The Mirage of Vezara
Illidan’s patience was growing thin.
“The stone’s sing” Sethis, the elderly Tiefling said. “If you just listen to the rocks, you will find any answer you seek – it is written right here by Alturius himself!” Sethis held an old tome between his crimson fingers. Though elderly, the Tiefling seemed spry as he swung the book in the air.
But it was about all Illidan could take. Talking rocks? Who is Alturius? Rabbert may find this type of thing important, but it was becoming an annoyance.
“And so, my dear listeners,” Sethis proclaimed, his hands painting the air with his narrative, “in the hidden corners of sand, we must look at the light. Follow me and I will show you what happened to the great archmage Telarion.”
The library, with its towering spires of books and the soft, golden glow of enchanted orbs floating lazily among the aisles, certainly seemed like a place with solutions. But Sethis? Could he even be trusted? Tiefer was no use in battle, why should he expect any difference here? Illidan’s doubt reached its peak as he rounded the corner with his companions.
“Children’s books? Really?” Illidan said, coming to a stop.
“Illidan, my friend, we must leave no stone unturned,” Rabbert said, his voice a mix of his unnatural age and excitement. “If the answer is in a book for children, it is still the answer! Who cares where it is written?”
“Friends, I find my thirst for knowledge leans toward the tangible, the concrete. I will seek the clarity of daylight and the honesty of the market,” the high elf said, his grace hiding his growing unrest.
“With Sethis as our guide, there is certainly no use for all four of us to stay here. Rabbert, I trust you will do all the book searching we could need. I shall see what sits outside these walls. Perhaps I can find something on the streets that will help beyond what is in these books.”
With a respectful nod to Sethis and an exchange of knowing looks with his comrades, Illidan turned, his steps measured, his silhouette a slender shadow against the library’s luminescent backdrop. As he departed, he could hear Sethis continuing his story.
“And there was a green light, sinking into…” as the voice faded into the background, Illidan could feel relief as he stepped out into the city of Vezara.
Stepping out from the library’s solemn embrace, Illidan emerged into a city that sprawled like a living tapestry beneath the vast, azure dome of the sky. The Mirage of Vezara, a marvel of Chthonic Tiefling architecture, unfurled across multiple tiers, each level a testament to the ingenuity and spirit of its inhabitants. Buildings, sculpted from sun-kissed stone and adorned with intricate mosaics, shimmered like mirages against the backdrop of the sprawling desert beyond.
The air was alive with the city’s pulse, a symphony of clattering camel hooves, merchants’ calls, and the distant melody of an instrument Illidan had never heard before. The scent of spiced meats and sweet, fragrant pastries wafted through the bustling streets, mingling with the dry, earthy embrace of the desert wind.
Illidan’s steps guided him to a forge on the southern end of the city. A sign reading Kaelum’s Anvil hung above its stone entryway. Inside Kaelum’s Anvil, the air was thick with the scent of molten metal and the resonant clang of hammer against anvil. The walls were adorned with an array of weapons and armor, each piece casting long, sinuous shadows across the stone floor. Kaelum, the proprietor, greeted Illidan with a sly, knowing smile.
“Welcome, welcome,” a purple skinned Tiefling said as Illidan entered. His voice was smooth, a stark contrast to the rough-hewn interior of the shop. “My name is Kaelum. I have wares to suit every need, every… ambition. Tell me, what are you seeking on this fine day?”
Illidan’s eyes scanned the shop, noting the exquisite craftsmanship of the armors and the lethal beauty of the weapons. “I am in need of practical gear, well-crafted and reliable,” he responded, his tone polite yet guarded.
“Ah, practicality!” Kaelum exclaimed, clapping his hands together. “Let’s start with something simple, shall we?” He guided Illidan to a stand displaying a set of armor, its scales shimmering with a subtle iridescence. “Drake scale armor, light yet nearly impervious. Perfect for one who treads the line between shadow and light. For you, my friend, a mere 650 gold pieces.”
“Your selections are indeed fine,” Illidan acknowledged, “but that is too much for a little protection.”
Kaelum, his eyes glinting with a mix of amusement and an unspoken knowledge, leaned in closer. “Ah, my elven friend, you see, value in Vezara is not always measured in gold and silver. True worth lies in the essence, the power infused within.”
“Power, you say?” Illidan said, glancing around at the objects hanging from the wall. “I find power in acting, not in hiding. I see some fine weaponry here. What type of bow is that?”
With a fluid gesture, Kaelum reached up to where Illidan was looking. He turned to pull down a bow which hung in solitary grandeur. “Behold,” Kaelum said, a trace of reverence in his voice, “this is not merely a bow It is a conduit for the wielder’s will.”
Kaleum stared at Illidan a little harder, something the elf found slightly unnerving. “Go ahead, my tall friend, see how it feels in your hand.”
Illidan reached out tentatively and let his fingers slip around the bow. Though it was dark, it still had a brilliance about it as if it were slightly creating its own light. As he grasped it, a weight bore down on his hand.
“It’s… heavy,” Illidan muttered, the strain evident in his voice, his brow furrowed in concentration.
