Imoen (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
buffleheaded) wrote2017-12-14 10:27 pm
buffleheaded) wrote2017-12-14 10:27 pm
Memory share
Arrested by the magic police
The entire party is hurting, weary, but set on edge as they make their way up the sewer tunnel with Syeira in the lead. Even after all they’ve gotten through, they have to be troubled: they are stepping over the bodies of thieves and assassins, and as they approach sunlight, the sounds of battle grow near. Stepping out, there is a necessary period of adjustment to the light, but there isn’t time for it, because there’s a shout and an explosion beyond Imoen, heat bathing her back as the tunnel collapses behind the party.
Irenicus has seen them, a grotesque humanoid figure with a mask like skin stretched tight over his face. It is his hand stretched toward them, and it is surely his spell that cut off the option of turning back to hide in the tunnels, look for another way out. The city around him is in disarray, buildings partially demolished, and Irenicus stands in an actual crater he has made in the street. The mage whirls back to the assassins before him, snarling. “You dare attack me here?! Do you even know whom you face?! You will suffer! You will all suffer!”
The assassins try to close the distance as Irenicus begins to cast, but it isn’t fast enough: they are all obliterated, leaving no remains. As if he had done nothing more than take out the trash, Irenicus turns back to the party, his voice returning to that infuriating calm. “So godchild, you have escaped. You are more resourceful than I had thought.” He seems to be addressing Syeira, sparking additional outrage in Imoen: their escape was Imoen’s resourcefulness, freeing the rest of the party, but he thinks he can dismiss her. This man is terrible, has done unthinkable things. He can’t get away with it.
“You’re not going to torture us any longer,” Imoen declares.
“Torture?” Irenicus asks as if it never occurred that the things he has done could ever be described as such. “Silly girl, you just don’t understand what I’m doing, do you?”
“I don’t care what you’re doing! Let us go!”
He raises a hand, as though he were an adult stopping a petulant child. “I won’t let you leave, not when I’m so close to unlocking your power.”
Rage drowns out Imoen’s fear, an itch to see this man dead overwhelming. Finally, she snarls, “We don’t want anything from you!” A quick motion of her hand, nudging the world’s energy around her, a word of power ringing in the air, and when she extends her arm, darts of energy flash from her fingertips, arcing and homing in to strike at the mage -- and doing nothing.
“Enough, I will no longer listen to the babbling of ignorant children.” Irenicus sounds bored, weaving a pattern himself. The spell releases, and fire blooms around Imoen. It burns, and she cries out, too busy swatting out lingering flame to take notice at first as portals swirl into existence around the crater.
Wizards in uniform cowls step out of the portals, the first declaring, “This is an unsanctioned use of magical energy!”
The second adds his voice, certain of their authority. “All involved will be held! This disturbance is over!”
The wizard’s confidence is as unearned as so many other mortal men. No sooner has Irenicus responded by complaining, “Must I be interrupted at every turn? Enough of this!” than the first spell has been cast, and Irenicus has destroyed the poor fool. A hasty exchange of magical energy ensues, Imoen pushing down her pain long enough to join in again -- but every spell by Irenicus kills, and every spell thrown at him might as well be a harmless light show.
“This mage’s power is immense; we must overcome him quickly,” mutters one of the wizards.
Spying more portals opening, more of the uniformed wizards stepping through, Irenicus growls. “Enough! I haven’t the time for this!”
“You will cease your spellcasting and come with us!” For some reason, this time the wizard’s words get through; Irenicus stops weaving energy, his hands slowly dropping. There’s a thought in his expression, and Imoen doesn’t trust it. But maybe, somehow, the authorities will put this horror to an end.
“Your pathetic magics are useless. Let this end.” Not exactly the tone of a man surrendering. Perhaps, Imoen thinks, Irenicus hopes they will give up, let him go. Anger spikes again, and she tries to think of what spells she has left.
“Even if we fall, our numbers are many,” the wizard is shooting back. “You will be overwhelmed.”
“You bore me, mageling.” A beat, as Irenicus decides to commit to whatever idea he’s hatched in his head. “You may take me in, but you will take the girl as well.”
Imoen gasps. What? “What? No! I’ve done nothing wrong!”
The wizard glances her way, no hesitation in his expression. Imoen realizes that this was always the next order of business, after stopping Irenicus’ rampage. “You have been involved in illegal use of magic. You will come with us,” he declares.
“I’m not going with him!” Panic. She can’t fight Irenicus, what can she do against the seemingly endless ranks of the cowled wizards? Even as she protests, more are teleporting in. She turns to Syeira, appealing -- Syeira is a hero, she can fix all of this. “I’m not! Help me! Please!”
Syeira is shouting, too, hand on the hilt of one of her swords as she tries to navigate debris to reach Imoen, her free hand outstretched to her sister. But it's not the bhaalspawn's hand that closes on Imoen's wrists, even as other wizards claim Irenicus’. Words echo in the city streets, and energy swirls around her, whisking them away. When it clears, it takes a moment for Imoen’s mind to comprehend its new environment: grand marble halls, ornate pillars, and still more of these wizards, two of them already casting new spells.
Glowing spheres coalesce around Imoen and Irenicus, which she slams a fist against, but which he simply regards, his expression impassive. To her, a victim, it is a bewildering injustice. To him, an expected detail of his new plan. The wizards take up positions around them, periodically renewing the spells containing the prisoners, until finally, an old man enters the hall.
“These are the prisoners from the disturbance at Waukeen’s Promenade,” one of the wizards from the fight informs.
“What is known?”
“Naught but their names. The mage is Jon Irenicus. The girl is Imoen.”
