Chronicles of the Unrealm - a PuF RPG story

"Curses! I knew it was a bad idea to charm a Red Dragon from the start. They are evil by nature and must never be trusted!" Wolfram gritted his teeth as he surveyed the situation for the best plan of attack.

The dragon laughed out loud, a long, sneering cackle that was heard throughout every street and corner of the city. People on the roads leading to the city gates stopped to gawk at the spectacle. In an attempt to draw the dragon's attack on himself, Wolfram cursed the dragon and his foul ancestors with language that none in the party thought verbally possible, let alone considered using on another being.

The dragon obviously understood, for it ceased its laughter and commenced an assault on Wolfram, spraying him with a long jet of flame. Wolfram leaped to one side and rolled along the ground, the stream of fire scorching trees and bushes as the dragon tracked his movement. He brought himself to his feet just as the fire was upon him. Clutching his shield tightly over his body, he threw himself to one side again, catching some of the blast on the shield. Wolfram could see that the metal surface of the shield was glowing red with heat. As the dragon's breath gave out and it inhaled deeply to attack again, Wolfram darted beneath it and struck one of the taloned legs full force with his sword. The sword struck true, gashing open the leg and causing the dragon to screech in anger.



"A dragon, and a foul red at that!" Sir Damon Vanderwal, the paladin, was one of the first to see the creature, and now was running with all speed to do battle with the creature, his elven companion Qu'ean Quiksilver in tow. His plated boots beat rapidly on the hard and dry surface of the street. The elf trotted lightly alongside, crossbow at the ready and hurriedly reciting a spell as he ran. By this time, the scene had attracted the attention of everyone in the area, as store owners and tavern proprietors stepped out of their establishments to see what had drawn all their customers out to the streets. They too, immediately found themselves rooted to the spot as they stared in amazement. A dragon at the city gates, locked in combat with a small group of adventurers. Fire and steel striking each other. A human in shining full plate armor screaming cries of battle and brandishing a magical blade, and a crossbow-wielding elf chanting a spell frantically as it tried to keep up.

"So much for keeping a low profile" muttered Qu'ean as he finished the spell.

The battle had been short but fierce. Immediately after Wolfram had slashed the dragon's leg, it had struck him with its tail, knocking him to the ground and shattering his shield in the process. Wolfram's sword had also been knocked out of his grasp. At that moment, a man had appeared sporting a suit of full plate armor that seemed to shine unnaturally, reflecting more than the sun's light alone. The man sang praises to his god as he leaped upon the creature's back, striking it in the back of the neck with his sword, then leaping off deftly. As the dragon turned its attention to the new assailant, an elf ran in behind the dragon and rolled underneath it. He stopped directly beneath the dragon, and extended his arms, one holding a light crossbow, and the other sporting a small but similar weapon attached to his wrist. He fired both weapons, then rolled just as quickly out from underneath the beast. Roaring in pain and rage, the dragon turned and released a fireball at the elf, who back-flipped out of the projectile's path with ease. The armor-clad knight struck the beast from the other side, and when the dragon retaliated again, the elf launched a series of small lightning bolts from his hand. Then Du-de-es-ta caught the beast's attention next, but he was moving far too fast for the dragon's flames.

This was a perfect distraction, and as the dragon fought back and forth against the explorer, knight and elf, he rose quickly to his feet. It was then that he was offered the belt. Though not understanding the magic in the item, Wolfram wisely made use of the dragon's distraction to slip the mysterious girdle around his waist.

Wolfram looked back just in time to see the dragon's whipping tail catch the elf solidly in the chest, sending him flopping head over heals across the ground until he slammed into the side of the wall. Then the dragon turned to face the paladin and unleashed a wall of fire in his direction.

Sir Damon Vanderwal did not even attempt to flee; he faced the dragon squarely and raised his arms high above his head, looking upward and closing his eyes, his sword held high in defiance and his other hand reaching out to the heavens. Wolfram saw his armor grow even brighter still, the runes and holy symbols that were embossed upon the pauldrons and breastplate phosphorescing with intense light, a second before the man disappeared into the flames.