Kaelum observed him closely, a shadow of disappointment flitting across his features. “Indeed, it seems the bow is discerning in its choice. Such items choose their master, offering power beyond price.”
Releasing the bow, allowing it to return to its solitary perch, Illidan stepped back, his mind awash with questions. Kaelum, watching him with a keen eye, quick said, “Ah my friend. It looks as if it is getting toward lunch time. Unfortunately, I must close down for the moment. Please have a great rest of your day.”
Confused at the sudden change in demeanor, Illidan gave a courteous nod and excused himself from the shop. With his mind still lost on how a piece of hide could be worth such a fortune, Illidan stepped back into the streets of Vezara.
In the library’s chamber, where the air was thick with the scent of ancient scrolls and the soft murmur of arcane whispers, Cetiri, in her vibrant summer form, stood amidst her companions. Her eyes, alight with the fiery hues of her season, shifted attentively from Sethis to Illidan. High elves – they think they know so much. Why, though, do they act so superior when they are not even from the fey? Many of them have never even seen the fey. Cetiri made a mental note to ask Illidan if he had ever seen the red grass in Thalinor’s Vale or watched the lights bend in Cendriane.
But before asking Illidan anything, she had much to say to Tuxil. Cetiri nervously fidgeted with her wooden necklace. Why had Tuxil not answered her call earlier? Why was he so hesitant to help when Kals had made his way to the ship? Did she do something wrong?
“Friends, I find my thirst for knowledge leans toward the tangible, the concrete. I will seek the clarity of daylight and the honesty of the market,” Illidan declared, his resolve clear in his voice.
Cetiri nodded thoughtfully, her mind already wandering to the oasis that lay at the city’s edge—that would probably be a good enough place to talk to her patron. “I too shall take my leave,” she spoke, her voice carrying the warmth of summer. “I want to ask a few questions around town.”
With a graceful nod to the group, Cetiri turned on her heel, her steps light and purposeful. As she exited the library, the bustling energy of Vezara enveloped her, the city’s vibrant life a stark contrast to the stillness she sought.
Making her way through the crowded streets, she headed toward the outskirts of the city, where the oasis awaited. The further she ventured, the more the clamor of the city faded into a tranquil silence, replaced by the gentle rustling of leaves and the distant call of birds.
Before her was a serene haven where nature’s oddity was on full display. Despite being surrounded by white sands and heat, palm trees swayed gently in the breeze, their fronds casting dappled shadows over the cool, clear waters. The oasis was masterfully designed, with shrubs and topiaries sculpted into intricate shapes and patterns, and vibrant flowers blooming in a riot of colors.
Cetiri found a secluded spot next to the water and sat gracefully on the soft, verdant grass. Her eyes closed, she took a deep breath, the fragrant scents of flora enveloping her. She reached for the wooden necklace she wore once again, a token of her connection to the Trinket Lord and conduit to her patron.
With her senses attuned to the natural world around her and the necklace clasped firmly in her hand, Cetiri whispered into the ether, “Tuxil, are you there this time? We are running out of time, and I need some answers. Things are getting strange down here.”
As the gentle hum of the oasis embraced her, Cetiri felt the subtle shift in the air, heralding the arrival of her patron. She finally let herself breathe. With a soft whisper of leaves, Tuxil, the Trinket Lord, appeared beside her, his form that of an ethereal fox shimmering with the hues of twilight.
“Ah, my little fey,” Tuxil began, his voice a blend of wisdom and warmth, “you have found quite the backdrop to call me.”
“That’s it? The backdrop is nice?” Cetiri said, her previous worry melting into annoyance. “We have crossed the seas, fought a dragon, walked a desert, and made a deal with someone as powerful as you – and you want to admire some palm trees?”
“Ah, not as powerful as me,” Tuxil replied. “More powerful certainly.”
Cetiri was caught off guard by the response and struggled to reply.
“Don’t worry, though, little fey,” Tuxil continued. “There is more to what is to come than the strength of two fey. I sense your worry and fear. I apologize for my absence, but things are more difficult than you might think. Something is changing between this world and ours – it becomes harder for me to make this trip. Tell me of your journey so far.”
Cetiri’s anger began to wane as she recounted the group’s story. From the narrow escape in Gonbay to Eolande’s revelation, Cetiri found comfort not in the tale but of all they had accomplished in such a short amount of time.
“I knew I sensed greatness with that group,” Tuxil began to say. “I believe the journey is much longer ahead, but it is good to know you all prove as capable as I had hoped. So, tell me again, Eolande revealed himself to you and told of his sister?”
“Yes,” Cetiri said. “Apparently she is missing.”
“This confirms what some in my circle have been saying. With the Veil Warden gone, we are perhaps in a much quicker timeline than we had imagined.”
“Who is your circle?”
“There are a few who listen to the leaves. I cannot name names here, but my circle grows wider with time. Unfortunately not wide enough. You need to return to the fey and bring what you have found. Quickly.”
Cetiri thought about the strange ore she had taken from the tomb. “What exactly do you need the aethium for?” she asked.
“Mostly proof. If I can show the Summer Court that it has been rediscovered, perhaps they will believe the rest of what I say – that there are those who are plotting great and terrible things.”