Imoen interjects, still panicked, still holding out a hope that these men are interested in seeing justice done. “I didn’t do anything. He did it all, I had --”
“Silence, child.” Irenicus’ bored words stop her short, makes her feel like he has her in manacles again. Helpless.
“Why was this man not gagged?” asks the old man. “Did he not slay four of you?”
“We dared not approach.”
Another wizard speaks up. “Regardless, in the end he came willingly. What should be done with them, sir?”
“They are deviants,” the old man says, like it’s the most obvious fact in existence. “Let them rot in Spellhold.” And then silver energy is surrounding Imoen again, carrying her away.
The woman in Spellhold
Although the real administrator is an inmate at the asylum now, the place must function. It is necessary for his plan that things appear normal -- as normal as an asylum for insane mages can be. A place for people beyond help. When Imoen arrived, she was not such a person.
The young woman huddled in a corner of the common area? She does belong. She fits in where Imoen suffered, where Imoen had sought an escape. Once-delightful pink hair is an unkempt mess, and the woman flinches when one of the other residents exclaims in a panic yet again that the dogs are coming for him. She’s already hurting, already being crowded out by her own darkness, she doesn’t need to be bothered by everyone else’s, too.
And then there’s Tiax. Imoen would have remembered the little bastard, if she were still here. He annoys the huddling woman, keeps exclaiming how all should fear him. It makes her want to -- to -- she shudders, and whimpers.
“Look who I am today,” says a bright little voice. When the woman turns to see, her breath freezes. It’s like looking in a mirror. The shapeshifter has taken Imoen’s face. Well. No, that’s not Imoen, either. Is she really so dirty, and bruised, and is the scar really so stark? That is not who she is, it is not who she wants to be, and something mean rises in her that says she must correct the shapeshifter. Show the creature how wrong she is. Teach her a lesson. Perhaps even one she will. Not. Walk. Away. From.
Before she can even think twice about it, the woman is lurching forward, and someone is screaming rage. Hands close on the shapeshifter’s neck, tight, but it’s not enough to hear the girl strain, feel something start to give under hand. She claws at the scarred eye, twists her body to throw the other down, smacking her head on the unyielding floor. The shapeshifter cannot cry out, but the woman is pleased to know she is trying to do it, even as she does it again, breath speeding as she spots blood on the floor.
Lucky for the shapeshifter, it isn’t all that long before cold hands clamp down on the woman’s wrists, thumbs pressing just where it will force her hand to release the throat. The shapeshifter curls, trying to sob and mostly just coughing. The woman cries, too, as the new warden hauls her away, carelessly dumping her into a little room and closing the door. It isn’t necessary for the warden to comfort her, or even to question why she would attack one of her fellow inmates. After all, breaking her was just another part of his plan.
Some sort of LotR knockoff
It’s definitely ren faire day somewhere. Imoen is trailing five others: Syeira, the red-haired half-elf bard and her sister; Haer’Dalis, another bard, but this one an unfairly sexy tiefling whose voice always captivates Imoen, marks on his face betraying the demonic blood in his ancestry; Minsc and Boo, a muscle-bound warrior somewhat addled by too many blows to the head and his “miniature giant space” hamster; Anomen, handsome and sweet for Syeira but such a rigid knight, one that Imoen wants to tease and undercut whenever an excuse presents itself; and finally, Viconia, a woman whose voice and bearing could be mistaken for Poison Ivy’s if it weren’t for the fact that she is a drow, dark-skinned and red-eyed.
Viconia is particularly comfortable as they make their way down a torch-lit tunnel, caverns leading into more artificially-carved mining tunnels. She still thinks they do not need guidance to find Adalon, and suggests that if the Sverfneblin have disturbed something by digging too greedily, that is their own affair to settle. Minsc is booming something about how Boo is eager to kick evil’s butt in any realm, making Imoen duck her head and smile as Syeira greets a pair of little gnome-like guards at a doorway, assures them they do not need warned away from the area beyond. They have been sent to face the danger. Imoen is certain her sister can handle whatever may be there.
Weapons are readied, snarky banter and petty bickering dying down as the door is opened to reveal...nothing. A small room, with a seemingly bottomless shaft dug out in the middle. Imoen takes a relieved breath, slips her throwing dagger back into its sheath and closes the door after they have all filed in.
They poke about the shaft, reluctant to climb down. Imoen kicks a pebble over the edge, quickly loses sight of it. She groans, because there will be so much mine to search. “Fear not, little one!” Minsc assures her. “I have strength enough to carry you and Boo.” Somehow, the hamster knows to squeak at her, making her think again that it might be as special as the insane warrior claims.
But before anyone can be the first to step onto the dreaded ladder, Haer’dalis leans over the edge, puts fingers to his lips, and with a bit of subtle magic amplifying the sound, lets out a sharp whistle. Syeira chuckles, nudges him, and says, “No, like this.” Another, more piercing whistle sounds.
They watch over the edge for several tense heartbeats, before Syeira's eyes pick out motion, and she points, silent to keep from drawing any further attention to them. They know now where to go -- or they did. A flash, and the shadow far below vanishes.
The next flash is several yards behind them, between the party and the door, coalescing into a giant...balrog? Who’s going to pay Peter Jackson royalties for ripping off his visual designs? But no, Anomen shouts, “Balor!” just before the creature rears up, wings spreading and burning weapons outstretched. A deep roar, and a fireball shoots from its open maw, flames wreathing the entire room. A myriad of sounds from everyone -- surprise, pain, anger.
