kept walking, and then realized: it was chanting. A ritual, in progress. The Flameborn quickened her pace.
A few more turns, and she threw open a set of doors, her eyes quickly taking in the sight before her: Six priests, gathered around an altar. On the altar, a body wrapped tightly in black velvet. The priests stood there, hands in the air, daggers raised and pointing downwards. Whatever ritual they were doing, they were mere seconds away from bloody murder.
Chapter Two: The Albino
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'"Trust in Sel nes radiance, and know that all love alive under her light shall know her blessing."'
Byshal, Cleric of Malar, Devout of the High Hunt, glanced at Angela as the door opened, but only for a split-second; he had to maintain concentration on his task. He was so close to completing his bloody sacrifice, and The Beastlord would be pleased with this particular one. They were so close, he could imagine the cries of pain around the isle as he completed ithe squeezed his hands tightly, establishing a firm grip on his dagger, and he motioned to push it downwards, towards the writhing mass of black velvet on the altar below.
Flameborn mages have a reputation for wanton destruction. There is some truth to this reputation; spells such as Incendiary Cloud and Fireball are extremely damaging, and the magic, for all its power, does not distinguish between friend or foe. Much like the siege weapons they are compared to, the shot of a catapult will surely dismantle whatever rampart it hits, and you'd best stay out of its path if you want to avoid getting caught in the resulting mayhem.
Angela observed the situation in front of her. This was not a situation that called for mayhem; this needed a precise touch. The priests surrounded the altar, their victim in the center. She needed to disable the priests, preventing them from completing their ritual, and then kill them while leaving the victim unharmed. She processed these thoughts, coming up with a plan, in less than a second, her eyes fixed on the priests' lowered daggers. It was time to make some choices.
Byshal, being closest to her, thought he heard something from near the door, a voice; likely the Mage he saw enter earlier. What was she shouting? It didn't matter; his task was nearly complete. He was _seconds_ away. He did not have his eyes on Angela, instead concentrating on lowering his dagger. He did not see her begin her incantation, a quick gesture, barely taking a second. Nor was he paying enough attention to recognize her utterance as the incantation for Great Thunderclap. Suddenly, a deafening noise filled the room, the sheer bass of it having the force of an earthquake. What was he doing, again? Wasn't he holding a dagger? Wasn't he meant to complete a ritual? None of that seemed real in that moment; the only thing he was aware of was the Sound; deep, penetrating, like it was reverberating inside his skull.
Through great strain, in a desperate plea for help, Byshal managed to glance to his right side and catch sight of some of his companions. They didn't look in any better shape than him; Demore, to his immediate right, had dropped her dagger and was holding her hands to her ears, as if that would help. Torien, further away, was on the ground, his body curled up into a fetal position. Byshal couldn't see the others; he had to assume the worst: it was down to him. He was still holding a dagger, wasn't he? He could almost-
Suddenly, a great force of air swept into him. Had he not been concentrating so heavily on the dagger or the sound, perhaps he could have retained his balance, but he was completely unprepared, and his legs were swept from under him. The room turned upside down for a moment and he fell to the floor with a painful thud. He struggled to breathe; the wind had been knocked out of him. He managed to raise his head slightly to see the woman's silhouette in the doorway; she was making another gesture, and her mouth was moving, though he heard no sound. His last sight was of the storm of missiles that emerged from her hands, several of which went straight for him.
Angela surveyed the destruction around her, and looked quite pleased with the results. The six "priests" were dead, and whoever was on the altar was safe. She took a moment to catch her breath, and finally looked at the altar in detail for the first time since entering the room.
The victim was tightly wrapped and completely covered in black velvet. They were bound with silk ropes so as to be stuck in a curled up position. She quickly cut the ropes with a dagger, and then started as the victim uncurled; she finally realized how big the victim was. Eight feet, easily, stretched out on the altar. The victim was not speaking, but just made a strange grunting noise. She became suddenly afraid. What was under that velvet?
She stood back and conjured a summoned blade, which she used to cut the victim free of the tight velvet. As the bonds loosened, a creature burst from the velvet, leaping forth from the altar. It landed in front of the altar with bent legs like a wolf's, and it stood up, rising well above eight feet. It was an albino werewolf with blazing red eyes. It looked straight at Angela, towering over her, and focused its eyes firmly on her. The stare was intense; it looked ready to fight. It would make sense for the creature to be enraged: how long had it been captive down here? How was it to know a friend from foe?
A silence filled the room, save the sound of their breathing. The creature hesitated, eyes darting around, taking stock of its surroundings. She observed its eyes glance in the direction of the dead Malarite priests. She studied it for a moment, and observed the seven stars of Sel ne in the fur on its forehead.
