Gwen Kirsten Tyra Quinn MacGlowcken – blogpost 33

We can see Patience, but he remains unnervingly still, locked in place as if frozen in time. Jaf’ar, noticing the strange behavior, calls out, “Are you okay?”

Without waiting for a response, I step outside the hut, my heart pounding with concern. As I approach Patience, I can see his eyes fixed on the woman standing near the door. Her presence is unsettling, but it’s Patience’s unresponsiveness that sends chills down my spine. I wave my hand in front of his face, hoping to snap him out of whatever trance he’s in. He doesn’t even blink.

“I don’t think he’s with us,” I say, turning back to the group.

“Smack him in the face,” Jaf’ar suggests, his tone more serious than usual.

“Okay!” I reply, more out of nervousness than confidence. I give Patience a firm slap across the face. The sound echoes in the silence of the hallway, and suddenly, he blinks and gasps, as if waking from a deep sleep.

Patience’s eyes dart around before focusing on me. “I… I had a conversation with Trobriant,” he says, his voice shaken. “He knows we’re here, and that woman—she’s his servant.”

“Is he coming here?” I ask, my anxiety spiking.

Patience shakes his head. “I don’t think so, but he’s definitely not happy that we’re here.”

Farryn, ever the pragmatist, suggests we give the woman the snake tongue but make sure it’s slightly less than she needs. “Just enough to satisfy her master, but not enough to empower him,” he says.

I nod and retrieve the pot of snake tongues, carefully transferring some of the tongues into other jars. I hand the jar with the reduced amount to the woman, who takes it without a word and turns to leave. We watch her disappear into the shadows, our collective breath held until she’s gone.

Farryn returns to his potions, and Jaf’ar continues scribbling notes for his next spell. We settle back into our tasks, but the atmosphere remains tense. Suddenly, Morph’s voice breaks through the quiet. “I CAN HEAR AGAIN!” he exclaims, his tone filled with relief.

I feel a slight loosening in my neck, and to my surprise, I realize that my persistent tick has vanished. But before I can celebrate, I see Morph stagger and fall out of his chair. He’s moving slowly, almost sluggishly, as if something is terribly wrong.

Rushing to his side, I reach out to poke his skin, and my heart sinks—his flesh is hardening, turning to stone before my eyes. Panic grips me as I realize what’s happening. Despite our best efforts, Jaf’ar’s spell isn’t holding. Morph’s transformation into stone is unstoppable.

We gather around Morph, helpless as he curls into a fetal position, his sword clutched tightly in his hands. The process is slow, agonizingly so, and we can do nothing but watch as he gradually turns to stone. By the time the night falls, Morph is completely petrified, a statue forever frozen in that vulnerable pose.

We whisper our goodnights to him, though I doubt he can hear us anymore. Patience trembles beside us, still haunted by his mental encounter with Trobriant. “It didn’t go well,” he mutters, his voice shaking as he recounts the ordeal.

Despite the dread hanging over us, we try to focus on our tasks. Noodle, Morph’s faithful pet snake, slithers over to his petrified form and curls up beside him, as if offering some semblance of comfort.

I approach Jaf’ar with a question that’s been gnawing at me for days. “Is there any way to check on my egg? My dear Saffron?”

Jaf’ar nods thoughtfully, his mind already whirring with possibilities. He casts Sending to Scarecrow, hoping for an update on the dragon egg I left in his care. The response comes back reassuring, if not brief: “It’s going okay. I’ll feed it when it hatches.”

I exhale a sigh of relief, feeling a small weight lift from my chest. Saffron is safe, at least for now.

As we sit in the dim light of the tiny hut, each of us lost in our thoughts, we prepare for a long rest.

When I wake, there’s a noticeable difference in how I feel. My body still carries the echoes of pain, a dull reminder of the battles we’ve faced, but the overwhelming exhaustion that had weighed me down has lifted. I glance around, catching sight of Morph, now restored thanks to Farryn’s greater restoration spell. Morph’s appearance is almost a mirror of Farryn’s, though more haggard—like a version of our friend who hasn’t slept in days. His exhaustion is palpable, but at least he’s no longer turning to stone.

Farryn, ever prepared, hands me a potion of healing. I gratefully accept, the liquid warmth soothing some of the lingering aches as I down it.

