Seven Sisters

Seven sisters in the sea,
singing songs to you and me,
singing songs of loss and love,
singing to the stars above.

The first and last, loved the same.
The sixth and second, loved in vain.
The third and fifth saw their loves wane,
and the fourth was never loved at all.

Seven sisters in the sea,
singing songs to you and me,
singing songs of loss and love,
singing to the stars above.

Lux Tenebris: Fericille Icefire

FERICILLE ICEFIRE, L10 Human Sorceress

STR     08 (-1)

DEX    14 (+2)

CON   12 (+1)

INT     10 (+0)

WIS     10 (+0)

CHA   20 (+5)

HP       52

AC      15 (Mage Armor)

Languages: Common, Primordial

Proficiencies: +4

Armor: None

Weapons: Daggers, Darts, Slings, Quarterstaffs, Light x-bows

Tools: Disguise kit, Thieves' tools

Saves: Constitution +5, Charisma +9

Skills: Intimidation +9, Persuasion +9, Sleight of Hand +7, Stealth +7

Feats:

City Secrets

* * *

Sorcerous Origin: Storm Sorcery

- Wind Speaker

- Tempestuous Magic

- Heart of the Storm

- Storm Guide

Font of Magic

- Sorcery Points (10)

Metamagic: Distant spell, Empowered spell, Subtle spell

Equipment:

Daggers(3); Melee; +6 to hit; 1d4 +2 piercing; Finesse, Light, Thrown (20/60 ft).

Light x-bow; Ranged; +6 to hit; 1d8 +2 piercing; Ammo (80/320 ft), Loading, 2-Handed

Quarterstaff; Melee; +3 to hit; 1d6 -1 bludgeoning; Versatile (1d8).

An arcane focus, A disguise kit, thieves' tools, an explorer's pack, a set of common clothes, a set of fine clothes, a set of traveler's clothes, a much-patched rag doll with black button eyes, and a pouch with 75g.

Spellcasting:

Spells Known: 11

Spell DC: 17

Attack Modifier: +9

At-Will(6): Acid splash, Chill touch, Fire bolt, Light, Ray of Frost, Shocking grasp

L1(4): Chromatic orb, Feather fall, Mage armor

L2(3): Darkvision, Enlarge/Reduce

L3(3): Dispell magic, Haste

L4(3): Greater invisibility, Wall of Fire

L5(2): Cone of Cold, Teleportation circle

Fericille Icefire hails from the Far North, beyond even the remote Scrimshore Coast, from a desolate city called Zolzerr. She doesn't speak much of her past, except to admit that she grew up on the streets as an orphan. When she was old enough, she signed on with a trade ship and left Zolzerr for the warm southern lands of Nur. While serving on the ship, she discovered her sorcerous abilities and employed them as an adventurer.  A few years ago she met Eamor Terret and the two hit it off. Fericille became his official mistress and now resides in Treeport, where she functions as Terret's eyes and ears on the streets of the city.

Fericille can be impulsive but she has a good heart and most of Lord Terret's subjects like her. She and Lady Terret are very good friends, and both are fiercely protective of their lord.  Her ragged cloak and odd cap make her easily identifiable, but she won't part with them willingly, as they are reminders of the past that she has happily escaped.

Fericille dislikes priests, particularly Abashites, and cold weather.

Lux Tenebris: The Monks of Threadwood Abbey - Part 4

Fericille swept up the winding stairway of High House, Elkedren and Malora carried along in her wake. As they ascended, Fericille kept up a constant flow of chatter that made Malora think of babbling brooks.

They emerged through a green door into a large hallway illuminated by glowing glass lamps. In their soft, steady light Malora observed a uniformed servant emerge from a door at the end of the hall.  Fericille headed straight for him.

"Is Lord Terret in his study, Squire?"

"He is, lady," said the man. He glanced past her, at Elkedren and Malora, and sighed. "Shall I announce you?"

"No. Thank you."

Fericille stepped past the servant and Elkedren and Malora had no choice but to follow. Malora saw Elkedren share a knowing grimace with the servant. At the end of the corridor, Fericille knocked twice on a green wooden door before pushing it open and stepping inside, calling, "Eamor, there are some people here to see you."