Cetiri wiped her brow. Despite the shade of the palm trees, the midday heat was starting to get to her. “Who are they? Will they use the aethium to go to war?”
“Let us hope not. As far as who, you have met Kals already. I believe he is working with someone from the 7th circle as well.”
“Of hell?” Cetiri said. “Why? How? I have never heard of the fey and demons working together.”
“Ah there have been times. Most recently during The Sundering. There were many Unseelie who partnered with the demon lords. The archfey are powerful, but we are typically limited to the fey. There are some infernals who promise expansion – letting the magics of the fey spread throughout the confluence. If there’s one thing that can tempt a god, it’s the promise of presence.”
“So, it really is happening then?” Cetiri said, taking a sip from her waterskin. “A second sundering?”
“Hopefully not. If we do not find allies and gather our strength, there will not be a war as much as a swift victory by those who do not wish us well. Cetiri I cannot stay long, but it is imperative that you return to the fey.”
Tuxil’s form began flickering in blues and purples as he swam through the air. “I feel I do not need to warn you, but this pact to remove Eolande cannot go through. The Veil Warden’s promise is our biggest ally at this moment. If she fails, everything is at risk. Find a way out of it and make your way to the fey.”
Cetiri began to respond, but Tuxil started to fade. “How?” she said, her voice raising for the first time. “How do we stop the pact?”
“The Summer Court,” Tuxil said, his voice barely audible as his form dissipated into air.
Sethis’s voice grew dramatically as he neared the conclusion of the story, his hands painting the air with vivid gestures. “And little green light sank down, resting beneath the lake,” he narrated, his eyes alight with fervor.
Rabbert nodded thoughtfully. “Fascinating, Sethis. It’s curious how tales meant for the ears of children might hold fragments of lost knowledge, veiled in the guise of fable.”
Lyria, leaning back in her chair, watched Sethis with a mixture of amusement and intrigue. “It’s quite the performance, Sethis. I can’t say I’ve heard anyone read a kid’s book as if it were Tusk of Love.” Trying not to sound too sarcastic she added, “You truly bring the story to life. But how do you discern which parts are mere fancy and which might be hidden truths?”
Sethis, pausing to catch his breath after his animated storytelling, turned to Lyria with a twinkle in his eye. “Ah, dear Lyria, that’s where the beauty of interpretation comes into play. The universe is a grand blanket, and each thread can be followed to uncover wonders—or dead ends. One must simply choose the right threads to pull.”
Rabbert interjected, “Indeed, and in our pursuit of answers to my… predicament, we must be open to all avenues of exploration, no matter how unconventional.”
Sethis nodded sagely. “Precisely, young Rabbert. The path to enlightenment is often winding and obscured. This tale, this green light—it is a metaphor! A legend! It is our task to unravel its significance and reveal the truth.”
Lyria, sensing Rabbert’s growing intensity becoming a bit much for her growing fatigue, gently suggested, “Perhaps a break is in order, Rabbert. A moment to let the story settle in our minds and to refresh ourselves.”
Rabbert, his eyes lingering on the tome before him, eventually acquiesced. “Yes, a brief pause might indeed lend us a fresh perspective. Let’s step outside, breathe in the city’s air, and partake in some local refreshments.”
Sethis, ever the gracious host, nodded in agreement. “Of course, take your time. The library and its tales will await your return. Who knows? Your tea may speak the truths you seek! Ask the leaves!”
With that, Rabbert and Lyria stood, the wizard carefully marking his place in the tome with a bookmark. “Thank you, Sethis. Your insights, as always, are invaluable. We shall return invigorated and ready to delve deeper into the mysteries you’ve shared.”
Rabbert lingered for a moment as they began to leave the library. “One quick stop,” the Harrengon said. His scholarly instincts guided him to a selection of tomes that had piqued his interest earlier.
Even over tea there could be kernels of truth waiting to be discovered,” Rabbert mused aloud, carefully extracting a few volumes from the shelves.
Lyria couldn’t help but smile at his unwavering dedication. As they made their way to the library exit, passing by Sethis, who had now engaged in an animated conversation with himself, she leaned closer to Rabbert.
“He’s quite the character, isn’t he?” Lyria whispered, nodding subtly towards Sethis. “A little bit crazy, if you ask me.”
Rabbert, cradling the chosen books in his arms, glanced back at the enthusiastic tiefling before replying, “Perhaps, Lyria, but madness and genius often share a fine line. If Sethis’s eccentricities lead us to the answers we seek, then I welcome a touch of madness in our journey.”
Lyria chuckled softly, acknowledging Rabbert’s point with a nod. “Well, when you put it that way, let’s hope a bit of Sethis’s craziness rubs off on us.”
With the selected books now in tow, the duo stepped out of the library, leaving Sethis to echo behind them. Together, they navigated the bustling streets, their conversation shifting from the potential insights of their newly acquired tomes to the more immediate plans for a well-deserved break at a nearby tea shop.
As Rabbert and Lyria entered the shop, a welcome escape from the relentless pursuit of answers, they found a quiet corner where they could continue their conversation over a warm cup of tea. The shop was a small haven, filled with the inviting aromas of assorted teas and fresh pastries, offering them a brief respite from their quest.
