"Oh, sure, of course," she replied, relief evident. "It's a strange feeling, not being able to release my dream form…"
To distract her, he said, "Quick thinking, that was, throwing the wine at the eladrin."
"Too bad I missed. Something was not right about her. She was too old for her skin, or something." Japheth nodded soberly. "Indeed."
They walked quickly from Darroch Castle, a ghost at his side, and her warm flesh cradled in his arms.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Year of the Secret (1396 DR) Ormpetarr, Vilhon Wilds
The Year of Blue Fire and its consequences wrought calamity on Chondath, Sespech, and other nearby lands. The great body of water called the Vilhon Reach splintered into several smaller lakes. The black-walled mesas punched out of the ground, destroying roads, farms, and whole cities. Crazed pockets of gleaming light and sound, where madness and reality still churned, visibly writhed and coiled across the landscape even years after the Spellplague was thought concluded. Most of the people in the region who survived the initial onslaught fled as best they could. Many died in their exodus, and the rest found themselves unwanted refugees in far kingdoms that had their own disasters to deal with. According to Cynosure, only the hardiest explorers dared the great frontier these days. Hideous, plaguechanged monsters haunted dark ravines. Ruins of cities devastated and deserted lay broken along old trade roads, near drained lake and river basins, and scattered in broken bits and pieces along the sides of newly birthed landforms.
The sentient golem noted that Ormpetarr had arguably weathered the transition better than any other in the region.
Raidon stood north of Ormpetarr's battered, leaning gates, taking in the view from a rise in the rutted, weedy path once called the Golden Road. A moment earlier, he had been west of Nathlan, but the sentient golem of Stardeep "transferred" Raidon through a starry medium in the space of a heartbeat. His ears rang-the trip had been much rougher than the previous time the golem transported him.
Many of Ormpetarr's ancient brass spires, famed for their ability to reflect the setting sun like flame, now lay broken and strewn down the rocky side of a steep precipice. The precipice separated the surviving neighborhoods of the city from a permanent, eye-watering cloud of color that churned south away from the city like the old Nagawater used to. This was the Plague-wrought Land, a pocket where active spellplague still cavorted and contorted land, law, magic, and the flesh of any creature that entered.
"You are certain people remain in this ruin?" Raidon inquired of the air, his gaze caught by the nausea-inducing area beyond the city.
No reply.
"Cynosure?"
The effigy had warned the monk that moving him so far across Faerыn would exhaust its energies for a time. Apparently, the golem was so drained it could no longer maintain simple communication.
"I pray you did not overextend yourself," Raidon murmured, on the chance Cynosure could still hear him.
The construct had provided some background on the area, but he was on his own to learn what mattered most. Raidon walked south, down the road to the gates.
A one-armed dwarf appeared in the gap between the two leaning gateposts. The dwarf wore chain mail half gone to rust. He cradled a stout crossbow on one shoulder with his single limb, sighting down its length at Raidon. Apparently the dwarf was well practiced making do with one hand.
The dwarf called out, "Beg your pardon, traveler! Sorry to bother ye this fine spring day, but please stand still a moment, eh?"
Raidon paused. He stood some twenty feet from the gate.
The dwarf grinned through a beard whose tangles competed in size and intricacy with its braids. He said, "That's a good fellow, eh? We don't get many visitors, and those we do get are not always polite, if ye know what I mean."
Raidon replied, "I am no outlaw ruffian. Will you let me pass? I have business in Ormpetarr."
"What remains of Ormpetarr, you mean," chuckled the dwarf. "I can see ye are no ravening beast, and better still, ye can speak, which argues all the more for what ye claim. Well then, I suppose I should ask after what brings ye here, and charge the customary fee?"
Raidon silently hoped the dwarf wasn't courteously trying to rob him. He said, "An old companion of mine came here not long after the Spellplague. I seek to find what trace I can of her."
"Mmmm, hmmm," grunted the gate warden, his curly eyebrows raised to a skeptical height. "Why'd she come here?" "I hope to discover that."
"Scar pilgrimage, as sure as water runs downhill."
Raidon asked, "What do you mean?"
The dwarf dropped the point of the crossbow and used the entire weapon to motion Raidon forward. "Ye'll find out within. And, since I'm feeling friendly today, a single gold crown will see ye through Ormpetarr's gates, such as they are." The dwarf nodded toward a great wooden chest chained to a granite slab. Raidon guessed the wide slit in the top served as a coin slot.
Raidon walked through the gates, dropped a coin in the opening, and continued into the city.
The dwarf wished him a good day, but Raidon didn't waste more breath on the fellow. He was already past, his eyes crawling over the landscape of half-collapsed and abandoned buildings. Then he smelled charred meat on the wind. He stopped moving. His mouth watered.
The odor was ambrosial. His empty stomach commandeered his feet and turned him toward a rambling edifice just inside the gate. Like the other surviving structures he'd glimpsed, this building was cracked and worse for wear, having seen little if any upkeep. However, light, voices, and the smell of cooking food issued from it. No sign or exterior glyph indicated the name or nature of the place.
Raidon pushed through the open door into a wide, low chamber. It resembled the common rooms of travelers' inns he'd seen all across Faerыn, complete with some four-footed beast sizzling on a spit in the fireplace. Raidon took a deep breath, savoring the odor.
About a dozen people were present, gathered into three distinct groups, save for a lone grandfather near the door snoring into a spilled tankard of ale, a woman in a barkeep's apron bustling around the chamber, and a boy manning the spit.
A man muttered from his drink, "Look 'ee, a half-elf." All eyes swiveled to regard Raidon.
The monk raised a hand, said, "Greetings. I seek a meal, and information."
The barkeep yelled, "Grab a table, traveler, and I'll bring you ale and stew. The boar'll be done enough to cut up later, if you're having any?"
"I am," affirmed Raidon. He walked forward, past the inquisitive locals, and sat himself down at the bar. He could feel the weight of curious eyes on his back, and hear the beginning buzz of speculation.
The barkeep pulled his drink and set it before him in a wooden tankard. Raidon eyed the frothy liquid but decided against asking for tea. He doubted the establishment carried such niceties of civilization.
The woman yelled, "Merl, stop idling over there, and get this fellow a bowl of stew!" The boy at the spit started from his daydream daze and darted into a back room.
"My thanks," Raidon told the barkeep.
She nodded without a hint of cordiality. She said, "If you're here to join these fools on their 'Scar Pilgrimage,' then I doubt I'll ever see you again. Might as well spend your gold now, because once you're dead, it'll do you no good."
Uncertain of her meaning and as yet unwilling to reveal his ignorance, Raidon merely returned her look without reply.
The boy reappeared from the back room with a fired clay bowl filled with cold stew. The boy set it before the monk, then returned to his position by the fire to give the spit another turn.
Raidon fell to. He couldn't later recall the flavors, he consumed the dish so quickly.