User:Lhynard/Projects/In Absentia Lucis/Recaps/Chapter 1

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''Morning

5 of Alturiak

The Year of the Molten Man

102 Year of High Mage Orjalun

the year after the great plague

Silverymoon Pass''

Khamael Firehair scanned the road from a snow-covered peak of the Nether Mountains. He barely noticed the cold—his otherworldly blood benefited him this—but he noticed the boredom of waiting. Nevertheless, he was patient.

A few days ago, he had been approached by a poor widow named Meg Talltree. Like so many others, the plague of the previous year had slain nearly half the population of his beloved city, and her husband, one of a long line of professors at the famed Lady's College had succumbed to its end.

Angel of Silverymoon she had called him when she sought his aid. That was what many called him these days. It was fitting, of course, for he nearly was a literal angel, though not quite. His mother was an astral deva in service to the goddess of love, who came to believe that she needed to experience the thing that she fought literal demons and devils to defend. She did experience it in the arms of his father, a respected priest of Sune within the city. Khamael was the result of that love.

Few places in the world were as diverse as Silverymoon. Humans lived among elves and dwarves, with halflings and gnomes sprinkled in as well. But he was the only citizen in the Year of the Molten Man to have wings, so it was not an exaggeration to say that he rather stood out. No one was cruel or unfair to him, yet he did not have the same number of friends that full humans—or even half-elves or half-orcs—seemed to have. Something about this pushed him to make the city his friend, to dedicate his life to its defense.

For several years now, he had offered his services to defend the poor and helpless. Since the plague, the wicked had taken advantage of so many bankrupt from healer's fees or displaced from quarantines. Bandits were on the rise, and the worst of them was the notorious Deckon Thar. Thar had founded a bandit group known as the Chieftains of Gold, and they essentially had free reign to terrorize anyone traveling on the road from Silverymoon to Sundabar.

Meg Talltree had been among the unfortunate to pass that way. Thar and his gang had ambushed her caravan, as it traveled back from her husband's family's home in Deadsnows. They had killed everyone in the caravan and left her for dead. Moreover, they had stolen some of her husband's family heirlooms, archeological finds from one of his ancestors. It was an amulet of great historical value, dating from the time of Netheril, she had told him. If the loss of her husband to the plague were not enough, now she had lost the most valued heirlooms of her family.

Khamael saw the small caravan approaching. He knew that it was only a matter of time before his opponent would show himself from the northern slopes.

He spotted his foe. Unfurling his immense wings of white feathers, he fell from the peak into a dive. He landed firmly before the bandits. Horses reared, and men fell from their saddles. Bandits fled back up into the slopes when Khamael drew his massive sword with only the slightest of effort.

"Your time of evil is over," he said.

"I yield. I yield," said the man. "You cannot strike down a man on the ground."

"You have already been convicted. I have a writ from the city of Silverymoon to slay you on sight for your numerous murders and thefts."

"Well, in that case,…" There was a click, and a dart shot from the toes of each of the man's boots. Khamael grimaced in pain as the darts plunged into his gut. He lunged at his foe, bringing the point of his blade down. Deckon Thar's hand moved to touch something around his neck, and Khamael saw a flash of light.

The next instant, he was falling forward, as if thrown off balance. His sword plunged into flesh. Blood spurted from a chest, and he continued with unexpected momentum to fall over the victim's body.

But the victim was not the wicked criminal Deckon Thar.

Khamael had just stabbed an old man through the heart, plunging down with the full weight of his falling body and driving the sword clear through the man and into the wooden floor beneath them. Before the half-celestial fighter could even raise himself onto his arms over the old man now choking on blood and struggling to take his final breaths, Khamael felt another body fall atop his own back. The old man gave a gasp and was still. Whoever had landed upon Khamael rolled off him quickly.

"Feathers? What in the hells?" a voice muttered.

Khamael got to his feet to find himself in a tiny room, standing over the body of the old man and looking across it at an elven male, likely a sun elf, by his expression seemingly as confused as he.

Khamael's eyes darted quickly around the room. It was a circular room with a doomed ceiling—maybe ten feet in radius—and had a hanging, wooden chandelier. At the center of the room, to his left, was a small octagonal table with some strange dagger-like object seemingly balanced atop it. He surmised that he must have fallen off this table onto the man, though how that could be was a supreme mystery.