Lord Terret's study was a spacious room, the walls lined with living wood shelves. Those shelves were jammed with books of every size and description. A massive woven rug covered most of the floor, its surface decorated by a complex design of black and gold loops. A stuffed crocodile hung from the ceiling and Malora thought she saw one dead eye roll in their direction. It could have been her imagination, but she'd learned never to dismiss anything in a wizard's sanctum.

Lord Terret sat behind a slender desk of pale wood, in a high backed chair. He looked younger than Malora had expected. Slim and pale, he wore glass spectacles over hazel eyes. The right side of his head was shaved, but the left sported long auburn locks. The blue-veined flesh of his scalp was scarred as was the right side of his face. His right arm, she noted, was sheathed in fine leather and his hand was gloved. A golden circlet embraced his brow, and jeweled rings glittered on the fingers of his left hand.

His slim auburn brows arched as Fericille approached the desk, and his hazel eyes flashed from her to Elkedren to Malora. He pushed the book he had been studying away from him. It closed with a snap, rose from the desk and filed itself on a shelf.

"Well met, Sheriff. Squire just told me you were waiting."

"They're here to talk with you about those beastly monks, Eamor," said Fericille. "They've gone too far this time. You simply must let El take action!"

"Must I?" A smile flirted with Lord Terret's lips, as he levelled his gaze on Elkedren. "Very well, Sheriff. Tell me what's happened?"

Elkedren nodded and recounted Malora's tale to Lord Terret. His lordship sat in his high-backed chair and listened. He stroked his beardless chin with his left hand.

When Elkedren had finished, Lord Terret turned to Malora. "Is my sheriff's account accurate, lady?"

"It is, Lord Terret."

"Well, then, the monks have crossed the line and must be punished."

So saying, Lord Terret stood. Fericille appeared at his side, offering a wooden crutch that he accepted with a nod of thanks. Shoving it beneath his left arm, he regarded Elkedren.

"Sheriff, I am formally charging you with the arrest of the Black Monks of Threadwood Abbey. Take them alive if you can, but dead if you have to."

Elkedren's answering smile was like a knife. "Yes, my lord."

"You are authorized to use what resources and personnel you think you will need," continued Lord Terret.

"Ooh! Ooh! I want to help!" Fericille was practically bouncing in place.

Elkedren blanched. "Mistress Fericille, I...."

"A fine idea," interjected Lord Terret. "A spellcaster of Fericille's caliber could be useful."

"As you say, my lord." Elkedren's tone was polite, but Malora thought he looked less enthusiastic about the matter now.

"As a matter of fact," continued Lord Terret, a thoughtful tone in his voice. "It might be a good idea to involve Brother Elloren, as well."

"Elloren!" Fericille and Elkedren both said, looking genuinely surprised.

"Do you have a problem with the Abashites, Elkedren?" Terret asked.

"No, lord," the sheriff said, tight-mouthed.

"Good," said Lord Terret. "Keep me appraised of the situation."

Leaning on his crutch, Terret hobbled out from behind the desk. He was missing his right leg below the knee. His trouser's leg was pinned up, in no attempt to conceal the loss.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I have an appointment with my wife."

He nodded and swept out of the room.

As soon as the door was shut behind him, Elkedren swore.

"What?" asked Malora.

"Brother Elloren," explained Fericille. "He's the head of the Abashite temple." She made a face. "We don't get along."

Malora sighed. "Priest or palladin?"

"Paladin," said Elkedren.

"You know," said Fericille, "Eamor didn't explicitly say that you had to ask him along, Sheriff."

"He mentioned him by name, Fericille. Lord Terret expects me to ask him. And he'll say yes. You know he will. This sort of thing is the sort of thing Abashites pray for, the chance to bring justice down on the heads of a bunch of evil-doers."

"Maybe he'll say no," suggested Fericille, weakly.

Malora, remembering her own upbringing in the Temple of Abasha, somehow doubted that would happen.

Lux Tenebris: The Monks of Threadwood Abbey - Part 3

THE MONKS OF THREADWOOD ABBEY - PART 3

Elkedren listened to Malora's tale.  It was hard for her to read his mood. The man's face betrayed nothing to her, but cool focus.  When she had finished her tale, Elkedren asked her a few questions about herself and her business.  Thinking it might expedite matters, she told him of the message she was carrying for the Chief Archivist of the Adamantine Archive. Hearing this, Elkedren's brow furrowed and something sparked in his eyes.

