BSS RPG -- Story

I am Zarak.

I hail from the Plane of Shadow, which for many years was my home.

During my teenage years, I worked as a contracted Assassin. I enjoyed the work and lived modestly, accumulating wealth. One day, a group of Netherese sorcerers came through my hometown, in search of an ancient text related to the history of our people. One of those sorcerers approached me, and said he sensed the flame of magic burning through my soul. They took me under their wing, and under their tutelage, I learned to harness the spark of magic and train to become a Warlock, elite of the Netherese mages.

However, one day, my hometown was attacked and razed by one of our ancient enemies, one victim in a long trail of once-glorious cities reduced to ruins and ashes. I escaped through the chaos, and wandered my home plane for a time, while actively been hunted by my enemies.

One day, I stumbled upon a cave, deep within the bowels of my home. Fortune smiled on that day, as I found Arcane texts that would allow me to summon a portal! Most of the writings were beyond my comprehension, but I nevertheless succesfully summoned a very unstable portal. I jumped in the portal, and for a seemingly endless moment, I swirled in the purest darkness of absolute nothingness. Then, I saw a light at the end of the vortex... and I abruptly crashed on the prime material plane.

I was discovered several hours later by a circle of Druids. I drew my flail, ready to fight them... Until a strange sense of familiarity overwhelmed my senses. I felt connected to them, for a reason I could not explain. They felt it as well, and they took me in as one of them.

In the following months, I was struck with sickness. I was bombarded with dreams and visions, and I withdrew from the Circle. They made no attempts to stop me -- they knew of what had befell me, even if I did not.

One night, under the full moon... I collapsed, and then blacked out. The visions intensified, and I felt the pain of one million needles searing my soul. Then, everything went black, and I experienced spiritual death. Then, a voice spoke to me... I had been marked, long before my birth... marked to become a Shaman.

Dead, yet reborn in a different form, I made my way back to the Circle, and under their tutelage I learned the ways of Shamanism.

I gathered my strength back, and one day left the Circle to venture on this strange new world on my own. I traveled for many years, and those travels took me far and wide.

I am Nakia, sorcerer and I have lived a long time. Recently I settle in a small village in the Black Forest. With spells I have I can help the villagers defend themselves from the wild beast, monsters and occasional marauders that wander through. Over the years I have even developed some healing spells that come in very handy. I have also learned to make a few useful potions.

The villagers appropriate the help I can give them and in return keep me supplied with what I need. It is a comfortable life and I am content. I collect the ingredients found in the area and when a rare trader comes by I trade for what they have. Once or twice a year I go with those farmers or craftsmen wishing to trade in one of the larger towns. My days of adventuring are over or so I believe.

I am the one with many names, some you may already know, others you wouldn't even suspect.

These days I've chosen to be known as Carabas, a simple name that suits the simple demeanour I've decided to embrace to shield myself from unforeseen complications related to my rather colourful past.

My origins are rooted in mystery. Stories have been told about how I came by my reputation but you would be well advised not to believe everything the stories tell you.

They say I was born in the dungeons of Luskan and that I knew how to lie before I could walk or even speak. Growing up, I wasn't the strongest or the fastest but I made up for my shortcomings by being ready to do things others would never even contemplate. I never acted out of cruelty or out of greed, what terrible deeds I may be guilty of only meant to prove that I was destined for greater things.

Some say that I once outwitted the masters of Sorcere in the splendour of Menzoberranzan, others that I won an elven queen's dowry shooting dice with the richest lords of Waterdeep. It is also said that I robbed a Great Red Wyrm of his hoard simply by tricking him.

It would indeed be quite a feat for a mere mortal still in the prime of his life if any of it was true.

You can choose to believe my legend if you want to or you can decide to simply dismiss it as you please. I for one do not care, but should you choose to incur my enmity I  would be remiss if I didn't warn you of the dangers of thinking there is absolutely no truth to the stories.

One does not become known throughout the Realms and beyond without learning a trick or two in the process.

I am Runa, daughter of Yngvhildr who was daughter of Olmaa, who was daughter of Shayad... and I could prattle about this illustrous lineage all day long. There are, after all, fourty generations, fourty names between me and Ildiko... and all have been branded into my skin the day I came of age, lest I forget. Ah, but you hear my speech and wonder. Yes, I am of orcish blood. No, not all of us are complete fools.

