Vondal's Vandals - Back Behind the Veil
The relentless hunt for Karavakos continues. The others make absurd suggestions that we stop and rest, that we conserve our powers, that we otherwise show unacceptable weakness in the face of our despicable foe.
Nay, say I. We thrust forward, ever deeper, ever darker, our blood still wet on our cheeks as the minions of corruption fall before us. There can be no rest. We have one goal, and one goal alone, and that is the destruction of the ancient enemy.
Unless, of course, the darkness claims us first. I had not thought such a thing possible until now. Not until I had another glimpse behind the veil, the wall that shields us from the void beyond mortality. Not until I stared once more into the eyes of death.
After battling wizardly mermen and screaming harpies, I tore the skins from their hides and stitched them onto my cloak. The harpies' wings are, I think, a particularly nice touch. Much as I hate Tiefling sensibilities, the spread of batlike wings at my shoulders gives me a decidedly ominous appearance. While the rest of the party slumbered, I thumbed through this journal, reminding myself of who I really am. A lover of wine, women, feast and song. A devil in battle, and a loyal companion to those who surround me. A crusader of sorts, though where my true intentions lie is never clear. These fragments of memory help shore up the darkness where the fractured shards of my life lay scattered. Akmenos, he of the curse and the blast and the scorching gaze. I may not be all that this Akmenos claims to be, but I can see that the intent is good. Perhaps I will not hate myself so, if these boots I walk in are threaded with some sort of honour, however twisted.
The next room we discovered - the last unexplored chamber on this level of the pyramid - was suspiciously devoid of creatures. My more perceptive companions identified that there may be some sort of a trap lurking, and proceeded on the supposition that the walls may slide together to crush anyone hapless enough to get caught between them when they moved. If only it had been that simple. Vondal leapt across the area we identified as dangerous and found no means to disarm the mechanism, so Snowfoot the shifter tried to follow his lead and in so doing stumbled and set the trap off.
The walls did not slide. They flipped.
Snowfoot was thrown into a pit on the far side of the wall, and was trapped in there as she slid down a slick slope into a pit full of bones and rot, only to find herself in mortal combat with a tentacled horror. Hearing our healer's cries of terror Vondal and I quickly followed, full of bravura and an eagerness to tear the scavenger to pieces. Only Enna remained on the outside, as we would need someone to activate the trap and allow us to get free again. In hindsight, that really should've been me. Marvelous thing, hindsight.
I unleashed the old magics on the beast, scorching its hide while even Vondal's enchanted axe struggled to cleave through the monster's defences. Its massive tentacles flailed and whipped, and within moments of falling into the pit I found myself on my knees, a dazed bloody wreck, stumbling into darkness as the beast smashed me time and again into the stone walls.
Darkness rushed in. The veil parted.
There was something warm and familiar about the utter silence, the total blackness that lay beyond. Something that reminded me I have been here before. For the briefest of moments I was tempted to fall into it, to sink back into the elemental void from whence we came. Then I thought of Karavakos. I would never find peace in that black if I knew that the ancient enemy yet walked. This shell of muscle and bone is my tool, not my prison. I do not fall simply because the flesh succumbs to pain. I am the puppet master, and the puppet. I forced back from beyond the grave, hunting through the pockets of my robes for the vial of healing liquids, and drank not one but two of the potions as the beast continued to flail at us and Vondal continued to hack and rend at its flesh.
Finally it fell. I sat slumped in a corner, a bloody ragged thing lashed by the horrors of both worlds, living and dead. Vondal helped me drag my sorry, agonised body from the pit, after kindly hacking a handful of tentacles from the creature for my cloak. For a dwarf, he's not a bad sort, this Vondal chap.
My brush with death has taught me one thing: there is no peace to be found in that cold night beyond the veil. If there was, I would not be here now. I would not be Akmenos.
As it stands, however, I am indeed Akmenos. And until Karavakos is dead, I will remain so.
Nay, say I. We thrust forward, ever deeper, ever darker, our blood still wet on our cheeks as the minions of corruption fall before us. There can be no rest. We have one goal, and one goal alone, and that is the destruction of the ancient enemy.
Unless, of course, the darkness claims us first. I had not thought such a thing possible until now. Not until I had another glimpse behind the veil, the wall that shields us from the void beyond mortality. Not until I stared once more into the eyes of death.
After battling wizardly mermen and screaming harpies, I tore the skins from their hides and stitched them onto my cloak. The harpies' wings are, I think, a particularly nice touch. Much as I hate Tiefling sensibilities, the spread of batlike wings at my shoulders gives me a decidedly ominous appearance. While the rest of the party slumbered, I thumbed through this journal, reminding myself of who I really am. A lover of wine, women, feast and song. A devil in battle, and a loyal companion to those who surround me. A crusader of sorts, though where my true intentions lie is never clear. These fragments of memory help shore up the darkness where the fractured shards of my life lay scattered. Akmenos, he of the curse and the blast and the scorching gaze. I may not be all that this Akmenos claims to be, but I can see that the intent is good. Perhaps I will not hate myself so, if these boots I walk in are threaded with some sort of honour, however twisted.
The next room we discovered - the last unexplored chamber on this level of the pyramid - was suspiciously devoid of creatures. My more perceptive companions identified that there may be some sort of a trap lurking, and proceeded on the supposition that the walls may slide together to crush anyone hapless enough to get caught between them when they moved. If only it had been that simple. Vondal leapt across the area we identified as dangerous and found no means to disarm the mechanism, so Snowfoot the shifter tried to follow his lead and in so doing stumbled and set the trap off.
The walls did not slide. They flipped.
Snowfoot was thrown into a pit on the far side of the wall, and was trapped in there as she slid down a slick slope into a pit full of bones and rot, only to find herself in mortal combat with a tentacled horror. Hearing our healer's cries of terror Vondal and I quickly followed, full of bravura and an eagerness to tear the scavenger to pieces. Only Enna remained on the outside, as we would need someone to activate the trap and allow us to get free again. In hindsight, that really should've been me. Marvelous thing, hindsight.
I unleashed the old magics on the beast, scorching its hide while even Vondal's enchanted axe struggled to cleave through the monster's defences. Its massive tentacles flailed and whipped, and within moments of falling into the pit I found myself on my knees, a dazed bloody wreck, stumbling into darkness as the beast smashed me time and again into the stone walls.
Darkness rushed in. The veil parted.
There was something warm and familiar about the utter silence, the total blackness that lay beyond. Something that reminded me I have been here before. For the briefest of moments I was tempted to fall into it, to sink back into the elemental void from whence we came. Then I thought of Karavakos. I would never find peace in that black if I knew that the ancient enemy yet walked. This shell of muscle and bone is my tool, not my prison. I do not fall simply because the flesh succumbs to pain. I am the puppet master, and the puppet. I forced back from beyond the grave, hunting through the pockets of my robes for the vial of healing liquids, and drank not one but two of the potions as the beast continued to flail at us and Vondal continued to hack and rend at its flesh.
Finally it fell. I sat slumped in a corner, a bloody ragged thing lashed by the horrors of both worlds, living and dead. Vondal helped me drag my sorry, agonised body from the pit, after kindly hacking a handful of tentacles from the creature for my cloak. For a dwarf, he's not a bad sort, this Vondal chap.
My brush with death has taught me one thing: there is no peace to be found in that cold night beyond the veil. If there was, I would not be here now. I would not be Akmenos.
As it stands, however, I am indeed Akmenos. And until Karavakos is dead, I will remain so.