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After some time, Aristo ceased his pretense of being asleep and rose
to his feet, assured by the level of snoring that no one else remained
awake. In the course of his unobtrusive examinations of the halflings'
dwelling chambers, Ari had discovered the corner that the chief halfling
called home. It was the most secluded corner, and was walled off by
several wall-hangings affixed to the ceiling. Aristo carefully made his
way across the remains of the party, forcing himself to resist the urge to
stomp on comatose hair-foots.
Slipping through the wall-hangings, Ari found himself in the
nauseatingly lavish abode of the halfling's chief, who at the moment was
face-down on his cot, wine-bottle still in hand. But the object of
Aristo's attention was the metal-bound chest set against the wall.
Although somewhat smallish, it was stoutly built and likely full of money.
He would teach them to trust a stranger. There was no such a thing as a
live hero. After all, he had not actually stated that it was his
intention to save the halflings from the gnolls. He had only wanted to
see a more evenly-balanced fight, which would have taken place had not the
cravenly gnolls fled.
Ari bent over the chest, examining the lock for anything unusual, and
found nothing. He considered removing the key from the person of the
halfling leader, but that would be too easy. He tugged a couple of bent
wires from his boot and set about probing the lock. Remarkable only for
its simplicity, the lock clicked open in a matter of seconds. There was
no reaction from the dozing halfling on the nearby cot.
Lifting the lid, Aristo found the chest full of gold and silver and
lesser coins, at least a couple thousand coins altogether. Rich little
buggers. Ari would have made off with their chest as an object lesson
were it not so heavy, possibly as much as a hundred pounds considering the
volume of precious metals therein. It was not worth the effort. The
coinage was too bulky and he had no need for it. But there was a velvet
pouch on top of the glittering mass. Looking inside, Aristo found it held
several amethysts. From their quality, he guessed they would be about as
valuable as about half of this coinage. It would have to do. Besides, he
liked the deep purple color of the transparent stones.
Aristobulus exited the curtained corner and made his way into the
storage room where the halflings kept their supplies. This room was at
least the second largest of all their chambers, and it was stacked to the
ceiling with supplies of every sort. Trust halflings to have a well-
stocked larder. Ari proceeded to quickly replenish his short supplies
from the more-than-ample contents of the larder.
He then headed for the entrance to the halflings' chambers, easily
making his way past the few posted guards on the way out. Aristo thought
to himself that with defenses as bad as that, they deserved to be ambushed
and slain. But he resisted the temptation to do so, since it would have
ruined the surprise factor of their finding a third of their monetary
wealth missing. Too bad, it would have been so much nicer if he had been
able to make off with all of it. But a chest full of coins would have
made stealthy movement rather distinctly difficult.
Glad to be away from the proximity of the halflings, Aristo set off
down the first side passage he came to. He was looking for a safe place
to relax and rest, for he was tired from his day's exertions, and sleep
nipped at his heels even more urgently with a belly full of good halfling
cooking. So it was to his joyful surprise when, off of one chamber, he
found a stairway leading downwards.
He stood at the head of the stairs eyeing them with much
anticipation. This would be the third time he had descended a set of
stairs into the bowels of the world. What a wonderfully accurate phrase,
that. The first time held only an improvement on his life, but provided
no revelations. The second set proved slightly enlightening -- after all,
he had learned some about the nature of these dungeons from the gnomes.
But it had been nowhere near so informative as he would have desired. If
the trend were to continue, this next set of stairs would lead to even
greater revelations.
Nimbly bounding down the ancient stone steps two and three at a time,
Aristo soon reached the bottom. Unfortunately, no lost wisdom leapt into
sight at his eager entrance. But that did not disappoint Aristo. He had
not expected it to be any other way. Besides, that would have ruined the
joy of the search for the lost wisdom he so eagerly sought.
A brief search of the small room proved that it was quite devoid of
anything to appeal to Aristo's curiosity. Stepping through the only door
in the room, Aristo found himself in a much larger room. Although equally
as sparsely appointed as the previous one, this room was occupied.
A pair of humans were there, one ancient and bearded, the other fresh
and youthful. They were both robed and cloaked, and the elder rested his
weary bones on an overturned bucket.
"Ah, a fellow seeker of wisdom," commented the old man, looking up at
the young elf.
"How did you know..." Aristobulus began to say.
"It shows in your eyes," offered the venerable human. Motioning to
himself and his young companion, he added, "I am Xenocles, and this is my
assistant, Phidias. We are but humble travellers on the road of life,
hoping to unearth a few precious jewels of wisdom along our weary path.
