The young goblin had heard "music" before. Back in his village, he even managed to collect a few boiled skulls and some heavy leather that he would bang on during village celebrations. However, this was like nothing he had heard before. This was...different.
Cyril smiled to himself from his viewpoint above the gate office of Westfall, as the official stamped the release papers of the young scholar. Jeralt Salren had been chosen for an out-of-town project, the specifics of which were being kept silent. However with a few smiles and luckily even fewer greased palms, Cyril had heard an interesting tale. The story was a bit spotty in places, but all the whispers and indeed the drunken lips of Jeralt himself confirmed one thing: The Age of Legends.
It seemed that a few weeks ride east, well into the mountains known as the Oilstones, lay an underground chamber. This chamber had been removed from any reference charts or maps and indeed seemed to only exist by spoken word. Luckily, that was where Cyril's trade shined brightest.
While trying to find more information on this chamber, Cyril had found himself at a tavern table across from Jeralt himself. Jeralt seemed quite out of place in the establishment, quite the opposite from Cyril. Where Jeralt's clothes were simple pieces of cloth, dyed simple colors, and his hair cut utilitarianly short, Cyril's clothes were well-made and of majestic colors in reds and purples, his long flowing cloak swept over his shoulder to reveal the royal blue underlining, his beautiful midnight ponytail held together in several places with bands of golden leather. Indeed they seemed like night and day, but after too many drinks (and a subtle spell or two), Jeralt was going on like they were lifelong friends.
If the drunken scholar's words held any merit, a secretive order of historians, calling themselves the "Paiges of Alma", had moved into the area around the chamber, cleared out any inhabitants, quarantined it off from the rest of the world and were studying the "device" intently. They seemed to be some form of composition of prominent researchers from almost all of the major Signian religions. Recently one of these researchers had suddenly fallen ill and then met Gharlamaal's sweet embrace only two short days after. Jeralt was the city's local expert on the Age of Legends and had been conscripted to replace him. The obvious connection that this chamber might be a link to that Age had the young scholar quite excited, if a bit leery of what he called the "Oilstones curse"; The event leading to the demise of his predecessor, according to Jeralt. But the possibility of so many hidden secrets, as well as the threat of death for failure to comply with the conscription contract, had Jeralt leaving the very next day.
Hidden secrets...Cyril lived for hidden secrets. A bit of a buff on the Age himself, Cyril found himself in compromising positions again and again, trying to uncover any information he could on the topic: The close call in that Temble of Brinn; the insane farmer-turned-berzerker on the Lionne outskirts; and of course, that not-so-brief encounter with the local Thieves Guild just inside the northern Dornheim border. So it was with practiced ease that Cyril shed his garish clothing and instrument in an out of the way location, cut his hair into something more suitable for the job and lay in wait a couple of miles out of town for young Jeralt to come by. Of course, it would have been easy enough to simply kill him and ditch the body, but that wasn't really Cyril's style.
As Jeralt rode down the path towards his fate, he came across a figure in scholarly robes walking back towards Westfall, pain seeming to wrack his body with each measured cough.
"Ho there, traveler! Do you seek aid?" Jeralt, ever the upright citizen, slowed his horse and dismounted, a look of worry upon his face.
"No no, young man. Come no closer. I have contracted an illness and I do not know the nature of its contagion." Another well placed cough and shudder swept the figure's hood back, revealing the weathered scalp and straying grey hairs of an old man.
"An illness? Where from do you hail?"
Cyril did his best not to smirk under his old man guise. "Well, you seem like a nice enough young lad. And as I am already clamoring away from Gharlamaal's dark stoop, their threats on my life for my silence mean little. I come from a small research party deep in the Oilstones, but it has been cursed by the Gods I tell you! I am the last to live after this plague-most-foul hit our group and I....I...."
The ever artful bard-turned-old-man chose that moment to once again let his body be overcome with a coughing fit, lunging forward towards Jeralt, presumably for balance. It took the scholar just a moment too long to realize what was happening and suddenly the plague-ridden old man had fallen on him. With the old man continuing to cough and convulse, Jeralt didn't notice the hand that reached into his pinned bag, removed the scholar's papers and replaced them with pretty, but ultimately useless, duplicates.
"The Oilstones Curse! By Geldenier's mercy! Stay away from me, plague-bearer!" Jeralt managed to scramble out from under the hacking old man and onto his horse in seconds flat. "To hell with you Paiges! I'll take my chances against the conscription of dead men!" And with that the young scholar took off back in the direction of Westfall.
Cyril chuckled to himself as he let the illusion fall from his face and sat up, dusting himself off.
Cyril, having adapted the papers to now name him as the young scholar Jeralt, had spent several weeks with the Paiges of Alma and he couldn't be happier. The chamber he had heard about was indeed a marvel to behold. Shaped almost like an egg, the chamber had no visible doors or entrances. The only access was through a single hidden panel. Inside, the egg was completely black. No natural element could shine any light and indeed, even the heaviest of light spells only brought minimal illumination.
