Dénouement

Zenithral wipes his eyes and looks to each of his companions, and his mother, with relief and joy.

He steps over to Halla and embraces her and heaves a shuddering sigh. "I'm sorry to have nearly died on you so many times..." He grabs her shoulders, leans back, and grins. "Radiant wings began this journey for us, and now radiant wings shall end it. After we get this cleaned up, I think it's time for a well-deserved honeymoon." His grin fades as he ponders over what they still have left to do, then inhales deeply and peacefully, embracing the frigid air.

He'd asks Ras for help with the Heartstone Gem locating Harmony and Lance. He wasn't confident that would work, but it was worth a try. They were smart and strong children. They would find their way through life, whether that was back with him and Halla for a time, or in service of some other purpose right away.

Then he would ask Dok for help to find Malavon's sister...whose name escaped him...at any rate, a sending would be sufficient to know if she was trapped once again in the demiplane. If she was, Dok could probably help get her out. Somehow he managed to shift into the White Halls. Surely he'd have a way to get into the demiplane of a dead wizard. Drow or not, she saved his life, and he would do the same.

Then he and Halla would have some respite together. After the funerals and burials...and tending to the Great Oak...and probably a few more things he couldn't remember at the moment.

Zenithral didn't want to admit it, but he had come to love this "frozen hellscape", as he once called it. He chuckles, realizing how accurate that description came to be. Still, it was time for someplace...warmer. He and Halla needed to get their hands on Orrick's helm of teleportation...

Ras's little body is in shock. It's over. It's really over. He suddenly feels old. Older even than Uncle Oswald always appeared to him.

The tears that come to his eyes have nothing, and everything, to do with Uncle Oswald. Maybe now he can mourn. Maybe now he can rest. Maybe now he can find a way to come to peace with the decisions he has had to make.

Thinking of Oswald suddenly makes his heart stop, just for a moment. He can't rest yet. He can't mourn yet. It is the end of this fight, but he has one more mission to fulfill before he can start his search for peace.

There is one name that rings through his head, wrapped in an booming laugh. Someone he must talk to before he can consider this finished. There are more tears now, but he will save them for someone that he knows will understand.

Nancy.

A bell rings as the door to the barrelwright's store opens. In strides Vincent carrying a very battered barrel.

Catching the eyes of the very average looking half-dwarf woman covered in wood shavings, Vincent struggles to contain his aggressive aura. "Hello beautiful, I find myself with an excessive amount of free time on my hands. I was hoping you would teach me how to fix this barrel with my own hands. I have grown fond of it. In exchange I'll happily help out around the store as needed."

To prove himself, Vincent waves his hand and prestidigitates the lady clean. Smiling wolfishly, she agrees. "I'm sure we can work something out."

As days go by, refugees and travelers are able to frequent The Nancy, a makeshift tavern built up by a handful of rugged battle worn but likable ruffians. Inside it’s doors musicians singing songs in tribute to the fallen, a harry bartender who growls occasionally, and an owner who gives discounts to anyone who is lost or missing family members. Memorabilia aligns the walls including a tattered loincloth and a family heirloom pendant that no longer has family to pass it on. One could also hear animated stories from a rambunctious youth . . .

"And this one time I tricked this giant into attacking another one and he fell for it and so I did it again and that gave Ug time to run and speaking of Ug he also helped me when I was dying, Actually Dying! The old priest man that smelled weird was trying to help Ug but Ug shouted at him to help me instead, and he said this spell and was able to move again but still hurt a lot. That’s Ugs loincloth up there see, he’s had lots of those, and be grateful for it because the first time I saw him . . . "

As Jermsy takes a hold of the loincloth a small corked bottle falls out and rolls at his feet. Picking it up he can see a small label on its side with the words "hunters bane" scrawled awkwardly on it. Jermsy smiles "well this could be interesting" and raises a toast to Ug and all those who sacrificed for good of others.

Alalla sheaths her sword with hesitation. "It's done? No devils, no demons, no Scourge?" And she lives. She looks at Erevain and grips his hand tightly. He lives. Two things she didn't believe would be true by the end of this.