A savage battle-cry of rage and bloodlust escaped Wolfram as he ran straight towards the dragon and leaped into the air. He caught the red beast in mid-flame as he connected with a solid blow to the side of its head. To Wolfram's surprise, the dragon bellowed in pain and fell back from the force of the blow. Then Wolfram was upon the beast once more, plucking the stunned beast from the ground by its tail and raising it high above himself as he threw the beast with all of his newly summoned supernatural might.

All the people of S'mon Traska were treated to the sight of the huge scaly beast flying backwards through the air, as close an expression of shock and surprise as possible with such a creature plain upon its demonic visage. It plummetted to earth again, vanishing behind a warehouse with a loud, dull *THUMP!*

Wolfram couldn't believe that he had just picked up a dragon and hurled it through the air with his bare hands. He looked down at the belt. The thing was not leather, nor any cloth he had ever seen. It was rough like canvas to the touch, and dark grey in color. Then he understood. In the northern regions, the seafaring Norsayr told legends of such magical items. The girdle had been woven from the beard hairs of a frost giant, giving the wearer strength equal to the giant's.

Wolfram quickly removed his studded leather belt and fastened it over the frost giant girdle, for such items were coveted above all else in the Unrealms. All of the adventurers tensed, expecting at any moment for the furious beast to charge furiously in retalitory rage, but all that came their way was a faint screech, then silence.

Wolfram turned to the newcomers. The elf had recovered quickly from the blow and was reloading his crossbows with a second set of poisoned quarrels.The paladin, despite having been the focal point of a dragon's searing breath firestorm, was on his feet and appeared unhurt, his armor not even charred in the least manner. "Well met, my friend! Damon Vanderwal's the name, a paladin of the noble Cavaliers of Light. My companion, Qu'ean Quicksilver."

"Call me Wolfram. How did you survive the fire?" Damon smiles and explains. "A Paladin must live by his faith and faith alone; in return, he is granted special abilities, especially in the face of such evil. Greetings also to you, sir, and to you, my lady." The paladin introduces himself courteously to Du-de-es-ta and Chun-Li.

"I hate to interrupt the forming of new friendships..." says Qu'ean, "...but should we not see if yon foul monster is dead yet?" There is a strong tone of sarcasm in the elf's voice. "At once" says the paladin, and Wolfram is in no mindset to argue. They immediately make their way through the gawking crowds and head out to the warehouse.

They approached swiftly and silently. Wolfram took the direct route from the south edge, The paladin cutting in from the northern side, blocking the easiest route of escape. Chun-Li and Du-de-es-ta approached from the east, and Qu'ean Quicksilver placing himself on the most strategic point possible from the west - the roof of the warehouse.

What they saw was not what they had expected at all, and brought about surprise for all.

On a road traversing the Deserts of Doom and Despair, less than seven leagues from S'mon Traksa, Jrathek the slave trader sat proudly at the head of his caravan. Riding on the back of an elephant, the slave lord looked proudly over his shoulder at the long line of camels and carts that followed. What a profit he would glean from the merchants of S'mon Traska with so many fresh slaves and beasts!

Jrathek's greedy mind was already calculating the rewards from such a "crop." He had traveled far and wide in search of such a boon, the sale to end all slaving runs, and now at last it had come. After years of following conflicts and battles, Jrathek would make offers to the victorious forces concerning the sale of their prisoners of war. He then sold them at exorbitant prices in S'mon Traska, where the rich lords and land owners were more than capable of meeting Jrathek's costs. Jrathek did wonderful business in the slums as well, for guildmasters and powerful assassins were in constant need of fresh victims for their spectacles and gladiatorial bloodsports, whether for public display of power, or personal use.

Jrathek took in the splendor of his shipment of flesh, caring nothing for the fate of those who made up his profits. Surrounded on all sides by his personal guard, powerful warriors all, he had taken great pains to insure that none rob him of his precious goods. Jrathek paid top coin for their services, but they had never been defeated and proved well worth the extra gold. Soon, Jrathek would be rich beyond his wildest dreams. Nothing would stop his precious cargo from reaching his destination.


Or so the human thought.....


It was early morning, though the sun's light had barely crested the dunes. The shadows were losing their dominance, but for now they held sway. It was a deceptive hour, for the tall, rocky outcroppings that pockmarked the dry landscape blocked the sun's light in many places. The guards were wary and apprehensive, but nothing could have prepared them for what was about to happen.