The ones I used to call sisters are what the city-dwelling scholars would regard as an "undiscovered tribe". Our customs and history were never recorded in writing. 'Tis enough for anyone to know that many years ago, some daughters of a mountain clan grew tired of bowing to the males of their pack, and forged a new life for themselves and their daughters. Among them was Ildiko, half-human and weak... yet wise. As such, she was chosen to become the keeper of our traditions, the singer and storyteller that would live to sustain the memory of our tribe. In time, she sought out a man similar to her in origin, and bore a daughter that would one day take her place.

How she would despair to see me, her descendant, now.

For the human blood runs strong within me, and I had no intention of wasting a life among barbarians. There were few chances for one such as I to learn somewhat of the world beyond the mountains, but I would seize each one with eagerness. There were human traders that spoke of great cities; adventurers bearing wondrous weapons, books and cases of scrolls to be found amongst the belongings of the unwary. Such discoveries would always evoke a great longing within me, a nostalgia for somewhat I have never known. And so, mere three winters after becoming initiated as She-Who-Speaks-Of-Bones (a bard of sorts, in the language of civilized folk), I have fled from the tribe, never to look back. Only the scars remain, for their purpose is akin to what mine would have been - to make one remember.

And if the memory is meaningless, a testimony to the ravings of an old matriarch, of a destiny changed, of an 'honour' unwanted... well then, I suppose Tymora was never on my side.

The life I found amongst humans was vastly different from the one I have dreamed about, and I shall not speak of those first years. One of my wishes, however, did come true, for I did learn a great deal... even if none of those lessons were kind.

I have long known that this glamorous world of cities of stone, wondrous music, riveting tales and intricate magic was not meant for one of my kind. Like any other, however, it would seem that it runs on two things only: gold, and blood. I have yet to attain the former. As for spilling the latter... I must admit I find the prospect rather enticing.

I am an emissary from the court of the current ruler of this domain. I am the wielder of justice in the name of the crown, but my skills are not those of a Paladin who wears steel armour and wields a massive sword. No, life has led me down a different path, for I'm a royal bastard.

My mother was a healer so I became skilled from an early age at recognising herbs and knowing their medicinal purposes. I was expected to follow in my Mothers footsteps and she taught me in accordance with this as soon as I was able to follow her skirts into the garden. I was trained to use my skills to support the royal household and its army, both in times of peace and discord. My mother told me how healers are expected to be neutral – non-judgemental. They take no part in the politics of this realm, their distinction is that they serve the people and offer no counsel other than that related to their calling.

This perspective changed the day I overheard one of the Princes plotting against his father. I was just 8, my summer solstice birthday not long gone, and the Prince needed a poultice for his arm. He’d injured it during a recent skirmish with some pirates who attempted to raid the warehouses near the docks. I'd already cleansed and stitched the wound some days previously, but it wasn't healing cleanly becoming red and angry, remaining open. When I entered the room, the Prince glanced at me, then looked across at a man seated the other side of the hearth. Despite the heat of the fire, all I could feel was the prince’s anger radiating from his being. I curtseyed and lowered my head deferentially, where upon the Prince held out his wounded arm. As I began to remove the previous poultice and treat his wound, the Prince could hold back no longer. Clearly, he was too enraged to contain himself. The Prince first complained the King wasn't doing enough to defend the coast. Then he stated the 'old man' should be removed from power, that it was time for new blood on the throne, it was time they took action. I recognised the man the Prince was speaking to as Lord Rogard of Parin. His hold lay further along the coast and had also suffered raids. Lord Rogard shifted uncomfortably and stated; "It would be best to talk of this later." inclining his head in my direction. The Prince snorted saying; "She's merely a healer’s assistant, a child, she's nothing to worry about." Still, he did hold his tongue while I applied the fresh poultice, then dismissed me.

Even at such a young age I knew the meaning of treason. After all, I understood what loyalty meant, my mother’s training had instilled the concept firmly in my mind. Because of this, I crept out of my bed while the crescent moon was high in the sky, dressed myself in the boy’s clothing I’d stolen from the laundry room earlier, and snuck out from the priory room I shared with my mother. I was small and agile, so it was easy to hide in the shadows, glide silently through the torch lit corridors. Yet I was surprised to find myself in the corridor leading to my King’s chambers without discovery. I could see a guard posted outside his door, so I slipped through a nearby oak hewn door in the hope I’d find myself in adjoining room with an alternative entrance to the chamber I sought to enter.

