The PowWow

   Guillermo, or Gil as his friends call him, paused at the edge of the forest and looked at ruins of Blue Pine spread out before him.

Caeruleus the Sentinel, a sharp bright teal crescent hung in the sky, taking its faithful march across the sky following the sun.

            East of Caeruleus, the translucent, chalky disc of Velaman the Mask was making his way to obscure the Sentinel.  Gil knew this monthly celestial dance, would bring the world’s magic to its peak, something Gil hoped to take advantage of in spite of the concerns it could also raise.

His company consisted of his assistant and chief procurer Tzatziki Bob, and hired hand Oraan.             Sitting on a log Gil moved his attention back to his briefing notes, flipping through the pages before he noticed Bob walking up to him.

            Bob pulled a bag up from his belt. “Gil, I managed to get your sphenes.”

            Gil took the bag from the gnome, opening he took a yellow gemstone out. It instantly caught the morning light refracting it causing a brilliant rainbow effect on his robe. A smile stretched the corners of his mouth. “These will be useful when Velaman masks the Sentinel today. Your ability to get whatever I need on such short notice, never ceases to amaze me.”

            The gnomes face screwed up glaring at the elf “Being out during the eclipse is dangerous! Why do we have to be out here again?”

            Gil sighed “I need the help of peak magic in the world, my spell should let me see events in the past, which is why we are to find out.” Changing the subject he continued “How is Oraan doing? He was worried about leaving his family to come help us?”

            Gil followed Bob’s gaze over to Oraan securing the wagon and horses to unload equipment for the campsite.

            “He hasn’t said much the last few days, but his sword arm is strong.” Bob commented.

“Since you’re worried why don’t you go have a look around.” Gil suggested

            “That is a good idea, I suppose” Bob nodded nervously.

            As Gil watched him wander off, Gil dived back into his notes about the ruin of Blue Pine, which he was sent to investigate. The disaster that had befallen this town was a thirty-year-old mystery for him to solve for Hugo Starweaver, the Arch Mage of Vale Haven.

            He recalled the interviews with some survivors he had at the mage’s observatory, in the port city of Vale Haven. “Figures cloaked in black, scurrying through the town in the dark” was the universal report. “A ritual maybe? Successful or failed?” he questioned to himself.

“We have to find the end to this,” he mumbled to himself as he pondered his journey through the gloom. The world began to weigh on him.  “So much was lost, as the magical cataclysm brought flourishing magic and trade to a halt. This Darkening World has us sliding into ruin.”

Bob was making his way towards an interesting looking tree.

            Lost in contemplation, Gil watched Bob cautiously approaching the tree. It had a strange shape, and some of the branches were sloping to the ground. Bob was holding his nose as he got close to the trunk.

            Gil stood as he continued to watch Bob, fingers twitching, and throat tightening. Did that tree branch just flinch?

“Bob,” Gil’s warning died in his throat.

The branch uncoiled, slowly untwisting, then snapped forward like a whip. Trees don’t move! Then Bob’s frantic shouts cut through the air.

Bob’s surprised shriek broke Gil out of his thoughts. Gil sat for a moment in awe of such speed.

            He grabbed and fumbled with his component pouch as he watched the tree whip the poor gnome through the air.

            Gil sprinted forward, and out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Oraan, who bolted past him with his sword drawn, a look of determination on his face.

Oraan’s sword cleaved through the branch of the tree trying to defend its catch.              

“Look out!” bellowed Oraan. He suddenly stopped in front of Gil, chopping down with force and precision. Gil was shocked; he hadn’t noticed that branch moving towards him, realizing that he might have been the target.

Oraan parried branches, dodging others finally reaching the beleaguered gnome, and with one mighty swipe of his sword, cut him down from the branch.

            Gil scrambled and grabbed Bob while thick sap poured out of the tree’s wound onto the gnome. Oraan continued to defend his companions as they cleared the odd monstrosity.              

Bob screamed again. Gil saw smoke coming off of Bob. “Something is burning him.” Gil thought as he started stripping garment off his procurer.

 Oraan ran up, assisting in pulling off Bob’s clothes. Gil looked at the clothes, as they finally got Bob removed from his smoldering vestments.

Gil inspected the gnome. Some of the sap was on the skin of Bob's arms, and Gil could smell the acrid, sour, wet decay of it burning his flesh.

Bob howled in pain. Thinking quickly Gil went into his component pouch, he could smell the dry scent of chalk as he brought forth a chunk.            

            Taking the gnome’s arm he began to apply the treatment. The acid hissed and fizzled as it was neutralized.

            Oraan pulled out a skiving knife, he went across the gnomes exposed flesh removing the inactive acid. “Hang on” he said as he pulled from his belt his flask of spirits. He poured it over the wounds, then offered Bob a slug.