Lyria, observing Rabbert’s persistent scanning of the tomes, sought to ease the tension. “Rabbert, I know how much this means to you, and we’re all in this together. But remember, taking a moment to breathe won’t set us back—it might even help clear your mind.”
Rabbert nodded, though his eyes remained fixed on the pages before him. “I know, Lyria. It’s just that time isn’t a luxury I have. Every moment counts.” Despite his words, he allowed himself a small pause, savoring the comforting warmth of the tea as they waited for their order.
The conversation drifted to the potential significance of the lake mentioned in Sethis’s tale. “If the wizard in your vision was indeed Telarion, and he ventured into a lake… do you really think it is the same lake from the children’s story?” Lyria asked.
“It’s a connection, certainly,” Rabbert conceded, his mind racing with the possibilities. “But we’re dealing with fragments of stories and visions. It’s like piecing together a puzzle without the picture on the box.”
Eventually a plate of the honey-glazed pastries was delivered to their table. The waiter, noticing Lyria’s distinct Genasi features, gave them a nod of respect before leaving them to their discussion.
Lyria took a bite of her pastry, allowing the sweetness to linger. “Let’s say this Telarion character did go to the lake. Just walked straight in and sank. What then? Are we supposed to just go into the bottom of the lake and find a skeleton? The last time we did that it didn’t work out very well?”
Rabbert sighed, setting his book down for a moment to meet Lyria’s gaze. “Unfortunately that’s the risk I have to take. I only have days left at this point. If a cure doesn’t reside at the bottom of the lake, then it won’t matter. I will be gone.”
The seriousness of their quest hung between them, tempered by the cozy ambiance of the tea shop.
“It’s going to be fine, Rabbert.” Lyria said. “Whatever happened in the tomb wasn’t an accident. Everything we have experienced since has all been connected.”
“I agree. That’s what gives me hope. What purpose would Archeron have to deceive me?”
“And Ioun apparently likes you. Which is kind of weird since no one even worships her.”
“If there is one thing I know, and I like to think I know many, it is that gods are, as you say, weird.”
“Why do you think she chose you? Is it because of the book?”
Rabbert thought carefully for a moment. “I think in part, yes. Perhaps not because of the book itself, but because of why I searched for it. Because I want to preserve it and learn from it.”
As they conversed, Rabbert’s initial urgency softened, replaced by a more contemplative demeanor. He recognized the value of this pause, this chance to reflect and converse without the pressing weight of the tomes and scrolls.
“Well if there’s something I know, it’s that we are going to need a few potions. It feels like danger is at every corner of our journey. Not that I mind, but I would rather be prepared. Want to grab a few things before heading back to the library?”
“Wise words indeed, but it is ok for you to admit you just want some more time away from Sethis,” Rabbert replied with a chuckle.
Their tea finished and their spirits slightly lifted, Rabbert and Lyria headed back into the market, books in hand.
Emerging from the shadowy confines of Kaelum’s Anvil, Illidan stepped back into the vibrant streets. The city’s pulse beckoned him onward, guiding his steps through the maze of stalls and shops that painted the bustling market.
He found himself drawn to a more modest establishment, one that promised practical goods without the mysterious weight of arcane enchantments. The sign above the entryway read “Neris’s Necessities,” and the shop, nestled between a spice vendor and a cloth merchant, buzzed with the activity of everyday commerce.
As Illidan entered, he was greeted by the comforting clutter of general goods: rolls of sturdy rope, flasks of oil, sacks of grain, and tools of every imaginable function. The air was filled with the scent of waxed canvas and oiled leather, a stark contrast to the metallic tang of Kaelum’s forge.
Behind a well-worn counter stood Neris, a jovial halfling with a mop of curly hair and a smile that seemed to light up the cramped space. “Good day, traveler!” he chirped, his eyes twinkling with a merchant’s keen interest. “What can I help you find today? We’ve got just about everything, from the mundane to the moderately unusual!”
Illidan couldn’t help but return the halfling’s smile, the genuine warmth a welcome change from the veiled intensity of his previous encounter. “I’m in need of supplies,” he explained, “practical items for the road. I have a list.”
“Excellent!” Neris exclaimed, clapping his hands together. “Let’s get you sorted, then. Rope? We have the finest hempen rope, strong and reliable. Soap? Never underestimate the value of cleanliness on the road!”
As Neris bustled about the shop, gathering items with an efficiency that belied his small stature, Illidan found himself relaxing into the rhythm of simple commerce. The halfling’s chatter was a pleasant backdrop as he inspected the goods, each item a promise of utility and preparedness.
“Ah, here we are,” Neris said, returning to the counter with an assortment of goods. “Two barrels, a blanket, ropes, soap, a shovel, and a lock. Will that be all?”
Illidan nodded, appreciating the straightforward nature of the transaction. “Yes, that should suffice. How much do I owe you?”
Neris tallied up the total with a quick, practiced efficiency. “One hundred and nine gold pieces, friend. Fair price for quality goods!”