She lets out a howl, a whoop of joy that carries over the wind and announces their victory to those that remain. Other orcs take up the cry, and a sound that usually spreads fear instead spreads the news that the danger is past.

Teeth bared in a rare open grin, Alalla smiles at her companions and friends, sharing relief and joy at seeing the end of their quest. Her grin fades as her eyes fall on the sealed portal. She releases Erevain and walks to it.

"Look at that, Ug," she murmurs softly. "You finally got to be a hero." She nods with respect, then retreats. Celebrating done, Alalla sets her glaive into the snow firmly. There are wounded to hunt down and care for, dead to bury, much to rebuild. There is still work to be done to make Ug's sacrifice worthwhile.

...


"You want me to teach masonry to who? An orc tribe you say?" Mardin scratches his beard and puts his stonemason's tools down on his long table, using them to keep the plans for the large building behind him secure. "In the North?"

"Yes," the cloaked woman confirms. "We are seeking teachers of a number of trades. They will be raiders no more."

Mardin grunts. "Sounds like you're asking me to come freeze to death and join their larder. If they can wait that long to dig into me!" He jiggles his bulbous stomach at the two strangers.

So odd. The tall, dark, probably human woman contrasted the short elvish man starkly, adding to the strangeness of their request. Well. Mardin supposes he must be tall for an elf. Still. Why did the two of them care for orcs?

"I am Lady Alalla Cagebreaker, Paladin of Torm and Chieftess of the Cagebreaker tribe. I swear by Torm that we mean you no harm, and that should anything happen, I will defend you with my life."

Marduk blinks at that. So incongruous. A human paladin of Torm, Chieftess of orcs? He heard her right over the clamour of building behind him, right? She seems dead serious.

The golden-haired elf puts a hand on the woman's arm and steps forward, his warm smile dampening the woman's seriousness. "You will be well compensated, of course." He produces a heavy bag with a flourish and opens it for Mardin to see.

All gold coins, and gems of every kind Mardin can name, as well as a few more besides. He licks his lips. "Where did you...?"

"An evil dragon's hoard," the elf replies with a wink. "We had to hunt it down twice. Quite the story, if you care to hear it."

Well, he does like stories. And money. Mardin licks his lips again. "Perhaps we can discuss the details over some drinks, if you promise to tell that story. And buy."

The elf smiles reassuringly at the woman, though why, he isn't sure. She looks as concerned as a brick. "Of course. Should we return come finishing time?"

"No, no," Mardin says hastily as the heavy purse disappears beneath the elf's cloak. "It's nearly time already, and these lads don't need me every minute." Mardin turns and hollers at one of his men, who scrambles down from the scaffolding above.

"Yes, sir?"

"You're in charge for the rest of the day. I'm off to talk business with these fine folks." Mardin picks up his coat and puts it over his arm. "Come," he says to the pair. "I know a good tavern this way.

Say..." He looks up at the dark woman. "You're a paladin, is that right? Sworn to Torm? I heard paladins always wear plate armour as shiny as anything and are always armed. Especially paladins of gods like Torm. Always."

The woman grunts. "Well the weapon is one thing." She looks to the elf, her beaded dreadlocks clacking gently. A golden glaive appears instantly in his hand, then disappears and reappears in the woman's hand just as quickly. "It's shiny, if that helps." Her tone is dry. A joke? "But I'm afraid my plate doesn't fit at the moment." She parts her cloak.

Dry-mouthed and gaping as he is at the sudden appearance of such a large and spectacular-and deadly- weapon, Mardin almost misses the large swell of the woman's belly before she lets her cloak fall back into place as they walk. The elf smiles proudly.

Huh. Well. More drink for him. And maybe an awful lot of gold. Even if there are orcs involved.

.

Halla slips a hand around Zenithral’s waist. "‘Tis strange to think… not only are the gods real, but they care. About us." She leans her head on his shoulder as her hand reaches for the oak leaf pendant around her neck. "They care so much. I am… grateful to them. Silvanus. Ilmater. Torm. Even Lathander!"