We decide it’s time to press forward, heading west towards the area beyond the electrical zone. Jaf’ar has a theory about the pillars we spotted there, believing they might be part of a puzzle, something that could lead us to the next challenge or perhaps even a way out.

As we approach the electrical corridor, the familiar crackling of energy fills the air. It’s a dangerous path, but Jaf’ar is quick to offer a solution. “I’ll use Dimension Door to get you to the puzzle safely,” he says, his voice calm and reassuring. I nod, trusting his judgment, and moments later, we’re standing before the pillars.

Jaf’ar begins his observations, studying the intricacies of the pillars while Morph, ever brave, steps into the center of the formation. We all hold our breath, waiting to see what will happen.

And then, out of nowhere, Halaster appears.

The atmosphere changes instantly. Morph, without hesitation, transforms into an exact likeness of the mad wizard, the illusion so perfect it’s unsettling. Halaster—or rather, Morph as Halaster—looks at us with a twisted grin. “So, you are the new students,” he says, his voice dripping with dark amusement. “Who is my sacrifice? It needs to have a soul.”

The words hang in the air like a curse. Morph shifts back to his normal form and returns to us, the gravity of the situation clear in his eyes. “Halaster wants a soul for a sacrifice,” he explains, “and in return, we gain admission. He thinks we’re students.”

A chill runs down my spine. Sacrifice? Who—or what—could we possibly offer? Morph, ever pragmatic, suggests Biro, but Patience quickly counters, proposing we summon a rat instead. The conversation quickly devolves into a heated debate, each of us grappling with the implications of what we’re being asked to do.

Jaf’ar, as usual, is the voice of reason. “Calm down,” he says, holding up a hand to quiet us. “We need more time to think this through.”

While the rest of us argue, Jaf’ar studies the pillars more closely. After some time, he identifies them as transportation pillars, ones that require a specific codeword to activate. With this knowledge, he confidently strides back to Halaster and, in a calm but authoritative tone, asks for the code, claiming to be an old student of his.

Instead of a straightforward answer, Halaster gives us a riddle: “A crown on my dwarven head, a throne under the mountain is promised. Who am I?”

There’s a moment of silence as we all process the riddle, and then Farryn’s voice rings out, clear and confident. “Melair!”

As soon as the name is spoken, we all instinctively move to the center of the pillars. A surge of magic surrounds us, and within moments, we’re teleported to a new location. The air here is different, heavier, and when we look around, we see that almost all the pillars are embedded with yellow sapphires. But something feels off—some of the pillars are missing their sapphires.

Jaf’ar frowns, his mind already at work. “It seems the pillars won’t function properly without all the sapphires in place,” he murmurs.

Biro opens the door cautiously, revealing a dimly lit corridor beyond. Morph, always the strategist, immediately asks, “Whose place do we want to take? Arcturia or Trobriant?” His tone is sharp, determined.

Jaf’ar, always with a hint of mischief in his eyes, grins. “Can’t we just take Halaster’s?” he suggests.

As if summoned by the mere mention of his name, Halaster appears, his presence both ominous and surreal. He looks at us with a twisted smile, seemingly amused by the conversation. “Who needs to be killed—Arcturia or Trobriant?” he asks, his voice laced with dark promise.

None of us make a definitive choice. The idea of taking out both powerful wizards is tempting, but also fraught with risk. We exchange glances, silently agreeing to leave that decision for another time. For now, we press on.

Biro steps forward at Morph’s command, opening another door. The room beyond is strange, its walls adorned with intricate mosaic patterns. But something feels off. There are scorch marks marring the designs, telling a story of violence and magic gone awry.

Jaf’ar steps forward, casting Shocking Grasp at the wall. The room reacts violently, filling with an eerie purple glow. Pain shoots through me, and I stagger back, feeling the exhaustion settle deep into my bones once again. The door behind us is gone, replaced by a flat, unyielding wall.

“We’re trapped,” I murmur, fear creeping into my voice.

Farryn, ever the quick thinker, urges us into the Rope Trick. “Come on, guys, we’ll outlast the enchantment in here,” he says, pulling me along. I climb into the safety of the rope’s magical space, but even from here, I can see something strange happening. Jaf’ar seems to disappear through a specific spot on the wall, and the room repairs itself, sealing us in.

A high-pitched ringing fills my ears intermittently. Farryn experiences it too. It’s Jaf’ar trying to send us a message, but the sound is muffled, disjointed. After what feels like an eternity, the sickening purple radiance finally fades, and with it, the exhaustion lifts. The walls shimmer, and the door slowly reappears.