The price was reasonable, a refreshing change from the exorbitant figures of the armorer’s shop. Illidan paid, feeling a sense of accomplishment as he secured the supplies that would serve him well in the adventures to come.
With a wave and a word of thanks, Illidan stepped out of Neris’s Necessities, his purchases in hand, ready to face the next chapter of his journey. The streets of Vezara lay open before him, a tapestry of potential paths and undiscovered stories, each step a stride toward the unknown.
After departing from Neris’s Necessities, Illidan’s journey through the bustling streets of Vezara took a leisurely turn. The kaleidoscope of sights, sounds, and smells of the market invigorated his senses as he navigated the throng of shoppers and merchants. The aroma of seasoned meats and freshly baked bread led him to a food stall adorned with vibrant hangings, where a large, cheerful Tiefling named Gorm was serving up an array of delectable, desert-inspired fare.
“Ah, what can I get for a hungry elf this fine day?” Gorm bellowed, his wide smile revealing a set of surprisingly shiny teeth. The Tiefling’s apron was as colorful as his personality, splattered with a myriad of sauces and spices.
“I’ll take whatever you recommend,” Illidan replied, intrigued by the variety of dishes on display.
“Then you must try the sizzling sand skink skewers and a side of spiced cactus fruit!” Gorm declared, expertly flipping the skewers over a flame that seemed to dance to an unseen rhythm.
As Gorm prepared the meal, Illidan mulled over the intricate web of his current predicament—the pact he had unwittingly made, which now loomed over him like a shadow. The savory aroma of the cooking food momentarily lifted his spirits, but the gravity of his situation lingered at the edge of his thoughts.
With the meal freshly prepared and handed over in a neatly wrapped bundle, Illidan thanked the Tiefling and, as an afterthought, decided to probe for some local knowledge.
“Gorm, I find myself in need of some advice regarding… contractual matters. Would you know where one might seek such counsel in Vezara?”
Gorm, pausing to wipe his hands on his vibrant apron, leaned in slightly, lowering his voice despite the bustle around them. “Ah, you’re in luck, my elven friend. Vezara is home to many knowledgeable in the ways of contracts, especially those of a… magical nature. You’ll want to speak with a Lore Advocate. Raeka is who you seek—frail in body but unmatched in wisdom. His office is toward the center of town, near the Fountain of Whispers.”
Illidan nodded, his curiosity piqued. “And how will I find him?”
“Not too hard, fortunately. Head east for a while and look for the door with the etched scroll and quill above it.”
Thanking the Tiefling for both the meal and the information, Illidan navigated the city’s winding streets, guided by the directions Gorm had provided. The skewers were delicious, a perfect blend of heat and flavor, providing a small but welcome distraction from his deeper concerns.
After Tuxil’s ethereal form dissipated into the oasis’s serene atmosphere, Cetiri reached into her bag of holding, her fingers brushing against the cool, solid presence of the Aethium. Its safety reassured her, but her attention was soon captured by another item nestled among her belongings—a broken compass she had purchased in Rabbert’s homeland.
Pondering her conversation with Tuxil, Cetiri decided to explore Vezara for a craftsman who might shed light on the compass. The city unfolded before her like a vibrant tapestry, with the sun casting long shadows over the bustling market squares and the lively chatter of commerce filling the air. The scent of roasting spices and fresh fruit wafted through the streets, blending with the occasional waft of incense from a distant shrine.
Though unfamiliar with the city’s winding alleys and vibrant bazaars, Cetiri’s adventurous spirit guided her steps. She wandered through the maze of Vezara, her yes catching a sign adorned with an intricate design of gears and sprockets.
The shop was cluttered with various contraptions and glowing artifacts. Behind the counter stood a half-orc woman with a short red mohawk. A tattoo with script Cetiri did not recognize weaved down the woman’s face.
“Welcome,” the shopkeeper said. “Name’s Rokka. How can I help?”
Cetiri approached, presenting the broken compass. “I found this in Taalith burrow,” she explained. “I’m not sure what it does, but it seems out of the ordinary. Can you help?”
Rokka took the compass, her fingers deftly exploring its structure. “Let’s see what we’ve got here,” she murmured, her eyes scanning the device with a mixture of curiosity and expertise. After a few moments of examination, she looked up, a spark of interest in her eyes.
“Ay, looks like you’ve got yourself a special piece here,” Rokka began, her voice tinged with excitement. “It’s a Navigator’s Compass—quite a rare find.”
“Really?” Cetiri said. “What’s it good for?”
“It’s not a true compass—it won’t guide you north. Once it’s working, it is used to guide you to a place or person of your choosing.”
Cetiri listened, fascinated by the newfound potential of the compass in her possession. Rokka detailed the repair process and the cost. A hefty fee of 150 gold, but Cetiri agreed to without hesitation. As the half-orc set to work, the rhythmic sounds of her tools filled the shop, each clink and clatter a step toward unveiling the mysteries held within the compass.
“How long do you think it will take?” Cetiri asked when Rokka lifted her eyes for a moment.
“Looks like it’s more cosmetic repair than anything,” the half-orc responded as she took a drink from a flask on the counter behind her. “All things considered, it’s actually in good shape.”