She put a stop to the silence with words. She began reciting the Dogma of Sel ne:
"Let all on whom Sel nes light falls be welcome if they desire. As the silver moon waxes and wanes, so too does life. Trust in Sel nes radiance, and know that all love alive under her light shall know her blessing. Turn to the moon, and she will be your true guide. Promote acceptance and tolerance. See all other beings as equals. Aid fellow Sel nites as if they were your dearest friends."
The creature's stance relaxed. The look in its eyes changed; the realization of what had just transpired beginning to dawn on it.
The creature introduced himself as "Rragunt'arrth," and explained that he and his tribe were captured by the Malarites and had been held captive for a full moon cycle; around fifty in total, captured gradually over a variety of raids. Rragunt'arrth was the leader of a pack of good-natured, natural lycanthropes; natural, as in not afflicted with lycanthropy through a curse. Rragunt'arrth and four others were the last to be captured, after they eluded the Malarites for a long time.
The Malarites were trying to complete a ritual to make every werewolf on the isle go into a blood ritual. She didn't have time to ask why; though the Malarites were severely depleted in number, they would likely have reinforcements on the way (She wasn't exactly subtle in her siege of the Malarite temple).
Rragunt'arrth intended to find the rest of his tribe that were captured, and then escape. Angela accompanied him, and the albino werewolf was able to locate them by scent. Through several twisted passages and doors, and then there! A long, narrow room, holding about a dozen cages. They entered the room, and she was struck immediately by the overwhelming stench of death and decay.
A quiet rage filled Angela as she surveyed the scene in front of her. Though fifty were captured originally, just twelve remained: females, one pregnant, and cubs only. The warriors had all been already murdered, and remaining survivors were in poor shape. The mothers were kept alive only to keep their cubs under control until it was their turn to be killed.
Rragunt'arrth quickly advanced towards the cages, growling at the metal locks keeping the cage doors shut. He reached toward the metal bars as if he was about to try to pry them apart, but Angela stopped him. She approached the first cage and gripped the lock in her hands. The metal softened in her hands, and she pulled the lock apart as if it was made of clay. Rragunt'arrth swung the door open, and she repeated this action on the remaining locks.
Rragunt'arrth looked over the tribe, tending to their wounds. She watched, and for the first time since arriving, found her rage exceeded by her grief. She knew these were Malarites they were dealing with, and yet the sheer evil and malevolence of this massacre was maddening.
The footsteps came suddenly. They had let their grief distract them, and were unprepared when they realized suddenly that Malarite reinforcements had arrived, and they were running towards the holding cells. They would be upon them soon, and from the cacophony their steps were making, they sounded an immense force. She looked around with concern; they were in a room with only one exit, back the way they came. She had devastating spells, certainly, but could she really take on an entire force and protect the injured? The footsteps continued; they were mere seconds away. Angela knew that if they didn't come up with a plan, this was going to be a bloodbath.
Chapter Three: The Escape
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'"Turn to the moon, and she will be your true guide."'
Time. They needed time. Time to think, time to act. Time was not on their side.
An idea formed.
Angela stepped outside of the room of cages. There, at the end of a long corridor, came the Malarite faithful, and they were a multitude. Archers, priests, even Warriors in heavy, hulking plate armor.
They were undoubtedly upset that their important ritual had been interrupted. No, the Beastlord would not get the sacrifice he desired; not today, and not as long as she could do something about it. She thought she could just barely make out their faces as they charged toward her. A warrior in front, visor up, stared her down. He had a wide jaw, and dark eyes. She could make out a scar underneath his eye. His expression shifted to a repugnant grin. "Weve got you cornered," that grin seemed to say. Archers in the back began nocking arrows. Her rage burned furiously, and she launched several fireballs in the direction of the oncoming horde.
Their expressions conveyed a degree of preparation; they knew, of course, by now, that a Flameborn had laid siege to the Temple, and they dodged left and right, in a premeditated attempt to avoid the center of the blast. Their prepared expressions turned to surprise as the fireballs flew far above their heads, colliding with the ceiling.
A prolonged moment passed.
A rumble was heard as the ceiling shook. The Malarites, unable to react in time, looked up in horror as the roof of the corridor suddenly collapsed, large pieces of stone falling onto their group. The grinning man had time to look back from the ceiling towards her, and thrust his arms forward, preparing for a leap. A large section of stone collapsed, and he (and his grin) fell to the ground. She quickly turned and moved back into the holding cell, as the corridor filled with smoke, debris, and screams.
She had gained them some time, at least.
She walked back to check on Rragunt'arrth, who was speaking with the survivors. A young cub, a wolfkin, was speaking.
"Its back here," the cub said, pointing, his (or possibly hers; she wasnt quite sure of the young wolfkins gender) voice somehow a mixture of lethargy and desperation. Angela wondered, her expression darkening, if the cub had lost their father to the Malarites, another victim of torture and sacrifice in the name of the Beastlord. She approached them.