Imoen uncurls where she dropped to the floor, smoldering and feeling like the skin of her hands have been stuck inside an oven. As she pushes back up to her feet, she tries to think back to her reading back in Candlekeep, to recall something useful about the giant demon. It isn’t bothered by fire -- obviously. Only heavily enchanted weapons could pierce its skin -- that's fine, they all have magic weapons by now. No point mentioning it. Wait, there is something. “Hold your magic! It’ll resist it!”
It almost seems like she’s talking to herself. Minsc has raised his sword and is charging headlong, the bards have found ropes over the mine shaft and are swinging about the demon with their weapons. Open the dictionary to “swashbuckling,” and you’ll see them, she thinks. Anomen has his shield up, approaching with a prayer on his lips. Viconia is too busy raising her holy symbol and growling in a dark language a demand for her goddess to heal the party, to grant them strength. They’re good, but a few swords will only do so much, and the healer won’t be able to keep up with the harm the balor is dishing out when it blasts the fighters with energy, or lashes at them with flaming whip and sword. Imoen makes a face, and reaches out to start rearranging ambient energy, chanting, finally snapping her fingers to release the spell she has shaped, color lancing at the balor, forming a point that splashes in the air just short of its target -- and there, finally, tears the resisting shimmer apart, reaching the balor’s fiery skin.
No harm done, but that wasn’t the goal. It would be vulnerable to magic now. Fire would still do nothing, but the small room is perfect for the next best offensive element. She stored a few spells in a sequencer for just such a room, just waiting for a thought to release them. “Hey! Take cover!”
This time when she shouts, they listen, the bards practically vanishing as they slip down the ropes into the shaft, Minsc looking comical as the big man lumbers and tries to hide behind a support beam thinner than he is. Anomen dives for the floor, but Viconia huffs out an annoyed breath, too dignified to do anything more frantic than slip into a rocky outcropping.
The balor roars again, starts to pursue Minsc as Imoen starts to weave her next spell, words of power ringing as she points, and a lightning bolt jumps from her fingertips. Before it even reaches the balor, she releases the spell sequencer with a thought, three more lightning bolts flashing in quick succession. Now Imoen can go down again, tucking into as small a target as she can, in case something goes horribly wrong.
Each bolt strikes, passes through, hits the wall beyond and then simply rebounds to strike the demon again. Rebounds, blasts another series of smoking wounds into the balor. One more time, and the lightning peters out as the demon topples, a sizzling stench filling the room.
Imoen stares at the destruction she has wrought as the party emerges from their cover. Victory and the desire to gloat is quickly fading to disappointment that it is over. No more heart-pumping action, no more stakes as Minsc heaves the demon over the edge, letting it plummet into darkness. Someone is calling for the wizard to use the scroll the gnomes gave them, but the trembling is starting again, and Imoen almost takes a swipe at Haer’dalis when he steps up, leans and plucks the scroll from a pouch on her belt. Hands the parchment over to Viconia, who accepts like she is doing the tiefling a favor just letting him approach her. The drow reads the spell off, sweeping an arm through the air to direct suddenly shifting stone, slowly reshaping the shaft to seal it off.
It’s over, and what a shame that it is.
Look at the brain on that one
As Imoen steps up to the door, she glances left -- Anomen stands ready just to one side of the frame, shield clenched in hand and a mace in the other. The knight nods to her. A glance to the right -- Minsc, the giant warrior looking disappointed that he still does not get to lead the charge, but his miniature giant space hamster companion peering back, wiggling eagerly on his shoulder. Imoen gives him a friendly pat, knowing he still doesn't agree that if he had the enemy's attention, they would simply suck his mushy little brain out.
Because when Imoen takes a deep preparatory breath and shoves the door open, there are a pair of illithids waiting on the other side, flanked by an umber hulk and strange golems constructed from nervous tissue. A great brain in a vat waits beyond. The Elder Brain is the goal. Syeira needs its blood: it keeps them trapped in the illithid lair, it is a necessary component to trick the drow Matron into beginning her summoning ritual, where Imoen will be able to steal back the silver dragon's eggs, where -- bah. This whole convoluted plan is for later. Right now, all in the room are tensing, knowing that it will be a fight. After all, it was a fight just to get this far. The psionic voice of a mind flayer manifests first.
We saw, we felt, how you made your way through our lair. This is only a sending. We will not waste an attempt to control you on an image.
Imoen brings a single finger up to tap her nose, beaming cheerfully at the creature.
What we cannot see...a misleading image? Or a true projection?
She makes a face, and shrugs. To speak would be to answer the creature's question, showing them whether this illusion can pose a threat or not. There's an unpleasant 'sound,' the creatures deciding to answer their own question. The umber hulk lurches forward, psionic abilities lashing at the illusion as the dumb beast attempts and fails to confuse its target. The mind flayers approach more cautiously, tentacles waving. Least concerning of all, the brain golems rush.
The illithid's question will be answered, as Imoen's simulacrum traces a spell, giant spiders flashing into existence between herself and the charging umber hulk. Chittering fills the air as legs lift, fangs closing on the beetle-like hulk. Tearing, poisoning. The dumb beast roars, confused, and turns its attention to this painful obstruction.
Anomen and Minsc reveal themselves, stepping through the doorway on either side of Imoen's simulacrum, swinging maces at the brain golems, beating them away from the illusion. The illithids screech, immediately concentrating on valid targets for their psionics.
Too late. Imoen's simulacrum whips a dragontooth dagger from its sleeve, throwing it at the older of the two illithids, knowing it will be resistant to magical attacks. The dagger buries in its shoulder, bursting flame searing the thing before the dagger pulls free, flying back toward the illusion's hand. Hard to concentrate on one's psionics when suddenly one is being stabbed.