She releases Zenithral and picks through Easthaven’s rubble until she finds the shrine that Father Tulfgyr built so many months ago. With careful, reverent motions she puts stones back in place, topped by a piece of driftwood bleached by sun and charred by fire. A murmured spell restores the faded wood and painted symbol of a rising sun. "We’re still learning from you, old dwarf."

She rubs her eyes and returns to Zenithral. "So about that honeymoon…"

Maverick speaks to no one at the end. When Jhonen stops to speak with him the gnome turns with a cold, mirthless grin, and Jhonen falls back with a pale grimace. Horned crown on his head, Maverick merely withdraws the dozen zombies that remain and leads them out into the tundra, towards the Spine of the World.

Even Maverick’s strange demeanor cannot dampen Jhonen’s mood for long. He embraces each of the companions in turn, a happy grin splitting his face. "And look at me now! A hero! I would never have done it without all of you. And Father Tulfgyr and Ug and Mav…" He looks over his shoulder to where the gnomish necromancer departed, but then something else catches his attention. A lone elvish woman with sea-green skin and hair stands on the shore of Lac Dinneshere, humming a yearning song. Jhonen blinks, and then his grin gets even wider. "Well. I’m sure I’ll see you all around! It seems there’s a beautiful woman who’d like to speak with me…"

The fisherman-turned-paladin clears his throat and walks down to the shore to join Elisia-of-the-Sky’s-Mirror, who takes his arm. They walk down the lakeshore, both smiling.

Keggruk drops his axe wearily. "Thur’kafaz! I think I have had my fill of battle and blood. For a year at least." His tusked grin makes it hard to say if his words are meant as a joke or not. He raises his large head and looks out at the destroyed fishing village, then bellows out a call. "Cagebreakers! Our work is not over yet! There are wounded who need attention and homes that need rebuilding. Show the Towners what you can do!" And with that the orog wraps his arms around a fallen beam. Another pair of hands lifts the other end, and Keggruk looks up to see Morrugh. The two share a nod, then heave the beam to one side, beginning the arduous task of cleaning up the town.

Of the hundreds of orcs who marched into Easthaven, more than half of them lie as corpses. But those who live… every single one of them follows Keggruk's and Morrugh’s examples and gets to work.

Aeri limps through the crowds of people milling through the ruins of Easthaven. The silver-haired gnome isn’t avoiding anyone she knows. Of course not! But… Well, she’s certainly done her part helping the people here. And Rastix… that dear, handsome gnome. He has that scale still. And if not, there are the half-dozen she slipped into his bags. That should be sign enough for him. Enough to… Aeri shakes her head and continues on her way, slipping out of the throng and heading into the tundra. "You’ll be fine now, Rastix. There are just some things I need to go check on. A girl has responsibilities! And once I see they’re fine, I’ll be back. Probably."

Chaide gestures for the pair of orc warriors to lay their burden down within the medicine tent. "Gently now. Gently!" The human female gasps in pain as she is placed on a blanket, her swollen abdomen wet with sweat and blood. "She’s a tough one! Surviving in this condition with the heat of battle all around... Even Luthic should honor her, orc or not." The orc woman washes and dries her wrinkled hands, noticing the layers of crisscrossing scars covering her green skin, then puts them on the human’s stomach. "Cave Mother, I invoke your ble-" A backlash of pain in her mind forces her to abandon the prayer.

"It would seem that Luthic does not care for the life of either mother or child…" The human woman moans in pain. Chaide looks down helplessly at her powerless hands. "I had hoped that perhaps Luthic would continue to work through me, even after abandoning Gruumsh. But if our old gods will not answer my call, who will? I do not think aiding childbirth is one of Torm’s gifts…" The two orc warriors can only spread their hands, not any more familiar with other gods than she.

"Have you ever tried Ilmater?" Saki kneels beside Chaide, fluent Orcish effortlessly leaving her human tongue. She puts her own hand to the pregnant woman’s stomach. "He is the god of martyrdom, and who is more self-sacrificing than a mother?" She glances at Chaide’s scarred arms. "I think you two would have a lot in common."

