The Gods' Mistake

(It's Story Time with Lyric! Weird, weird, story time...Enjoy! - Nas)

The story of Ityak-Ortheel was an ominous one and that is precisely how Lyric relayed it to the assembled so concerned.

"There once was a monstrous creature who dwelled in the Abyss. It was not a particularly intelligent creature nor an ambitious one but it did have a singular purpose it found great delight in. Whenever summoned by the god Malar, Savage Beastlord of the Hunt and Patron of Lycanthropes, Ityak-Ortheel would appear in Faerûn for the sole aim of consuming and destroying all life in its path."

"Now, to be clear, this creature could only truly be described as a Thing Outside. At nearly thirty feet tall, it dwarfed even most dragons and though it could only ambulate slowly on its three trunk-like legs, Ityak-Ortheel moved as an unstoppable Juggernaut. Many bards would then later weave tales of its globulous flesh, either tannish-brown or swamp-green depending on who you asked. But all seemed to be in agreement that Ityak-Ortheel was comprised of a hard, domed, carapace protecting a round, flattish, body which was then ringed by some forty tentacles each more than a hundred feet long and covered in hooked teeth and scissoring suckers. It was also possessed of incredible regeneration, regrowing limbs and reattaching severed tentacles as fast as heroes could slice them off. Attacking its presumably vulnerable underside though, was even worse."

"Protruding from beneath the three stalking legs was a great maw. But this was no jaw of rowed teeth, rather, the Hellmouth of Ityak-Ortheel was a wet, toothless, blood-colored gullet that constantly emitted horrendous slurping noises and the sounds of far-away screams. None could actually see inside of it however and often said that, even when gaping open, the maw was filled with an impenetrable darkness. At its edges, plates of cartilage ground together as the tentacles fed more and more people, animals, and beings into it, but once inside, no part of them was ever seen again."

"This was because Ityak-Ortheel actually fed on souls."

"The great monstrosity of the Abyss could not be satisfied by mere flesh. Instead, it slowly digested the essence of its prey over a very long time, keeping itself satisfied all the while tormenting those whom it had devoured. It was for this reason that Ityak-Ortheel could go many hundreds, if not thousands, of years without eating."

"But Ityak-Ortheel was not commonly known by its outsider label. Oh, no. It had a different name back then."

"Elf-Eater."

"Ityak-Ortheel had been born of the mingled blood of Gruumsh, God of the Orcs, and Corellon Larethian, God of the Elves, following the deities' world-breaking struggle before the dawn of the first cities. As it came into being, the monstrosity was overcome with an inherent hatred for Elfkind and all those like them, fueled by the malice between the gods and their children. It sought only to punish and to wreak havoc, but it was incapable of leaving the depths of the Abyss on its own. As such, it begged Malar to end its solitude and to bring it out into the world so that it might hunt and ultimately annihilate all elves for all time. This Malar granted it, and once a century, Ityak-Ortheel was let loose into Faerûn where it ravaged elven communities in massacres that left the ground soaked with blood and piled high with ruins. And where ever it went, that place was called a killing ground…a Hecatomb."

Lyric paused to rifle through the pages one more time; picking at the stains that formed the familiar shapes of islands in the sea.

"But because Ityak-Ortheel had such a particular penchant for terrorizing elves," she continued, "the elves had no choice but to find a way to fight back. So, they built a portal, a Gate, known as Fey-Alamtine on the isle of Gwynneth in the Moonshae Isles. This portal, which was secretly constructed by the kingdom of Synnoria, could only be opened by those with a platinum Alamtine triangle. That's why every elf community on Faerûn was given one such triangle and a few others were disseminated out to great heroes or to famous travelers. This was so that when the Elf-Eater attacked, entire elven villages and clans could immediately retreat to the Moonshaes; out of reach for the thing and its slathering hunger. After a while, not surprisingly, a lot of them just stayed there or went on to Evermeet."

She sighed and dug her nails into the rough wood of the table.

