The Hope of Erethor

The Fate of the Immortals

The depths of Domhain


100 LA, Arc of Zimra, 22

The passages of the Domhain are silent. When last you came into these ancient halls of the Aelthar, you battled the spawn of the Abyss, slaying them with what might and will you could muster. You recall the wonders of the great, domed room wherein you observed the magical stars form strange constellations when the ancient tome, “Shandring’s Gambit” was placed upon the plinth. Venturing onward, the great sucking breath of the mountain seemingly pulling you down, ever downward into the bowels of the mountain. Here, you enter the great room where a chasm opened-up thousands of years ago, splitting the floor in half where you and your comrades battled the vrock master and his beblith thrall. Here where you caught a glimpse the passages that lead into the mithril mine. Indeed, the light stone of ancient smiths abides in a large vein here. Onward still you press until you’ve returned to the hidden room wherein the spirit guardian of the Aelthar sent you on your quest. A quest you have completed and come back again. Seeing the ghostly image shimmering before you, it points to the sealed lock at its feet and asks aloud, “Have you found the key? And having found it, will you enter into the lower realms and rid Eredane of a dread evil?”

Deep in the mountain’s heart, a new sense of dread looms in the air. The terrible, echoing wind of the abyssal chamber above is far behind you. Now you are in the dark, close air of the lower depths. For the most part, there is only silence here, yet between your collected breathing you catch hints of a sound, a sound that reverberates in your mind rather than your ears. The sound of a beautiful woman’s voice. A voice that laughs wickedly in a mocking tone.

This hall stretches on some distance. Two sets of double doors are on either side. At the far end, you see evidence of a cave-in.

A huge furnace dominates the room. Blacksmith’s tools litter the floor. Half-finished weapons lay covered in aeons worth of dust. The room is utterly dark. There is a door leading south.

A long bridge of stretches across the chasm. At first glance it appears to be made of stone, but its impossible thinness makes you realize its true nature. The bridge is crafted from mithril.

This room has carvings of warriors of the Aeltherian race along each wall. Strangely, their hands are empathy, as though they once held weapons.

The temple has stood the test of time remarkably well. The adamantine pews and the great granite plinth at the southern end of the room looks as new today as it was eons ago. A silver torch burns blue at the front of the plinth.

The secret door opens onto an unfathomable vastness. Massive stone stairs descend before you. They are broken and stand like columns in the yawning pit. The depths below seem bottomless.

Spanning the depths is a bridge as old and solid as the mountain itself. Torches are lit along the railings. Something huge and dark lingers at the far end of the bridge, standing between you and two mighty stone doors.

Upon opening the door you are granted a vision; the room, otherworldy in every way echoes with the sounds of lyres and women singing. A rose-like perfume wafts from the room as a over a dozen candles burn within. Along the ground, rose petals litter the floor along side crumpled, satin sheets that lie in heaps. In the room’s centre is a four-posted bed. The walls suddenly erupt in dancing tongues of flame, flame that gives off no light or heat but merely dances as though to the music playing in the room. Beautiful winged women approach you, one holding her tapered finger to her full lips, “Hush my love. We needn’t waken the mistress.”

This room is made from smooth, polished Dark stone. In the room’s centre, a 15-foot high tower stands. Around the base of the tower, an eerie green fog hovers, rolling and moving in the windless chamber. At either end, two figures, held by what appears to be adamantium chains kneel in spheres of blinding light, facing the centre of the column. The back of the room is dominated by a titanic, purple crystal. Within the crystal, you see figures, tall and elegant. You believe you can see pained expressions, and fearful glances on their faces. Yet they are immobile as flies in amber. Floating above the central pillar is a nearly perfect globe of light. Below it hovers the room’s guardian. A towering, corpulent beast. This fiend has the hideous head of a boar and arms ending in fatty, four-fingered hands. It speaks.

“You have come from beyond the seal. From beyond the stair. From beyond the bridge and from beyond the boudoir. I fear all my slaves have fallen to your aeltherian arms. Yet you are not aletherian. No. You are deeply unworthy of the weapons you wield and the amour you don! Mongrels and apes! You enter my kingdom, my domain where even the angels – the very handmaidens of the gods tremble at my feet! And you believe yourself a match for me? Know only this before I slay you – that should you fail here, I will finally leave this prison and remerge in the world. With the seal broken, the celestial remnant that made these crystal invulnerable to my touch will now be shattered. One by one I’ll cut the gaping mouths of the trapped host. One by one I’ll slay this legion. And soon, I’ll be able to finally undo the spark that hovers mockingly above me now! The seal, powered by these slaves will no longer protect this thing from my wrath! Evil may now touch that which was locked from us when the mighty Izrador fell! Know this, and dwell upon it in your last moments whelp! You have brought upon yourselves and this pitiful world its final Armageddon!

End Date: LA 100, Arc of Hanud, 25 (Back at Druid’s swamp)



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