--------

Saki straightens with a slight groan as she leaves the medicine tent, the weight of years and busy days catching up to her. "I’m getting too old for this," she says to Arannis, who waits outside. She leans on her husband’s strong arm. "My own gifts notwithstanding, it’s not fair for you to lack even a single wrinkle…"

Arannis shrugs, one of his rare smiles passing his lips as he looks down at his human wife. "You only grow more beautiful by the day, my dear." He gestures to the medicine tent. "You can’t help it, can you? Another one?"

Saki pats his arm. "It’s not me. You know that. The child will live, and I bet that the orcs will take her in. An Ilmatari aasimar raised by orcs! This is the sort of connection that the races need here in the North. Besides, now we know that any aasimar born will have their angelic guide to accompany them. She’ll be fine. More than fine!"

Arannis sighs and walks in step with Saki. His hand taps a certain enchanted arrow in the quiver at his side, the one never fired in the battl. "I don’t think we’re needed anymore, Saki. Zenithral and Ilmadia are safe and will go back to their lives. Perhaps we should just…"

"And miss the great-grandchildren? I think not!"

Natalie sits up, then immediately groans and clutches her side. "How do those heroes do it? Getting arrows and swords and stingers and who knows what else stuck in them all the time? Maybe I’m actually not cut out for the adventuring life…" The battered room is empty of other people, but she carries on the conversation anyway. "Yeah, I know I wanted to be out here with them, but that was really just to keep Jermsy safe. And to help Halla. She does need help, even if she doesn’t like to admit it."

The young woman pokes at her clothes. "And of course I’m happy to have you. I wouldn’t go back on that! It’s nice to have a friend." A green tendril slips out of the neck of her shirt, a small leaf sprouting to stroke Natalie’s face. "Maybe I could have done the whole druid thing properly, but who has that kind of time when the world is ending? Still, maybe Halla will teach me some druidic magic, since obviously I have a knack for plants… thanks to you."

Finally out of sight of everyone, Lord Ulbrec sinks down to sit on a piece of rubble, the faint scrape of metal on stone sounding from his heavy armor. "Oh Helm… Thank you for seeing this old man through, even though he’s never been a great servant. If I can ask just one more favor… I would very much like to see my wife again. But how can I leave now, when the Ten Towns are in such desperate need of leadership? Who can I trust to help lead everyone? The heroes… they’re busy. They always will be. Who can I trust to take my place?"

"Sir? Sir! Lord Ulbrec!" Isherwood sprints up to Ulbric and crouches down before him, dropping his longbow to the ground. "You’re bleeding! Why didn’t you see the healers? Sir…"

Ulbrec blinks slowly, then nods. "Good enough for me. Isherwood, there are some things... I need to tell you... Listen up, soldier…"

Tansia holds the glittering sash in her hands, then takes a deep breath… and hears in her mind the words of the spirit that inhabits the magical garment. Easy now, Tansia. You’re not your mother, and certainly not your father, but in you I sense the greatest chieftain yet to come to the Tribe of the Elk, perhaps even any of the Reghed tribes. A strong head and a flexible neck will keep your people alive in a changing world.

Tansia exhales, then settles the sash about her waist and ties it with hands battered yet firm.

Back in Kuldahar, Nancy takes Ras’ news about Ug with tear-filled eyes and a warm smile. "He was always a hero, ever since the first day he came into my life. Thank you for telling me, Ras." The little old gnome walks away slowly, but spends the rest of the next few days baking. "Think of all of the birthdays of his that I missed over the years… He loved the people of this town. Wherever he is, he’ll be so happy to know that people here are enjoying some nice treats…"

Conlan holds a bar of red-hot iron in his gloved hands. He puts it on the anvil. "Right there, lad. Give it a good pound." Sheemish takes a hearty swing with a hammer nearly too large for the boy to lift. "Well done! We’ll make a blacksmith of you yet."