The messy room had no windows and only a single doorway, just beyond the confused sun elf. Three bookshelves and a few desks, all covered in dusty tomes and scroll rolls, were along the rest of the curved walls of the room.

Now focusing on the elf, Khamael observed a likely scholar but one covered in dirt and grime, as if he had been caving. If Khamael could read the elf's facial expression, it said something akin to, "Where am I? Why is there an angel in the room with me? And who is this dead man bleeding all over the floor?"

The hapless victim must have been a mage of some kind, for there was a spell component pouch attached to a rope belt. His robes were ornate but worn down and dirty. They were not of any style Khamael had ever seen before, with bizarre colors. On the other hand, sometimes sorcerers and wizards wore flamboyant clothes, so this, in itself, was not overly surprising. His hairstyle, too, was bizarre—long white hair but with bun at each side. All this glancing about took only a few seconds. The sun elf moved immediately to the opposite side of the room, getting as far away from the angel who had just staked an old human to the floor with a greatsword.

Khamael ignored the elf for now and quickly crouched over the man and touched his neck. There was an ever-so-faint pulse.

He closed his eyes and concentrated. A surge of positive energy, empowered by his supernatural bloodline, rushed through his body. He yanked out the greatsword with his left hand and placed his right over the wound. Magic sealed the deep gash in only moments, and the man gasped, coughed on his blood, and opened his eyes.

The old man tried to raise himself onto his elbows. With a look of shock on his face, he touched his bloodied chest, trying to comprehend where all the blood had come from and why there was a tear in his clothing, even though his skin and flesh were entirely whole.

Then he spotted Khamael, and his look of shock and confusion was replaced by one of terror.

"Do not fear us. We are here as a result of some sort of magic," Khamael tried to explain. "My pardon for the shock and injury that we have caused you. I believe that my power has restored you."

The man took in the words and processed them slowly. Khamael took this pause to look at the mage more closely. There was no sign of the amulet that Thar had worn. The mage had a pair of leather bracers and a sheathed dagger and wand.

Since the man had still not responded, Khamael continued, "I was in combat with a wanted criminal. As I went to end his life, I somehow appeared here." Finally acknowledging the sun elf, Khamael turned to him and asked, "How did you arrive here?"

"An artifact, perhaps," said the elf, doubtfully. "My team and I found it during an excavation."

As he listened to the sun elf's response, Khamael offered a hand to the old mage, who took it and was helped to his feet, listening intently to what the two intruders were saying but not yet speaking. He glanced at the bloodied sword on the ground and seemed to understand that it was the cause of the tear in his clothing and the blood.

The elf finished, "I am not entirely sure what happened to bring me here."

"An artifact?" asked the old man finally. "Where was your excavation? Do tell."

"We were seeking the remains of one of the floating cities of Netheril," the elf replied.

"Netheril? On the world of Toril?" The excitement in the man's voice was intense.

The elven scholar nodded.

"This is incredible! Utterly incredible! I should probably introduce myself. I wish that this event had not happened with a sword skewering me, but this is fascinating! You fail to see how fascinating this is." The old man was speaking so fast that it was hard to make out all the words, and the veins on his neck were visibly pulsing with excitement.

"Oh, my name! My name is Aldym Darants. I am a chronomancer, a time mage. All my life have I been seeking a way to travel the threads of time. Everyone says that it cannot be done. They are wrong! All of them are wrong! They say that the gods forbid it, but I am a scholar of ancient Netheril, and after a lifetime of searching throughout the planes, I finally found the clue for which I sought—the time journal of the Chronomancer himself!"

Khamael was very confused by the man's hurried and excited words, but the elf nodded with understanding.

"What exactly is chronomancy?" Khamael asked.

"Chronomancy used to be numbered among the schools of magic," the elf explained. "My people delved deep into its depths in ages past, but they largely abandoned the art, believing, as this wise Darants has stated, that the gods forbade time travel of any sort.

"The arcanists of Netheril were not swayed from their studies, however. The first human to study time travel was one Jeriah Chronos, for whom the school of chronomancy is named. He was the Chronomancer. His most famous work was an arcane spell that slows the movement of everyone and everything save the caster, such that it appears that time stops. This spell is known by the most powerful mages active today."

"Yes, yes!" said Aldym Darants, hopping up and down. "My whole life I have waited for this! It worked! It worked! It work…."