Somewhere, the real Imoen is switching her mind's focus, moving from the simulacrum to her projected image. This one may not be able to throw a real attack like the simulacrum, but it sure can step in after the fighters, raising a wand and triggering a magic missile to dart out and strike the illithid that hasn't been stabbed, disrupting its concentration, too.
The umber hulk sinks to the floor, its last breath sighing out. A switch of focus: the spiders turn and swarm toward the older illithid. A switch of focus: the simulacrum speaks, an acid arrow forming over its hand, launching itself at the younger illithid when the illusion mimes a throwing motion. A switch of focus: the projected image weaves another spell, a fireball exploding far enough back in the room to burn the younger illithid without doing more than make Minsc and Anomen uncomfortably hot. It falls, smoking. Syeira, drow cleric Viconia and tiefling bard Haer'Dalis are stepping in now, adding their weapons to managing the older illithid and the golems in that order.
The older mind flayer makes a horrible sound as it punctures one of the spider's carapaces, consuming the creature's brain. A switch of focus. Imoen's simulacrum shifts to one side, finding a clear line in the fray. Another spell, and tiny burning meteors manifest in the illusion's hands, which it proceeds to begin throwing. The flames do not overcome the magical resistance, but the stones themselves are very real, and the spell propels them harder at the remaining illithid than simple muscle could have managed. It reels as the projectiles make their impact. A switch of focus, and the projected image begins to do the same from the other side.
It isn't fair. It's applying overwhelming force without the wizard ever exposing herself to danger, and the last mind flayer is falling as the timer runs out on Imoen's illusions, her awareness suddenly shrinking and cramming back into her own head. "Oof," she mutters, then stretches, climbs back up to her feet. "Time to go see what we won, huh."
The ones who weren't left behind
It's a normal day in the library fortress of Candlekeep. Monks stroll the grounds, laden with scrolls and nothing of traditional value. Imoen might have had to resort to pranking some poor intellectual to make it through the day if it weren't for the odd behavior of three people: her wizardly foster father, Gorion, and the portly innkeep Winthrop, who acts as more of a father to her. There is an urgency to Gorion's demeanor this morning, and he is preparing supplies to travel, bothering the other monks for components for spells. And Winthrop? He actually cares about getting Imoen to do chores today, instead of looking the other way as she runs off to have fun. She has to wiggle out of a window to shirk cleanup duty today. Syeira, the half-elven girl who is Gorion's other ward, isn't joining her in antics today because Gorion has instructed her to prepare to join his sudden journey.
For once, something is happening.
Phlydia has misplaced her book again, like she always does, and Imoen snags it from the grass the book was abandoned in as she heads for the main hall, hugging it to her chest and slapping it with her hand if any of the monks look warily in her direction. It is an excuse, freedom to pass into the private rooms of the monks, because everyone knows how Phylidia has her head in the clouds. Soon enough, the young thief is fiddling with a lock, opening the door to Gorion's room. It's orderly, filled with the same smell of old books that permeates any room of this building. Let's see: a bed, chest, drawers, books and scrolls and robes. There, on the table, is another odd thing out: a letter. The exact content of it is fuzzy to Imoen's memory, but she remembers the sinking feeling in her stomach. The scrawling hand of the writer, "E," warns that Candlekeep is no longer safe for those in Gorion's care. E urges taking flight, and seeking companions for safety in the more unpredictable world outside the walls of the keep.
Whatever it is, it's bad. And there's logic that Imoen doesn't know about, and she is being deliberately left out, even though Gorion has two foster children in his care. And even more, she worries for Syeira. As Imoen makes her way back into the yard, she spies her adoptive sister. She's armed, and Imoen has to put on a big, goofy grin to greet her. Words spill out sillier than usual, laden with deliberate mispronunciations as she tries to hint that she would like to know where Gorion and Syeira are going, and she'd like ever so much to go along. Because it's so boring in Candlekeep. A kernel of truth to sell the lie. Syeira knows Imoen is bored of never getting to leave the walls, and is so trusting. She won't question it or dig to find the sense of dread.
The words are meant to be light, but Imoen feels brushed aside when they part. Little one rings in her ears, and she rehashes the conversation in her head as she heads back to Winthrop's inn, arguing the perceived dismissal and winning her way into Gorion's traveling party in her imagination. Waits for Winthrop's poor discipline to present a lapse, distracted with the drink in his gut and entertaining a rare guest. Then she can grab her pack and stuff it with bread and cheese and...oh. This isn't running away. This is inviting herself along for something dangerous, hoping to play the part of Syeira's surprise guardian angel. And over there is where Winthrop keeps the dangerous things on racks. A short sword, a bow, bundles of arrows. Potions, even a magic wand. All of them, into the pack. She's handled the weapons before, but carrying it all together is heavier than she's used to, and her heart is racing with the expectation that she will be caught as her looted potions rattle a little on the way out the door. But Winthrop is having a hearty laugh, and it is fine.
A wink and a promise that she's just up to the usual trouble is enough to fool the guards on the wall, and soon enough the sun is starting to sink. Imoen lashes a rope to stone and ties the pack to the other end, and waits to see Gorion and Syeira trudging out the keep's gate before lowering the rope to the ground. She's not that strong, she doesn't want to climb down with the pack's weight, and besides, she thinks it will help as an anchor. It's awkward. Imoen makes it down anyway, unties her pack and slips into it, running until she can see the figures of the others on the road in the dwindling light. Too close to the keep to reveal herself to them; the draconian entry policy to the keep means she will never get back in without paying her way with a rare book or finding a way back over the wall, but Gorion's influence can still override that.
