Once we woke, we hid the Infiltrator and made haste down the shaft. The others were eager as usual, but only two things justified my own continued exploration. One was the meek hope that I might find my journal, and yes, the even less likely chance that I'd find my flute. The other was the continued evidence of the tower's draconic decor. I am certain that our master sent us to this particular place for a reason. I believe he could have sent us anywhere he wished, but he chose here.
I will attempt to outline what we saw before we reached the end of our journey. At the bottom of the shaft were two robed figures shoveling something foul into a rusty wheelbarrow. When they saw us, they removed their hoods, revealed themselves as animated skeletons, and attacked. This needless show of drama merely hastened the end of their existence. Similarly did we deal with two goblinoid creatures in separate rooms, a cook and a gardener (I could not fathom at the time how plants grew down there, under the faint light of the phosphorescent fungi, but I allayed my curiosity). It seemed that every living being there attacked strangers without regard to their intentions, or to its own safety. I do not understand how creatures can have so little will to live, though on contemplating their actions, I admit I would do the same if an armed and bloodied stranger came threateningly into my home.
We spent some time in the sleeping quarters, which were now vacant due to our previous attack on their kobold occupants. The area was decorated much as the rest of the tower was, pillars carved into dragon shapes, and walls embossed with dragon silhouettes. Only one room in that area contained anything of interest – another of the drow's experiments. In that room, a large rat was bound to a board, and sprouting from its body were a number of woody fruits. The Tracker, horrified by such an abomination but taking pity on the suffering creature, slew it with his sword. In the back of the room were a number of vials containing liquids I could not identify, and I gathered them carefully into a pocket of my robes for further study.
The next thing we found, although interesting, had no bearing to our mission. We had already seen one or two tunnels leading out from the more structured regions of the tower. In one interior region, however, there was a split in the architecture, as if something had torn the tower in two without, somehow, affecting the upper level. We followed this rift across a hallway and into a small, warm cave, from which many narrow raised tunnels led. One tunnel glowed blue, but it was from another tunnel that a strange, beetle-shaped creature leapt, attacking without any cause I could fathom. Its reasons were even more difficult to determine, since, as we discovered later, it ate rock and not animal flesh. I would have thought it more likely for the creature to scurry into one of the holes and wait until we passed. In any case, we dispatched it quickly, and found that its insides glowed with molten rock. The halfling discovered more of the stuff when he crawled into the glowing hole. I was surprised when he described molten rock, since the hole glowed blue and not red, but it turned out that the blue glow was the reflection of light off of two sapphires, which were, we suspected, waste products of the beetle-shaped digestion. I am wasting too much space describing this incident, so I will return to our travels after we had returned to the sleeping quarters.
Off to the side of one room was a heavy stone door, which the Tracker and the Empty Hand forced open. Behind that was something a bit more encouraging than a beetle who digested rock. The room was empty, save for a pedestal carved like a dragon, which held out a tray. I call it a pedestal, but it actually gave the impression of being an altar, making it the third shrine to what I expect (and hope) to be the same dragon that we have seen in the tower. I can only hope that this will lead us closer to our goal. The halfling hopped up onto the altar and danced clumsily for us, and while the others joked about a halfling offering, I continued to stare at the altar. I memorized the image, and I hope I can retain it. I realize now that it may have been wise to pick up some skill in drawing while at the monastery. Although I have fine penmanship and some skill for the decorative lettering of illuminated manuscripts, I can not draw more than the most iconic of figures.
The next area of interest was what ultimately led us to our final battle in the tower. Four kobolds worked in a dead-end room, gathering fungus into two large wheelbarrows. They immediately prepared an attack, but then stood down, whimpering. When I looked behind me, I saw that the priest had pulled their Mother out of her sack, and was dangling the unconscious kobold before them. Being the only one besides the Infiltrator who spoke their language, I pelted them with questions, but gained no useful information. It seems that no one in the tower knows anything about its origins, their own origins or even their own society. The only lasting result of our half-interpreted conversation was that the kobolds agreed to lead us to their master, the drow, in return for an oath that we would release their mother.
The kobolds led us through a long series of rooms. One was decorated with a painted-stone mural of dragons destroying cities and sterilizing farmland with flame. One or two rooms were occupied by gardeners who paid us no heed if they heard us. We passed through two rooms worth describing before we met the drow who had created all the abominations of the tower.
First, we came upon an enormous statue of a red dragon, the fiercest of their kind. Its eye sockets were empty but glowed red with a fire of unknown origin. Even when, later, the Tracker climbed up to take a look, he could find no source of their light. At the base of the statue was a five food circle of red tile, ringed with runes in the language of dragons. They read “let the sorcerer's power illuminate my mind.” This will remain yet one more riddle in a tower of riddles. The Tracker believes that this statue is related to the two shrines, which red “let there be fire,” and “let there be death.” I disagree. Although all three seem to issue commands, this is the only one which reads in the first person, leading me to believe that it is not part of the same riddle. I have pondered the meaning of these three shrines for many a spare hour, but have come up with very little. Yes, dragon magic is known to be related to the undisciplined powers of the sorcerer, but how would he illuminate the dragon's mind, and, more importantly, why?