Intrigued by the half-orc’s casual sips, Cetiri’s curiosity got the better of her. “That must be some fine brew you have there,” she remarked, nodding towards the flask.
Rokka paused her work for a moment, a broad smile spreading across her face. “Ah, this?” she said, holding up the flask. “It’s not just any brew. It’s my little pick-me-up—Sandshifter Ale, a specialty from right here in Vezara. Helps me concentrate.”
Cetiri’s interest was piqued. “Sandshifter Ale? I’m something of a brewer myself. What’s in it that makes it special?”
The half-orc chuckled, wiping her brow with her forearm before taking another sip. “It’s brewed with a hint of scorpion pepper. Gives it a kick that’ll jolt you awake,” Rokka explained, her enthusiasm for the drink evident.
“Scorpion pepper, you say? That sounds like a daring combination.”
“Interested in trying some?” Rokka offered, extending the flask towards Cetiri with a friendly grin.
“Absolutely,” Cetiri replied, accepting the flask. She took a cautious sip, the ale’s unique heat hitting her palate. Almost instantly, Cetiri felt as if she could see sharper than ever before. “That’s remarkable.”
“Nothing like a bit of desert heat to spice up your day, right?” Rokka joked, taking back the flask and placing it beside her as she resumed her work on the compass.
Cetiri watched Rokka work, the artificer’s hands deftly navigating the intricate mechanisms of the compass. “Once this is fixed, I might pick some up for the road. Have any suggestions on where to get some?”
“Ol’ Barlum’s is close. Tell ‘im Rokka sent you. They might even throw in a little extra spice for good measure.”
With the compass now expertly repaired and safely tucked away, Cetiri bid farewell to Rokka, her mind already drifting towards her next destination—the tavern where the unique Sandshifter Ale was brewed.
Barlum’s was a cozy establishment nestled in the heart of the city. It buzzed with the energy of patrons sharing stories, laughter, and drinks. The warmth of the interior and the inviting aromas of hearty meals and robust ales provided a welcoming contrast to the bustling market outside.
Approaching the bar, Cetiri mentioned Rokka’s name and inquired about purchasing some Sandshifter Ale.
The bartender, a jovial man with a keen eye for quality brews, nodded in recognition and filled a half keg with the golden, slightly shimmering ale. “A half keg? Really? Partyin or forgettin’,” the barkeeper asked with a friendly smile.
“Tasting,” Cetiri responded. “Maybe a little forgetting too.”
“Ay, fair enough,” came the response. “And just for you, I’ll give you a little extra kick.”
Cetiri handed over the coins, asking about the scorpion pepper, eager to learn more about the ingredients that gave the ale its distinctive character. After exchanging a few words and learning the location of a stall with peppers, Cetiri placed her half keg into one of her bags of holding and set back into the market.
She located a stall brimming with local produce and spices, the air around it tinged with the pungent aroma of scorpion pepper. After purchasing a small quantity to experiment with in her own brews, Cetiri felt a satisfying sense of accomplishment.
With ale, peppers, and a new compass in hand, Cetiri set out to find her friends. She found Tiefer sitting at a small table on the edge of the market enjoying spiced meat on a stick.
“Tief!” Cetiri said, waving as she made her way over. “We need to find Illidan– I’m going to show him where the real elves are from.”
Rabbert and Lyria walked around the market for a while, asking locals of any shops where adventurers might find gear. They were quickly pointed to the eastern side of the second tier of the city to a small shop called Tanil’s Tinctures.
As Lyria and Rabbert stepped into the potion shop, the elderly tiefling shopkeeper beamed with excitement. Noticing Lyria, he treated her with an unexpected reverence, as if she were a celebrity in his eyes.
Lyria, slightly perplexed by the warm reception, responded with her signature greeting—a graceful bow followed by an agile backflip. This act, usually met with confusion or surprise, delighted the shopkeeper, who clapped enthusiastically.
“What a remarkable greeting! Truly, you are someone of great distinction!” the shopkeeper exclaimed, his eyes sparkling with admiration. “My name is Tanil, and today is a great day indeed.”
Lyria, a bit embarrassed by the attention, smiled and quickly changed the subject. “We’re here to look at some potions. What do you have available?”
The tiefling, eager to assist, guided them through his collection. “Here, we have potions of all kinds! This one grants the drinker the strength of a giant, while this one,” he said, holding up a vial filled with a swirling mist, “can make you invisible for a short time. And here’s a potion of fire breathing—always a crowd-pleaser!”
Lyria listened intently, her eyes scanning the array of mystical vials. The shopkeeper’s enthusiasm was infectious, but she remained focused on her needs.
“Or perhaps you’re more interested in matters of the heart?” Tanil said, glancing over at Rabbert who was only half-attentive as he read another passage in one of the old tomes. “Philter of love – you’ll be the most charming person around with this.”
“Are you saying I’m not charming?” Lyria said, a wry smile on her lips.
“Not at all! Pardon a salesman trying to rid his shop of wares, Great One. Let us look at others.”
After showcasing several potions, the shopkeeper presented three large bottles of a swirling red liquid on the table. “And for your adventures, these will surely be of use.”