And yourself?"
"I am Aristobulus. I too seek the eldritch enlightenment said to be
hidden in these caverns. Would you perchance have any guidance for my
wanderings?" Aristo was overjoyed at having found a kindred spirit
seeking the lost secrets of existence, life, and all that. Here was an
elderly human with the appearance of one who had spent a lifetime
searching for these secrets. Granted, Aristo -- who was but a young adult
elf -- had lived for easily twice as long as this human, Xenocles was
likely to have at least a few hints in where to search. It was like
digging for a buried treasure: Ari would welcome hints as to what island
on which to begin his search. And from the way he presented himself,
Xenocles had only the clues Aristo desired, and not the actual answers
themselves.
"But is not life an aimless voyage? Is not the only direction to
that voyage the direction you yourself give it? Existence is a sea, life
a ship, and you the captain, pilot, and navigator. You alone hold the
power over charting the course you will follow in your ship of life."
Xenocles shrugged his shoulders helplessly, chuckling to himself as he
added, "But alas, the fates are as the wind, fickle and spiteful, and they
alone can determine if your ship stays her course."
A fascinating simile, that, merging well with Aristo's own thoughts
of islands containing buried treasure. But he knew the destination he
desired, he only needed hints as to which direction might lead to that
destination. He wanted to unveil the lost secrets of existence, to learn
the meaning behind his meaningless life, to discover the reason for his
even existing in this accursed world -- assuming, of course, that there
was a reason, a meaning to all of this; assuming that it was not pointless
as he so strongly suspected it was; assuming there was some point to life
beyond merely presenting some infantile deity with a motley collection of
toys to play with and toss about on whims.
"I cannot say what is the ultimate purpose to life, if there is
indeed one," continued Xenocles. "I have only seen clues, occasional
hints as to the pattern on the fabric of the multiverse. Vague, confusing
riddles as if the murmurings from some sleeping god. More than that I
have not discovered.
"But then, I see you are one who would rather know his path than his
destination. For that I can only offer you a measure of the riddles I
have uncovered in my limited time in this world. I have known men such as
yourself before. You are not one to trust what others tell you. You
cannot believe that which another claims to be the purpose of life. Only
by your own experiences will you find what you seek.
"It is said that wisdom cannot be given, only learned by experience.
Moreso for you than for others. So then perhaps what little I can give
you will be sufficient to satisfy your desires for the moment." Xenocles
paused, producing a scroll from beneath his cloak with a slightly
exaggerated flair. He sent an eye roving over the contents of the scroll
as if seeking wisdom in its contents.
"There is said to be a deep stone well which provides access to other
worlds and lost places of learning," said Xenocles before Aristo could ask
any questions of the scroll.
"In which direction does one travel to find this powerful artifact?"
prompted Aristo, eager to hear more of this well.
"Who is to say? Time and again I have heard the rumors of it, yet
never of its precise location. All I can say is that one must go down,
and never have I been brave enough of heart to descend into those most
vile of regions wherein it is said to lie.
"But there is one place closer you might seek. Somewhere nearby
there is a deep chasm leading down into the deepest depths of the world,
to the places of the darkest and eldest of the lost lore of the world."
"And where is this great chasm? I have heard no tales in the world
above of such a great, world-splitting abyss as the one you would allude
to." Indeed, if there were such a chasm, would not someone have seen it
and stories of it been spread over the lands under the sun? The gnomes
had vaguely mentioned this chasm already, and Ari had given some thought
to the existence of a huge rift in the crust of the world, an abyss of
untold length and depth. If it truly existed, then would there not be
mention of it in legends or upon some map? Aristo could recall nothing of
the sort.
Xenocles responded in his deep and weary voice, saying, "Only parts
of it open into the world above, and those are only in ancient places
where mountains rise tall and belch their rage and fury at the sky."
Ah, volcanos, thought Aristo. Now there would be a sight. Never
before had he seen one of those legendary mountains of flaming rock. Such
a sight it would be to behold. Such a place would be well worth visiting.
"If you continue your explorations," added Xenocles, "I am certain
you would in time come across the Great Chasm. It is a place that cannot
be missed, so deep does it pierce the land. One need but travel in its
direction to find it. And there are many paths through the depths of the
world that lead to that place."
"Indeed?" echoed Aristobulus. "And do you think that I will find any
answers or hints in that place?" The idea held merit. Aristo had already
surmised that the balance of the secrets he craved were buried in the
deepest regions of the world. If this chasm were as deep as Xenocles
claimed, then it would provide Ari with a ready means of access to those
very regions wherein he would be most likely to accomplish his goal.
