In Which Our Has a Most Welcome Reunion

April 28th, 1886

“And so, according to Nasrudin himself, Saint Mannox was tending to the wards at the Ring when Nasrudin emerged from his regenerative bubble. Nasrudin seemed to think Mannox was nothing more than an overeager, overzealous, pompous ass.” I shrugged as I looked across the table at Hadrian and Wilhelm. The two Panarii had been transfixed with utter shock from the moment I began my narrative to the very end. I, meanwhile, had given them the entire story of my adventures to the island of Thanatos whilst also putting away a sumptuous meal: Steak and kidney pie, stuffed potato skins with at least three kinds of cheese, all with two full pots of coffee that I had drunk down as quick as winking. Considering the meals of hardtack and grog that I and my companions had been subsisting on, this was more than adequate to restore me to a sense of civility and some measure of politeness.

I wiped my lips and made sure to pick some crumbs from my mustache before saying: “But he made no mention of the good Mannox ascending to heaven on a pillar of flames.”

“This ... is rather troubling,” Wilhelm said.

“Troubling!?” Hadrian spluttered. “Our god walks this world – our prophecy is entirely made of lies, the founder of our order was murdered and stuffed into Nasrudin’s coffin for reasons known only to the direst of villains, and the best you can muster is troubling!?”

“Very troubling,” Wilhelm said, frowning as he rummaged about in his books. “But I have taken some advantage of the, ah, the opening provided by Dr. Cog.” By which he meant the whole I and Sally Mead Mug had knocked into the side of the false tomb of Nasrudin with sledgehammers and crowbars. “And I found that there was something that our esteemed colleague missed!” He drew out a small paper, which he had sketched upon. It looked rather like a charcoal rubbing, and it showed what seemed at first to be an incomprehensible set of lines and a single hatchmark. “This was scratched into the tomb’s lid.”

“By whom?” Hadrian asked. Then his face paled. “Good gods!”

My own heart lurched and I clasped my hand to my breast. “No!”

“Yes...” Wilhelm’s face was grave. “I believe that Mannox lived yet when he was interred – examining his body with Hadrian proved that he had been stabbed in the side by a notched dagger – likely one that contained a poison. Mayhap his villainous attackers believed him to be dead or dying.”

“Or they were evil,” I said, quietly. “And delighted in the suffering of a human...” I stood up, then grabbed the charcoal rubbing – my mind seeing a patter almost before I had realized it. As if a deep voice spoke to me, I flipped through my atlas and journal, then set down the map of Arcanum, holding the charcoal rubbing above it. There was a difference in scale and crudity, yes, but the gross outlines of the Arlander coastline was clear. And if the hatchmark was there ... then...

“Good heavens! There’s a cave system right in those foothills,” Hadrian exclaimed.

“Surely, Mannox marked it for a reason, with his dying act,” I said. “Let us make haste.”

The two older gentleman balked. Wilhelm spoke quietly. “There has been an edict, Dr. Cog,” he said. “The High Priest of the Temple has stated that the council is not entirely certain you are in fact the Living One.”

“Well, I’m bloody well not,” I said, shaking my head.

Hadrian chuckled, softly, but with no little warmth. He stood to his diminuative height and patted my hip in a gentle, fatherly sort of way – that being the closest that a gnome could get to patting a standing half-orc on the shoulder. “Dr. Cog, I believe in the short month since you arrived, you have done more than five centuries of Panarii historians and archaeologists to discern the truth of our order. Living One or no, you have done a great service.” His face grew grim. “And the High Priest wants to see you discredited.”

I shook my head. “But I thought that Alexander seemed a likely, good fellow. And he gave no sign-”

“Oh, no, no, no!” Wilhelm said, shaking his head. “Alexander, may Nasrudin bless his soul, is t he First Acolyte. Not the high priest.”

My brow furrowed. “I ... believe I am quite lost – the difference escapes me. How are the roles differentiated?”

“The Acolyte is the general leader of the Panarii religion, and when it comes time for a crusade – not that one has ever been declared mind – they lead it. But the High Priest makes the more ... theological decisions of the church. This position was created when Saint Mannox’s supposed ascension to heaven, by K’an Hua...” He nodded.