"This plan worked for centuries! But then, in the Year of the Sword, 1365 DR, Malar divined the location of the portal and with the help of Talos the Destroyer, Storm Lord and Aspect of Gruumsh, sent Ityak-Ortheel through the Alamtine, permanently destroying it. Because, you know, of course he did. And thus, the Elf-Eater rampaged across Gwynneth, the capital city of Chrysalis, and the ancient Palace of Ages, Argen-Tellirynd. Laying waste to everything before being banished back to the Abyss by the princess Alicia Kendrick of the Ffolk almost six years later. Too bad that wasn't the end of it though. Malar, with the aid of Lloth, Ghaunadaur, and some renegade sun elf the clans named Kymil Nimesin, managed to send the Elf-Eater all the way to Evermeet through some kind of undersea tunnel pact. Once again, Ityak-Ortheel consumed thousands of elves before finally being dragged to Arvandor by a hero we call Ilyrana Moonflower. She was a princess devoted to the triune faith of Angharradh and she sent her own soul, along with Ortheel, into the Outer Wilderness to save us."

Lyric took a deep breath.

"The creature has not appeared on Faerûn since. Even so, many of our clan elders have long predicted that another rampage is imminent. And now, I think I've figured out where the Elf-Eater has been all this time…"

Shadowheart scowled and shifted back and forth on her feet. "You mean to say that we, all of us, are currently in the realm of some sort of Elder Eternal Devourer?"

"Not exactly." Astarion interjected. "I believe what our intrepid leader means to get across is that she believes the Elf-Eater, having been dragged off to Arvandor some years ago, has managed to break through into our world once more."

Lyric nodded. "Essentially yes. I think he's trying to find a way back to Faerûn and, in the meantime, has managed to reach across the ether and isolate this little patch of village ground. Keeping it in some kind of set aside space, just outside of normal time. Keeping everyone who might accidentally wander in here imprisoned."

Now it was Gale's turn to pinch his brow in confusion. "Why would it do that though?"

"There are no elves here, Gale." Lyric testily replied. "No dwarves, no gnomes, nothing. Because these humans…" here she motioned to the empty tavern. "Have. Been. Feeding. Them. To. It."

Lae'zel twitched. "That does make a certain amount of consistent sense."

They all turned to look at her.

"Do you not see it?" She quirked a mocking eyebrow. "They eat what scraps the beast does not. Goblins, Kobolds, and other refuse. The creature consumes everyone else and leaves the humans to do its work and fetch it more. We are lucky they did not drag us off straight away."

Astarion chuckled. "It also explains why there was such an argument as to whether or not a Gith was goblin or elf." Lae'zel shot him a warning look in response but he ignored it.

"Then how are they feeding it?" Wyll finally joined in. "I don't see any monsters wandering about. Nothing in the woods all afternoon even."

"Simple." Lyric said. "The well."

"See? After all this, it was that obvious." Astarion almost burst out laughing.

"But we moved the cap." Gale said. "There was nothing down there but dirt. You saw it."

Lyric began to pace, scrubbing at her chin thoughtfully. "I think that's just what we were meant to see. I don't understand the specifics, but maybe the mouth was closed or the creature asleep or something. Maybe they keep the cap over it because Ortheel is phasing back and forth, in and out of our plane. I don't know. This isn't exactly in my wheelhouse, you know."

"Oh, I see." Gale responded. "Basically, meaning that 'night' here isn't so much a question of cosmological revolutions but a cyclical pattern of arrival and descent." Noting some of the confused looks of his companions, he then clarified. "It's not dark out there because the sun went down, it's dark out there because Ityak-Ortheel has his mouth open."

Lae'zel hummed, tapping her sword. "I think you're right, Lyric. That platform must hold a scaffold of some sort then. Probably whatever it is they use to restrain those they feed to the beast. Our fate come tomorrow is almost assured."

Wyll kicked a chair leg. "What do you do then? We can't possibly fight something like that! We can't even see it!"

"That's the thing, I don't think we'll have to." Several sets of curious eyes turned back to the elven ranger. "The Elf-Eater isn't here; not exactly I mean. It's reaching through a pin-hole, trying to grab on to enough life energy to replenish itself. We just need to figure out how to close the Hellmouth for good."

For this, Gale felt the most certain. "It must have something to do with the Alamtine triangles then. You said that the elves used to use these triangles to Gate into the Moonshaes, right? And that Ortheel was then sent through the Gate to destroy it."