That or get ripped asunder by some devilish beast. Or with his luck,
he would simply trip and fall into the chasm and get splattered over the
broken and shattered rocks at the very bottom of it. Of course, that
would allow him the opportunity to determine if there were any truth to
the claim that when you fall from a great height you are dead before you
hit the ground.
Xenocles paused for a thoughtful moment before commenting, "You are
one who has long flirted with thoughts of death, thoughts of how perchance
that grim specter would release you from the burden of life." Aristo was
surprised at hearing this insight from the elderly Xenocles, who
continued, adding, "Well, the answer is yes. And the time of that dark
specter has come for you. Enjoy your death."
Aristo was bewildered by this comment for but a fleeting moment
before he felt something strike him from behind, rending his protective
wards and slicing into his back. It was only by instinct that Aristo drew
forth his sword and dagger, wheeling to face the young Phidias, who held a
wickedly curved scimitar. That added more confusion, for Aristo had seen
no weapons on the pair of humans.
Now Xenocles was advancing on Aristo, and he no longer seemed quite
the whithered old man anymore. Ari was at an utter loss for why the pair
of sages would turn on him now, when Xenocles was so close to revealing
some of his secrets. Xenocles lashed out with his own scimitar which bit
into Aristo's forearm.
Anger welled up inside Ari at this sudden and irrational betrayal.
He swung his sword in blind rage, cutting a shallow swath in Xenocles's
clothing. Xenocles struck at Ari again, hitting him with amazing force
for one of his apparent frailty. Aristo returned the attack as he avoided
Phidias's scimitar, turning it to one side with his dagger.
Putting all of his growing anger behind his silvered sword, Aristo
struck Xenocles in the side of the neck, severing the jugular vein. Dark
blood spurted from the wound as the old man spun around, dropping to the
stone floor.
Turning his attention to Phidias, Ari slashed the youth across the
side, being hit in return before he could dance out from under Phidias's
swing. Something was not quite right about that brat, but Ari could not
quite put a finger on it. He had never felt anyone swing a sword that
hard before, and the youth lacked the bulk to have the strength it
required.
As it was, Ari could barely keep on his feet, such was the weakness
his wounds were dealing him. But Phidias showed no sign of noticing the
wound in his side. Avoiding the brat's defenses by sheer dent of wielding
two weapons against Phidias's one, Ari managed to pink the youth's wrist
with his dagger, disrupting the brat's attack momentarily for the fraction
of a moment Aristo needed to thrust his sword under the youth's guard and
into his abdomen.
Convulsing, the young human slid off of the impaling sword, slowly
dying. Before Aristo's amazed eyes, Phidias's features appeared to melt,
shifting to the likeness of something else. The human's clothes and
scimitar also seemed to fade, merging into his body. Soon, all that lay
before Aristobulus was a spindly, grey-skinned humanoid bearing no
resemblance to the human he had slain.
Shape changers? Aristo saw that Xenocles appeared in the same state
as the remains of Phidias. Dopplegangers? Aristo vented an anguished cry
of rage, lashing out at the dead creature which had been Phidias, half
beheading it. They had been nothing more than shape changers who had been
able to read Aristo's every thought, luring him in with promises of wisdom
gleaned from his own mind.
He had wanted wisdom, and they had offered him that. But why? Had
it only been so that they could attack him? They could have easily done
that sooner. Had they been wanting to give him a false hope before
killing him? Lead him in and make him think they were giving him the
clues he craved, only to slay him instead? Such is exactly what they had
done. His anger roused even more, Ari kicked the head of what had been
Phidias. Already loosened by his sword, the head ripped free from the
neck, bouncing and rolling across the uneven stone floor to finally come
to rest in a far corner.
But through his rage-dimmed senses, Ari noted that even though all of
their other possessions had disappeared with the rest of their disguises,
the "old man" still clutched the scroll and wore its cloak. Aristo had
eyes only for the scroll. Mayhap it did contained a measure of the wisdom
Xenocles had been falsely offering.
Snatching up the scroll, Aristo rambled off a quick magic detection
spell. The spell revealed that, surprisingly enough, the scroll was
magical -- and even more surprising, so was the cloak. Ari greedily
clutched both items in his hands, his thoughts somewhat clouded by pain
and emotion. Perhaps this encounter had not been an utter loss.