            Bob thanked Oraan, then looked at Gil “Is that going to be on the tour?”

            Gil chuckled, as they stood up and walked back to their wagon.

After they finished setting up their camp, the smell of the camp fire rose in the crisp autumn air.

Gil looked up as the sun's light poured into the valley. He watched Caeruleus moving across the mountaintops, the shadows on its surface giving way to the expanding light, with Velaman moving to swallow the Sentinel.

Pulling his gaze away from the celestial show, Gil continued placing the last of his wards around the camp. As he gathered his equipment for his trek into the ruins, he looked at Bob, noting he had replaced the clothes he lost in the attack by the tree.

He found Oraan standing stoically by the fire, ready to move to the next phase of the mission.

“Are you sure about staying here Bob?” asked Gil.

The gnome nodded “Yes, I have had enough excitement for one day. But you will have Oraan with you, and I have your excellent wards.”

Oraan nodded. “And we had better get moving before too long. Let’s get finished so we can be away from this place.”

Gil nodded. The then turned to Bob. “What’s for dinner then?”

            “Grilled flat bread, with roasted kobold and my signature sauce.” The gnome responded. “What else!”

**

Dead leaves and fallen blue pine needles crunched under Gil’s and Oraan’s feet.

Gil stopped them on their path. Foreboding from the gloomy ruins inspired Gil to set personal wards for himself and Oraan before they resumed making their way into the ruins.

“What do you suppose happened here?” Oraan asked.

Gil glanced briefly at his open notes about the recent history of the Wraith Vale, as their path wound between the abandoned and decaying buildings.

After musing a bit, Gil said, “We are not sure. With the invasion of all the undead, this is the first time we’ve had a chance to come examine this town. Blue Pine died about the time the darkening began.”

He jotted notes in his leather-bound tome, recording the state of the ruined structures. They stopped again, and Gil knelt and pressed his hands to the ground, feeling the remnants of necromantic magic pulsing through the earth even after thirty years.

Changing the subject, Gil asked Oraan, “How is your wife doing? Is your family going to take advantage of the shipping project of the knights?”

“It’s been difficult, you know food is tight and getting scarcer.” Oraan swallowed. “We may not have a choice before too long.”

He scribbled some thoughts in his tome as a sense of foreboding threatened to overtake him. With a sigh, he stood and they resumed their grim walk. He noted a burned-out building, likely the city bakery, with a blackened oven and decayed utensils the baker once used. Continuing on, Gil and Oraan finally reached their destination: the chapel.

Telltale waves of burn marks on the ground and church added to his suspicion that this was disaster’s epicenter. Examining the structure, Gil saw the doors hung off their hinges—unclear whether from the blast, looters, or age-induced rot- and noted the roof was partially caved in.

The elf looked skyward, the moons were close now; He could feel the magic swell around him. It was time to work.

Oraan tapped Gil. “Hey Gil, there is something nearby I want to check out, is that okay?”

Gil mumbled “Yes.” His mind focused on studying the ruin before him.

He heard Oraan’s footsteps as he moved off. Gil reached into his pack grabbing a sphene in anticipation, as He readied a scrying incantation he’d prepared for the task and moved toward the nave. The spell would let him look into the past- magic crafted with the help of his mentor, the Arch Mage. It would finally give the world definitive answers.

Moving to the threshold, a sudden feeling hit Gil, and a chill prickled the hairs on the back of his neck. Stepping in from the courtyard, he scanned the ruins from the defiled chapel entrance.

            Peering back at the town’s ruins, he shrugged after a moment, seeing only Oraan investigating his mystery. Gil turned back to his task.

He didn’t know if it was because of the evil magic pulsing through this place, but the unsettling feeling that he was being watched was growing heavier by the second. Shrugging off the unease, he moved deeper into the dim nave.

Gil moved to a pew near the altar. Though it was rotting, it would be sufficient as a makeshift work bench. He set his notebook down, placing the gem beside it.

As he prepared the scrying incantation, the sensation of being intently watched began to bother Gil again. Turning back toward the doorway, there was still no one, monster or living being to threaten him.

            Unease kept gnawing at Gil. He looked around for a moment, waiting for the next thing to happen. Casting an extra ward crossed his mind, lest he be caught unaware when he was scrying, but then help was close by he reminded himself.

Gil shrugged off the unease, and glanced around the ruined nave. He saw piles of bones and ripped faded black cloth. The altar, still under some of the remaining rooftop, was stained in blood at the far side. The late day sun filtered into the ruin, amidst the rotted timbers of destroyed pews.

It would be a long night, the deceptive size of Velaman appearing larger as it moved to obscure Caeruleus, just a short fading plunging into deep night.