So she stays off the path, skulking after them and staying in thick brush wherever she can. Excited. Scared. No plan but to try and keep up where she does not belong.
The entire party is hurting, weary, but set on edge as they make their way up the sewer tunnel with Syeira in the lead. Even after all they’ve gotten through, they have to be troubled: they are stepping over the bodies of thieves and assassins, and as they approach sunlight, the sounds of battle grow near. Stepping out, there is a necessary period of adjustment to the light, but there isn’t time for it, because there’s a shout and an explosion beyond Imoen, heat bathing her back as the tunnel collapses behind the party.
Irenicus has seen them, a grotesque humanoid figure with a mask like skin stretched tight over his face. It is his hand stretched toward them, and it is surely his spell that cut off the option of turning back to hide in the tunnels, look for another way out. The city around him is in disarray, buildings partially demolished, and Irenicus stands in an actual crater he has made in the street. The mage whirls back to the assassins before him, snarling. “You dare attack me here?! Do you even know whom you face?! You will suffer! You will all suffer!”
The assassins try to close the distance as Irenicus begins to cast, but it isn’t fast enough: they are all obliterated, leaving no remains. As if he had done nothing more than take out the trash, Irenicus turns back to the party, his voice returning to that infuriating calm. “So godchild, you have escaped. You are more resourceful than I had thought.” He seems to be addressing Syeira, sparking additional outrage in Imoen: their escape was Imoen’s resourcefulness, freeing the rest of the party, but he thinks he can dismiss her. This man is terrible, has done unthinkable things. He can’t get away with it.
“You’re not going to torture us any longer,” Imoen declares.
“Torture?” Irenicus asks as if it never occurred that the things he has done could ever be described as such. “Silly girl, you just don’t understand what I’m doing, do you?”
“I don’t care what you’re doing! Let us go!”
He raises a hand, as though he were an adult stopping a petulant child. “I won’t let you leave, not when I’m so close to unlocking your power.”
Rage drowns out Imoen’s fear, an itch to see this man dead overwhelming. Finally, she snarls, “We don’t want anything from you!” A quick motion of her hand, nudging the world’s energy around her, a word of power ringing in the air, and when she extends her arm, darts of energy flash from her fingertips, arcing and homing in to strike at the mage -- and doing nothing.
“Enough, I will no longer listen to the babbling of ignorant children.” Irenicus sounds bored, weaving a pattern himself. The spell releases, and fire blooms around Imoen. It burns, and she cries out, too busy swatting out lingering flame to take notice at first as portals swirl into existence around the crater.
Wizards in uniform cowls step out of the portals, the first declaring, “This is an unsanctioned use of magical energy!”
The second adds his voice, certain of their authority. “All involved will be held! This disturbance is over!”
The wizard’s confidence is as unearned as so many other mortal men. No sooner has Irenicus responded by complaining, “Must I be interrupted at every turn? Enough of this!” than the first spell has been cast, and Irenicus has destroyed the poor fool. A hasty exchange of magical energy ensues, Imoen pushing down her pain long enough to join in again -- but every spell by Irenicus kills, and every spell thrown at him might as well be a harmless light show.
“This mage’s power is immense; we must overcome him quickly,” mutters one of the wizards.
Spying more portals opening, more of the uniformed wizards stepping through, Irenicus growls. “Enough! I haven’t the time for this!”
“You will cease your spellcasting and come with us!” For some reason, this time the wizard’s words get through; Irenicus stops weaving energy, his hands slowly dropping. There’s a thought in his expression, and Imoen doesn’t trust it. But maybe, somehow, the authorities will put this horror to an end.
“Your pathetic magics are useless. Let this end.” Not exactly the tone of a man surrendering. Perhaps, Imoen thinks, Irenicus hopes they will give up, let him go. Anger spikes again, and she tries to think of what spells she has left.
“Even if we fall, our numbers are many,” the wizard is shooting back. “You will be overwhelmed.”
“You bore me, mageling.” A beat, as Irenicus decides to commit to whatever idea he’s hatched in his head. “You may take me in, but you will take the girl as well.”
Imoen gasps. What? “What? No! I’ve done nothing wrong!”
The wizard glances her way, no hesitation in his expression. Imoen realizes that this was always the next order of business, after stopping Irenicus’ rampage. “You have been involved in illegal use of magic. You will come with us,” he declares.
“I’m not going with him!” Panic. She can’t fight Irenicus, what can she do against the seemingly endless ranks of the cowled wizards? Even as she protests, more are teleporting in. She turns to Syeira, appealing -- Syeira is a hero, she can fix all of this. “I’m not! Help me! Please!”
Syeira is shouting, too, hand on the hilt of one of her swords as she tries to navigate debris to reach Imoen, her free hand outstretched to her sister. But it's not the bhaalspawn's hand that closes on Imoen's wrists, even as other wizards claim Irenicus’. Words echo in the city streets, and energy swirls around her, whisking them away. When it clears, it takes a moment for Imoen’s mind to comprehend its new environment: grand marble halls, ornate pillars, and still more of these wizards, two of them already casting new spells.
Glowing spheres coalesce around Imoen and Irenicus, which she slams a fist against, but which he simply regards, his expression impassive. To her, a victim, it is a bewildering injustice. To him, an expected detail of his new plan. The wizards take up positions around them, periodically renewing the spells containing the prisoners, until finally, an old man enters the hall.
“These are the prisoners from the disturbance at Waukeen’s Promenade,” one of the wizards from the fight informs.
“What is known?”
“Naught but their names. The mage is Jon Irenicus. The girl is Imoen.”