"Whats this?" she asked, her eyes following the direction of the cubs paw. She saw only the stone wall of the room.
"The air," he said simply. "It smells fresher here. Sometimes when it gets too bad here, I come here to smell it."
She walked toward the wall and sniffed. Was it different, here? Shed trust the cubs nose more than her own.
There were noises from outside: shouting, and the movement of rock and stone. The Malarites who werent injured in the collapse must have been making their way through the rubble.
"See if theres something behind the wall. Ill keep them busy," Rragunt'arrth growled. She spared a second to glance up at him as he spoke. His eyes were wide with rage, and his teeth were bared. She felt a brief pang of terror as she looked at him, but it subsided just as quickly as it appeared. She nodded to him, and turned back towards the wall.
The wall, and much of the lower part of the temple, was carved out of stone, natural cracks, crevices and faults decorating the surface. An idea formed. She began casting cone of cold spells, directing the freezing blast at the cracks directly in front of her. The natural faults began to freeze, and she smiled. This could work
More commotion from behind her. The Malarites were breaking through! She didnt spare a glance, as she needed to focus. She cast the spell of Horizikaul's Boom, a spell that creates an incredibly high-pitched sound, only audible to those in a short range. If she could get the frequency right... there! Were those cracks beginning to form? She knew, then, that shed need to apply more force.
Her concentration was momentarily disturbed by a blood-curdling sound; the singular sound of _tearing flesh_, followed by the scream of a horrified man. The sound terrified her, and she spun around.
From her position, she could see a sliver out into the hallway, where the rubble was. The scarred, grinning man from earlier must have crawled through the rubble, along with another of the plated warriors. The scream was coming from the scarred man, as he stared at his arm, which Rragunt'arrth was holding, having torn it from the mans shoulder. Rragunt'arrth threw it back through the rubble, where it landed on the other side, greeted by more screams. A good tactic, she thought, attempting to dismiss her fear. Demoralize the enemy, make them hesitate to advance. Hopefully, it would buy them even more time. Rragunt'arrth descended on the scarred man, and she turned back to her work.
Precise and controlled blasts were needed here; she couldnt use a Fireball like she had in the Corridor without risking the stability of the room they were in, or harming the clan. Magic Missiles shot forth from her and assaulted the wall. The cracks deepened and spread, leaving the wall looking fragile. The ease of it gave her confidence that there was something, some space, on the other side.
She summoned a Gust of Wind, directing its force directly in front of her. She heard a great cracking sound, and the stone shook loose along its faults, pieces of wall flying forward rapidly, away from her, revealing a darkness beyond.
She peered at the dark space in front of her, which revealed itself once the dust began to settle; it seemed to lead to a series of tunnels.
"Its open!" the cub shouted excitedly, voice absent their earlier sluggishness.
"Go! Flee!" Rragunt'arrth shouted. He was still fighting, and Angela chilled as she heard the sound of more limbs being torn.
The tribe made their way through the space she had created, disappearing into the darkness within seconds. She followed briefly, only as far as she needed to lessen the sound of combat. She leaned against the wall, entering a recuperative state, attempting to access the concentration required to harness a powerful magic. She closed her eyes.
Rragunt'arrth stood his ground in the darkened hall, his glowing red eyes darting from one enemy to another. He faced two of them, a warrior in full plate armor with sword and shield, and a priest. The destruction she had caused was a boon, as it prevented more than one or two of the enemy from reaching him at a time. He could see, though, that they were trying to dig it out.
He lunged toward the priest first, but the plated warrior got in his way, blocking his swipe with his tower shield. He let out a booming growl and ripped the shield from the mans hand, his sheer power overwhelming the Malarites grip. The hall echoed with the sound of twisting metal as the werewolf _bent_ the shield in his claws, and then tossed it to the side.
The sound of a crossbow bolt _thwicked_ through the air, missing its mark and bouncing off the opposite wall. Damn; they had started to get clever, using the rubble as cover.
The priest was chanting something, behind him.
Rragunt'arrth spun around, knowing it would leave his back open for the warrior to strike. The priests eyes opened wide with horror as he charged into her, grabbing her by one of her arms and removing it from her body. She screamed, her spell temporarily abandoned, and he spun around as the plated warrior struck. Rragunt'arrth grunted as the blade grazed his side, and he then tore into the warrior, who attempted to parry defensively with his sword.
The parry may as well have been that of a child wielding a wooden sword. The werewolf broke through the defense easily, swiping the sword out of the way with one arm and clawing _through_ the mans breastplate with another, leaving bloody gashes where there was once metal.
The Malarites were beginning to dig through the rubble. Soon thered be room for more of them to make their way through. He was powerful, but there was still only one of him. Still, he thought, as long as his clan made it out alive, he would buy them as much time as he could.