Patience, who had been hidden in the chaos, steps forward, visible once more. 

We explore further, discovering a secret room with a shield mounted on the wall. The shield bears the image of an angelic demon’s face—a strange, unsettling contradiction.

As the others inspect the room, I approach the mural, drawn to it by a strange sensation. There’s a shimmer in the mosaic, something that catches my eye. I peer closer, and then I see it: the word “HELP” spelled out in stones on the mural’s grassy depiction.

My heart skips a beat. “Jaf’ar,” I whisper, realizing he’s trapped somewhere within this twisted dimension—a pocket dimension where time moves at a cruelly accelerated pace. Halaster’s holiday house.

I quickly inform the others. “Jaf’ar’s been in there for years already,” I explain, feeling a rush of urgency. “He says we need Halaster’s ring to get him out.”

Morph, ever proactive, starts working on the mosaic, trying to remove it from the wall. But as he does, Jaf’ar’s message appears in the stones again: “Stop Morph! He’s killing me!”

I rush to Morph’s side. “Stop!” I shout, grabbing his arm. “You’re hurting Jaf’ar!”

Morph hesitates, then steps back, his expression troubled. I turn to Halaster, my voice trembling slightly. “What does your ring do?”

Halaster’s grin widens. “Teleportation,” he says simply.

It’s clear now—Jaf’ar needs that ring to escape the pocket dimension. Without it, he’s trapped, living out years in mere minutes.

Farryn begins the ritual to identify the shield, focusing intently as the minutes tick by. For Jaf’ar, those eleven minutes stretch into seventeen years. My heart aches thinking about how much time he’s lost, how much he’s endured in that cursed place.

Jaf’ar continues to communicate through the mural, spelling out that he’s working on aligning the timespans, trying to sync our communication. The effort must be taking its toll on him, but he persists, ever determined.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Farryn completes the identification ritual. The air shimmers, and where the shield once hung, a Deva—an angelic being—appears in its place, its radiant presence filling the room with light and hope.

The Deva stands tall, radiating divine energy that fills the room with warmth and light. He begins with a solemn prayer, his voice resonating with power. As he finishes, his gaze sweeps across the room, pausing on each of us before settling on Morph. His eyes narrow, and the air grows tense.

“What is this vile creature doing here?” he asks, his voice dripping with disdain. There’s an edge to his words, a judgment that seems to pierce through Morph.

Morph, ever quick with his wit, raises his hands defensively. “No, no, please no,” he pleads, a nervous smile on his face. “I’m just as pretty as you, I swear.”

The Deva isn’t amused. His hand stretches out, a gesture that seems to draw the light away from Morph, as if to expose something darker beneath his surface. “What is your purpose?” the Deva demands.

“To serve this party,” Morph responds, his voice steadying. “Just like Biro saved me.”

As if on cue, Biro steps out from the shadows, his presence only amplifying the Deva’s disapproval. “Vile creatures,” the Deva repeats, his voice echoing with righteous fury. “Are you serving these people? Slavery is evil.”

Patience steps forward, calm and composed. “I have a contract,” he says, his tone firm, as if the legality of his words could quell the Deva’s anger.

I see the tension in the room and take a step forward, trying to diffuse the situation. “Please,” I say, addressing the Deva with as much respect as I can muster. “Can you help us get Jaf’ar? He’s trapped..” We discover the Deva has no other goal than to rid this place of Fazrian. I inform him that we’ve already taken care of him.

The Deva pauses, considering my words. He closes his eyes and begins to commune, his lips moving in a silent prayer. A minute passes, though it feels much longer. Finally, he opens his eyes, and there’s a softness to his gaze now. “You speak the truth,” he says, his voice losing its harsh edge. “It would be unjust to punish you. I thank you for taking care of Fazrian.”

He points at each of us in turn, and I feel a surge of warmth spread through my body. The exhaustion that had weighed me down is gone, replaced by a sense of vitality and strength. The vulnerability I felt before evaporates, leaving me feeling more powerful than I have in days.

As the Deva’s blessing washes over me, my eyes are drawn to the mural again. The image has changed, showing a deep pit, a quarry of some sort. Within it, I see Jaf’ar, tirelessly digging. The sight makes my heart ache; he’s been trapped in that place, toiling for what must have felt like an eternity.