In fact, Jrathek saw it first, because he had been meant to see it. In vain he cried out, but his men were already dead. The first line was cut down in less than a second, the last man to be struck dying before the lifeles body of the first fell to the ground. An archer on one of the carts raised his bow, but was cut in half by a sword that came spinning through the air from seemingly nowhere. The slave convoy was under attack from both sides.

Jrathek's guards ran out to meet the threat. Some human, others half-orc and ogrish creatures, all were cut down with deadly speed and terrifying finality. Those who fought were struck down; those who turned to flee were stabbed in the back. Jrathek cringed in terror as he finally saw his assailants. A black-cloaked figure brandished a sword in either hand; he turned and spun about, dancing among the thugs with deadly ease. He struck not only with his blades, but with the backsides of their pommels and his flying feet as well, crushing blows followed instantly by the killing cut or thrust of steel.

Blood spattered the side of Jrathek's face and he turned to see more of his guard being slaughtered like swine. A woman in leather and chain mail swung a massive two-handed sword over her head, striking with force easily sufficient to sunder her foes in pieces. Tall, well proportioned and strikingly beautiful, yet deadly and lethal at the same time, she moved with ungodly speed and precision as she butchered the last remaining guards. Most disturbing was the expression on her face; she was smiling.

Within minutes, it was over. Jrathek's horde had never stood a chance. The black cloaked figure sheathed his gory blades and pulled the cowl back from his head; the light was enough to show clearly the black skin and silvery white hair of a drow elf. Jrathek nearly froze in shock, for he recognized the face all too well. He slapped the reins of his panic-ridden elephant in an attempt to escape. Instead, he was dumped to the ground as the frightened animal lurched forward in fear, running with all speed and leaving him face to face with his tormentors.

"My dear Jrathek," the drow spoke slowly. "You seem so surprised to see me again." Jrathek backed away in the sands, only one word escaping his trembling lips. "No.......No........"
"Oh, yes." The drow smiled as he began to advance slowly, one of his blades appearing swiftly and silently in his right hand. The woman stood off to one side and remained silent, but her eyes were locked on Jrathek as if feeding on his very fear, relishing his terror. Clearly it would be unwise to attempt any course of action, but Jrathek knew he was already dead, and he reached behind himself, drawing a jeweled scimitar and lashing out in primal fear and rage. The drow smiled and nodded to the woman, who stepped forward to meet the assault.

Jrathek swung with all the force he could muster. The woman didn't even draw her sword, but deflected his blow with the bracer on her right forearm. Then her hand snaked over the blade and siezed his own in an iron grip. Pulling him forward with her arms, she kicked him savagely, dislocating his right arm at the shoulder and landing him disarmed and in pain at the drow's feet.

"Now that you've met Taria, we can get down to business." The drow picked up the flailing Jrathek in one arm and pressed his blade to the man's chest. "The slaves.....take them, you'll be rich...." Jrathek sputtered. "I'm not interested in your slaves, Jrathek; they can rot here in their cages for all I care. No, Jrathek, you'll not buy your way out of it this time. I have come only for my revenge."

Jrathek screamed as the sword pierced his flesh slowly.

"You see, it takes more than a Sand Mauler pit to kill me. I slew the beasts with my bare hands that day, and swore an oath of vengeance upon you. It is fitting that after all these years of searching for you, I find that you are still the same spineless scum you were when you betrayed me, and know you get to die as such."

Jrathek screeched again as the blade pressed in again. The drow knew exactly what he was doing, and the sword was driving directly into one of Jrathek's ribs.

"You do remember my name, don't you, Jrathek?" The sword stopped its slow thrust.

Jrathek gasped for breath, then he hissed out faintly, one word, his last. The name of the drow.

"Dhakhath."

The drow slammed the blade forward suddenly, smashing through the ribs and skewering Jrathek's heart, the weapon's hilt slamming against the man's chest with a heavy thud. He lifted his sword arm, suspending Jrathek in air as he the last of his life force left him in spasmic jerking motions of the body, then angled the blade downward and let the now lifeless corpse drop down to the sand.

The sun now lit the desert clearly; Dhakhath wiped clean the blades of his weapons, then pulled his cowl over his head and set off across the sands, Taria following close behind.