"Well," he said, standing. "That puts this in a different light. Come with me, please."

She followed him out of the room, somewhat uneasy. Elkedren strode down the corridor, into the dimly lit entry chamber.  He told the watchman, still bent over his ledger, "If anyone comes looking for me, I'm at the High House."

Before Malora could ask what High House was, Elkedren was striding out the door and into Treeport. She hurried after him, frowning now at the man's back.  She hurried to catch up with him.

"Where are we going?"

"High House," said the Sheriff. "I'm going to talk with Lord Terret about your monks."

"And I am going with you because?"

Elkedren glanced at her. "I know his lordship. He won't give me permission to raid the monks without talking to you first."

"If the monks have been as troublesome as they appear, why haven't you moved against them before now?"

"Honestly? Because outside of stealing a few goats and chickens, they haven't broken any of Lord Terret's laws. I haven't had cause. But drugging and robbing a courier for the Adamantine Archive? That . . . ."

"Puts things in a different light," said Malora. "Gives you a reason to go after them."

"Yes," said Elkedren. He smiled a grim little smile. "At last."

"You don't like them."

"No."

"When you go after them, I would like to join you," said Malora.

"Can you fight?"

"Yes."

"Then you're welcome to join us."

High House was aptly named.  It resided at the top of the giant tree, accessible by a dedicated counterweight-elevator. Like the Temple of Elleru that Malora had seen earlier, High House had been shaped from the living wood of the giant tree.  Armed and armored sentries stood on watch outside its entrance. They nodded at Elkedren and stared at Malora with undisguised suspicion, but no one made any attempt to prevent her from entering Lord Terret's home.

Malora found herself standing in a large wooden entry hall. Light poured in from circular openings in the tree-wall. The room smelt pleasantly of green growing things. Tapestries depicting the history of the Terrets hung from the walls.

Elkedren spoke with a servant who told them to wait, then hurried away to notify Lord Terret of their presence. Malora took the time to study the tapestries. She noted telltale glimmers of enchantment in the stitching.

"Does your lord employ wizards?"

"He is a wizard," said Elkedren. "Why?"

Malora nodded at the tapestries. The sheriff grunted.

"You've got good eyes."

"I'd say she has exceptional eyes," said a woman's voice.

Malora turned, watched a slight young woman approaching them from an open door. She wore a fine, white summer gown beneath a tattered cloak made of scraps. A disreputable looking cap was jammed on her head, trying and failing to contain the woman's mane of curly black hair.  Her face was round and pleasant, sun-bronzed, with a fine nose and full lips. Her eyes were a startling shade of blue-gray that Malora had never seen before.

"Well met, stranger," the newcomer said, grinning at Malora. She turned that grin to Elkedren. "Introduce me, sheriff."

Elkedren released a long-suffering sigh and gestured at the woman. "Lady Malora, allow me to present Mistress Fericille Icefire."

"Charmed," said Mistress Fericille. "What brings such a lovely visitor to our fair tree?"

"The Black Monks robbed her," said Elkedren.

"Oh! You poor thing!" Fericille was immediately solicitous. She took Malora's hand between her own and peered into her face. "Are you all right?"

"I am fine," said Malora, gently extracting her hand. "Thank you for your concern, Madame Fericille."

"Just Fericille will do," said the woman. "I don't care much for formality." She turned to Elkedren. "So you're here to get Eamor to issue a warrant for their arrest."

"Yes."

"Good! Why are you standing out here? Why aren't you talking with him?"

"We're waitiing. . . ."

"Oh pish," said Fericille. "Come with me."

With that, she gathered up the hem of her white gown and strode toward the twisting stairway at the end of the hall. Malora glanced at Elkedren, who managed to look both vexed and amused.

"We should follow her," he said. "At the very least to be there when she barges in on his lordship."

"Who is she?" Malora asked, lowering her voice, as they hurried to catch up with the woman.

"She's his lordship's mistress."

"I thought she might have been his wife," said Malora.

"Oh no," said Elkedren. "Lady Terret is quite different."

"Hurry up, you two!" Fericille called.