He shoves the bar back into the forge and wipes sweat from his brow. "Remember, lad. When you’re going through fire and being pounded on by life, just think of what a masterpiece you’ll be one day when you’re all finished."

The boy’s brow furrows as he thinks on his father’s words. "You mean like Al and Ug and the others? I’ve seen them do some pretty hard stuff! Like fight a dragon and trolls and monsters and-"

Conlan laughs. "Yes, lad. Just like those heroes. Just keep doing your best and who knows? You could be just as strong as Ug!" He pulls the bar from the forge once more and puts it on the anvil.

Sheemish lifts the hammer dangerously high. "You know, da… I've seen you do some hard things. You’re a hero too."

Conlan tousles the boy’s hair and chuckles. "Well of course I am. I’m your da!"

As he tucks Sheemish in bed that night, Conlan murmurs a prayer of thanks for the heroes who have given so much to keep the North safe.

Brother Ferg blows the dust off a stone slab on a workbench before him. His hands ache from working the hammer and chisel, but he accepts the pain. This is the last one, after all. Of all the Ilmatari brethren and sisters who died in the last few months, this is the gravestone of the one he’d killed. His brother by blood, as well as by faith. Tears flow once again down his cheeks, but he lets them come. This is a good way to grieve. And maybe after the gravestone is put in place he’ll be able to find some peace…

A knock on the door of Ilmater’s temple has the priest climbing to his feet. He composes himself and opens the door to find an extremely small old woman standing there with a plate. "Um, why yes, Nancy. I would like some cake…"

Maralie sits on a large root overlooking Kuldahar, a slice of cake in her dusky hand. Even seated by herself, she has a hard time keeping her mouth from running. "Wow! Look at those stars. I never thought I'd see them again, but here I am! And I've got good food, a place to sleep, and people who aren't trying to keep me enslaved! Life's pretty good, don't you think? Why yes, yes I do. I'll just keep helping Nancy in the kitchen at the inn. She's lonely with her boy gone. But I can help. I'm a good helper." She pauses long enough to take a good bite of cake. After all, the only thing better than having a tongue to talk with is a having a tongue to taste with.

Ginafae sits at the desk in Malavon's demiplane. Even knowing her brother is dead, she has trouble letting go of all the abuse she suffered at his hand. But she is no novice to magic herself, and there was a certain half-elf who showed her what courage really looks like... She pulls the chair back and turns to face a blank wall, back straight. She closes her eyes and raises dark hands to cast a spell of her own.

When Ginafae opens her eyes, she finds herself in a lush forest. And just through the trees come the sound of friendly conversation from a nearby camp or village. Whoever, whatever, wherever... She finds she doesn't care. She is free to go where she wills and speak with anyone she wishes.

"Wherever you are, I wish you well, Zenithral. Thank you for showing me what freedom tastes like."

White balconies with streams of light greet Myllandra as she returns to the Upper Plains. A weary yet satisfied sigh escapes her hooded countenance, then she turns to Thaistius. "Well? I told you they could do it."

Thaistius stares down on Easthaven’s ruins from a window. He finally shakes his helmeted head, then plucks a pouch of astral diamonds from his waist and hands it to Myllandra. Without a word he turns to a stream of light and zips away down a far hallway.

A lump of bulbous flesh forms on a sea of red dust. Melted facial features wriggle over bland, corpulent flesh, a yawning gum-filled mouth open in a burbling murmur. Its thoughts are muddled and confused. This place isn’t right. What is it doing here? Where are the riches it was promised? Coherent thought slips away like a greased hog and a moan leaves its flaccid lips. It falls into line with a thousand other beings just like it, each hobbling along on a single bloated stump of a leg.

Urged on by whips and demands, the formation surges forward into a battle spanning miles of terrible bloodshed. The poor fool in the middle of it all, its life suddenly ends as a six-armed snake woman slithers forward in a whirlwind of abyssal steel… and for a bare, single moment of clarity it remembers the name it bore in a previous life. Pomab…

And then coherency is gone as its body reforms and is driven once more into the never-ending Blood War.