While I was reading the ruins, a shadow began to shift. I thought it was my own, moving with me while I circled the red tiles, but when it leapt forth under its own power, I jumped back. I have heard of the creatures of shadow, and they are not to be trifled with. Weapons seemed to cause it no harm, slipping through its body with minimal resistance. My magic was able to hurt it, however, and the priest destroyed it with his own powers. Apparently it was not one of the creatures I had been taught to fear. It was merely some form of undead which had inhabited the dragon statue for an undeterminable time. It was after the shadow was destroyed that the Tracker climbed the dragon, and peered into its eyes. He placed the sapphires into the sockets, which, predictably, produced a purple glow. I am still not sure why he did this, but his willingness to solve problems in unexpected ways may be useful in the future. He soon removed the gems and climbed back down.
Another room was a chaos of burnt papers, collapsed bookshelves and rotting covers. The Tracker found one book written in the language of dragons, by the name of Draconic Lore. I am studying it even as I write this, and am learning a great deal about draconic anatomy and classification. Though the writing is dry, I find it immensely interesting to read a work on dragons that does not merely repeat what my master taught me by rote. He told us to seek knowledge, and knowledge has been found.
Throughout our progress towards the drow, the halfling continually searched doorways, and fiddled with knobs and latches, hoping, I think, to find a lock he could pick. Considering his plan to leave as soon as we reach town, I do not understand why he has to prove himself useful now. He merely makes a fool of himself, when our kobold guides would surely avoid all traps and open doors for us. They would not harm us while the priest carried their mother in a sack.
We finally descended a staircase and then followed a long hallway to the offices of the drow. Two doors led out from the end of the hall, one which, the kobolds said, led to the drow, and the other which led to his personal quarters. The kobolds were reluctant to tell us about the second door, so I am disappointed that we did not have the opportunity to search the room. After the battle, however, we were in no condition to handle any traps he may have laid around his person belongings.
The first door opened into a room so large that we could not see to its end. The fungus hung thick from the ceilings and walls, and ten-foot patches of briar growth abounded. Four kobolds worked near the entrance, sorting twigs for I know not what purpose. I had the original four explain the situation, after which the new kobolds lowered their weapons. They would not, however, drop the weapons, no matter what we threatened for their mother. I suppose they trusted us as far as could be expected. I did, however, make them travel in front of us. Their idea was to surround us, four ahead and four behind, but I did not trust them any more than they I.
Before we reached the edge of the room, we were attacked by a large number of the plant creatures, which we dispatched with some difficulty. During the battle, the priest left his sack with me, and I carried, or at times dragged it, the rest of the way. I should have spent more time strength-training in the monastery, and less wandering through the woods and dancing with my staff. It is humiliating to be seen having so much difficulty moving a three foot kobold. No, I must not complain. I taught myself long ago not to worry about the opinions of others. I do not regret the way I spent my childhood, and I expect my nimbleness and intelligence will get me out of more problems than great strength would.
Finally, we made it to the end of the enormous room. A small area was enclosed by a broken wall, and a damaged tower stood in one corner – it was odd, I thought, to build a tower inside a tower – and a sickly purple glow came from behind it. Even from a distance, I could see a great tree growing forty or fifty feet high, most likely through at least two floors of the tower. This was, no doubt, the tree that the Mother had lent to the drow.
The halfling crept up while we were still many yards away. He was heard, and peaceably invited inside. The rest followed, though I waited outside, hiding behind the small tower. Much as I wanted to question the drow, it would have been foolish for us to show him our full force all at once.
Listening from my hiding spot, I learned that our enemies numbered four – the drow, a giant frog that he kept as a pet, and a man and woman. It did not take long to realize that those two were the two remaining members of the town's party – the wizard and the knight. They had been thoroughly subjugated, and partially transformed into plants.
The drow talked a good deal before he decided to attack, and at times, he sounded almost reasonable. He considered himself a sort of transmuter, much like myself, and his goals, as he described them, seemed perfectly selfless. He wanted to improve the world, by letting his abominations loose on the surface to breed and spread and flush out the life that was already there. He believed his creations superior over nature's, which was strange, since he also called himself a druid. Still, there was no convincing him that his creations would not do any good for the world.
The tree, he told us, grew at this depth because a vampire had been killed and a wooden stake embedded in his chest. The stake had sprouted roots and grown into this tree. I find the story unlikely, though stranger things have happened with the aid of magic. This drow had found the tree, and used its powers to form people into creatures of his own design. Two recent humanoid indentations, in fact, could be seen in the tree, where the pair of adventurers had undergone the transformation process. The drow invited us to participate, and naturally, we refused. Although I continue to say 'we' and 'us' for simplicity, I was, as I stated before, still hiding behind the tower. What I did not notice was that the kobolds were creeping up on me as I listened.