In the darkness I could see the room was empty, but there was no side door to avail myself of. The moon’s light glimmered through a window in the far side wall. I climbed onto its stone sill. The window was stiff, but I opened it and leant out. From this vantage point I could see the balcony outside the Kings chamber a short distance away. Roughly two feet below the window was a thin ledge. In the moonlight I could see irregularities in the stone face of the castle that my small fingers could cling to. There was a way to reach the King’s balcony and without further thought, I swung over the sill and nimbly found my feet. Refusing to think of how high from the ground I was, I worked my way across, focusing on and using the nooks and crannies I’d spotted earlier for finger holds. I propped my toes upon the widest parts of the ledge and eased myself across. It was with some relief I swung myself over the side of the King’s balcony. As I wiped my hands down the dirty jerkin I’d filched earlier, I found myself wondering what I would do if the balcony door was locked when a voice said,
“Well, do I call the guards boy, or do you have good reason for being here uninvited?”
With some trepidation I turned to face my King. Out of habit, I curtseyed forgetting I had no skirts. For a moment this confused me and I felt clumsy and awkward, despite what had clearly been a very agile journey from window to balcony. Catching sight of my face, the King guffawed. I met his eyes and laughed with him. I saw no condemnation of my actions, no fear, but behind the laughter his eyes were sharp and I was aware of the clarity of his mind. There were questions to be answered, so I told my father what I had heard. I also explained how, naturally, learning how to heal also equipped me with the knowledge of how to kill – that I had great knowledge of poisons and expected to be replacing the Prince’s poultice on the morrow.

Since that time, I have been my King’s silent adjudicator. I am the balancer of the scales when words and/or battles fail to suffice. I dispense my father’s justice using my knowledge in conjunction with the agility of my mind and body. Yet to the outside world, I am a healer. My name is Sue.

The village is quiet beneath the winter skies. The villagers are busy at crafting things needed locally and also to sell come spring. My cottage lies in the woods a short distance from the village itself. It smells of the hers I have hanging about, a nice smell. Two stray cats I adopted or adopted me lie by the hearth companions for an old woman. Things are peaceful, too peaceful I feel restless. Yes I am bored. I chose this life to escape the tragedies and turmoil of my old life but now it begins to pall on me. Winter is the hardest time for me because it is so quiet with little for me to do.

There is a young woman by name Salonna who shows some innate magical abilities and I have taught her what little I can. She comes this afternoon and I may ask her to stay here while I do some exploring. She will like that. This cottage will one day be hers.

A couple of hours travel from here are some fascinating standing stones. They hold some power that I have not fathomed. Dark are the stories told about them, a battle ground of some sort. The villagers avoid them but they draw me back. I have not visited them in the winter. Traveling in the snow and in the wild is no problem for me. My dark gray homespun robe and cape have special runes of protection woveen into them and I have enchanted them with some spells. Yes, I will leave early in the morning to see if I can fathom the secrets of those stones. I know I play with dark powers but does it matter if I die by those or by the hand of someone seeking renown by destroying a once well known sorcerer? Death comes to all humans even those as powerful as I.

My years of traveling the material plane were not easy ones. I have long lost count of all the worthless do-goody-two-shoes I have killed through the years, because of my Shadovar origins. All who dared to cross my path were mercilessly destroyed, and I relished every second of their destruction. They feared my people, and justifiably so.  

But, the hardest burden was the blasted sun. For one who has called darkness and shadow home for all my life, the searing, burning light was overwhelming. Through my years of adventuring, I discovered a long-lost artifact of the Shadovar... a mask, made of Shadovarian ore, enchanted to protect one of my origins against the accursed sun. It almost felt as if my home was granting me a boon to survive the prime material plane.

My adventures took me to Shadowpool, a large city by the sea. I wandered the city for some time... and one day, the Crimson Mask, a guild of assassins for hire, found me. They had heard of all the do-goody-two-shoes who had perished at my hand, and I was extended an invitation to join their guild. I eventually accepted. I missed the sharp taste of blood, the adrenaline rush of the unaware victim taking their last breath... it would sate my bloodlust, as well as earn a generous stash of blood money. For about a year or so, I racked up contract after contract, taking down merchants, priests, chancelliers, governors, and at one time I was sent to murder an entire family. I can still see the look on their faces as they die in agony, by my flail, spells, or torn to shreds by the pets I turned against them.