Belhifet strides through halls of blood-red marble. The features are just as he remembers them from the last time he was here, though this time he walks of his own free will, rather than being dragged in chains. He tries to force the agonizing memory from his mind, but it lingers just on the edges of his thoughts, refusing to leave him in peace. A magical influence of this fortress in the bottom of the Nine Hells, or a spell laid by Asmodeus himself over all who venture here?

He growls and continues on, pushing open a black door and entering an opulent throne room. The archdevil drops to his knees before a well-dressed human seated on the throne. "Lord, I-" He stops as he finds himself unable to work any muscle in his body.

"Bel, my old friend." Asmodeus’ voice is smooth and friendly. If Belhifet were not frozen helplessly in place, it would send a shiver down the archdevil’s spine. "I hear you’ve disobeyed every commandment I gave you. Why would you come here now, after all that’s happened."

Belhifet finds himself released of the binding magic, and he dares to let a chuckle escape. The games within games… "Lord. Zariel was a fool. I did what needed to be done. As I always have. And you can see, she faltered in the path you set for her-"

This time Belhifet is interrupted by Asmodeus’ hand squeezing his jaw closed. "As if you didn’t know all along how to manipulate her, Bel. She was my prize." The Lord of the Nine Hells easily lifts Belhifet off the ground. "Did you really think you could replace her?"

The arcanoloth known in the Prime Material Plane as Whitcomb steps into one of the deepest, darkest, most secret locations in all the multiverse. He breathes a sigh of relief as he feels every vestige of distraction stripped away. Law. Chaos. These paltry concerns are put aside, leaving only the purest, most refined evil in existence. This is what everything is all about.

With a grin on his jackal face, the yugoloth gives his report in a tongue bare few mortals have ever heard of. "The dark is that both baatezu and tanar’ri are reeling! Belly-fat turned stag and hipped the rube, and Asmodeus had one of his best high-ups deaded. Of course the position will be filled with an easy-to-bob replacement. Those leatherheads in the Abyss have been given the laugh, with several entire layers peeled in one masterful baatezu job. It's well for us. And best of all, ain't nobody the least bit peery, not even the powers."

Still held aloft, Belhifet yanks Crenshinibon free from its clasp about his neck and plunges the crystal shard into Asmodeus’ chest. The Lord of the Nine Hells releases the archdevil and staggers. "No. I but I think I will replace you." Belhifet twists the shard deeper and calls on it to summon its power across the planes, from where the single remaining tower near the Sea of Moving Ice on the Prime Material Plane soaked in the light and power of an unleashed Scourge. Crenshinibon flares with blinding light and Asmodeus howls in pain.

Belhifet laughs, knowing that victory is his. The Nine Hells are his. The Blood War would finally be won, and then he would rally the combined might of the Lower Planes to bring the rest of the multiverse to its knees! He would-

Crenshinibon’s light goes out. Unknown to Belhifet, the Scourge was not unleashed, and the crystal shard was not charged to the brim with nigh-infinite radiant power. Those heroes he left behind managed to do the one thing to keep his plan from coming to fruition - stop the Scourge.

Asmodeus shoves Belhifet back and pulls the shard from his chest. His dreaded, baleful gaze settles on Belhifet, who lets out a scream of hopeless rage. The Lord of the Nine Hells snaps his fingers and strips away the entirety of Belhifet’s power and authority. The once-archdevil is reduced to a mewling lemure, no more powerful or intelligent or threatening than Pomab’s poor soul.

Asmodeus looks down at the crystal shard in his hand, stained with his own blood. "I have heard of this trinket. Perhaps I may have a use for it…"

Whitcomb’s smile widens. "The crystal is where it must be."

Orrick the Grey steps through rubble, moving blocks of stone out of his way with a spell of telekinesis. He speaks as he walks, and floating at his side is a spectral hand that scribbles a record of his every word. "Decades of research, years of my life dedicated to the pursuit of lost knowledge, and yet I’ve learned more here in the past months than all of that time combined. Still, the greatest secrets of Elven High Magic have been beyond my grasp, like an itch just out of reach. Until today. I am sure that today I will find the key to… everything. If what Weenog reported is true, I will find it in this part of the Hand of the Seldarine."