“The self same elf that ‘witnessed’ Mannox’s ascension?” I asked, frowning. “And ... in fact...” I rubbed my chin. A suspicion came to mine – but it was entirely nominative in nature. And one I’d need to check with Raven, before I made any sweeping claims. I stood, nodding. “I’ll investigate these caves alone, then. No need for either of you to risk censure from the High Priest. All that I ask is you put up with my companions – I believe that it’s better I raise as little suspicion as possible...” I smirked.

“They will still be aware you are leaving, though!” Hadrian said.

“Oh, no,” I said. “I believe I have the means by which I can easily camouflage my egress.”

Dressed in Panarii robes, Raven and I walked steadily away from the dormitories and cell rooms that the Panarii used to house us visitors. Behind us, the enthusiastic moaning and gasping of Sally – sounding remarkably similar to the actual noises she made while engaged in lovemaking, despite being entirely pantomimed – echoed from through even the thick wooden door of the room we had left her in. Raven shot me an amused little smirk, while I kept my head ducked low and my hands clasped with my sleeves, so that my green skin could not be spied from a distance.

“I do believe Sally may be enjoying this more than an actual session on Mt. Craig,” she murmured.

I nearly snapped my head up. “Good heavens, is that what she calls it?”

Raven giggled a musical, elven giggle. “Oh, no. I believe I suggested the name, and it was adopted heartily.”

I scoffed as aggressively as I could whilst still maintaining my fiction of being a Panarri priest. Only once we were beyond sight of the temple grounds did we cast aside our robes and set out – me in my suit, Raven in her leather with her bow and arrow already drawn. As we walked, I asked the question that had sprung to mind during the conference with Hadrian and Wilhelm: “Is K’an Hua a dark elf name?”

Her head snapped to look at me. “Indeed,” she said, quietly. “A dark name for a dark people. According to my spies and my information, K’an Hua is the lover of M’in Gorand.” She paused. “Was.”

I nodded. “He was operating here almost eight centuries before,” I said.

“Oh, no,” Raven said. “Was because your Virginia put a sword through M’in Gorand’s heart.”

“K’an Hua is alive?” I asked.

“According to what I knew most recently, yes,” Raven said, shrugging. “He was a young follower of Arronax – only seventy five years of age during the first battle, which is why he survived it: His youth kept him off the field.” She shrugged. “After that, records become indistinct, until he was once more spotted emerging from the areas around T’Sen Ang by my spies in the year 1821.”

I shook my head, stunned. “Of course, elven longevity. But your spies ... what spies are these?”

Raven smiled. She lifted her hand and several birds alighted on her fingers. They chirruped and squeaked and Raven chuckled, softly. “A young maiden is pleasuring herself beside a river, no more than five miles off.” She shook her head. “These birds are in mating heat and are bubbling over to tattle on everyone else. Go, shoo.” She shook her arm and the birds flapped off. I noticed this time that there was a pale green aura around her fingers – she had used some kind of Nature magick. Fascinating. I chuckled.

“A year before, I’d have made my way right for that river,” I said.

Raven pouted at me – clearly thinking of how I had turned her down on the way to Caladon. I had to admit, the knowledge that Virginia would not be raised from the dead until we reached the distant city of Tulla and that the long, lonely time would be spent in self imposed celibacy, rather galling. I smirked slightly, then set out all the faster. Each step got me closer, did it not? In the end, it took us until the evening and using Raven’s spies to finally find the cave we were looking for. It was marked, as I had thought it would be, by a simple M. Not one for much ornamentation. Within the cave, we found a rucksack that glowed with a pale gold-white magical field. Me merely touching it snapped the magick apart, and lo ... there we had it.

Saint Mannox’s journal.

I thumbed through the archaic script to the light of Raven’s cantrip, frowning. The journal was written from the year of 1108 to 1109, and used the preunification Caladonian months, making the exact dating rather difficult to quite ascertain. However, the first passage of note that I found made mention of Mannox ‘securing the wards’ - meaning my theory that the Panarii had been created to keep the crack between worlds closed up tight was quite true. But as the month of Darkfall turned to the month of New Sun, Mannox wrote of how a new Panarii had arrived: K’an Hua.