Rragunt'arrth heard footsteps behind him. The priest? He spun around quickly. No, not the priest, who lay against the far wall, her body smoldering. Angela stood before him, a decisive look in her eyes.
"Run," she said. "Run, or die." She looked to be already preparing a spell. Her tone of voice was enough to tell him that she knew exactly what she was doing.
He nodded, and ran towards the holding cells.
She stood against the left-hand side of the hallway, her eyes focused ahead at the rubble down the corridor. More Malarites had begun to burst through the debris, running towards her with weapons drawn. The other warriors, lined up behind them, were gradually making their way through.
She completed her spell.
An enormous ball of energy shot forth from her hands. It zipped down the corridor at lightning speed, toward the advancing Malarites.
The Malarites stopped in their tracks. The one in front spun around, running back towards the debris. "Back!" he shouted, to the confused looks of the warriors behind him. The Malarites who could see it coming screamed. The ones behind retreated in confusion.
The ball shot toward the gap in the debris, where the Malarites thronged together in greatest number. One of them was halfway through the gap, and he looked up in horror as the ball passed him.
The ball stopped moving, and began circling the cluster of Malarites. For a brief moment, everything was still.
Then, suddenly, the corridor was immersed in light as the ball exploded in electricity, in splashes of acid, in the intense heat of fire, and a deafening sound.
The screams of the Malarites ceased, and all went quiet.
Chapter Four: The Gift
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'"Aid fellow Selunites as if they were your dearest friends."'
Angela made her way through the tunnels behind the Holding Cells, periodically pausing to collapse the area behind her.
She found the exit without too much difficulty, finding herself in a shallow cavern, with part of it lit by moonlight through a hole in the ceiling. She sighed with relief as she saw the cave exit, revealing the calm night outside.
The clan was all there, including Rragunt'arrth, looking over each other and exploring their temporary sanctuary. She surveyed them all, and felt satisfied. They were safe, at least for now.
Rragunt'arrth greeted her warmly, then gestured behind him.
"Weve found something in here. Something we think you should have." He said simply.
"For me?" she asked, surprised.
She followed him towards the back of the cavern, over to the section of the cave that was touched by moonlight. Looking up, roots had grown in through the roof and had, over time, torn loose a section of the rock, just enough to let a single beam of moonlight in. This light seemed to center around a raised bump in the floor. Upon this natural pedestal grew a plant; as she approached, she recognized it immediately as Aconitum, more commonly known as Wolfsbane. As she crouched down beside it, she got a strong sense that this plant was different than normal Wolfsbane.
Wolfsbane is used to cure non-natural (cursed) lycanthropy. Belladonna, on the other hand, is used to prevent lycanthropy, but does nothing if the patient is already suffering from the disease. Wolfsbane is a very fragile plant: from the moment it is harvested, the leaves will wilt within an hour. Further, re-planting the Wolfsbane is impossible; once it is removed from where it grows, it will die immediately. Many have tried foolishly, making the plant exceedingly rare. The only sensible thing to do with Wolfsbane is note its location, and if someone is suffering from lycanthropy, bring them to it so they can ingest the leaves. Angela wasn't sure how, but she knew immediately upon looking at this particular plant that it would survive a re-planting.
Rragunt'arrth gestured again, and then looked to his clan. They looked to her and thanked her for her help, but did not want to delay. They wanted to be free of this place.
After again stressing that she should take the plant, the clan said their thanks and left quickly.
The cave was suddenly quiet, and Angela looked back at the Aconitum plant. Where had this come from? Was it there naturally, just waiting for them to burst out of the tunnels? Or was this the work of Sel ne?
Epilogue
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Angela carried that plant for nearly sixty years, keeping it a secret, but quietly using it to cure those suffering from lycanthropy. When she got word that Malarites had suspected her possession of the plant, she'd change homes, moving the plant with her, carefully re-homing the curious thing. This movement went on for some time, until it found its settled place in the Grotto near the Guldorand Logging Town. This cave seemed an ideal location for the plant to grow, and was out-of-the-way enough that the plant was not easily discovered unless she explicitly chose to reveal it to her guests.
And that is why Archmage Angela Amana lives in a Cave; because having a secret place to plant and harvest this Aconitum became a requirement for any home for her.
In total, Angela cured sixty eight individuals suffering from non-natural lycanthropy with that plant, in the years ranging from around AR 100 to AR 156.
This all continued, until the fateful events of AR 156; when the logging town of Guldorand entered into battle with the Archfey, and unfortunately, the plant (along with just about everything else in the town) was destroyed. After much consultation with Druids, it is believed that the Archfeys destruction was absolute; the magic of this particular specimen is believed to be broken forever. Only through magic can temporary sproutlings be made, but they died the second magic was withdrawn. This gift of Sel ne has been thus lost.
Credits
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Written by Wallace Lyonall in AR 157-AR 159.