Aristo considered the scroll in his hand. What ancient lore was
recorded on its precious vellum? What precious secrets, hints, and
riddles did it present to those who studied it? Aristo clutched the
scroll tighter as he imagined the wonderful places its knowledge would
lead him, as, weakened by exhaustion, wounds, and blood-loss, his
rationality slipped from his grasp.
He started to unroll the scroll, but forced himself to stop and think
coherently. Now was not the time for this. He needed to find some place
safe and tend to his wounds. But the only such place that he knew of was
on the previous level: the werewolf room. He had no wish to return to
there, where he had already been. He had only just now descended the
stairs to this new level of the caverns. How could he simply retreat from
what lay before him after how far he had come?
But Ari realized that he could not take the chance of probing farther
into unexplored territory. He was too tired and much too severely wounded
for any more chance fights in his present condition. He needed to tend
his wounds and allow them time to heal.
Aristo cursed himself, wishing he were not so prone to getting
wounded in battle. But had he not been restraining himself and avoiding
random and pointless battles? These two dopplegangers had assaulted him
with a cruel and cold-blooded intent to slay him. Were it not for them he
would still have no wounds from which to suffer.
Thinking of the two malicious shape-changers brought Aristo's anger
to the fore yet again. Ari sought to divert his rage, to not lash out
insanely at the dead bodies, as reason and emotion waged their endless
battle in his mind.
True, Aristobulus realized that he was getting better at controlling
his destructive emotions, at preventing himself from killing and
demolishing whenever whim or anger urged him onward. But this time that
had served him to no purpose. For one of the rare occasions in his life
he had been behaving himself and minding his manners. And yet, fate had
dictated that he be drawn into still another fight that he might be badly
wounded. Was there no way for him to avoid these fights? Would he never
be master of his own actions?
Anger began to win out against reason. All too often did he let it
consume him and dictate his actions. Question after question ran through
his mind, demanding of himself and of fate why he could not be in control.
Rage continued to dominate his emotions, but realization that he must find
a safe place to rest compelled Aristobulus to return to the stairs and
climb back to the previous level. Thus did his rage mount even further.
Anguish also built as Aristo made his way back in the direction of
the werewolf room. He wanted to advance but was forced by circumstance to
retreat. However, there was a flicker of humor for a moment when Aristo
passed near the habitation of the halflings. There was no chaos or
confusion, so he assumed they had yet to notice his departure with certain
valuables of theirs. Thoughts of their possible reactions upon this
discovery almost brought a chuckle from the oddly-humored elf, but it was
crushed beneath the weight of his other, darker emotions.
Aristo continued to make his way along the passages leading back to
his undesired temporary residence in the werewolf room. Along the way, he
heard some noise like the clanking of sheathed weapons against armor. He
stumbled into a side passage moments before a group of hobgoblins trooped
past on their way to some grim deed.
The momentary consideration of ambushing them was pushed down by a
glimmer of reason shinning through the darkness of his emotions. There
was no real chance of his being able to successfully defeat them, even
with the element of surprise. His many wounds were too great of a
detriment to his combat skills. This only increased his anger, for he did
not like being unable to wade into battle whenever it pleased him.
Although death did not ordinarily concern him, and he could not
remember any time when he had not embraced the prospect of death, now
Aristo was in no mood to die, for if he were to die now, then never would
he know what secrets might be hidden within the scroll clutched so tightly
in his grasp. As such, Aristo was not about to throw his life away when he
might well be that close to finding some of that ancient knowledge.
For some odd reason, an unusual thought occurred to Aristobulus:
Perhaps some force or being was taxing him, testing to see if perchance he
was worthy of finding this lost insight on the truth of the multiverse.
Now that almost brought a laugh from Aristo. He had definitely been
listening to too many tales of high adventure. Such things did not happen
in real life. If any so-called "higher" power actually did take it in its
mind to meddle in the affairs of mortals, it was certainly for no other
reason than for simple games and a cheap thrill. Ari could not accept
that any such being would want anything more out of it than to observe
some mortals squirming under the pain and suffering induced on them, not
unlike the way a child would stomp on an anthill to see the ants running
around in mindless confusion.
The servants of such beings did nothing but perpetuate petty
squabbles between their factions, as well as grub for money to build
bigger and more grandiose temples, each sect vieing for the largest and
most opulent of shrines. It disgusted Aristobulus. He had never seen
deities to do anything more with the lives of mortals than stir up
pointless wars and unreasoning hatred and endless destruction. Although
he might get a chuckle out of some of the more spectacular massacres,
Aristo was certain that deities should have nothing to do with mortals.