He wrote of how K’an Hua had insinuated into the church theological discussion that Nasrudin was merely a metaphorical figure – not truly a corporeal being who had once walked the world of Arcanum, and that the wards were merely foolish ritual that should be abandoned. Amazing! In any other situation, with any other religion, I might have argued K’an Hua’s very point – but this religion was, in a sense, true. Mannox and K’an Hua nearly came to blows. Then ... the passage that detailed Mannox’s meeting with Nasrudin from Mannox’s perspective. My lips quirked as the old mystic declared “the elf struck me as most irritable and utterly irascible – but only after realizing he was Nasrudin did I realize that he was testing my forbearance, patience and piety.”

I chuckled. Then, at last, I came to the final passage: Elvish assassins had struck at Mannox. He slew them but knew he needed to return to the temple, to confront K’an Hua and reveal the truth. His last sentence made my smile fade: “I must return to the temple, to bring the truth to the Panarii. I will declare what I know for all to hear. I will leave my writings safely concealed here, along with my ceremonial sword, as I feel my death is at hand. My soul I now commit to the hands of Nasrudin.”

I closed the book. “So...” I said, quietly. “The Panarii were not foolish and mistaken at all.”

“That is the case,” Raven said, her voice soft. “What shall we do about it?”

“Why...” I stood, then picked up the sword. It was an exceptionally balanced blade, protected by the magicks that Mannox had cast upon it. But engraved on the hilt was a simple M. “I believe I shall return this to its rightful owner.”

“Of course, Living One,” Raven said, her lips quirked in a lilting smile.

I frowned at her. But she did not cease her smile. And as we headed back to the temple, I found myself wrestling with that question. How could I be the Living One, if Nasrudin lived yet? And yet, I could not help but feel as if the weight of the role remained draped upon my shoulders. No! No! I shook my head, as if to cast off an annoying fly. This role was simply to act as honor and righteousness decreed. Was it to be bound by prophecy to simply do what was right? I had to believe otherwise, else all good deeds would be utterly irrelevant, rendered nothing more than an authored conclusion, penned by some hand mightier than my own. My right hand rubbed against my left, and I traced the lines of my remaining charged ring with my finger. I crafted my own fate, damn it all.

We returned to the Temple grounds proper and I found the First Acolyte sitting out in the front lawn, his knees crossed underneath him, his head bowed down as he meditated. I coughed, as politely as I could, and he looked up at me, smiling slightly. “Greetings, Living One,” he said, his voice amused. “How may I assist you today?”

“It is how I may assist you, Alexander,” I said, my voice soft. I knelt down, then handed him the journal of Saint Mannox. Alexander read it, his face a remarkable production to watch. First, his brow furrowed. Then his eyes narrowed. Then widened. Then his lips settled into a thin, fierce line. He closed the book, then set the book down, and said, quietly. “I must have words with the high priest.” He stood, and I stood with him, drawing out the sword of his ancestor from my pack. I set it in his palms. Now, the only emotion that showed on the First Acolyte’s face was pure gratitude. He closed his grip on the hilt, tightening so fiercely that his weather tanned knuckles turned white. “Come with me,” he said, his voice husky as he turned, robes a swirling. We strode forward, Raven, him and me – only to be interrupted in our movements by a cry from the dormatories: Maggie, her voice not concealed by her normal false male tones.

“What the bloody hell are you doing to Virginia!?”

Needless to say, I was sprinting forward without a second thought, and Alexander matched me, pace for pace. We came to the door leading into the cloister where the Panarii were keeping Virginia’s body in state. The machines hissed and warbled softly, but the room itself was bathed in a hideous red glow. A man in white robes trimmed in gold stood above her, holding both hands above his head, red lightning streaking from his fingertips to plunge into Virginia’s chest, causing her to writhe and twitch as if living. The energy throbbed beneath her skin like maggots. I reached for my pistol, but Alexander moved faster than I could have imagined. He leaped over Virginia’s body, clearing her legs with a fluttering of robes, landed, and transfixed the robed man through the heart.

The man – a portly human – cried out and fell backwards. He clutched at the blade, his eyes wide. He looked up at the two of us. And yet, horribly, he began to laugh. “Hah ... hah ... revenge...” He grinned. “For my Min...” His eyes unfocused and his head slumped to the side.

I drew my pistol, ready to shoot him several times more, if the need arose. But confusion rocked me: “What the devil did he mean by that? And what did he do to Virginia?”