Lux Tenebris: Elkedren

ELKEDREN, L7 Human Ranger

Note: Elkedren is built with the Variant Human Traits

STR     13 (+1)

DEX    16 (+3)

CON   14 (+2)

INT     12 (+1)

WIS     14 (+2)           

CHA   12 (+1)

HP       60

AC      14 (Leather Armor)

Languages: Common, Elvish, Gnomish, Halfling

Proficiencies: +3

Armor: Light, Medium, Shields

Weapons: Simple, Martial

Tools: None

Saves: Strength, Dexterity

Skills: Athletics, Insight, Investigation, Nature, Perception, Survival

Feats:

Alert

Watcher's Eye

* * *

Favored Enemy

Natural Explorer

Fighting Style: Dueling

Ranger Archetype: Hunter

- Horde Breaker

- Escape the Horde

Primeval Awareness

Extra Attack

Spellcasting:

Spells Known: 05

Spell DC: 13

Atk Mod: +5

L1(4): Cure Wounds, Hunter's Mark, Speak with Animals

L2(3): Darkvision, Pass without Trace

Equipment:

Shortsword. Melee. +6 to hit; 1d6 +3 piercing; Finesse, Light.

Dagger(2). Melee. +6 to hit; 1d4 +3 piercing; Finesse, Light, Thrown (20/60 ft.).

Handaxe. Melee. +6 to hit; 1d6 +3 slashing; Light, Thrown (20/60 ft.).

Leather Armor. AC 11 + Dex.

An Explorer's Pack, a set of common clothes, an empty glass vial that smells of perfume when opened, a potion of healing, a pouch with 30gp.

Elkedren is the Sheriff of Treeport. He is responsible for enforcing law outside the town and reports directly to Lord Terret.

Elkedren is the son of a human mother and a half-elf father. His father left when Elkedren was young, and Elkedren has never forgiven him for abandoning his family.  Because his ancestry is predominantly human, Elkedren possesses none of the Elven racial traits. He thinks of himself as entirely human, and his demeanor becomes quite brisk with persons who point out his mixed heritage.

Lux Tenebris: The Monks of Threadwood Abbey - Part 2

THE MONKS OF THREADWOOD ABBEY - PT 2

After she'd finished emptying her stomach, Malora took a proper inventory. She had her cloak and the knife in her belt, but not her blades. They'd missed the knife, concealed in her left boot, but had taken everything else. As she searched the campsite, she found a half-full waterskin leaning against a tree. An oversight on their part, or perhaps a version of mercy. Malora didn't know and didn't care. She was too angry.

There was no evidence of where the monks had gone. She was no tracker, but she knew concealing the trail heavily-laden pack animals and her own horse would have left behind was no easy feet. Whoever they were, the monks knew their woodcraft.

Swearing, she grabbed the wineskin and headed down the road. In the distance, she could see a thin column of smoke rising above the trees. A farm, perhaps. Or some woodsman's hut. Hopefully, a source of help.

* * * * *

The farmer, who had begrudgingly given his name as Essen, watched Malora like a hawk as she recounted her tale.  He stood in the doorway of the little farmhouse, a pitchfork in one calloused hand, his gimlet eyes boring into her. Behind Farmer Essen his wife stood, a poe-faced woman in a dirty apron, clutching a pair of meat cleavers.  From the way she held the cleavers, Malora thought the woman was probably more dangerous than the man.

"You got robbed by the Black Monks," said Farmer Essen, when Malora had finished her tale.

"So you know them."

"We know of them," said the farmer's wife.

"They don't bother folk about here too much," said Farmer Essen. "Nothing worth stealing."

"You should go to Treeport," said the farmer's wife. "Talk with Lord Terret."

"Will he help?" asked Malora.

"More than we will," said the farmer, bluntly.

Malora took a deep breath and held it for a three-count before exhaling.

"How far is Treeport?"

"Straight down the road," said Farmer Essen. "Half a day's walk."

"You can't miss it," said the wife.

Malora nodded, turned and left without another word.

* * * * *

The farmer's wife was right. Treeport was impossible to miss.

On the west coast of Nur, Malora knew there were trees so large that it would take twenty grown men with linked hands to encircle the trunks. The tree that rose before her would have taken two hundred men to circle its base.

It was colossal, the obvious product of divine grace or arcane magic.  The sheer scale of the tree was enough to make her doubt her senses. It was visible some distance away, but the landscape here played curious tricks with the eyes so that the size of the tree was difficult to grasp until you drew closer.