Jrathek's blood drained into the sands. The desert winds began to howl over the dunes, almost echoing the sound of the dark elf's name.

Dhakhath.



[Edited by Wolf Blackstar on November 27th, 2000 at 01:17 AM]

Wolfram watched the dragon break free of the webbing that the spider-like creatures had bound about its body. Obviously the beast still had plenty of fight in him yet. But a new wave of confidence washed over him as he felt the powerful energies of the frost giant girdle flowing through his body. Though his shield had been destroyed, he had recovered his sword, and even now his eyes searched out the weak spots on the back of the dragon's head and neck, and it's soft underbelly. He felt like he had fought numerous creatures such as this one before, but how or from where he knew he possessed this knowledge was a mystery.

The dragon reared up to full height, preparing to explode into a raging fury upon the adventurers. As it did so, however, it brought its head within mere feet of the elf on the warehouse roof. Qu'ean was not one to pass up such an opportunity, and with a light twang he sent two poisoned quarrels from his crossbows flying true, striking the dragon in a chink of the scales on its neck, delivering their blight into the vein beneath.

The enraged creature lashed out at Qu'ean with its huge teeth, but in doing so, it stumbled slightly, and the resulting attack came clumsily and very easy for the elf to evade.

The poison. Not just the deadly ichor that coated the elf's bolts, but the spider creatures had been biting the dragon when he was on the ground. The dragon had powerful resistance, but it was evident that it had weakened him considerably. Wolfram decided to exploit this immediately, and threw himself upon the dragon with renewed strength and vigor. His sword stroke had immediate effect on the dragon, which retaliated with a different attack. The beast's huge wings suddenly began flapping, and though the flesh upon them had been torn away in several places when the dragon had been thrown, they still moved the air with tremendous force. Wolfram was struck by this great gust of wind, and found himself bouncing backwards and rolling on the ground.

The paladin seemed to know what was coming next, because he began muttering a prayer, something that Wolfram couldn't quite hear clearly. Sir Damon Vanderwal closed his eyes and raised his arms skyward, and called upon divine protection. Wolfram watched as a brilliant sheen surrounded the paladin, sparkling magical energy thatWolfram knew would help him resist fire. But then he saw the same magical essence shining upon the Chun-Li and Du-de-es-ta, and the elf as well - and he looked down at himself and saw the same light shining upon him.

The dragon released a massive orb of pure fire that incinerated the warehouse to its bare framework, leaving a burning husk in its place. The orb expanded outwards and scorched the grass on the gound in all directions. The center of the fiery explosion was created where the five adventurers had stood moments before.

Note:Isis and Freyja, though somewhere in the city, seperated themselves from the party several posts ago.


"First things first," said Wolfram, and facing the dragon, he raised his sword menacingly over his head. The dragon cringed in fear, but at the last second, Wolfram turned the blade away from the creature's head and struck it squarely on the skull with his gauntleted fist. The dragon's head slumped to the floor, unconscious. "That's a start in ensuring you keep your promise."

Damon Vanderwal picked himself up from the ground, recovering his strength. He was only now beginning to master sharing his auras with others, and despite its effect on him, he was pleased to see that it had successfully fended off the flames.

Wolfram looked up from the dragon. Before him stood what lloked like a massive army of creatures. Half of them he recognized as skeletal warriors and mages, a common sight in the realms. Though they roamed freely as undea, and were sometimes dangerous, Wolfram had been quick to notice the unity of their assault on the dragon. Had they been acting naturally, undead were usually in the company of dragons or demons. Wolfram also noticed their non-aggressive stance now; with their primary target neutralized, the skeletons simply stood still, their weapons and arms moving slowly, but not at the ready.

But it was not the skeletons that put Wolfram on edge; rather it was the equally large number of many-legged, spiderlike creatures that made up the other half of the host of creatures.

Suddenly Qu'ean Quicksilver appeared, and striding forward without fear, but in an unthreatening manner, he spoke to Wolfram, saying "I'm gonna try talking to them" before moving ahead of him and into their midst.

Wolfram suddenly felt a dull pain in the side of his head as the elf passed by to speak with the spiders. It was not severe, but he couldn't ignore it. Sheathing his sword, he sat down gingerly on the dusty earth, resting his back against a large rock. This didn't seem to make the pain any better though; in fact, it seemed to intensify with every second. Suddenly everything around him went dark.....