“That spell,” Alexander said, his voice tight – showing not a sign of exertion, as if he sprinted nearly five hundred yards and struck a man dead every day. “It was a black necromantic spell, one designed to hasten the rot and decay of a body, to make it unsuitable to raising by white necromancy.”

Fear filled my heart and I spun and knelt beside Virginia – in time to see the red light shattering off her, like a vase dropped from a great height. I blinked slowly before letting out a laugh as deep and as loud as any I had ever uttered. I threw my head back and leaned against the wall, sliding my arm along my belly as I laughed and laughed some more. Alexander knelt beside Virginia, his brows furrowing as he looked her over. “I don’t understand – High Priest Tannor was the greatest mage I knew...”

“But not great enough to overcome the technological fields emitted by Virginia’s very body,” I said, nodding. “She’s filled with enough chemicals and natural electric charge to be the next best thing to a steam engine.”

Alexander blinked. Then he laughed. “That explains why our morning rituals have been so balky of late!”

“His face!” Maggie – who had returned to the door, carrying the Harrower in her hand, explaining her absence – pointed. We both turned and saw High Priest Tannor’s face rippling, flowing, and changing. His cheeks became sallow and pinched, his ears lengthened to two elven points, and his eyes – dead as they were – gained a harsh, cruel light to them. I grabbed for my pistol, ready for him to spring back to life ... but no. He was dead as a doornail.

“K’an Hua,” I said. “I presume.”

Alexander nodded. “My ancestor is avenged,” he said, quietly. “And the cult of Arronax is finally defeated. Arcanum is safe.”

I frowned. I had not the heart to tell him that the cult had already succeeded – that Arronax’s return to Arcanum was inevitable unless I stopped him. But my hand dropped to Virginia’s seemingly warm and lively shoulder. I squeezed gently and knew that we would do it. We could stop Arronax and his mad plans for domination. I looked to Alexander, smiling to him. “I believe my job here is done.”

“Verily,” Alexander said, his voice as serious and old fashioned as Mannox in that instant. Then he smiled at me, broadly. “Where will you go now, Living One?”

“First?” I said. “To Ashbury – and from there, we shall march to the Vendigroth Wastes, to find Tulla herself.”

Alexander bowed his head. “I wish you luck, Living One.” He clasped my hand and we shook.

May 10th, 1886

Leaving Caladon in less of a tearing hurry meant that we not only had time to hire a crew for Captain Teach, but to also get rewarded for our efforts. Hadrian refused to allow us out of the temple without foisting upon us the three relics he had protected for his whole life. The finger bone of Saint Mannox, upon magick inspection, proved to hold a magical charge and quite a bit of energies. I swore to give it to Virginia when she was returned to me. The Eye of Kraka-Tur seemed, despite all examinations both magick and scientific, to be nothing more than a gemstone of black make. But I kept it – if Arronax had survived his centuries in the Void, maybe Kraka-Tur had done so as well, and thus, the eye could come in handy.

The final item though was the key made of glass. Examining it brought great cheer to Maggie – for the symbol I had found so familiar on the hilt was, indeed, the same symbol as that on the Harrower. Holding it, we agreed that it was surely to be of use when we tried to enter into the last home of the Iron Clan. Though Maggie attempted to hold her dwarven reserve and caution in hand, I could see hope gleaming in her eye. Her long sought after goal of having a clan to call her home might very well end up being the case – and to be completed in such a way, with her not only being a member of a clan, but a member of the most mysterious, most astounding clan that the dwarven race had ever produced? It would be like a dream come true.

The actual trip along the coastline of Arcanum to the port city of Ashbury felt almost like a vacation – and with Raven’s magicks working with the weather rather than against it, our ship nearly flew, leaving the crew that we had hired in good cheer, despite being overseen by Sally – who proved herself to be quite an able boatswain when she wished to be.

After we arrived at Ashbury, we once more applied ourselves liberally to Gilbert Bates’ endless checkbook. I also took a moment to check in with Cynthia Boggs, the woman we had rescued from the Isle of Despair. She had found a profession in Ashbury’s finest tavern, The Meager Draught. Despite its name, she seemed quite happy, and in a family way. When I inquired as to who had managed to get her hand in marriage, she played coy, leaving me somewhat uncertain as to the providence of the child. But she played even more coy when I pressed and, lacking a polite way to continue the conversation, I bid her good fortune and good luck. Afterwards, we supplied ourselves and set out on foot for the Vendigroth Wastes.