Our party questioned this drow, but like everyone else, he had no answers. He did not know anything about the shrines to dragons, or even about the other drow whose attacks so worried the mayor. Finally, his intellect satisfied by the spreading of his ideas, he ordered that we drop our weapons. When we refused, he and the others attacked.
Immediately, the kobolds swarmed on me and nearly overpowered me. I drew my knife and pressed it into the sack, but the kobolds called my bluff and did not flinch. I can hardly remember what happened during the next few seconds. I know that the Infiltrator arrived, mostly recovered from his illness, and defended me. This kept the kobolds distracted, but the wizard adventurer fired one bolt of magical energy after another, and they unerringly struck my back. I threw one back at her, and weakened, I tried to hide behind the tower, but she ran out to where she can see me and fired again. I saw the Infiltrator fall and the kobolds rush in on me before I passed out.
When I was revived, I learned that the battle had been won, and that the kobolds, rather than tear me apart as they normally would, grabbed their mother and fled. I supposed they had learned from the deaths of a hundred of their siblings that they could not stay near us for long if they wanted to live. By the time they ran off, there were only two left.
Not a one of us got out unscathed, though the halfling was in reasonable shape. We all agreed it was wise to destroy the tree before someone else could take control of it. The priest used his power to channel energy into the tree, and for the first time, I saw his power fail. He was thrown back and looked dazed and injured. The tree had returned and redoubled the energy. The Tracker was anxious to destroy the tree, though we were in no condition to fight a plant that could fight back. The others finally convinced him that we would have to return later to finish the job. Once the lock to the drow's chamber had been picked, I too had to be convinced to leave. It was filled with a mess of tombs and scrolls, and a myriad of young plants. I realized, though, that a single trap, or a single animated plant would be enough to kill me in my current state.
We returned to town, riding through the night with the inert, but living bodies of the wizard and knight strapped to our horses. We delivered them to the priest there, who said he would call upon a druid friend to see if he could help. He also agreed to have him look at the vials I had collected, which I left with the priest along with his spare spellbook. The priest was concerned with the story we told him, and worried about the fact that we had not destroyed the tree. The mayor, when we visited him, was useless as usual except to fund our efforts to find our enemy. The mother of the adventurers fainted as we expected, and then accepted the news and her children's rings, and fulfilled her offer of a reward. I do not know if I am comfortable accepting a reward from a grieving woman.
The priest was able to identify the varied objects we had collected. The whistle I had been carrying was known as a Nightcaller, and it has the power to raise the dead as zombies. The others encouraged me to be rid of it, and I agreed, though I now regret that decision – there are causes for which it is even worth defiling the dead, and if the whistle could be played safely when I was not near a grave and it was not the dead of night, it would bring me some comfort lost when my flute was taken from me. I am surprised how much I miss my music, considering how rarely I played. I will have to carve a new flute as soon as I can find a properly dried stalk of bamboo. Another interesting item was a potion that would increase a person's agility. I wished to use it, but the Infiltrator insisted it was worth more if exchanged for gold. He has a good mind for such things, and adapted very quickly to a concept it will take me much time to comprehend. The third item of interest was
I must focus my thoughts and continue, but I can hardly concentrate on the facts of the day. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted exactly what I had been looking for in Draconic Lore: the name of our enemy. For the last two hours, I have poured over an entire chapter about his history, which filled in many of the details which I'd always thought missing from my master's stories. The book calls him the most terrible of the great wyrms in the time before the first empires. It calls him a monster without weakness, even before he took the artifact, though it does not, in fact, mention the artifact. It is an older history than that, ending with his supposed death at the hands of the other wyrms during the wyrmish uprising.
If that tower was or is a shrine to him, our enemy, then what do the riddles mean? “Let there be fire,” and “let there be death” may be simple predictions of the destruction he will bring, but that seems too easy. “Let the sorcerer illuminate my mind….” That one gives me pause. Our enemy was imprisoned beneath the mountain by the greatest magics of his day. How could one sorcerer reawaken him? Has he already been woken, or is he about to be? Or is the statue's meaning, as I suspect, still beyond my comprehension?
I must show this book to the others right away. No, I must first finish the story of the day, though it pains me to write down such uninteresting details.
We brought the scroll case covered in dwarven runes to the blacksmith. He recognized it and wanted it, and when the Infiltrator offered it for sale he seethed with anger. The rest of us wanted no conflict, and asked that it be given to the dwarf. Then the priest calmed him enough that he told his story, which identified it as an heirloom of some sort. The scroll was a personal message from a long-dead weapon smith, sent shortly before his mountain was overrun by orcs.
At night, we went to a celebration of some kind held by the mayor which we were obliged to attend. One or two people spoke to me for a short time, but my mind was elsewhere. And my mind continues to be elsewhere, so I will return to the book. No, I must show it to the others first.