From what Ari had seen, mortals were more than amply capable of ruining
their own lives without the unwanted assistance of some infantile deity.
As such, Aristo could believe that some over-powered being might be
toying with his life, tormenting him in every way its under-developed mind
could conceive. But to actually test his worthiness to learn the meaning
of existence? Never. Never in a million bloody years.
Although he doubted there were any deities tormenting him, Aristo
would not have been surprised to learn that there were some. The way his
life had been, he really doubted that anyone could be cursed with luck as
bad as his own and yet still manage to survive for more than two
centuries. Perhaps there was some demon obsessed with teaching him the
worst aspects of life the hard way.
Aristo shook such thoughts out of his mind when he heard something.
It sounded like someone was rattling a bunch of dried bones together, and
the sound was getting closer. Aristo ducked into the corner of the room,
trying to conceal himself in the darkness.
Soon, a trio of animated skeletons made their way through the room
and out another door, totally oblivious to Aristo's presence, lost in some
mindless task. After pausing to make certain that there were no more
bewitched skeletons, Aristo resumed his trek back to the room once
occupied by the werewolf.
He arrived at his destination without any further encounters, his
emotions more or less under control for the nonce. Aristo sealed himself
in the room and collapsed into a comfortably padded chair. He dug his
medical supplies out of his pack for the untold time and set about tending
his many seeping wounds.
He used most of what little of the elven healing salves remained,
rubbing the soothing unguents into the freely bleeding gashes in his body
before wrapping them tightly with bandages. Aristo noticed that his body
was becoming a criss-crossed mesh of ugly red scars. Were these all he
had to show for his journeys in this underground realm? Aristo yet again
cursed his unpleasant propensity for getting mauled in fights.
Finally dropping the bandages and stuff back in his pack, Aristo
clutched up the cloak and the scroll. Hopefully, they would prove worth
all of the troubles Aristo had gone through to obtain them. Tossing the
cloak over his arm, Ari unrolled the scroll, holding it up to the light of
a lamp he lit with a minor spell.
The writing on the scroll swam before Aristo's eyes. He could not
focus his eyes on the writing or make any sense of it. Magical writing?
Why would anyone inscribe words of wisdom in the form of magical writing?
Aristo had only known for spells to be written in such a manner, so as to
prevent others from understanding the spells. Perhaps that was it, the
information in the scroll was of such a nature that only mages could make
use of it.
So Aristo would need only cast a simple magic spell of his own to
allow him to decipher the magical writing. But his powers were drained by
the spell of sleep he had cast on those gnolls, and Aristo could tell that
he would only be able to manage one more spell before he would need to
rest. But there was this enchanted cloak. He would need to identify its
powers soon, before the magical aura of the cloak was eclipsed by his own
aura of magical power, overlaying the aura of the cloak with his own
personal aura, thus making it next to impossible for him to determine the
true nature of the enchantments on the cloak.
Since Aristo had only enough strength to cast one more spell, he was
torn between discovering the contents of the scroll and learning the
powers of the cloak. But he finally decided to identify the enchantments
on the cloak, since it had to be done now while its aura was still
distinguishable from his own, whereas the scroll could wait until later,
even if he could not wait to learn its contents.
Aristobulus withdrew his spellbook from his pack, flipping to the
page where his spell of magic identification was inscribed. Aristo used
the instructions for casting the spell written therein to check his
memorization of the spell in order to make certain he did not miscast the
spell, knowing that this would be his only chance to identify the powers
of the magical cloak.
Aristo wove the magics which created the spell, thus enhancing his
own sensitization to the forces of magic. The spells woven into the cloak
appeared to Aristo's mind as if they were a cloth of their own, with
threads of magic interwoven and shaped into an enchantment. Ari studied
the beautiful, scintillating patterns of energy, giving himself over to
the wondrous forces of magic drifting through his mind.
With his enhanced perception of the magical auras of the cloak,
Aristo began to understand sections of the forces contained within it. In
his mind there developed a comprehension of the overall direction of the
powers imbued on the cloak. They were all directed towards protecting the
wearer of the cloak from many forms of assault, both physical and magical.
Aristobulus deemed that the cloak would be most useful, what with his
unpleasant propensity for being drawn into battles, willingly or not.
But the casting of the spell of identification had drained him
greatly, especially in his exhausted state. Aristo leaned his head back
against the heavily padded armchair, drifting off into the deep sleep of
exhaustion.