Transporting the body of Virginia in state proved easier than expected due to the simple expediency of purchasing a stagecoach and four horses to pull it. This is why we made such good time and arrived at the demarcation between the Moribhan Plains and Vendigroth Wastes after a mere five days of travel. I saw the Wastes from a distance, but I did not believe what my eyes were telling me until our horses had drawn to a stop at a large, rusted metal bridge that spanned the small river of brackish, gray water that separated the deserts of the Moribhan. Once the horses came to a snuffling, worried stop, each of stood there and looked outwards, in the same shared disbelief.

With a name such as ‘the Wastes’ I had pictured something akin to a desert. But deserts contained some measure of life and a sense of the natural. There were cacti and scorpions, hawks and vultures. But the Wastes that stretched beyond us were utterly wrong. Greenish cracks spread along the ground, still glowing faintly with an eldrich light, while the ground itself was a mixture of black and gray and dull red. Wisps of white light danced on the air like dust devils, and the water that flowed along the boarder was silty and thick with gray. The air felt wrong.

“Good gods,” I whispered.

“Indeed,” Raven said, her voice solemn.

“Arronax did this?” Maggie asked, slowly.

“By himself?” Gillian whispered.

“Well,” I said. “It was during the Age of Legends...” Then my back tightened – a shape was emerging from the mists. I drew my pistol reflexively – and only relaxed once the shape resolved into the image of a donkey dragging a cart and a halfling seated upon the cart’s front. He clicked the reigns and the donkey continued to clip and clop forward. If it was aware that it was striding through a blasted, unnatural wasteland, it gave no sign of it. The halfling himself was dressed with a cloth gas mask and goggles on his face, and he lifted a gloved hand to wave at us.

“What ho!” he said, his voice muffled. “Heading in for salvage?”

I called back. “No – well, of a sorts. We’re seeking the city of Vendigroth.”

“Oh.” The mule came to a stop beside our wagon and the halfling tugged his gas mask off, allowing himself to breathe more easily. “No. No. I pick out of the ruin fields nearer to the river – mostly scrap and twisted wire. But I did find a rifle stock once.” He chuckled. “The City itself is a mother-load, but no one knows where it is, friend.”

I nodded, slightly. “Then ... have you seen the city of Tulla?”

“Tulla? No,” he said – dashing my hopes that this might be easy. “I have seen this strange walled place – built into the only part of the Wastes that look halfway close to a real land, not this blasted place.” He gestured out to the cracked, black landscape. “From a hill, I could see it was full of robed types and magick critters.”

“That’s Tulla!” I exclaimed.

“Is it?” the halfling asked. “Well, hand your map over here, I can mark it, I marked it dow in my journal!”

“My thanks!” I tossed him my atlas. After marking it, the halfling tossed it back, then clicked his teeth. “And mind the spiders, out there.”

“Are they big?” I asked, my voice growing concerned as the cart rattled away.

“No, they’re armed.”

And with that, he began to whistle a bawdy ditty – leaving me feeling deeply concerned.

May, 26th, 1886

In the end, we were not troubled by the beasts of the Wastes. Our stagecoach made its careful way across the blasted landscape, guided by careful observation and my own sense of caution, and while we did see strange shapes in the mists when we set a watch, it seemed that having a group of hardy adventurers, armed with bow, magic weapon, and pistols was more than enough to convince those shapes to keep their distance. In fact, it was quite vexing to see hints of strange phenotypes and to see tracks that were clearly left by massive, eight legged entities ... and yet to never get more than the vaguest image of what it was that sometimes stalked us.

The closest that we came to any idea of what it was that watched our camps in the night came as we emerged from the harsh, blackened landscapes of the Wastes proper and into a more classic scrub-land that seemed to hug to the northern coast of the Vendigroth Wastes: Once, during a glance back over my shoulder, I saw a figure upon a distant rocky outcropping. It looked low slung to the ground, with a wide set of legs – like a spider of immense size – but I could see a hint of a humanoid torso, thrusting from the spiderish body.