The town of Treeport sprawled around the base of the tree, languishing in perpetual shade. As she drew nearer, however, Malora saw that the town was not restricted to the ground. It had spread into the branches of the tree itself, a meandering collection of small structures. They perched on the branches of the tree, connected to the ground by a series of cunning counterweight-like elevators, and to other branches by gently swaying rope walkways and ladders.

As she approached the town, she noted that there was no wall surrounding the ground-based settlement. Instead, a ring of orchards seemed to delinate the borders of Treeport, with a single wide road leading to and from the community.

There was, she noted, a guardhouse set up beside the road, and a boom gate to block access if necessary. As she approached the gate, she spotted a watchman lounging on a wooden bench, in the shadow of the guardhouse.  He heaved himself up as she approached.

"Well met, traveler," he grunted. "Welcome to Treeport."

If he was discomfited by her drow nature, the guard gave no sign. She wasted no time with pleasantries.

"I need to report a crime," said Malora.

The guard frowned. "What sort of crime?"

"I was robbed on the road, half a days journey from here, by a band of thieves."

"Can you describe them?"

"Human," said Malora. "Dressed like monks, all in black. I understand the locals call them the Black Monks."

The watchman's expression soured. He turned and spat into the dusty road.

"We know of them," he said. "You'll want to talk to the sheriff. He'll want to hear your story."

"Where do I find him?"

"Probably in his office at the Lawhouse. Go straight until you come to the square. The Lawhouse is on the left side. Ask for Elkedren."

Her heart sank a little at the Elvish name. Most elves liked drow about as much as humans liked tieflings. Nevertheless, she pushed on.

As she followed the road into town, dusty dirt gave way to cobblestones. The buildings around her seemed primarily mercantile, although she could smell a tannery and what she assumed must be a smithy somewhere nearby.

There was a surprising number of people about, more than she would have expected for a town of Treeport's size. Most were human, but she spotted others as well. Wood elves in buckskin and feathers haggled with a knot of leather-clad rock gnomes. A sour-faced dwarf carried a heavy iron chest on his back, swearing with every step he took. A trio of human women, Priestesses of Elleru, strode down the street in their dark green gowns, trailed by a gang of curious children. A halfling man sat on a stool, outside a jeweler's shop, nodding pleasantly at passers-by and inviting some to enter the store and sample his wares.

She came to the square, although plaza might have been a better word. It was large, dominated by a large stone fountain carved in the likeness of a tree. The water tumbling from its stone branches served as leaves.

To the left was the Lawhouse, as the watchman had described. However, directly ahead of her, past the fountain, was the trunk of the huge tree. Its dark wooden surface had been shaped and altered to house a Temple of Elleru, which might explain the tree's odd size. And to her right was an all-too familiar sight, a Temple of Abasha, festooned with banners of gold and red and sky blue, the doors adorned with the goddess's golden blade.

Malora turned her back on the temples and hurried across the square's gray stone tiles toward the Lawhouse.

Compared to its neighbors it was an ugly, utilitarian building. Three stories tall, apparently made of undressed gray stone, it sported narrow windows and a pair of stout iron doors, dwarven-made if she were any judge.

Stepping through those doors, Malora found herself in a dim chamber. Meager light slipped through the arrow-narrow windows, but did little to dispell the gloom.  There was a gray stone counter in front of her. Seated behind it, his head bent over a ledger, was a man in a watchman's uniform.

"I'm looking for Elkedren."

The watchman glanced up from his book. His brows rose in surprise. He nodded to her left.

"Through that door. His office is at the end of the corridor. Knock hard. He's probably asleep."

"Thank you."

She turned and pushed through the door that she hadn't noticed. A steady white light illuminated the corridor, radiating from a wooden chandeleir hanging from the ceiling. There were a number of unmarked doors along the corridor. At the end of the hallway, Malora found a door with the words, Sheriff's Office, painted in neat white letters on its surface. She balled up her fist and pounded on the door.

"It's open!" shouted a man. "Come in!"

Malora pushed the door open. The room on the other side was small, but neat as a pin. There was a pot-bellied metal stove in one corner. A pair of stout wooden chairs were arranged near it. Wooden shelves lined one wall, containing a collection of wooden boxes and woven baskets. A threadbare rug covered the floor. A single candle burned in a wall sconce.