Imoen interjects, still panicked, still holding out a hope that these men are interested in seeing justice done. “I didn’t do anything. He did it all, I had --”
“Silence, child.” Irenicus’ bored words stop her short, makes her feel like he has her in manacles again. Helpless.
“Why was this man not gagged?” asks the old man. “Did he not slay four of you?”
“We dared not approach.”
Another wizard speaks up. “Regardless, in the end he came willingly. What should be done with them, sir?”
“They are deviants,” the old man says, like it’s the most obvious fact in existence. “Let them rot in Spellhold.” And then silver energy is surrounding Imoen again, carrying her away.
The woman in Spellhold
Although the real administrator is an inmate at the asylum now, the place must function. It is necessary for his plan that things appear normal -- as normal as an asylum for insane mages can be. A place for people beyond help. When Imoen arrived, she was not such a person.
The young woman huddled in a corner of the common area? She does belong. She fits in where Imoen suffered, where Imoen had sought an escape. Once-delightful pink hair is an unkempt mess, and the woman flinches when one of the other residents exclaims in a panic yet again that the dogs are coming for him. She’s already hurting, already being crowded out by her own darkness, she doesn’t need to be bothered by everyone else’s, too.
And then there’s Tiax. Imoen would have remembered the little bastard, if she were still here. He annoys the huddling woman, keeps exclaiming how all should fear him. It makes her want to -- to -- she shudders, and whimpers.
“Look who I am today,” says a bright little voice. When the woman turns to see, her breath freezes. It’s like looking in a mirror. The shapeshifter has taken Imoen’s face. Well. No, that’s not Imoen, either. Is she really so dirty, and bruised, and is the scar really so stark? That is not who she is, it is not who she wants to be, and something mean rises in her that says she must correct the shapeshifter. Show the creature how wrong she is. Teach her a lesson. Perhaps even one she will. Not. Walk. Away. From.
Before she can even think twice about it, the woman is lurching forward, and someone is screaming rage. Hands close on the shapeshifter’s neck, tight, but it’s not enough to hear the girl strain, feel something start to give under hand. She claws at the scarred eye, twists her body to throw the other down, smacking her head on the unyielding floor. The shapeshifter cannot cry out, but the woman is pleased to know she is trying to do it, even as she does it again, breath speeding as she spots blood on the floor.
Lucky for the shapeshifter, it isn’t all that long before cold hands clamp down on the woman’s wrists, thumbs pressing just where it will force her hand to release the throat. The shapeshifter curls, trying to sob and mostly just coughing. The woman cries, too, as the new warden hauls her away, carelessly dumping her into a little room and closing the door. It isn’t necessary for the warden to comfort her, or even to question why she would attack one of her fellow inmates. After all, breaking her was just another part of his plan.
Some sort of LotR knockoff
It’s definitely ren faire day somewhere. Imoen is trailing five others: Syeira, the red-haired half-elf bard and her sister; Haer’Dalis, another bard, but this one an unfairly sexy tiefling whose voice always captivates Imoen, marks on his face betraying the demonic blood in his ancestry; Minsc and Boo, a muscle-bound warrior somewhat addled by too many blows to the head and his “miniature giant space” hamster; Anomen, handsome and sweet for Syeira but such a rigid knight, one that Imoen wants to tease and undercut whenever an excuse presents itself; and finally, Viconia, a woman whose voice and bearing could be mistaken for Poison Ivy’s if it weren’t for the fact that she is a drow, dark-skinned and red-eyed.
Viconia is particularly comfortable as they make their way down a torch-lit tunnel, caverns leading into more artificially-carved mining tunnels. She still thinks they do not need guidance to find Adalon, and suggests that if the Sverfneblin have disturbed something by digging too greedily, that is their own affair to settle. Minsc is booming something about how Boo is eager to kick evil’s butt in any realm, making Imoen duck her head and smile as Syeira greets a pair of little gnome-like guards at a doorway, assures them they do not need warned away from the area beyond. They have been sent to face the danger. Imoen is certain her sister can handle whatever may be there.
Weapons are readied, snarky banter and petty bickering dying down as the door is opened to reveal...nothing. A small room, with a seemingly bottomless shaft dug out in the middle. Imoen takes a relieved breath, slips her throwing dagger back into its sheath and closes the door after they have all filed in.
They poke about the shaft, reluctant to climb down. Imoen kicks a pebble over the edge, quickly loses sight of it. She groans, because there will be so much mine to search. “Fear not, little one!” Minsc assures her. “I have strength enough to carry you and Boo.” Somehow, the hamster knows to squeak at her, making her think again that it might be as special as the insane warrior claims.
But before anyone can be the first to step onto the dreaded ladder, Haer’dalis leans over the edge, puts fingers to his lips, and with a bit of subtle magic amplifying the sound, lets out a sharp whistle. Syeira chuckles, nudges him, and says, “No, like this.” Another, more piercing whistle sounds.
They watch over the edge for several tense heartbeats, before Syeira's eyes pick out motion, and she points, silent to keep from drawing any further attention to them. They know now where to go -- or they did. A flash, and the shadow far below vanishes.
The next flash is several yards behind them, between the party and the door, coalescing into a giant...balrog? Who’s going to pay Peter Jackson royalties for ripping off his visual designs? But no, Anomen shouts, “Balor!” just before the creature rears up, wings spreading and burning weapons outstretched. A deep roar, and a fireball shoots from its open maw, flames wreathing the entire room. A myriad of sounds from everyone -- surprise, pain, anger.