Gil could feel the necrotic energy radiating in this defiled chapel, as if it seethed with hate for his intrusion into its domain. He took a deep breath to steady himself, picking up the scrying gem he started walking to the altar.

A pile of bones and rotting black cloth down the walkway caught his attention. The elf kneeled down to examine the faded black remnants of what appeared to be a robe. He thought maybe a cult—maybe the Veiled Ascendancy that has been causing so much trouble in the Wraith Vale.

Gil whispered the incantation of his scrying spell; his hand tightened around the sphene. Anxiety washed away, as he felt the magic flow through him. The gem vibrated as it filtered the magical power, passing from Gil to it, Images began to flood into Gil’s mind, peering back through the decades to when the owner of those bones and robe still lived. He made a mental note of everything in his mind as the visions came, every detail no matter how small.

He looked toward the altar, a young woman was bound to it, her red hair splayed out behind her. Her arms tied above her head and feet bound to the stone to limit her movement. Gil got up still enveloped in the spell and walked over.

The girl struggled against her bonds, as the cultists issued a low rhythmic chant. One cultist who Gil recognized, came over and stood by the altar, his cold eyes on his victim. Gil watched as only an observer can. He noticed a gleaming finely crafted dagger being held by this seemingly unemotional man. There was a commotion outside the chapel drawing the attention of the dagger-wielding cultist.

A fighter, with a familiar look to Gil had burst through the door. Other cultists stopped chanting and confronted him. The fighter cut down the cultists as he advanced into the chapel.

Gil turned and looked at the robe by the altar, surprised that this cultist had regained his composure, finishing the chant that completed the spell instead of helping his brothers. He then plunged the dagger into the girl’s chest. Her eyes flashed wildly as her body was violated by enchanted steel. Blood spurted forth and she tried to scream as blood began to pour from the corner of her mouth.

The girl became still; the fighter paused, almost to the altar. Gil watched the drama unfold before him, the cultist looked down at his victim but still no emotion betrayed his face. It seemed the whole world stopped.

The fighter roared in anger, removing his sword from the corpse that would become the pile of bones that Gil had just barely examined. The fighter lifted his sword high, intending the final strike on the cultist at the altar. But the building began to shake violently.

Gil’s trained magical eyes could see that this ritual was intended to be a summoning spell, and that the spell field had collapsed unleashing pent-up magical energy. The cultist by the altar, the fighter, and all other remaining cultists fell as the earth heaved, and part of the roof fell in.

The flash from the collapsing spell shook Gil from the shocking moment he just witnessed. Back in his current time, ozone from the scrying spell assaulted him. He looked down at the altar and noted that no remains were left behind.

  He walked around examining the bloodied marble; he walked back in his notebook on the pew and began to make an entry about what he had just witnessed. He also recalled that survivors had said some burials had taken place before the undead incursion had set in. Gil decided he would have to search for the girl that was on the altar, her remains could provide some clues to who the cultists were, and why they failed.

Gil’s thoughts about the summoning spell tumbled around in his head. It was one that was uncommonly powerful. It failed when a key component went missing, causing the magical energy to explode outward instead of opening a portal, triggering the catastrophe. As he made his notes, the mage wondered who the young woman was, and how she had been chosen. He had to find her!

Exhaling, Gil finished his documentation, confident he had found ground zero for the catastrophe. He wandered the chapel ruin and examined a few more piles of remains, noticing it was late in the day. The shadows were growing long and menacing, as if waiting for their chance to get at the mage. He needed to hurry; he still had to find the sacrificed girl.

Walking over to his makeshift workbench, he closed his book and stashed his components. "Time to leave," he said to himself. Glancing around, he made a final survey of the chapel, then he looked through the entryway and caught sight of something odd; Oraan was still standing, unmoved from where he was before the scrying.

Gil moved cautiously toward the entryway of the building, dropping his hand instinctively to his component pouch. Gil called to Oraan, but he was still as a statue. Grasped in Oraan’s hand was an exquisite silver chain, with a polished onyx pendant that glowed with a pulsing sickly green light.

It looked to Gil that Oraan was completely caught in the necklace’s devilry.

Moving in closer to examine the situation, Gil locked his eyes with Oraan hoping to take a look at the pendant. Suddenly, the man's expression twisted into an unnatural, explosive rage. Oraan lunged forward at Gil, closing the gap between them in a flash. Before Gil could even raise a defense, Oraan hoisted his fist with otherworldly strength. His arm came crashing down on Gil’s head.

The mage’s wards flashed as they deflected some of the blow, but enough got through to send him to the ground with a thud, his things spilling out.