The archmage moves another block, revealing crushed machinery of odd design. He crouches to consider it. "The mythal over this ruin is all but gone, though I think it could be rekindled with the proper spells. Spells I hope to learn…" He mentally lifts a hunk of metal, turning it about slowly in the air to examine every inch of it. After a long moment he deposits it onto an arcane disk floating behind him, alongside a dozen other interesting objects he has found in his careful explorations of this place.

He moves on, encouraged by the find, only to stop in frustration as his telekinesis spell wears off. It is a moderately powerful spell, and not one he can cast again any time soon. Thunder rumbles from his fingers, eager to blast the rubble clear in a much easier way. A more dangerous way… He sighs and snaps his fingers instead, summoning a large tome into his waiting hands. He lays it open on the floating disk, flipping to a page near the beginning. A simple divination spell might reveal provide answers to his desperate questions. A few painstaking minutes later his vision changes, revealing the presence of magical objects nearby. There is much residual magic within the stone… the dormant mythal. But it is something on the ground nearby that truly catches Orrick’s attention.

Dust. But not just any dust. Where much of the dust here comes from centuries of dormancy or the rubble of ruin, this is a very different kind of dust. He turns excitedly to his spectral hand, which jiggles in return as it writes his words. "This type of dust only results from one particular effect, and there is only one way I know to make use of it. But the risks… Forget the risks! I have come too far and searched too long! The knowledge is worth it, whatever the cost!"

Orrick throws himself into the mightiest casting of arcane magic he has ever attempted; the greatest conjuration spell known to arcanists of this age. Reaching deeply into the fabric of reality – too deeply! – he rewrites a small piece of existence. Before his eyes the dust on the floor gathers, streaming in from under fallen boulders and toppled walls. Driven by undeniable magic, the dust swirls into a squat humanoid shape, restoring life where it was once ripped away.

Orrick casts Wish

The archmage finishes his spell, gasping at the sheer effort of working such magic. He blinks his eyes, then stares at the being before him: a black-bearded dwarf with an ancient book in his hands and a very confused expression on his face.

"Um… Room service?"

Before Orrick can reply to the odd question, he feels a thrum of energy through the stones all around. More than energy. A rising awareness in response to his powerful conjuration spell. The mythal – with all its corruption – is waking up.

"We must go. Now!" Orrick pushes the dwarf to get him moving, and the two rush back through the passages cleared by the archmage earlier. Orrick’s legs, already frail from his near century of life, are only weaker from his mighty spell, and in moments his chest feels ready to burst. But he has not come so far for his research to be suddenly halted by his own untimely death. He pushes on.

Wizard and dwarf stumble free from the ruined structure just in time, throwing themselves to the ground outside. A violent, vibrating hum sounds just behind them as the Hand’s magical defenses come back to life.

Orrick wearily gets to his feet brushing off his robes. The Hand may be entirely inaccessible to him now, but at least he has the book… His eyes widen, bushy brows shooting upwards in alarm. "Where is the book?" Orrick’s voice climbs several octaves. "Don’t tell me you left it inside!" The dwarf can only shrug in reply, busy catching his own breath.

The archmage reaches out to strangle the miserable creature, but then his exhaustion catches up to him. He falls to the ground, gasping for breath and entirely unable to move for several minutes. When he finally gathers the strength to sit up, he finds two more figures present than were there a moment before - two youths with horned heads, leathery wings, and sinuous tails.

"Sorry to bother you." The young woman cautiously blinks infernal eyes. "We just came to have a look at a place we once called home, and then it looked like you might need some help…"

The other, a young man, tilts his head to one side as he gazes at the Hand’s ruins. He doesn’t seem to care overly much about the old man and dwarf on the ground nearby.

Orrick the Grey puts a hand to his head, trying to fight off conflicting emotions from the recent events. These two. He’d heard something about these two cambions… Then it clicks. "Your home. Your home! Why yes, I think I could indeed use your help!"