The Deva’s presence begins to fade, his mission seemingly complete. With a final, knowing glance, he disappears, leaving us in the soft afterglow of his divine energy.

Suddenly, Jaf’ar materializes in the room, flashing into existence with a burst of arcane power. His cloak is no longer the dark, ominous shade it once was; it’s now a light gray, a subtle shift that speaks volumes about his time away. Mimi, his mimic companion, has grown larger, more formidable.

Jaf’ar looks around, taking in the room as if seeing it for the first time in decades. “I was there for 62 years,” he says, his voice carrying the weight of those long years. “I’m not really aligned to Shar anymore. I can still feel her presence, but I… I ignored her.”

He pulls me aside, speaking in hushed tones. “While I was trapped, I started developing new magical powers, abilities that play with time itself. I’ve learned so much…”

As he speaks, the mural behind him begins to crack and crumble, the magical energy within it dissipating now that Jaf’ar is free. I watch as the once intricate image falls apart, pieces of stone clattering to the floor.

Jaf’ar reaches into his cloak and pulls out a scroll, its parchment glowing faintly with arcane energy. “I discovered this while I was trapped,” he says, unrolling it carefully. “It’s a scroll of time travel.”

Farryn, his expression sharp with focus, asks about the yellow sapphires. “Where are they, and what are they for? Hallaster, right?”

Jaf’ar nods. “For teleportation. We need three more, maybe four. They’re crucial if we’re going to navigate this place.”

Before anyone can respond, Patience suddenly vanishes. There’s no time to question it; we know we need to press on.

We head south, the path twisting and turning in a zigzag that keeps us on edge. Morph, leading the way, turns a corner, and suddenly the hallway erupts in flames. Seven fireballs streak toward us in a terrifying display of arcane power.

I barely manage to dive out of the way, but the heat still sears my skin. “Shit!” I curse under my breath, the pain sharp and immediate.

Drawing my bow, I fire three arrows at the first flameskull I see. Each shot hits, but the damage isn’t as much as I’d hoped. These things are resilient. Farryn, without missing a beat, hurls his dwarven thrower. It smashes into the skull, causing it to explode in a shower of bone and fire.

Biro rushes to Morph, who has taken the brunt of the blast. He tries to stabilize him, but it’s Jaf’ar who steps in, using his magic to heal Morph and bring him back from the brink.

Farryn isn’t so lucky. He’s hit with a barrage of magic missiles, the force of the impact staggering him. I turn my bow on a new target, loosing two more arrows, and then I move to stay close to Farryn. He’s tough, but even he has his limits.

Another wave of magic missiles slams into Farryn. He grits his teeth, but I can see he’s hurting. Jaf’ar retaliates, sending a bolt of lightning crashing into the remaining flameskulls. Morph, now back on his feet, finishes the last one with a swift, decisive strike.

As the dust settles, Jaf’ar exhales slowly. “I have to get used to fighting again… after 62 years, it’s not easy.”

There’s a brief pause as we regroup. Jaf’ar’s manifest mind, which he now calls “Manny,” floats ahead, scouting the path. “Let’s follow Manny,” Jaf’ar suggests.

I take a moment to heal myself, the magical energy knitting my wounds together. The burn marks fade, and the pain recedes, but the tension remains. Jaf’ar’s voice cuts through the silence. “There’s a golden shield on the wall up ahead. It’s covered in arcane runes. I want to investigate.”

Farryn, ever cautious, shakes his head. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

Ignoring the shield for now, Farryn turns his attention to a western wall, studying it carefully. Meanwhile, Manny hovers near a door, its surface adorned with the image of a dwarf. “Guys, behind here, I hear bubbling,” Farryn says, his voice tinged with curiosity.

Jaf’ar examines the shield, his hand hovering just above the runes. “I know what this does,” he says after a moment. “If you touch it—and you’re me—it does nothing. But if you’re not me, there are consequences.”

Farryn, ever practical, raises an eyebrow. “So if you throw it at your enemy, that could be useful.”

The idea hangs in the air, a possible advantage in the dangerous game we’re playing. But we know better than to rush into things. There are still too many unknowns, and one wrong move could be our last.

As we stand there, the bubbling sounds from the lab behind the door grow louder, filling the corridor with an ominous rhythm.