Suddenly, the old mage clutched his chest. His eyes rolled back, and he collapsed onto the ground again.

Khamael once again checked for his pulse. Nothing.

He looked up at the elf, whose name he still did not know. "He is dead. It must have been heartstop, from too much excitement."

"What divine comedy do the gods play with us this day?" said the elf.

"I assume that you are not a priest?"

The elf shook his head. "I also am a mage, as this man was."

Khamael rose to his feet once more. He took up his sword and wiped off the blood. Then he looked down at himself. He was covered in the old mage's blood, so much that he almost did not notice his own blood seeping out from the wounds in this gut that Deckon Thar’s blade boots had caused. He painfully pulled the blades from his body and looked up hopefully at the stranger with him. "I took injury from my foe before the magic pulled me here. Friend, might you have a means of healing my wounds? I am drained of healing power, having used it to restore this Aldym, though that has amounted to nothing for the poor soul now…."

"Here, drink the contents of this vial," said the elf. "I carry a few with me."

Khamael drank the potion and felt the pain in his intestines diminish and his flesh reconnect.

"My thanks. I apologize. All this has happened so quickly. I am Khamael Firehair. Some call me the Angel of Silverymoon. May I ask my healer's name?"

"Throthar. I also hail from Silverymoon." There was a short pause. "Do you have any idea where we are?"

"None. I was outside the city. As I told this hapless man, I was about to strike my enemy, and the next thing that I know, I am here." There was a pause. Khamael continued. "The man that I had been pursuing did touch an amulet that he wore just before this happened."

Throthar seemed intrigued by this comment. "What was the appearance of this amulet?"

"It was too quick for me to have gotten a good look at it. The man's name was Deckon Thar."

"During our excavation," Throthar said, "I, too, came upon an amulet, immediately before appearing here. I had picked it up to inspect it more carefully. One face of the charm was flat and smooth, but the other looked like it was of gnomish construction, with several visible gears and an arrow pointing to one of twelve numerals. I moved one of the metal arrows on its face; the next thing that I knew, I was landing on you."

"Why would these amulets draw us here?" asked Khamael. "You were inspecting yours, but I never touched Thar’s amulet."

"But you said that he did."

There was a moment of silence, as the two pondered their confusing predicament. Throthar turned without further conversation to the tomes and scrolls around him. Many of the works were known to him. Either he had read them in the past or he had heard about them. The majority of them were about the history of Netheril. He spotted several spellbooks, purportedly copies from famous wizards of history, such as Quantoul, the creator of a spell of hasting once known as Quantoul's Fastmorph.

"The late Darants truly dedicated his life to his studies of time," said Throthar. "There are copies of some exceptionally rare works here."

For his part, Khamael knew little of the study of the arcane arts. The item on the table, however, caught his attention. On closer inspection, it was not so much like a dagger as it was like a large sewing needle, hammered from a nearly black metal. It was about ten inches long and was stuck point down into the table. The eye of the needle was more circular than most sewing needles. On the outer side of the eye was engraved the symbol of a series of four interlocking rings, each one smaller than the next.

The "needle" was stuck through a map of some sort, or perhaps a diagram.

"Throthar, do you know what this parchment symbolizes?"

The elf stepped over. "I believe that it is a representation of the planes, according to the Great Wheel Cosmology. The needle is not poked through any of the planes, unless it is meant to be poking through the Astral, which is the space between all of them."

"Can you read all these texts?" Khamael asked, motioning to all the scattered books and scrolls.

"Yes."

"What do they say?"

Throthar explained his observations.

Next to the large needle-like object was also an ancient-looking open book, barely held together. The page to which it was open was covered in lettering that reminded Khamael of scratch or claw marks.

"What about this one?" The half-celestial pointed at the falling-apart book next to the needle and planar diagram.

"They are Iokharic letters, those created by the dragons of old. The language is Loross, the language of High Netheril."

Throthar began to read. The open page described in technical detail the spatial dimensions and other details of the creation of a demiplane or extra-dimensional space, such as those used by bags of holding, those famous tools used by nearly any seasoned adventurer.

Throthar carefully turned the pages. On another page were detailed blueprints for an amulet or periapt that looked like a large gnomish pocket watch.

"This is it," said Throthar. "This is the amulet. Is this what you saw around your enemy's neck?"

"It certainly could have been."