Lyria recognized them immediately as greater healing potions as she picked one up to watch the gold flecks flicker as she swirled it. “How much?” Lyria asked, a smile on her face.
“For an ordinary traveler, 150 gold pieces each,” Tanil said.
As Lyria’s eyes began to widen, the old shopkeeper continued. “But you are no ordinary traveler! You are of the great spirits! The Eshinil! You speak and the wind listens!”
Lyria began to speak up and let the shopkeeper know he must have her confused with someone else, but as he priced three potions for just 225 gold, Lyria could only manage to say her thanks. She placed the bottles in her pouch and turned to see Rabbert, now sitting, quickly flipping page after page of another book.
She turned to Tanil and slid 90 gold pieces across the counter. “Actually I’ll take that as well,” pointing to a small rose-hued bottle on the counter. Tanil smiled and exchanged the potion for the gold.
“Rabbert are you ready? I have what I need,” Lyria said as she approached the wizard.
Rabbert barely looked up from his book as he offered his agreement. “Yes, yes,” he said, not taking the time to look where he was going as Lyria grabbed his cloak to make sure he didn’t walk into the door frame. “We should be getting back. Though I did see one other shop that caught my eye on the way here.”
Illidan eventually arrived at a quaint building nestled between a bustling apothecary and a quiet, dusty fletcher’s shop. Above the door, just as Gorm had described, hung a beautifully crafted sign featuring a scroll and a quill. This had to be the place where Raeka, the Lore Advocate, imparted his knowledge.
With a sense of trepidation, Illidan knocked on the ornate door, the sound echoing softly in the quiet street. The door creaked open, revealing a dimly lit room filled with shelves of ancient tomes and scrolls, the air perfumed with the scent of parchment and ink. At the room’s center sat a frail, elderly man, his gaze sharp and penetrating despite his delicate appearance. This was Raeka, the Lore Advocate of Vezara.
“Come in, young elf,” Raeka beckoned with a voice that, while feeble, carried an undeniable authority. “I sense you’re burdened with a matter most grave.”
Illidan stepped inside, the door closing with a gentle thud behind him. He explained the circumstances of his pact, detailing the terms and his growing concerns about the nature of the agreement he had entered.
Raeka listened intently, his eyes never leaving Illidan’s face, as if deciphering the truth from his words alone. “Demon pacts, you see, are bound by strict rules,” Raeka began, his fingers tracing the spine of an ancient leather-bound book. “They require a written contract, signed in blood, a tangible token of the agreement between the parties.”
Illidan’s brow furrowed. “So, if there’s no written contract…does that mean I do not have to follow it?”
“Unfortunately, you are still dealing with something powerful. Not a contract, though. What you describe sounds more akin to an oath pact, particularly common among the fey,” Raeka interjected, nodding slowly. “Fey are capricious beings, their agreements often bound by the spirit rather than the letter of the law, wrapped in riddles and ambiguity.”
Illidan absorbed this information, a flicker of hope igniting within him. “Is there a way to… nullify such a pact?”
Raeka leaned back, steepling his fingers. “Oath pacts are tricky, but not ironclad. They thrive on their vagueness. You mentioned the terms ‘off the ley lines’ and ‘within the month,’ correct? The ambiguity there is your leverage. What month? This month? Next? Which lines? All of them? One of them? You can argue the terms are too vague, challenge the pact’s enforceability.”
“And how would I do that?” Illidan asked, leaning forward.
“The Fey Court,” Raeka stated, as if the words carried a weight of their own. “You must present your case, argue the pact’s ambiguity, and request its annulment. But be warned, the Fey Court is no mere tribunal of men—it’s a place of whimsy and caprice, where logic intertwines with fancy.”
Illidan nodded, a mix of relief and new concerns clouding his thoughts. “What do I owe you for this counsel?” he inquired, reaching for his coin pouch.
Raeka raised a hand, pausing Illidan’s movements. “For a matter such as this, the cost is 150 gold pieces. But remember, knowledge and wisdom are investments, not expenditures.”
Handing over the coins, Illidan stood, his resolve fortified by the newfound knowledge. “Thank you, Raeka. Your insight has been invaluable.”
Leaving the Lore Advocate’s abode with a mind swirling with new insights and possibilities, Illidan’s steps carried him toward the final errand of the day. The information Raeka provided had given him much to ponder, but the immediate need for practical preparation pulled him back to the tangible world.
Since it was just next door, Illidan decided to stop in the Fletcher’s shop. Vaelin, a slender Tiefling with nimble fingers and sharp eyes, greeted Illidan as he entered. “Welcome, ranger. What brings you to my humble store?”
“I need arrows,” Illidan replied, his gaze drifting over the selection. “Something… special, if you have it.”
“Special, you say?” Vaelin’s lips curled into a knowing smile as he pulled out a few vials of oil and a variety of arrows. “Certainly, I have what you make seek. Power? Flames? Taking down foes? I have oils and infused arrows, though they are not ordinary.
Vaelin guided Illidan through a series of infusions and enchanted arrowheads. “These here are not your ordinary arrows. One chills to the bone, slowing your foes, while the other saps their vitality, hindering their recovery.”