The Egg of Alma, as the historians had taken to calling it, held inside it a large stone table and six large, high-backed chairs, carved out of the onyx almost as if carving wood; each polished and obviously well maintained in the Paiges' care. From the center of the ceiling hung strands of what could only be called some sort of physical manifestation of the dark arts; thick beads of complete blackness, strung with care and cascading down to just a few feet above the surface of the table. However, the most intriguing thing in the chamber were the walls.
Constantly shaping and adapting runes and other magical seals and symbols peppered the inside walls of the chamber. Sometimes the seals would glow a soft, yet unrelenting, red color. Despite the extensive collected knowledge of the Paiges, not a single element's meaning had been confirmed, though the Paiges' Arcane Historians had been able to date most of them back as far as the Age of Legends. The rest were at least as old, if not older still.
It did so happen that somewhere into Cyril's fifth week with the historians that a breakthrough occurred. Cyril had spent a good portion of his shifts in the Egg as apprentice to the head historian of the order. Father Oswald, said to have been a priest of O'saria before leaving his faith in search of truth, had quickly taken to the scholar he had come to know as Jeralt.
He had been amazed with the young man's breadth of knowledge about the Age of Legends and indeed had taken to occasionally thanking his Goddess directly for their choice of replacements for old Theramarn. The old dwarf had had no concept of sanitation and often smelled like he was trying to bake bread in his beard. Oswald had started to look to Jeralt as if not a son then at least a favored apprentice, and over the past few weeks and sharing of stories after-hours, drinking the old man's personal and quite potent supplies of liquors from all over the Isles, Cyril had become quite attached to the Father as well.
So it was that, on a shift that had only the two of them in the chamber, did Father Oswald cry out in triumph. In his hands lay a parchment on which there were many bits and scratches of attempts and mistakes, but underneath them lay two verses. One in an unintelligible language, even to him. And the other, assuming it to be a translation of the first, written in Common:
Though with our tongues and hands we seal fates,
And turn our backs on the immortals,
With stroke of quill and seal of fire,
Our history shall remain hidded
And our power shall know no bounds.
It was written in an ancient lex that predated even the birth of Sigmas himself! Further more, Cyril could find no relevant rune or seal that may have imparted this information to the Father. Just then, Oswald seemed to lose all life in his body. He collapsed from his position and lay unconscious on the floor. Cyril screamed for help.
A week later found Father Oswald in better health, physically if not mentally. Since that first long sleep after his collapse, the old man had not slept a wink that Cyril was aware of. He spent almost every moment of every day either huddled in his books or studying the seals on the wall. Cyril did his best to keep up with the old man, but he continued on like a man possessed, only stopping to eat when Cyril forced it on him.
Cyril was studying a particularly difficult rune when once again, Oswald called him.
"Jeralt! Come here! Do you see this?" He pointed at a spot on the wall where no marking could be found. "It explains everything! I understand it now! Come! Look!" Oswald spit out the words like an excited child, a bit of feverish delight tinging the corners of his speech. Even upon incredible scrutiny, Cyril could find nothing on the blank face of the wall.
"You're tired, Father. You need sleep. You can't research effectively under these conditions." With a hand on each shoulder Cyril, once again, tried to coax his friend to the safety of sleep.
The Father's voice was outraged! "No! You aren't looking! You'll miss it! You'll..." Oswald's voice suddenly caught in his throat and transformed into a sickening gurgle. He began to list backwards and luckily Cyril's quick reflexes allowed him to catch the old man before his head hit the ground.
"Oswald! Somebody help!" The would-be historian bard called again and again for aid, but there was no response. Suddenly the ancient historian began to move again, his hand clamping tightly to Cyril's. His words rang out through the chamber, disjointed but chilling; Words that to his dying breath, Cyril would never forget.
"Dear O'saria, a key! There is a key... to... What? A key that cuts through light... that cuts through dark. There must... be... an entrance? Somewhere... far... from... Oh Heavens! How they tower above! The Dark Ones swarm like ants at their feet! The key! Must be... can't loose... History..."
And with those words, the light fades from Father Oswald's eyes and his grip on the bard's hand goes weak. The old man's face had gone almost instantly and heart-wrenchingly gaunt. His hand had quickly lost its warmth and been replaced with a chilling cold, but Cyril would not let go. Fear and sadness for his lost friend filled Cyril. He did the only thing he knew how to do.
In the dark chamber that had killed the friend still laying in his lap, Cyril sang. He sang of the past. He sang of potential futures. He sang of family. He sang of rest. He sang the sorrow in his heart and he sang the pain in his soul.
When the historian stationed outside entered the room, having become alarmed at the singing and having had heard nothing prior, the room was filled by the vibrant red glow of every rune on the walls.
A tear fell from Skag's face as the last note faded and the song ended. As he dropped his head to wipe it away, he heard a sound of rustling behind him. Turning his head quickly, he found nothing. Thankfully it wasn't one of his tribe. Skag would have been mercilessly jibbed for his wet face. Everyone knew that goblins didn't cry.
Realizing too late that he had lost visual contact with his prey, he turned back only to catch a vicious sting of a whip to the eye. By the time he cleared his head, he could feel the point of a rapier pressing against his throat.
Cyril frowned at him. "This song is not for you."
A different noise was then heard from the clearing, a harsh cry of pain as Skag's vision blurred and everything went black...