The book was primarily diagrams and charts; however, toward the very beginning, Throthar found this line: "I awoke this morning with an interesting thought; time must be relative to one's speed. Were I to travel fast enough, it would seem that time had stopped to those around me…."

The text ended with the initials, "J.C." After this introduction, the next several pages seemed to describe the workings of a spell to slow motion.

"This is the very journal in which the creation of Chronomancer's Time Stop is described!" said Throthar. "This is Jeriah Chronos' journal."

"Would you be able to learn this spell?"

"It is well beyond my current training as a wizard," said Throthar, "and I am far more interested in the historical significance of this. If I understand what I am seeing, Jeriah's diagrams in this book are all focused on one thing. He was trying to create a time conduit."

"A time conduit?"

"I learned about this in my time at the Lady's College in our city. Time conduits are rumored magic. It is generally believed that your goddess of magic, Mystra, prevents anyone from altering the established timeline, as it would be unfair for mortals to have more than one choice for any decision.

"But the rumors are true?"

"The rumors claim that the only successful time travel spells could send someone back for only a year, stripped of all magic and anachronistic items, and he or she would be pulled back after exactly one year. It was impossible also to carry anything from the past back to the future. It was also impossible for two versions of an individual to exist in any plane at the same time, so one could never time travel back to a year during his or her own lifetime. A soul can only ever exist once on any timeline."

"When would this book have been written?"

"Jeriah Chronos lived during the Golden Age of Netheril. He was born about 2200 years before the Standing Stone. His birthdate is what scholars use to mark the start of that era.

"There were about a dozen floating cities at that time. Unlike many of the Netherese archwizards, the Chronomancer cared about Netheril's neighbors, even the non-human ones. He even traveled to Illusk to offer his magical powers to that nation to defend against a horde of orcs. He was wounded in the battle and died eight years later, because he refused divine healing. Like most archwizards, he refused to pay worship to any of the gods, believing them to be no more than powerful entities much like himself."

"You truly are a scholar, Throthar!"

"We must be here because of a failed attempt at creating a time conduit," said Throthar.

"May I ask where you were excavating?" said Khamael.

"We were in the Nether Mountains."

"As was I."

"You are suggesting that it was one and the same amulet?"

"What day and year was it for you?" Khamael asked. "For me it was the fifth of Alturiak, the Year of the Molten Man, the 102 year of High Mage Orjalun, the year after the great plague."

"Never have I heard the name of Orialun," said Throthar, "nor of the great plague, and the Molten Man is known to me only from the great naming of the years I memorized as an elven child. It was the tenth of Flamerule, in the Year of the Maverik. High Mage Amaara Nharimlur was in her 59 year."

"Amaara Nharimlur who was High Mage when our Lady's College was founded?"

"The very same. There is a gap between us of some 300 years and ten. You are from my future."

"So, travel through time is possible!" said Khamael.

"If a time conduit was the mechanism, we both must have traveled to the past, and if so, wherever we are, it must be the beginning of the year."

"Does a time conduit have rules for where it takes one? Could we both be in the Nether Mountains still? Were we at the same place? I was at the pass where the road from Silverymoon to Sundabar crosses the mountains.

"Silverymoon Pass? We were north of there, two day's travel from the road."

"I suppose that the road could not have deviated so much in 300 years…. I assume that you still do not have this amulet?"

"I do not."

Khamael moved to one of the desks and looked around. It was covered in some parchment markings of timelines and other diagrams. Resting there was also a small document, some sort of receipt of sale. "Receipt of Sale

This document certifies

that on

Tarsakh 13 of the Year of Wild Magic

Aldym Darants

192 Mages' Street

The Clerk's Ward, Sigil

has purchased and paid for

1 (one) needle of extraplanar piercing

for the full, asked price of

153 (one hundred fifty-three) certified Halruaan platinum trade bars

from

The Interlink Consortium of Bral"

The document ended with the same symbol of interlocking rings that could be found on the rim of the large needle.

Meanwhile, Throthar cast a simple spell, which caused several items in the room—and Khamael—to glow with an aura of light. He noticed that something was very wrong. The Weave, that web of arcane connections between all things, the way in which arcane casters manipulated magic, was entirely absent.

He audibly gasped. "The Weave—it is missing!"

"Yet your spell still worked?" asked Khamael, as he carried the receipt over to the central table.