Imoen uncurls where she dropped to the floor, smoldering and feeling like the skin of her hands have been stuck inside an oven. As she pushes back up to her feet, she tries to think back to her reading back in Candlekeep, to recall something useful about the giant demon. It isn’t bothered by fire -- obviously. Only heavily enchanted weapons could pierce its skin -- that's fine, they all have magic weapons by now. No point mentioning it. Wait, there is something. “Hold your magic! It’ll resist it!”
It almost seems like she’s talking to herself. Minsc has raised his sword and is charging headlong, the bards have found ropes over the mine shaft and are swinging about the demon with their weapons. Open the dictionary to “swashbuckling,” and you’ll see them, she thinks. Anomen has his shield up, approaching with a prayer on his lips. Viconia is too busy raising her holy symbol and growling in a dark language a demand for her goddess to heal the party, to grant them strength. They’re good, but a few swords will only do so much, and the healer won’t be able to keep up with the harm the balor is dishing out when it blasts the fighters with energy, or lashes at them with flaming whip and sword. Imoen makes a face, and reaches out to start rearranging ambient energy, chanting, finally snapping her fingers to release the spell she has shaped, color lancing at the balor, forming a point that splashes in the air just short of its target -- and there, finally, tears the resisting shimmer apart, reaching the balor’s fiery skin.
No harm done, but that wasn’t the goal. It would be vulnerable to magic now. Fire would still do nothing, but the small room is perfect for the next best offensive element. She stored a few spells in a sequencer for just such a room, just waiting for a thought to release them. “Hey! Take cover!”
This time when she shouts, they listen, the bards practically vanishing as they slip down the ropes into the shaft, Minsc looking comical as the big man lumbers and tries to hide behind a support beam thinner than he is. Anomen dives for the floor, but Viconia huffs out an annoyed breath, too dignified to do anything more frantic than slip into a rocky outcropping.
The balor roars again, starts to pursue Minsc as Imoen starts to weave her next spell, words of power ringing as she points, and a lightning bolt jumps from her fingertips. Before it even reaches the balor, she releases the spell sequencer with a thought, three more lightning bolts flashing in quick succession. Now Imoen can go down again, tucking into as small a target as she can, in case something goes horribly wrong.
Each bolt strikes, passes through, hits the wall beyond and then simply rebounds to strike the demon again. Rebounds, blasts another series of smoking wounds into the balor. One more time, and the lightning peters out as the demon topples, a sizzling stench filling the room.
Imoen stares at the destruction she has wrought as the party emerges from their cover. Victory and the desire to gloat is quickly fading to disappointment that it is over. No more heart-pumping action, no more stakes as Minsc heaves the demon over the edge, letting it plummet into darkness. Someone is calling for the wizard to use the scroll the gnomes gave them, but the trembling is starting again, and Imoen almost takes a swipe at Haer’dalis when he steps up, leans and plucks the scroll from a pouch on her belt. Hands the parchment over to Viconia, who accepts like she is doing the tiefling a favor just letting him approach her. The drow reads the spell off, sweeping an arm through the air to direct suddenly shifting stone, slowly reshaping the shaft to seal it off.
It’s over, and what a shame that it is.
Look at the brain on that one
As Imoen steps up to the door, she glances left -- Anomen stands ready just to one side of the frame, shield clenched in hand and a mace in the other. The knight nods to her. A glance to the right -- Minsc, the giant warrior looking disappointed that he still does not get to lead the charge, but his miniature giant space hamster companion peering back, wiggling eagerly on his shoulder. Imoen gives him a friendly pat, knowing he still doesn't agree that if he had the enemy's attention, they would simply suck his mushy little brain out.
Because when Imoen takes a deep preparatory breath and shoves the door open, there are a pair of illithids waiting on the other side, flanked by an umber hulk and strange golems constructed from nervous tissue. A great brain in a vat waits beyond. The Elder Brain is the goal. Syeira needs its blood: it keeps them trapped in the illithid lair, it is a necessary component to trick the drow Matron into beginning her summoning ritual, where Imoen will be able to steal back the silver dragon's eggs, where -- bah. This whole convoluted plan is for later. Right now, all in the room are tensing, knowing that it will be a fight. After all, it was a fight just to get this far. The psionic voice of a mind flayer manifests first.
We saw, we felt, how you made your way through our lair. This is only a sending. We will not waste an attempt to control you on an image.
Imoen brings a single finger up to tap her nose, beaming cheerfully at the creature.
What we cannot see...a misleading image? Or a true projection?
She makes a face, and shrugs. To speak would be to answer the creature's question, showing them whether this illusion can pose a threat or not. There's an unpleasant 'sound,' the creatures deciding to answer their own question. The umber hulk lurches forward, psionic abilities lashing at the illusion as the dumb beast attempts and fails to confuse its target. The mind flayers approach more cautiously, tentacles waving. Least concerning of all, the brain golems rush.
The illithid's question will be answered, as Imoen's simulacrum traces a spell, giant spiders flashing into existence between herself and the charging umber hulk. Chittering fills the air as legs lift, fangs closing on the beetle-like hulk. Tearing, poisoning. The dumb beast roars, confused, and turns its attention to this painful obstruction.
Anomen and Minsc reveal themselves, stepping through the doorway on either side of Imoen's simulacrum, swinging maces at the brain golems, beating them away from the illusion. The illithids screech, immediately concentrating on valid targets for their psionics.
Too late. Imoen's simulacrum whips a dragontooth dagger from its sleeve, throwing it at the older of the two illithids, knowing it will be resistant to magical attacks. The dagger buries in its shoulder, bursting flame searing the thing before the dagger pulls free, flying back toward the illusion's hand. Hard to concentrate on one's psionics when suddenly one is being stabbed.