The guild became notorious to the point where we were public enemy #1. Shadowpool launched an all out offensive to root the guild out for good, and cleanse their town of the "rotten evil". Forewarned by my shamanic intuition, I slipped out of town unnoticed and left. I walked for several hours, and I remember seeing Shadowpool engulfed in flames.  

Eventually, my travels brought me to the Black Forest. There, I encountered a small village. I took the form of a raven, and observed the townsfolk. Farmers, traders... the kind of weaklings would easily be crushed by my power. However... amongst them was an old woman, and she seemed to be the protector of this worthless village. Then, I felt something resonate within myself... this old woman has the spark of magic burning within her soul.

I left, and continued my exploration. I later found a small cave, and followed the path... and I arrived in a small, enclosed valley, roofed by gigantic spruce trees. This place felt like a second home, so using rudimentary tools as well as my arcane powers, I built a house out of stone and wood, and also built a greenhouse, to grow whatever crops I needed. And because of my shamanic powers, the wildlife in the valley responded to my presence, and they protected my home like it was theirs.

Some time later... I began having more and more dreams, just like prior to my spiritual death. I constantly saw the image of an ancient, mystical stonehenge. For some reason, it was calling to me... and although I did now know why, something about this calling felt... off, wrong.

I gathered my belongings, and following the images I recalled from my dreams, I eventually found the stonehenge. As I was inspecting it, I felt a presence... I abruptly turned around, and I saw the old woman I had seen at the village!

I stood there, silent. The woman's expression reflected that she knew the flame of magic burned within my soul, even though my spark was different from hers.

She spoke to me...

So, stranger, these stones call to you too. There is power here but what it is I do not know. I sense you have a power within you different from mine but very strong. It might be possible for us to join our powers to explore this place.

The stories say a great battle was fought here but I sense something deeper and something very dangerous.

I waited for the strange person to respond feeling that he was very alien to me and for the first time in decades felt a little fear that was also exhilarating. I felt alive once more.

Zarak's eye narrow through his mask and he studies the woman. After a while, he speaks.

"Yes... for the last few months, these ruins have haunted my dreams."

He further studies the woman.

"I could feel the spark of magic burning through your soul when I first came to those woods."

Zarak rapidly turns his head to the right

"I feel another presence. Stay alert!"

Zarak invokes black flames from his hand and waits.

'Peace', I called out, stepping into the open, one hand extended in a friendly gesture. If the other, hidden beneath the folds of my cloak, was grasping for a dagger, if the mind was searching for a sufficiently distracting cantrip... well, 'tis said that we half-breeds are full of contradictions, after all.

I regarded the two strangers. One reeked of death, and the other of power. They seemed to be in an alliance of some sort; an alliance strong enough for the masked man to warn his companion. One of them, I could perhaps take unawares; yet hidden blades and poisons would not serve here... alas. We have met on unequal terms, to say the least, and it fell to me to balance the scales.

'Twas hard not to overhear you', I spoke, forcing myself to sound calm, 'Aye, there is darkness here, and death, and power. 'Tis a tale I happen to know. Extinguish your flames, sir, so that we may talk.'

I watched the appearance of the Ork with interest. I have known orcs some as enemies and some as friends. They are powerful warriors and this one had an aura of something special about her.

I stretched out my hand in the same gesture of friendliness and spoke to her. "Relax, Orc, so we three have come to examine these stones. This then is a time of crux of the turning of the world else we would not be gathered here. This is meant to be."

I touched her hand lightly it was not just a friendly gesture for by touching her I would learn about her. Touch can convey the essence of the person. Then I stepped back looking to the other, the stranger for I was sure he came from another world and was not native to this one. Would he be friend or foe?

Turning back to the orc "I am called Nakia and I would hear what you know of these stones."

In one swift motion, Zarak lowers his hand, but does not extinguish the flames.

His red eyes narrow through his mask, as he studies her intensely. He looks her right in the eyes.

"Yes, do tell. A fellow mage I can understand could be drawn here, but I certainly didn't expect to see an orc warrior in these parts, much less a halfbreed."

He narrows his eyes even more, as if looking in her very soul. After a long silence, he raises his blazing hand, and in one swift motion, extinguishes the black flames.

Bloody mages, I thought, surpassing an exasperated sigh, and their bloody games. My own grasp of thaumaturgy was yet poor. What little I knew was enough, however, to sense how they both, each in their own way, found more answers within me than I would willingly offer. Whatever passed, 'twas of no consequence, as now it became obvious that no immediate danger would come from either of them.