Illidan examined the arrows, appreciating their craftsmanship and the subtle hum of magic that emanated from them. He selected a quiver of Wraithfang Arrows and a few Frostbite Shafts, knowing that such tools could tip the balance in the unpredictable challenges that lay ahead.
“Your choices are wise,” Vaelin commented as he tallied the cost. “These will serve you well, whatever your trials may be.”
With the transaction complete, Illidan stepped back into the streets, the weight of his purchases a comforting reminder of his readiness to face whatever the future held.
As the sun began to dip lower into the horizon, painting the sky with streaks of orange and purple, Illidan spotted Tiefer and Cetiri near a fountain, relaxed and enjoying the city’s vibrant evening life.
“Found what you were looking for?” Cetiri asked as Illidan approached, a hint of curiosity in her voice.
“Yes, and perhaps a bit more,” Illidan replied.
“Ah, this is the one,” Rabbert said, pointing at a sign that said Wyrm Tales. Entering the shop, the musty scent of old pages hit the duo. As they made their way to the counter, they were greeted by Rashir, a tiefling with striking blue skin. The shop was a labyrinth of shelves, each brimming with books of every genre and subject.
Rabbert, his curiosity never waning, inquired about the types of books available. “We have everything here,” Rashir responded with a proud gesture to the surrounding shelves. “From ancient tomes to the latest adventures, our collection is quite comprehensive.”
Lyria, with a playful tone, asked, “Do you happen to have the sequel to ‘Tusk of Love’?” She was met with a smile from Rashir. “Ah, a popular romance among many. Unfortunately, the sequel, ‘Tusk of Destiny,’ hasn’t made its way to Tal’Dash yet.”
Turning the conversation to a more scholarly pursuit, Rabbert asked about the availability of scrolls. Rashir nodded, leading them to a section filled with scrolls and parchments. “Yes, we have a variety of scrolls. You can purchase copies directly, or if you prefer, I can provide the materials for you to copy them yourself.”
Rabbert, considering his options, decided to spend a few hours in the shop copying the spell himself. As he set about his work, Rashir’s gaze fell upon the book Rabbert had been carrying.
“Ah, ‘An Account of Archmages’ by the scribes at the Dunlar monastery,” Rashir remarked. “You know, one of their scribes faced expulsion over his contributions to that book.”
Rabbert looked up, his interest instantly ignited. “Expelled? For what reason?”
“Well,” Rashir began, scanning his shelves, “he penned a passage about an archmage who allegedly erased himself from history. The other scribes deemed it too fantastical and feared it would tarnish their credibility. Let me show you.”
Rashir left for a moment and returned with a small tome. He handed it to Rabbert, who eagerly scanned the pages. As Rabbert read aloud the passage about the archmage’s self-erasure, his voice began to ring with excitement.
“…And so only his cloak remains, a testament to his power and wisdom,” Rabbert finished. “A cloak!”
“It’s a fascinating tale, but one has to wonder,” Rashir mused, “why would an archmage choose to erase his own existence? And how would such a feat even be possible? The cloak, if it exists, poses even more questions. Why leave it behind, and for whom?”
Rabbert’s eyes shone with excitement and curiosity. The account aligned too well with the clues they had been gathering, offering a new layer of mystery to their quest.
“Rashir, there is a spell in your books I wish to copy, and I would like to have a scroll made of two others. Time is of the essence,” Rabbert declared, a sense of urgency in his voice that hadn’t been there before.
“Of course,” Rashir replied, quickly calculating the cost. “For you, let’s make it a fair price. How does 675 gold sound for access to my books and the two copied scrolls?”
Before Rabbert could respond, Lyria interjected. “Really, Rashir? You would charge me such a fee?” Rabbert stepped back as Lyria twisted the air around. A few pages of books started to flutter in the wind as the air genasi began to control the wind.
“Forgive me, Eshinil,” Rashir said. “I did not mean insult. How does 540 sound? This is as low as I could go and still pay my employees.”
Rabbert stepped forward, “We have a deal. Thank you once again for the scrolls and knowledge. May Ioun watch you.”
After Rabbert finished copying his spell and was handed his scroll, he and Lyria made their way back into the warm air of the market. The sun was high in the sky as they began to wander back toward the library. The sound of camels, street vendors, and musicians filled the air as the market buzzed to life with the lunch crowd.
“Rabbert, what was so important about that book he gave you?” Lyria asked as they passed a small crowd of children playing in the street.
Rabbert opened the book to the last page, showing a drawing of a cloak. “This is the same cloak as I saw in my vision. This is Telarion’s cloak. And look here at the bottom.”
Lyria stopped as Rabbert read aloud the passage underneath the drawing, “Realizing the burden of his knowledge could tempt even the most virtuous souls to tamper with the fabric of reality, Telarion decided to withdraw from the world, entrusting his life’s work to the protection of the Wellspring. His disappearance was shrouded in mystery, leading to speculation that he either transcended time itself or was consumed by it. Telarion’s last act was to create a Cloak, a conduit and key to his powers, intended only for one who could understand and respect the gravity of time manipulation.”
“This is the answer, Lyria. With Telarion’s Cloak, I can save myself.”