"Yes, the old mage wears a few weakly magical items, and the stone orbiting your head of course, but the needle glows with a very powerful conjuration aura. I am not sure how my cantrip was even able to function. Nevertheless, whatever this thing is, it is likely related to teleportation or creation, as we might expect, if it is indeed the cause of our being here."

"I can tell you more than that," said Khamael with a smile. "I bear its receipt." He handed it to the elf.

"'Extraplanar piercing,'" read Throthar. "I am not sure that I understand what that means."

"It also tells us our date. It is the Year of Wild Magic."

"Wild Magic? Let me recall the list of Augathra the Mad. The Year of Wild Magic precedes the Year of Rogue Dragons, which precedes…." He grew silent, presumably quoting forward through the list, which included names for years until the beginning of the 16 century of the Dalereckoning.

"The Year of Risen Elfkin will be the 1300 year and 75 since the Standing Stone. That means that we are in the 1300 and 72 year."

"We traveled forward, not backward," said Khamael.

"More than 500 years for me," Throthar replied.

"Yet we bear our clothing and items, so we could not have come through a time conduit."

"I know a spell that can tell us more about the powers of this item, but it will take some time, at least an hour," said Throthar.

"An hour? Nevertheless, that would be wise," said Khamael.

He watched as Throthar extracted what looked to be a pearl from a pouch, along with a small mortar and pestle, and began to grind the pearl into powder.

"In the meantime," said Khamael, "I will see if anyone else resides in this house. This unfortunate man's death should be made known to his kin if they be here with him. We know not even whether we are in his home or some place of study."

The only door from the circular room was unlocked and led to a small, square room with a door on each wall. It was unfurnished and lit by only a candle on a small sconce at each corner.

Khamael listened but did not hear the sound of anyone else through any of the doors. He opened the one to his right. This led to a kitchen. It was of the same dimensions as the mage's study but contained a stove, counters, and a rustic, round dining table with only two stools. A half-eaten dinner of carrots and bread was still on the table. A door to the right led to a tiny, circular storecloset, which was full of jars and bowls of grains and vegetables. Like the study, there were no windows; only the chandelier provided bright candlelight.

The left door from the square room led to the old man's bedroom. It was of the same dimensions as the mage's study, once again without windows. A small, unmade bed filled most of the room. A small heating stove was at one side. On the other side, a door led to a small circular privy.

A chest was at the base of the bed. It was unlocked and when opened, seemed to contain only clothes.

The final door from the small, central room was the front door to the abode. Khamael opened it partly to see darkness and fog. He closed the door for now and returned to his new companion.

Coming back to the study to give his report, he found the elf deep in what seemed to be a trance, with his hands upon the needle. He tended to the death of the old man, carefully moving his body to lay him on his bed, arms folded peacefully. Then he obtained a bucket of water from the kitchen and tried to clean as much of the blood from the floor in the study as he could.

As Khamael was scrubbing, Throthar suddenly came out of his trance. "Ah! I know its power."

Khamael rose to his feet. "Do tell."

"It is a sort of spell focus. It allows someone to plane shift to a demiplane existing somewhere in the multiverse. Usually, this is not possible without having the proper tuning fork to guide one through the Astral to the destination, and while tuning forks are known for most of the proper planes and even many of their layers, the notes and materials required for demiplanes are largely a mystery. This focus allows one to travel to a specific demiplane if one knows something about that demiplane, without the need for a tuning fork."

Neither man fully understood how this related to their predicament, but at least they were learning something.

"Should we take it with us?"

"I think that we should. What did you learn while I was performing the ritual?"

"I believe that this was the man's house. He appears to have been living alone. I moved him to his bedroom to lie in peace."

The two decided to take the magic wand from Aldym but left his other possessions for any relations that he might have. Then they readied themselves to leave the house and determine where exactly they were.

Stepping out the front door led into a dark, foggy alleyway, making it hard to see very far into their surroundings. Around the doorway, black-leaved vines crawled up the walls. Upon closer inspection, the leaves looked sharp enough to cut.

"I have never seen any plants like this before," said Throthar.

Coming down the steps, they immediately spied a young lad, batting a wooden mug along the cobblestone alley with a stick as a sort of game. He looked up and saw them.

"Who be ya comin' out o' Master Dar'nts' case? I've not seen ya 'fore."

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