The skies were beautiful that day. The clouds were pure white and silver in color, and the sun was high above even the tallest of them. It was hardly a scene befitting the clash that was even now taking place. Two islands floated in the sky, castles and towers crowning their precipices. The two strongholds dueled; boulders, arrows, crossbow quarrels, bolts of magical energy, and vats of flaming oil flew back and forth between the opposing sky fortresses. A large number of flying creatures circled above like birds of prey, seeking a weakness in their opponents side, waiting to strike.

Dragons.

Ahead of him, he recognized the castle of their ancient enemy. It's brimstone-colored walls were topped with stone carven demons and monsters. The standards on its turrets bore the bones and skulls of his fallen comrades, alongside banners displaying symbols of unholy power and magic. Evil red dragons took flight from its gates and commenced their assault.

He was leaving from his own stronghold, which bore the standards of the iron eagle on its towers. Silver dragons had been sortied to meet the evil reds in combat. It took him a moment to realize that he was actually watching himself, and that he was seeing into the past, or what he remembered of it.


Wolfram sat on the silver dragon's back. All told, a group of six rode upon the magnificent creature's back, but Wolfram held the reins and spoke directly to the creature, guiding and commanding it in flight. Wolfram was clad in gleaming segmented plate arnor, which had been forged of the finest metal, an alloy of the finest elven steel and dwarven mithril. The glowing runes incorporated into its shoulders told of its magical nature. The armor was lighter than leather, for it was magically blessed, and usable only by himself. Slung into scabbards were twin bastard swords which also seemed to be rune weapons in nature.

Directly behind him sat a wizard dressed in the traditional arch mage's robe and clutching a staff in his hand. The staff was embedded with a series of gemstones which sent pulses of magical energy along its length. The wizard's other hand was tightly embracing the straps which held him in place on the dragon's back; Wolfram seemed to find this amusing. Most magic users he had known spent all their time locked away pouring over scrolls or scrying orbs and rarely got a taste of the fighter's life. But here, the lines were drawn between good and evil, and all had to take the fight to the enemy.

Next on the dragon was a female cleric, who wore what seemed to be holy chainmail, for it radiated with divine essence and cast a calming blue light upon Wolfram and his comrades, which increased their concentration in the battle which raged around them. She was armed with a shield and a flail, and also had a belt that was stocked with healing potions and scrolls.

Behind her was seated a huge mountain of a man. He wore very little armor, but in contrast, his body seemed to be chiseled from stone. There was no fear in his eyes or anywhere on his bearded face, which clearly displayed his orc heritage; on the contrary, he was singing. In each hand he held a broad-faced axe, and his belt and shoulder straps held many more, some of them throwing weapons.

The woman behind the half-orc carried a sword on her back but wore no armor. No bracers protected her arms, and her hair flowed freely in the wind. She wore a silken dress that was imbued with magical protections, for fighter-mages could not cast spells with the burden of armor.

The leather-clad elf that sat in the back faced rearwards. He held a massive crossbow in his hands, yet he handled it with ease. It was clear that he was to defend the dragon from aerial assaults by other flying creatures.


Wolfram led the dragon into the battle, speaking gently to it, and keeping a firm hand on the reins. wolfram was flanked on eiither side by several more war parties also riding on silver dragons, but the enemy forces outnumbered his own by at least three to one, fielding both red and black dragons mounted by cambions, undead, liches and dark mages, knights, and archers of their own. In addition the dragons were reinforced by a large number of smaller demons and other creatures capable of flight.

But the differences in tactics was obvious from the beginning of the battle. The evil hordes fought by sheer brute force, concentrating as much firepower as possible on one foe at a time, while Wolfram's dragons fought in pairs and fours, each covering and checking the others, which helped make up for their numerical disadvantage.

A red settled on their tail and followed them closely, spewing red fireballs in an attempt to bring them down. A trio of liches fired a series of death spells at them, but the cleric wa able to nullify their effect. the elf shot two of them off with his crossbow and the barbarian sent spinning an axe that lodged squarely in the head of the third. The wizard cast a spell that turned one of the dragon's wings to stone, and the beast fell to earth helplessly.