The world spun around him as Gil sat stunned on the ground, his belongings strewn from the attack. He watched from the ground as Oraan ran into the ruined vestibule leading into the chapel crypt. He sat up for a moment, shaking off the daze. He began to repack up his bag with his research and components.

Gil groaned as he got back to his feet, taking a few moments to ponder the current situation while he gathered his wits. Clearly something was amiss. Gil had the most of the information he was seeking, he could retreat to the safety of his camp with Bob. But the fate of his body guard weighed on him. Also, he needed to find the remains of the girl he witnessed in the scrying.

He reached in to his pack and pulled out an enchanted pendant that emitted a pale light glow, slipping it over his head down to his neck to illuminate his path. Gil then made his way over to crypt’s entrance. He picked his way over exposed roots and fallen stones in the vestibule, the smell of earth and decay present.  Down he followed Oraan into the depths

Gil made his way down the steps finally to a flat landing. His reward for dodging the fallen debris. He continued down the stone passageway, his pendant throwing dim light as he pursued Oraan.

All kinds of possibilities went through Gil’s mind about poor Oraan’s fate, when a jarring crash filled the crypt, like stone grinding then hitting the floor. Rounding a corner, the spectacle before him was one of utter disbelief.

Air and dust caught his blond hair, whipping it violently. He spotted Oraan, standing over an open sarcophagus, one of many lining the chamber walls. A bright sickly green glow emanated from the sarcophagus, the fighter was hunched over it like he was about to crawl inside.

Gil pushed forward, wincing as dirt plowed into his face. He grimaced as the chamber filled with the familiar scent of metallic ozone. It was then Oraan began to scream; the man's body was noticeably shriveling under the magical onslaught.

He saw ribbons of what he could only assume to be life energy flowing off Oraan into the sarcophagus. Everything was moving rapidly!

            Gil ran up and frantically grabbed Oraan’s shoulder. The screaming stopped instantly as all the air was expelled from the fighter’s lungs, his eyes glazing over. Gil looked down into the sarcophagus and gasped at the sight.

Gil witnessed blood moving back and forth in the sarcophagus over a skeleton, the metallic odor of the blood assaulting his nose.  Meat of the body was filling in; bones snapped together on their own accord as defined muscle began reforming on them.

The necklace glowed intensely having somehow found its way around the reforming skeletal neck. Terror welled up in him as he looked on in fascination, watching the macabre dance take place in front of him.

Oraan’s now-mummified remains collapsed to the floor as the necklace finished with its sacrifice. Gil didn’t notice, too fixated on the terrifying and gross spectacle before him.

The wind picked up as the magic intensified. Skin began to knit itself back together, and a blue, ethereal glow flared in the eye sockets of the skull. A screech of the damned echoed forth as raw pain wracked the refleshing husk.

That sound jarred Gil from his entrancement, and pure panic set in. Knowing this could be an incredibly powerful undead entity, he pulled himself away and began to retreat. But just as he stepped back, a partially skeletal hand covered in some meat and blood gripped the edge of the sarcophagus and began to pull the reforming corpse upward.

            As Gil ran for the cover of the hallway, his investigative nature got the better of him. He glanced back towards the sarcophagus in time to see a blood-covered body spill to the floor. The wind continued for a few minutes more and as suddenly as the violent magic had started the air went completely still.

An acrid smell wafted through the crypt as the green glow died. A quiet eternity passed and Gil was afraid to even breathe; it weighed on him unnaturally.

He was sure then; something had just been reborn into this world.

An unnatural wave of panic passed through him, making the moment seem frozen in time. Finally, soft weeping came to the elf’s ears. After a few minutes of recovering his wits and trying to sort out what had just happened, he decided he would dare to take a peek. Over where the body had landed, he could see the silhouette of a woman on the cold stone floor.

Gil dusted himself off, the urgent thought of fleeing crossing his mind; he pushed back on it. He turned to make his exit when the soft crying reached him again- sounding incredibly sad and alone where he had expected a vengeful, menacing display that would force him to flee for his life.

The plea was soft and earnest: “Someone help me.”

Gil froze. No matter the danger, that was a plea he could not refuse. He took a deep breath and reentered the chamber, walking slowly.

“It’s okay, I am here,” he said as she continued to weep.

Gil squinted, sweat pouring down his face; he could see a massive magical aura, pouring off the woman, realizing that was causing his unease.

He reached the woman. Looking down, he saw she was in a rotted burial dress that had somehow survived the magical storm.

“Please,” she said through her tears.

He reached down, hesitant to touch her. When he did, she was as cold as death itself. He sucked in a sharp breath of revulsion. Gil studied her face in the weak light of his pendant, and he was completely dumbstruck. This was the girl he had witnessed being sacrificed thirty years before.

He stammered, “How is this... I watched you die!”

She looked up at him, entirely confused. “I died?”