Somewhere, the real Imoen is switching her mind's focus, moving from the simulacrum to her projected image. This one may not be able to throw a real attack like the simulacrum, but it sure can step in after the fighters, raising a wand and triggering a magic missile to dart out and strike the illithid that hasn't been stabbed, disrupting its concentration, too.
The umber hulk sinks to the floor, its last breath sighing out. A switch of focus: the spiders turn and swarm toward the older illithid. A switch of focus: the simulacrum speaks, an acid arrow forming over its hand, launching itself at the younger illithid when the illusion mimes a throwing motion. A switch of focus: the projected image weaves another spell, a fireball exploding far enough back in the room to burn the younger illithid without doing more than make Minsc and Anomen uncomfortably hot. It falls, smoking. Syeira, drow cleric Viconia and tiefling bard Haer'Dalis are stepping in now, adding their weapons to managing the older illithid and the golems in that order.
The older mind flayer makes a horrible sound as it punctures one of the spider's carapaces, consuming the creature's brain. A switch of focus. Imoen's simulacrum shifts to one side, finding a clear line in the fray. Another spell, and tiny burning meteors manifest in the illusion's hands, which it proceeds to begin throwing. The flames do not overcome the magical resistance, but the stones themselves are very real, and the spell propels them harder at the remaining illithid than simple muscle could have managed. It reels as the projectiles make their impact. A switch of focus, and the projected image begins to do the same from the other side.
It isn't fair. It's applying overwhelming force without the wizard ever exposing herself to danger, and the last mind flayer is falling as the timer runs out on Imoen's illusions, her awareness suddenly shrinking and cramming back into her own head. "Oof," she mutters, then stretches, climbs back up to her feet. "Time to go see what we won, huh."
The ones who weren't left behind
It's a normal day in the library fortress of Candlekeep. Monks stroll the grounds, laden with scrolls and nothing of traditional value. Imoen might have had to resort to pranking some poor intellectual to make it through the day if it weren't for the odd behavior of three people: her wizardly foster father, Gorion, and the portly innkeep Winthrop, who acts as more of a father to her. There is an urgency to Gorion's demeanor this morning, and he is preparing supplies to travel, bothering the other monks for components for spells. And Winthrop? He actually cares about getting Imoen to do chores today, instead of looking the other way as she runs off to have fun. She has to wiggle out of a window to shirk cleanup duty today. Syeira, the half-elven girl who is Gorion's other ward, isn't joining her in antics today because Gorion has instructed her to prepare to join his sudden journey.
For once, something is happening.
Phlydia has misplaced her book again, like she always does, and Imoen snags it from the grass the book was abandoned in as she heads for the main hall, hugging it to her chest and slapping it with her hand if any of the monks look warily in her direction. It is an excuse, freedom to pass into the private rooms of the monks, because everyone knows how Phylidia has her head in the clouds. Soon enough, the young thief is fiddling with a lock, opening the door to Gorion's room. It's orderly, filled with the same smell of old books that permeates any room of this building. Let's see: a bed, chest, drawers, books and scrolls and robes. There, on the table, is another odd thing out: a letter. The exact content of it is fuzzy to Imoen's memory, but she remembers the sinking feeling in her stomach. The scrawling hand of the writer, "E," warns that Candlekeep is no longer safe for those in Gorion's care. E urges taking flight, and seeking companions for safety in the more unpredictable world outside the walls of the keep.
Whatever it is, it's bad. And there's logic that Imoen doesn't know about, and she is being deliberately left out, even though Gorion has two foster children in his care. And even more, she worries for Syeira. As Imoen makes her way back into the yard, she spies her adoptive sister. She's armed, and Imoen has to put on a big, goofy grin to greet her. Words spill out sillier than usual, laden with deliberate mispronunciations as she tries to hint that she would like to know where Gorion and Syeira are going, and she'd like ever so much to go along. Because it's so boring in Candlekeep. A kernel of truth to sell the lie. Syeira knows Imoen is bored of never getting to leave the walls, and is so trusting. She won't question it or dig to find the sense of dread.
The words are meant to be light, but Imoen feels brushed aside when they part. Little one rings in her ears, and she rehashes the conversation in her head as she heads back to Winthrop's inn, arguing the perceived dismissal and winning her way into Gorion's traveling party in her imagination. Waits for Winthrop's poor discipline to present a lapse, distracted with the drink in his gut and entertaining a rare guest. Then she can grab her pack and stuff it with bread and cheese and...oh. This isn't running away. This is inviting herself along for something dangerous, hoping to play the part of Syeira's surprise guardian angel. And over there is where Winthrop keeps the dangerous things on racks. A short sword, a bow, bundles of arrows. Potions, even a magic wand. All of them, into the pack. She's handled the weapons before, but carrying it all together is heavier than she's used to, and her heart is racing with the expectation that she will be caught as her looted potions rattle a little on the way out the door. But Winthrop is having a hearty laugh, and it is fine.
A wink and a promise that she's just up to the usual trouble is enough to fool the guards on the wall, and soon enough the sun is starting to sink. Imoen lashes a rope to stone and ties the pack to the other end, and waits to see Gorion and Syeira trudging out the keep's gate before lowering the rope to the ground. She's not that strong, she doesn't want to climb down with the pack's weight, and besides, she thinks it will help as an anchor. It's awkward. Imoen makes it down anyway, unties her pack and slips into it, running until she can see the figures of the others on the road in the dwindling light. Too close to the keep to reveal herself to them; the draconian entry policy to the keep means she will never get back in without paying her way with a rare book or finding a way back over the wall, but Gorion's influence can still override that.
So she stays off the path, skulking after them and staying in thick brush wherever she can. Excited. Scared. No plan but to try and keep up where she does not belong.