We decide to head to the lab. I press my ear against the door, trying to catch any sounds from within. There’s movement, a faint clattering of something. There are things in there.

Morph, clearly exhausted, suggests we rest first. I nod and quickly conjure a rope trick, creating a small pocket dimension for us to hide and recuperate. After a short rest, feeling a bit more refreshed, we make our way into the lab.

Morph takes the lead, transforming into the lady who had collected the snake tongues earlier. He walks in confidently, carrying an illusionary pot of snake tongues, and hands it to one of the figures inside. The lab is a mess of arcane machinery, and in the center, Trobriant is busy with his work, oblivious to our entrance.

Suddenly, Morph casts something, but before it can take effect, I see Jaf’ar quickly counterspell Trobriant. But nothing happens. Trobriant barely glances up, crushing his hand into a fist, and in an instant, Morph collapses to the ground.

Panic surges through me, and without thinking, I nock three arrows and let them fly towards Trobriant. Each one finds its mark, dealing a solid amount of damage. We’re not going down without a fight.

But then, Grond begins to act strangely. He fidgets, not himself at all. It has to be Trobriant’s doing. Before we can react, Trobriant misty steps into the hallway, leaving us with the transformed ladies—now fierce Scaladar.

Farryn, quick to adapt, swings his dwarventhrower in melee against one of the Scaladar. A lightning ray shoots from the Scaladar, zinging through the metal weapon and healing the creature. “Nooo!” I shout in frustration.

Snitch, the little creature, suddenly turns on Farryn, but it misses its attack. I quickly shoot at the Scaladar, my arrows finding weak spots in its armor. Two shots, and it goes down. Without hesitation, I rush to Jaf’ar’s side, but Grond attacks me as I move. He’s definitely not himself.

Jaf’ar approaches Trobriant’s golem, which is now collapsing, lifeless. He shouts, “First, kill the other things—then we deal with Trobriant!” Biro takes off running as Farryn engages the second Scaladar. I take aim and, with a couple of well-placed shots, bring it down.

With the room cleared of enemies, we turn our attention to Trobriant. Jaf’ar starts punching the golem, but it barely makes a dent. Frustrated, he commands Mimi the Mimic, “Go, you know what to do.” But even Urm’s attacks seem futile against the golem’s tough exterior.

I draw back my bow, aiming at Trobriant inside his anti-magic field. The arrow flies true, but as soon as it enters the field, it just drops to the ground. “Shit,” I mutter, quickly turning my attention to Grond instead. I fire again, landing a critical hit that leaves Grond bloodied, only because Farryn attacked him earlier.

Grond starts charging at me. Panic sets in—I should’ve stayed within the anti-magic field’s safety! Farryn, thinking fast, grabs a torch and shoves it under one of the golem’s hoods, aiming for its face. “It’s not really Trobriant—he’s just controlling the golem!” Farryn yells, then throws acid on the golem for good measure.

I disengage, retreating back to Jaf’ar’s side where I’m safe from Grond’s attack. We all know what we need to do: spread out, prepare our next moves, and then attack with everything we have. Farryn secures the golem with dimensional shackles, while I ready another shot. We’re going to take this thing down.

Jaf’ar steps back, and we launch our assault. My first arrow hits its mark, but the next two miss, frustration bubbling up inside me. I stand next to Morph, who sends a shadowy hand to grasp at the golem. We all position ourselves around Jaf’ar, seeking safety from the golem’s onslaught.

Suddenly, Urm is hit hard by the golem, and he crumples into a pile of mud. It’s a brutal sight, but we press on. Farryn casts chill touch, and the golem stirs, its mechanisms grinding ominously. A firestorm erupts around us, but we’re safe within our protective barriers.

Finally, after two more of my arrows pierce through the golem’s defenses, it collapses. The sound of its fall is accompanied by a loud, mocking laugh. We all exchange glances, knowing that Trobriant himself is still out there, and we need to find him.

The pillars in the room begin to hum, vibrating with a strange energy. “It’s Trobriant,” Jaf’ar mutters, recognizing the aura. Without hesitation, Farryn starts smashing the pillars, and I join in, shooting at them until they shatter.

As the last pillar falls, Grond suddenly seems to snap out of whatever control he was under. He’s himself again, and we breathe a collective sigh of relief. But we know this isn’t over. Somewhere in these twisted halls, Trobriant is still out there, and we won’t rest until we’ve dealt with him once and for all.