Wolfram smashed his way through the enemy creatures, his own dragon unscathed, but sending six more red and black dragons down and slaying their riders. Suddenly, he handed the reins to the fighter-mage woman, and leapt from the back of the magnificent silver creature - directly into the courtyard of the brimstone castle beneath. Swords singing in his hands, he danced among the undead and demonic legions, cutting them down like harvested wheat. But where every demon met its death, more seemed to take its place, and he found himself fighting endlessly against an unyielding foe. He moved powerfully and swiftly, spinning and leaping in his attacks, striking each monster seven times in the time it would take most men to strike once, connecting with his boots, pommels and fists as well as his blades. Still the demons continued to reappear.

Then he heard something, a voice, calling his name. "Wolfram!!" He fought on in the direction of that sound, even though it seemed his vision was dimming now. He was covered in blood, his face, his hands and arms, even his armor, though still shining magnificently, it seemed almost defiled by the quantity of blood that drenched it. His boots seemed to be filled to their tops with blood, every step seemed to soak his feet in it. The blood of undead and demon covered him from head to toe.....

"Wolfram!"................ all turned to blackness..........

"Wolfram! are you alright? You passed out."

Gradually, Wolfram became aware of the present again, though he wished he knew more of what he had been seeing...

Wolfram felt that his mind was a locked tome; the knowledge which had been sealed away had to have been done so through the use of very powerful magics, for no other force could have such a thorough effect. Surely any natural memory loss would not have been so discriminating; for as Wolfram had discovered, his fighting skills had not been affected in the least, and fighting-related material such as information on enemies, monsters, and their abilities seemed to come to mind when needed. He seemed to know where to strike his enemies, and what he needed to defeat more numerous or stronger foes, but anything regarding his identity, such as where he got such knowledge, was inaccessible. Indeed, trying to recall such memories only seemed to come up with blankness, nothingness, a wall that was almost tangible in nature, a barrier to his inner psyche. All efforts were nullified, and served to create silent despair that was unlike anything he had ever known.

But no matter how powerful such magic could be, the mind and consciousness of a living being was a much more complicated creation than any sorecery could fathom, and there were gaps in the heavy blinds that had been drawn over the eyes of Wolfram's mind. It was through such gaps that the memories were returning, and they filled him with a powerful hope that drove him onward.

And as Wolfram walked the streets of S'mon Traska that evening, it was the hope that he would be able to make a breakthrough in this powerful magical barrier that pushed him forward. He had left his friends in the inn where they had made their temporary headquarters while they stayed in S'mon Traska. The elf had proved adept at public relations, and the necromancer that accompanied them seemed to possess a limited understanding of their culture and customs. The adventurers had taken to becoming acquainted with one another right away, as well as forming plans of action. Perhaps because he was a man of action rather than words, or more likely because he had so little of his own identity to share with the new species, Wolfram had decided to retire early from the discussions, in order to get some "fresh air" and be with himself for a while.

Wolfram had perused the street markets and suppliers for weapons and equipment. He had hidden the belt well by wearing two large leather girdles over it, and he guarded his back well against the prying eyes of the ever -present thieves. There were very few shields that held to the standards that Wolfram desired. Instead, he scoured the merchants for a good sword that would match his own. He finally found what he was looking for in the form of a bastard sword that seemed to stand out from among the others in display. The weapon was truly balanced, and the steel was finely crafted without flaw. The weapon felt very familiar in his grip, like a handshake with an old friend. Wolfram took a minute to hold a second sword in his off hand instead of a shield, trying to get a feel for what his mind would say. Though he received no concrete response, he felt that he had been trained to fight this way as well as with a sword and shield, perhaps even better. Sheathing his swords, he strode off into a dark alleyway as the dark grew deeper.

Wolfram walked without fear. Faces everywhere fixed upon him, sizing him up, assessing the threat he presented. Wolfram did not stare at them directly, but his fighter's instincts enabled him to keep his guard up without returning direct threats. Most turned away after a thorough assessment, some even started to approach him in groups, but all turned away almost immediately. Wolfram pressed on towards his goal.

