Sneaking Group #3: The library so oft remains beyond the reach of others, access granted only during the monthly audiences and only when Eshai fancies it. This team takes advantage of their freedom in the palace to adventure here, finding a key in an office three halls away that permits them to slip in -- however, this key disintegrates in the lock once they are inside, its purpose spent. Silence permeates the air and the heavy scent of dust hangs about each tome upon the shelves. These books are no different than they were in any other visit, but should the team look deeper they may find a solitary bookcase near the back of the library, hidden behind stacks upon stacks of scrolls. A push and a nudge reveals a door behind it, the lock of which can be navigated with a rudimentary lockpick skill (no need to roll a twenty here).
This door opens into a small room -- an alcove, really. Dust lays thickly upon all surfaces, with the exception of a thin layering atop a smoked-glass-and-iron case bolted to the wall. Magic protects the glass from damage, but there is a tiny combination lock that plays a faint tune rather than turning to specific numbers. Searching the room may uncover the chords of an old, old lullaby once sung to the Ironwood Emperor a hundred lifecycles in the past. Turning the lock to hit these notes will break the seal and the case can be opened.
Within lies a single, thin journal with pages that have aged beyond recognition in some areas. But a few passages remain legible, starting first with this neat script:
"We know now the secret behind the thousands of lights that keep shadows at bay. Souls, all of them glittering and brilliant, lie within her reach. One brightens on arrival, one fades on departure; we see now how she creates the anchor that drew us like fish to the hook. Impossible to ignore the draw and impossible to be free. She fears it, with all her power, and we fear that it may follow us if we force her to dim each one to return us home. We will help eradicate it."
Then, six pages of worn and eradicated text, there is a more hesitantly written passage that betrays a quiver in the hand of the writer by the way the letters waver on the page:
"Our alliance is purpose and Alderwood thrives. Ironwood dictates, but her words are clipped. Worry spreads and it is well founded. We all watched Bysaliat fall; our mightiest torn to ribbons at an idle dalliance."
The final page of the journal is a mess of writing, excitement spilling ink upon the paper and creating great splotches across the words. What can be made out is scribbled with a note of haste -- and one of hope:
"An idea. Whittle the stick and eventually nothing will remain. Ironwood's magic and our bindings may do it. We will do that here. We will shred Malicant as he shredded Bysaliat. Seal him in light and let it burn eternal. One day, he may be destroyed."
The ink dwindles towards the end, the pot mayhaps emptied; below, it changes to dark crimson lettering that outlines a complex equation -- but not one of physics or science. To touch the letters along would raise the hairs upon the back of one's neck, suggesting an ancient magic invoked in them. A spell of sorts, but one which casts at great cost.
Sneaking Group #3: Una, Amon, Sabriel
The library so oft remains beyond the reach of others, access granted only during the monthly audiences and only when Eshai fancies it. This team takes advantage of their freedom in the palace to adventure here, finding a key in an office three halls away that permits them to slip in -- however, this key disintegrates in the lock once they are inside, its purpose spent. Silence permeates the air and the heavy scent of dust hangs about each tome upon the shelves. These books are no different than they were in any other visit, but should the team look deeper they may find a solitary bookcase near the back of the library, hidden behind stacks upon stacks of scrolls. A push and a nudge reveals a door behind it, the lock of which can be navigated with a rudimentary lockpick skill (no need to roll a twenty here).
This door opens into a small room -- an alcove, really. Dust lays thickly upon all surfaces, with the exception of a thin layering atop a smoked-glass-and-iron case bolted to the wall. Magic protects the glass from damage, but there is a tiny combination lock that plays a faint tune rather than turning to specific numbers. Searching the room may uncover the chords of an old, old lullaby once sung to the Ironwood Emperor a hundred lifecycles in the past. Turning the lock to hit these notes will break the seal and the case can be opened.
Within lies a single, thin journal with pages that have aged beyond recognition in some areas. But a few passages remain legible, starting first with this neat script:
"We know now the secret behind the thousands of lights that keep shadows at bay. Souls, all of them glittering and brilliant, lie within her reach. One brightens on arrival, one fades on departure; we see now how she creates the anchor that drew us like fish to the hook. Impossible to ignore the draw and impossible to be free. She fears it, with all her power, and we fear that it may follow us if we force her to dim each one to return us home. We will help eradicate it."
Then, six pages of worn and eradicated text, there is a more hesitantly written passage that betrays a quiver in the hand of the writer by the way the letters waver on the page:
"Our alliance is purpose and Alderwood thrives. Ironwood dictates, but her words are clipped. Worry spreads and it is well founded. We all watched Bysaliat fall; our mightiest torn to ribbons at an idle dalliance."
The final page of the journal is a mess of writing, excitement spilling ink upon the paper and creating great splotches across the words. What can be made out is scribbled with a note of haste -- and one of hope:
"An idea. Whittle the stick and eventually nothing will remain. Ironwood's magic and our bindings may do it. We will do that here. We will shred Malicant as he shredded Bysaliat. Seal him in light and let it burn eternal. One day, he may be destroyed."
The ink dwindles towards the end, the pot mayhaps emptied; below, it changes to dark crimson lettering that outlines a complex equation -- but not one of physics or science. To touch the letters along would raise the hairs upon the back of one's neck, suggesting an ancient magic invoked in them. A spell of sorts, but one which casts at great cost.