Seated in one of the chairs was a man. He was tall, even sitting, and lanky. His hair was pale blonde, receding from his forehead in a widow's peak. The man's face was lean, with prominant cheekbones and a sharp chin. A golden ring gleamed in the lobe of his left ear, and he wore buckskin trousers and a linen shirt. He regarded Malora with watery blue eyes.

"You're the sheriff?" asked Malora.

He nodded, a clipped dip of his head. "I'm Elkedren. What do you want?"

Lux Tenebris: The Monks of Threadwood Abbey

And then there were the bandits.

In Malora's experience, encountering bandits on the road was just one of those things that happened when you traveled overland. Like flea-benighted straw mattresses and food poisoning. It could be avoided if you knew what to look for, but eventually something would slip past you and you'd spend most of the night vomiting.

So far, her travels along the Old Road had been fairly serene. She'd gotten some odd looks in some of the hamlets she rode through, and occasionally simpletons would flee at her approach. But she couldn't say, definitively, if the last was because she was drow. It might have just been honest pragmatism. Malora could respect that.

Still, she was anticipating trouble at some point in her journey. She hadn't expected to encounter it from a bunch of monks.

She was a week past Honey Hill, and a week away from the Graymist Way, by her reckoning, when she encountered the priests. They were traveling ahead of her: a small group of black robed figures, leading pack mules. 

Malora thought about hanging back, but she was tired and priests, in her experience, could usually be counted on to look past a person's appearance. So she made no attempt to conceal her presence as she led her horse up the road toward the party.

They spotted her immediately and slowed to a crawl.

As she drew nearer, she studied their garb. They wore simple black cassocks and wooden sandals. Some of them walked with staves. The saddlebags of their mules were heavy with supplies.

Malora nodded her head. "Well met."

"Well met, lady," responded one of the priests.

At first, she thought he might have been a dwarf, but she quickly realized he was a rather short human. The man threw back the hood of his cloak, revealed the tonsured head of a monk. He had a wide, open face and a neatly trimmed ginger beard.

"You're traveling to Treeport?"

Malora frowned. "West," she said. "What's Treeport?"

The priest smiled. "Lord Terret's great experiment. You haven't heard of it?"
"No," said Malora. "What is it?"

"I could not do it justice," said the priest. He inclined his head. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Brother Varre of Threadwood Abbey. These are my associates."

He waved at his companions, who nodded in silent greeting.

"My name is Malora."

"Well met, Lady Malora. You've traveled far?"

The group began to move forward again, at a leisurely pace.

"From Fallen Baramir," said Malora.

Brother Varre's ginger eyebrows rose. "That's far. How was the road to the east?"

She told him. Occasionally, Brother Varre was ask a question or two, but he seemed content to let her speak. The day drug on, the sun sinking toward the western horizon.

"We should find a place to camp," said Brother Varre. "Would you care to share our fire?"

"Yes. Thank you."

Brother Varre nodded. The group of monks moved off the road, among a copse of slim trees. With practiced efficiency they set up their camp. Malora's offers of assistance were kindly, but firmly, refused.

By the time the sun had vanished beneath the horizon, the monks had started a modest fire. One of them, a halfling youth, prepared a simple meal while the others retreated into the woods to perform their "necessaries" as Brother Varre called them.

They returned and a savory stew was passed around in simple wooden bowls. Malora savored hers, complimenting the halfling on his cooking.  When she'd finished eating, Brother Varre relieved her of her bowl and passed it to one of the other monks, who began to clean them.

The night was warm and clear. A soft breeze stirred the leaves overhead, and the stars gleamed against the night-black sky. Malora yawned, warm and full.

She leaned back on her elbows and yawned again. Her eyes felt so heavy. Around her the monks spoke softly to one another. 

Malora blinked.

Once.

Twice.

She woke to the feel of warm sunlight on her face and a dull ache in her head. Glancing around, she was surprised to see that she was alone. The monks were gone, only the charred remnants of the campfire evidence that they had ever been there.

And gone with them were Malora's possessions.

"Demon's Teeth!" she swore.

Then her guts twisted and she rolled onto her side and vomited.

It was going to be that kind of day.