The Sorceress of the Slums, she was called, also known as The Seer. A thorough casing of any informant types in the area pointed towards her being the best choice for what he had in mind. Wolfram was not about to waste his gold on a quick visit with a mad wizard or drunken cleric that would leave him without answers or give him false information. Only the Seer was anywhere near described as sincere, though she was obviously something more than what would meet the eye, for all who spoke her name did so in tones of suspicion or disdain. Though she was supposed to be good in nature, many who had encountered her seemed to harbor an inner hatred or distrust of the woman. Of course he was speaking to thieves and pickpockets, at best, but that did not necessarily discredit them completely.

Wolfram at last approached her dwelling, a ragged shack that was hewn from a purplish metallic alloy that looked liked it held one medium sized room at best. It was nestled tightly between two larger structures, and judging from their positioning, the shack probably never saw the light of day. He considered turning back, but decided to trust his instincts, or rather, what was left of them, and continued forward. Though Wolfram was no wizard, there was a palpable sense of magic about the little shack, and indeed, it seemed that there was much more than what met the eye. He paused for a moment, then knocked gently at the door.

As the door creaked open, a thick cloud of foul-smelling smoke rolled out into the streets and Wolfram was confronted by a shriveled old woman in a black mage's robe. "Whaddaya want?" she screeched in a voice that sounded like the scraping of rusty nails on steel. Wolfram looked beyond her shoulder and observed that the little shack was a mess, with animal entrails lying about and filling the place with the stench of rotting meat. The source of the thick green cloud was a large black kettle which roiled and foamed over with its foul brew. On the ceiling and walls, runes and satanic symbols were painted in blood, including a large pentagram which was centered in the ceiling. Cages lined the walls, live animals of all variety which probably served as the sources of ingredients for the witch's potions.

As he beheld the spectacle and smelt the putrid stench, however, his instincts told him of no danger, and despite the satanic symbols and the foul brew, he could detect none of the sensations of evil which had always been strongly present in any encounter with the forces of chaos. He stepped forward into the room and closed the door behind him, trusting only what fragment of instinct that he could call judgement implicitly.

As soon as he had closed the door, however, things began to change. The witch smiled, and suddenly a white mist filled the room, blocking everything from sight. Wolfram' hands touched the hilts of his swords, but there had been no expression of hatred in the woman's eyes, and there was no palpable sense of evil in the room itself. Perhaps he was being tested? Wolfram slowly moved his hands away from his weapons. The mist began to clear, and Wolfram noticed the foul smell was no more. Wolfram was standing alone in what looked like a staircase; not only had the room been an illusion, but the shack itself also served this purpose, for the lair of the witch, if that was what she was, was underground. Wolfram advanced cautiously down the steps. When he reached the floor, the room that opened up before him was large and spacious. The rooms only illumination was the large fireplace, but Wolfram could see that the place was kept neat and clean. Fine, thick carpets lined the floor and oak shelves held a rather sizable collection of magical tomes and chemicals. But instead of the shriveled old crone that had met him at the door, the "witch" was actually a young and beautiful woman, clothed in white silk, standing with her back toward Wolfram, silhouetted against the fire.

Wolfram couldn't quite place his finger on the style of architecture and layout of the room, but he felt certain that he had seen it before. He stepped forward, intending to walk around to face the woman, when suddenly turned around and looked him directly in the eyes. "Are you afraid of the truth?" she asked. Wolfram beheld her very dark skin and her bright white hair, and saw the pointed shape of her ears which made clear her elven heritage. She was Drow.

"Most mortal men would prefer to strike me down on the spot, and rightfully so." Wolfram considered this, but again restrained himself. Despite the drow elves' reputation for cruelty, mass murder, torture, and their general evil nature, Wolfram rationed that any attack directed against him would have been launched by now, and true drow do not live amongst humans. Wolfram now understood the need for the deception. Obviously others had seen her true nature before, and that was why they were fraught with fear and hatred when Wolfram had spoken of her with them. But, Wolfram was desperate for answers about his past, and he was not about to give up simply because the only seer in town capable of helping him was a dark elf. Besides, his instinct seemed to say that he had dealt with Drow before, and that there were valid exceptions to their barbaric nature.

"My lady, I have no intention of harming you. I come seeking answers for my memory, which has been lost. I was told that your was the only magic powerful enough to help me with what I need."

"You honour me with your words, human, but you must forgive me if I don't trust you. My time with your kind has been brief, since I was cast out from my house and my city, and I have had nothing but ill experiences from the surface dwellers."

