Points of Light

To the Black Hills

May 3rd, 2009

Party explores ruined city. Fight with bandits in their “hideout”. Willy looks for gems and artwork. Kira looks for secret doors. Borstal refuses to ride horse.

Spend lots of time traveling to Silverton. Hire Aaron Blackthorn. Wander in mountains forever. Go to Temple of Hope and find seekrit stairs. Fight lots of orcs (and zombies!) in room full of crates.


Abomination! The foul miscreants who carried out the desecration of the Temple of Hope would find no mercy at Borstal’s hands. Bad enough that the statues had been defaced, worse that their likenesses had been changed, and unforgivable to have done it for Gruumsh, that hideous purveyor of unnatural disorder. Borstal had lobbied insistently for the party to make it’s way to the Temple and now was convinced it was at the bidding of Moradin—to cleanse the filth from these once holy grounds. It was good to hear the ranger’s words that the desecration was a recent event, but it could not wholly dampen the cleric’s righteous indignation. Whatever was to be found, Borstal was ready to unleash all the power of Moradin he could channel.

To the Black Hills

As he thinks back over the last fight, Willie ponders the wisdom of everyone using so much of their power in a single battle. True the warlock was near death’s door, and the party did manage to keep him alive. But had another fight been waiting around the corner would we have survived it? Perhaps in the future, I should make sure I hold something in reserve, just in case…

To the Black Hills

Soreth reels from the orc’s brutal strike, stumbling sideways, eyes unfocused. With an indecipherable mumbling, he drops to the floor of the chamber. The stone is cool and rough against his cheek. He smells dust and mildew and ozone, and can taste blood… his own. Light and shadow whirl around above him. Steel smashes on steel, spells flare, battle cries echo. His senses fade, his control over eldritch forces slips from him… Hadar’s hungering darkness uncoils from where his summons brought it into being, and for a moment the last thing he sees in darkness, is the flickering light of his familiar as it drifts over him…

...In the silence between this world and the void, his awareness drifts, pulling away from the suggestions of this place and the fighting.


A world. A moon. Other worlds dancing in concert around the day-star.


Darkness. Stars to match the changeable light of the sun, then others, increasing in size and strangeness.


The roaring silence of the deep sky, and stars, bloated, swollen and luminous, spheres to whom the sun is but a fleck of dust in comparison. Every single one watches him now in this moment, waiting…

The warlock’s back arches and he pulls a breath into his aching lungs. Over him stand Lyra and the others, beating back their enemies, giving him time for their healing to do its work. At the corner of his eye, the tiny weaving of light and shadow drifts into sight again, chiming sounds only he can hear, welcoming him back.

Soreth’s leathers are spattered with his blood, but he lives yet. Gathering his will about him like his robes, he jabs out with one hand and vindictively hurls another spell at an oncoming enemy.

The world still feels loose, like a tooth wobbling in its socket from a cruel blow, but he grasps at the wall next to him and slowly drags himself to his feet.

“No…” Soreth whispers as he closes his eyes against the dizziness, concentrating on his breathing. “They shall not have me today.”

To the Black Hills

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