I let go of the hidden dagger's hilt and smiled, deciding to respond to Nakia's friendly gesture for what it seemed, if not for what it truly was.

'Why, but you are fortunate not to have met one of my full-blooded kin. Unless, of course, you would prefer to hear the story related in grunts, Daraktan, and some few words of Common. But I digress.'

They were a strange audience, to be sure... but then, many would call me a strange bard.

'With a great battle my tale begins, for of destruction and war all power is born. Many years ago it was fought: iron was yet young, though these stones even then ancient. A tribe of barbarians rode from the South and East, leaving naught but ashes and bones in their wake. For their arrows were swift, and their blades were sharp, and in their hearts blazed this fire that some would call strength, and others cruelty. It is here that their journey ended. A mage-king ruled here, who sought to make an ally of Death. An army he commanded, lines upon lines of soldiers - unyielding, for their hearts seized this steel-clad hand that some would call loyalty, and others naivete. Such were the forces that met not far of here. Like a wave, the barbarians advanced, and in the end, like a wave were broken on the shore of shields and spears. Many have died of the mage-king's people, yet many more of his enemies, save for the leader himself and his most trusted companions. Skeud's Twenty, they were called, all valiant men and women... or so they were before that battle, for 'tis said that when the mage-king bade them throw down their weapons, they obeyed, and were taken prisoner. 'Twas not done for ransom, nor for diplomacy, and most assuredly not as an act of mercy...'

I paused for a moment, and approached the stone that stood in the circle's center. It was flat and broad, and smaller than the others, about the height of a gnome. There was naught there, now, but a thin layer of snow, any traces of blood, brain and bone long washed away.

'For they would make a fitting sacrifice to the mage-king's dark and nameless Gods, so that Death could laugh in her domain at the deities of gold and sun, of whom the barbarians were said to be children. Here they were brought and, one by one, slain upon this very altar. Such would be the end of Skeud's Twenty, had their spirits gone to rest. But still they linger, trapped between two worlds. Betimes Skeud himself appears to mortals he deems powerful, and speaks with them, promising riches and powers untold for those who would carry out his vengeance. None have promised it yet... but those who were once called Skeud's Twenty have hope still, waiting for one that some would call bringer of justice, and others a bloody fool.'

As the half bloood bard spoke I saw the ghosts of the slain rise and heard their cries for vengence.  Then she ceased speaking and still the ghosts and cries lingered on.

Well spoken, Bard.  So to remove these souls we need only find those who killed them or their descendants.  Some god has promised much but I deem the gods to be untrustworthy.  They speak in riddles and with hidden meanings.  Wealth I have, power, yes power is good and always begets the need for more power but these stones have much power in them more than anyone mortal could handle.

There may be another way to remove these spirits, not so kind mayhap but they deserve no  sympathy from me.  They were warriors and fought and lost and gained the fate of those who lose.  If one could absorb their souls without the inclusion of their desire for vengeance that would free the stones from them.

I turned to the masked one.

 I could absorb the souls but would also take their need for vengeance to myself.  I have no desire to be their tool.  They were sacrificed not only by enemies but the very god they trusted.  

I stilled and waited the next words and actions of the dark one would tell me much about him and his powers.

I stepped away from the altar. There was a presence here, unseen to me, yet palpable and vast, as if evoked by memory and the two strangers' power.

'Whatever you do, necromancers', I remarked with a crooked grin, 'Please remember to question the dead about riches untold, would you? Vulgar, I know, but some of us here must rely on less spiritual gains.'

I couldn't help it at the Bard's words I threw back my head and laughed.

Well I know that desire as once I had it but now I have what I need and more. Knowledge is my goal, to know the unknown.

I glanced at the masked one as he was as much an enigma to me as the Stones perhaps even more so.

Zarak returns Nakia's stare, and his eyes narrow, again as if looking in her very soul. After a long moment...

"You are filled with conflict and uncertitude. Your magic spark couldn't handle the dark arts."

He turns back to Runa, again, as if looking in her very soul.

"As for you... I have a feeling you are related to those events more than you are letting on. Others might be fooled by your colourful facade and words, but I am not. You have a dark secret inside."

Zarak turns away from both and walks towards the stone altar in the middle.

"But, assuming I could... it's not as simple as siphoning those souls out of existence. They need a vessel, a prison if you will. Soul gems, in short."