"Humans do tend to be extremely superstitious. And, to this very day, nearly all encounters between human and drow have been on the battlefield."

"I am rejected no matter where I go. I was nearly killed by my own family for refusing to participate in the ritual torture of captured prisoners, and setting them free. When I fled the subterranean city of my heritage, I was chased and hunted by a human war party that included the same two humans that I had saved from death. I have since learned that there is no limit to the level your kind will stoop."

Wolfram suddenly smiled at her. "How did you escape the war party? You killed them, didn't you?"

Wolfram had never seen a drow blush before, but the color change on her face seemed to indicate that they were capable of doing so. She looked down at the floor, then back at him, and for a moment, almost smiled. "Your point is taken…..but you must understand they gave me little choice, and I am drow, regardless of what decisions I made which separated me from my kind."

"Of course," said Wolfram. "Perhaps now would be a good time to get to the business I had in mind. I need your spells, or whatever magic you have available, to aid me in recovering lost memories from my mind, which has been erased to a certain extent."

"Before I can accomplish anything for you, I require the price of 7,000 gold."

"7000?" The price was indeed steep, but Wolfram knew that it was a small price indeed to pay for gaining another shard of his shattered past. Besides, his recent exploits had left his party rather well off, and he had something that the drow might find suitable. Wolfram reached into his boot and removed a small leather pouch. Overturning it, he laid a small handful of gems on the table. The drow eyed them suspiciously, but then decided that they would suffice.

She removed some of the herbs and chemicals from her shelves, and began mixing a small vial of potion. She had also taken a couple of scrolls from the cases and prepared for casting her spells. "So, you say that you have no idea as to your true identity?"

"My name is Wolfram. I know only that I have lived by the sword all my life, and that I once fought for a great kingdom, and had many friends, and a family. I know also that they were all killed, and it was the doing of a very powerful evil. I cannot tell you any more, for I know nothing more of my past."
The drow sorceress set one of the potions on fire, giving the light in the room a strange blue tint, but giving off no smoke. "Call me Cryss," she said, then added another ingredient to the flaming mixture. It stopped burning altogether, but fluoresced with nearly twice the light, then faded slowly into a colorless, clear fluid. Wolfram stared at the other concoctions she was preparing; they gave off light but no heat, but had no odor whatsoever. "What, exactly, are you planning?" Cryss responded without looking up from her work. "I am creating a potion which draws on the innate magic of the mind, and uses such energy to work with mental information that is lost. I will then cast a spell of memory on you, and the combination of my magic and the potion's effects should be more than able to bring to your conscience the memories that you seek.

Several minutes later, the process was complete. Wolfram stared at the potion for a few seconds, then drank it. It had absolutely no taste whatsoever; the experience was akin to drinking warm water. But then Cryss began chanting the words of her spell, and when complete, his mind suddenly seemed to double in capacity to think, and he seemed to be doing so at a speed superhuman in comparison to normal human thought.

Wolfram sat down in one of the large oak chairs and closed his eyes, trying to relax and bring back the memories, or the state of mind he had been in when the memories had returned. His efforts were met with no success. "It doesn't work," he explained. "The only thing that seemed to bring it back was an experience in combat."

Then perhaps, we should recreate the stress of battle in your mind to aid the process of your memory." Wolfram considered her words. "And you have a potion that can recreate the feel of battle?" Cryss stared back, with an expression of mischief, deception, that seemed to typify the face of a drow female. "I have no such potion, and to create such a spell would take far too long. However, I have a more expedient solution at hand, one that, if I am correct, you might even find, entertaining." Cryss smiled, and began a second spell. "What the hell are you doing?" Wolfram sprang to his feet, but the words of the dweomer had already been completed and the spell set in motion. Before Wolfram a wall of fire suddenly rose from the floor. The flames gradually took on a swirling circular motion, and a large black hole appeared in the midst of the fiery wall. Wolfram stood speechless as he saw the claws of an otherworldly creature reach through. With a swift, and deadly graceful movement, the demon pulled itself through the fiery portal, followed by five more of its kind. The fiery portal disappeared, apparently having done no damage to the rug or the walls. The six demons closed on Wolfram, surrounding him in a circle as his bastard swords came free of their scabbards, and with an unworldly fury, they assaulted him.