But such things did not follow us as we came closer and closer to Tulla proper. The City of Mages was quite a sight from a distance: A massive, sandstone wall ringing around an outcropping of cliffs. The actual buildings of the city were concealed entirely by the wall, save for a single massive temple complex that looked carved into the side of the cliff itself – ornate pillars keeping a huge roof open, promising an even deeper sprawl of tunnels and corridors within the cliff itself.

The wall, though, lacked a gate entirely. Instead, where there would logically be a gate, there was instead two huge pillars, ornately carved and covered with runic inscriptions. Standing before them in pale blue robes, was an elven man who watched our stagecoach approach with a solemn expression. I waved to him, then scrambled down into the cargo of the coach proper. I dragged Virginia’s container out and began to detach the machines, the pumps, and remove the electric ring from her finger. I knew that technological fields would persist around her body for some time – but I hoped that by the time we came to a mage who could restore her to life, they would fade utterly. The chemicals would take longer to fully seep away – meaning that she would begin to rot in a week. But if we had not found a mage in the city of Tulla within the day to raise Virginia from the dead ... well...

I shook my head as Sally, effortlessly, picked the entire container up and held it on her shoulder. Then, together, we walked towards the gate, Dogmeat padding along at my side – he had never put a single paw off the stagecoach for the entire trip, and was practically prancing for joy to be out of the coach and on natural ground. Coming to the elf, I bowed my head.

“Greetings, Dr. Cog,” the elf said. “Jorian told me to expect you. You may enter the gates and go to the temple.”

I drew myself up, my brow furrowing. “Jorian? Who is this Jorian?”

The elf looked at me placidly. “You may enter the gate and go to the temple,” he said, his voice cool. Modulated. I glanced at Raven, who pursed her lips, then leaned in close and whispered to me.

“The city of Tulla trains their mages to be controlled – but not dishonest.”

I sighed. My pocket-watch, without even me needing to draw it out, had already seized up. I shuddered to imagine what it would be like in the city itself for any technological devices. But ... I did take heart in the fact that my electrical rings were still working properly. Maybe their proximity to my body kept them functioning, as I was extremely versed in the technological arts? Which only added to my trepidation at stepping through the portal – but step through I did. And to my alarm, a purple light flared around my body, before fading, and I found myself standing within Tulla herself.

Tulla, the city, was far from Tarant or Caladon in terms of size. In fact, I would barely say that there were more than fifty buildings in it, and a scant few people on the streets. They were of every race, and every one wore robes of varying colors. They spoke to one another in soft tones, though some sat underneath palm trees, drinking from simple earthenware cups while they gestured and spoke. Many of them cast spells and cantrips, shrouding the air with shimmering illusions to illustrate one point or another in the field of the magick arts. But the city was not merely populated by the civilized races. Two massive, dragon-like beasts sat curled up on pedestals, their scaled hides heaving as they breathed slowly, warming themselves under the fierce sun that hung in the cloudless sky. Their slitted eyes opened with a languid movement as we walked by them, and while they watched us, they made no move to attack.

The center of the city was the temple – and before the temple rested a large, circular, reflective pool of water. It shimmered and rippled in the sunlight, but what drew my eye was the collection of five symbols surrounding it: A crossed circle, a spiral shape, a humanoid figure drawn with as few lines as possible, a single star, and a strange three bladed, curved device that reminded me somewhat of the exotic throwing weapons of the ancient Kree – the glaive. Each symbol was carved into a stone plate which I swore looked as if it was designed to be depressed. I skirted them just to be safe and we came into the blessed coolness of the temple itself – the day was blistering hot outside.

The interior of the temple complex fanned outwards in a circular pattern – corridors leading deeper within, each one seeming to go off in its own winding pattern. But the central corridor that we entered by continued past the circular atrium, leading towards a set of stairs that clearly ascended deeper into the temple itself. I started that way, my footsteps and the footsteps of my companions echoing loudly in the large, empty space. More of those dragon-like creatures were perched here and there, and their cold reptilian eyes kept following us as we walked down the corridor. I paused only to note that the left wall of the corridor was dominated by a massive and beautiful mural.

The mural depicted a bearded human man, gesturing to the heavens as if to illustrate some great point. He stood between a wild desert to the left and what was clearly the city of Tulla on the right. Ringing around the mural, though, were the five symbols we had seen around the mirror pool. But here, each symbol had four more symbols about them save for the glaive-like symbol. There were too many to count and, honestly, it was all of secondary importance.