"And as far as their wealth goes... since I would be doing the work, I require a hefty share of said wealth, as well as the souls of the damned."

Soul gems? How many and what quality? Also if I am able to supply them they are costly some even priceless. Wealth I do not need but knowledge I crave. Not spells for I cannot be taught a spell but knowledge is power.

His words had stirred a chord in me it was true I still felt conflict between my human heritage and what I had become not by choice but by destiny.

Zarak strokes his long, black beard, prodding out underneath the mask.

"Rarer gems would do just fine. However, acquiring a large enough stash without drawing attention to ourselves would be a problem. However, I have another idea... but it will require a journey."

Zarak raises his hood, and heads north.

'Colorful facade? Well, I never!', I quipped, realizing too late that silence would serve better in dealings with this one. But I have made dissembling my art, and if the last performance failed to fulfill it's purpose, the next one might prove more successful. Ah, sir, why would you be the only one among us allowed to hide beneath a mask? And which dark secret could you possibly mean? Whatever his doubts, the man seemed to have decided to lead us somewhere, and that was as good a declaration of alliance as any other...

'Shall we go, then?', I asked Nakia, feeling that in her I would find a less difficult companion, at least for the moment. 'And by the way, the name is Runa.'

After about an hour of walking, the trio arrived near a massive volcano.

"This volcano has been inactive for many years now."

Zarak makes his way to the bottom of the volcano, and spots a medium-sized deposit of lava which has hardened to become obsidian.

He invokes black flames from his hands, and in one rush of power, superheats the obsidian, causing it to shatter in small gemlike stones. Zarak opens his purse, and gathers the broken pieces of obsidian.

He turns towards his unwilling companions.

"I have what I came for. Let us return to the stones."

Watching the alien I thoughts passed through my mind.
A bit of a show off this masked one.  He sees a lot but maybe not as much as he thinks he does.   I will take care with him.  Only a fool challenges someone who is as strong and possibly stronger as oneself and I am not a fool.   Runa makes a good companion for now at least.  She has power and as for dark secret which one of us does not have at least one dark secret?  Why does he wear a mask?  What secrets does he hide?   Let him lead and show off that way I will learn more of who and what this stranger is.  Knowledge is power.

Sharing thoughts, excellent idea, grandma.

"Hmm. I hate exposing my powers like that. Yet, the prospect of having all those damned souls to myself to use as I see fit is a worthy price. Still... best to rely on my Shamanic powers instead of my Warlock powers... I must not give either a reason to suspect my Shadovar origins.

There is something off about Nakia. Her soul has been in this body for a very long time... perhaps exceeding the normal lifespan of humans. She does not smell of necromancy... yet I sense there is more than meets the eye here.

As for Runa... her reaction to my taunt tells a long story. There is a mark in her soul, one which I cannot clearly identify. Yet, despite her evil nature, she might be the most trustworthy of the two. I have to admit, there is something mystical about her that ignites a strong lust within me.

Why was it so important that we accompanied you here, mage?, I wondered on our way back. Do you believe yourself not intimidating enough already, red eyes and all? If he sought to inspire fear with that display, one could safely assume that whatever the reason for that mask, it was not to obscure some deformity. Hideousness was as useful a tool in evoking horror as any, and, alas, I knew it better than most. What is the purpose, then?, I mused, casting away memories of that particular realization, What does it shield him from? And, should it come to... conflict after all, how is it removed? I glanced at Nakia, but failed to guess at the witch's thoughts.

Our destination loomed in the distance, sharp lines of stones against the horizon made even keener by the light, brighter for the snow reflecting it away. It was in a similar place, on a similar altar, that in blood and pain I was made She-Who-Speaks-Of-Bones. I told stories of the dead, and if sometimes the dead told me their own - what was it to anyone?

Keep my secret, ye fallen, and speak not to me.

As we turned to travel back to the Stones I was tempted to simply teleport there but quickly pushed the thought aside.  It would be showing off myself and was not a good idea besides I hoped to know Runa better she at least was from this world and an alliance between us might be a very good idea.  I had a feeling the masked alien would as soon trap our souls as those imprisoned within the Stone circle.

I reached into my robes and pulled out one of my travel cakes and a bottle of mead to wash it down.  Breaking the cake in half I offered it to Runa with the mead.

Runa we might as well refresh ourselves as we traipse around after this person.  I make the cakes myself and if I do say so myself they are both good and nourishing.  Sorry the mead is a local brew, not bad but not great.