Lyric nodded. "Yes?"

"Well, that doesn't mean that all of the triangles were destroyed too. Maybe there's one here somewhere, hidden in this village? That's what Ortheel could be using to slide through."

Astarion, having remained relatively silent up until this point, added. "This truly is a Malarite scheme then. I was hoping not. I really would have preferred cannibals over cultists."

Lyric looked over to where her lover stood pensively, frowning through the distance of memories. "What do you mean?"

The other elf sighed and blandly shook his head. "It happened long before any of you were born, I'm sure, but there's more to this story."

"Oh? Do tell." Gale seemed almost close enough to elbow the tense vampire but thought better of it when Astarion glanced aside.

He groaned lightly. "Many years ago, a group of Malarite cultists raided the Forgotten Forest in search of one of these triangles. They believed that their god had hidden one in a ruin guarded by treants. Well, turns out there were right and they got their hands on it. They didn't know how to work it, of course, so the poor, senseless, dears did what only crazed cultists can do. They sacrificed people to it in elaborate blood rituals hoping it would reveal some secret of the relic's power. Sadly, for them, it didn't change anything so, for the most part, they just ended up spending their time kidnapping mages and sorcerers, torturing them for information about how to use the triangle, and then sacrificing them too. They've been trying to resummon the Elf-Eater for, oh I don't know, a hundred years at this point. I mean, it's the entire reason Evereska has been at war with Malar since forever really."

"And you think that's who these people are? Malarites?" Lyric asked.

"No, my love." He responded with mock merriment. "These people are nothing more than a bunch of stragglers - left overs - who just happen to be living as dogs underneath the master's table; scraping up the crumbs off the floor and calling themselves lucky. That isn't to say that there aren't a Malarite or two hanging about; keeping an eye on things and all that. Pulling a few strings here and there. But in all likelihood, they would be as trapped here as everyone else. They'd just be enjoying it, I suppose."

"Hmm." Lae'zel continued to glare across the table at nothing in particular. "Perhaps it is time for harder words with Phinneas Delg. He seemed lucid enough."

Many were in immediate agreement.

With several hours left of what they presupposed was imitation night, the heroes made their plans. They would begin with the man who had greeted them at the start who, for all they could tell, was not currently in the Lamb's Head. Furthermore, they found it quite imperative to also find out who was forced to live in the tavern and who actually lived in the small huts and houses scattered about the margins of the central square: Presuming that those who dwelled in the village as proper villagers might have something more to say about the nature of the Hecatomb than the poor sops misfortunate enough to wander in and not wander back out. Those were the people, Lyric and the rest surmised, who inhabited the rooms in the upper levels above the bar and wouldn't like be of much use.

From there, the decision was made to re-investigate the well. Central to the conundrum was whether or not the fall of darkness each day heralded a specific change below the cap or if the suspected Hellmouth could be accessed without alerting the creature beneath it to their activities. If not, what role might a hidden Alamtine triangle play in all this? The Hecatomb itself was hardly larger than a hilltop, so it was hoped that such an obvious thing as a large, platinum, triangle carved with elven symbols wouldn't be that difficult to locate. What the tacked-up pages meant was still a mystery however, and Lyric mused openly at the intelligence of advertising such an obvious symbol to anyone with the background to know it. Astarion cautioned her though, suggesting the possibility that the pages were there to see if anyone coming in to the village demonstrated such knowledge and who might, therefore, be liable for a bit of tortured information gathering later.

Finally, after a long, animated, conversation, the assembled slowly settled back into a hush to wait out of the rest of their confinement and observe the dawn, such as it might be. They scattered into the chairs and rounds of the first floor, always remaining within eyesight of each other, but taking the opportunity for a last stretch of rest before who knew what might come their way. Lyric opted for the seating area next to the hearth and with a measure of hunting around and a little ingenuity, managed to relight the fire into a pleasant crackle. To her delight, Astarion chose to join her.

"Well done back there." He stated, easing into a high-back chair opposite of where she sat. "I had been suspecting something akin to a dimensional rift or some sort of pocket but I hadn't put two and two together just yet. Noticing the map was rather a stroke of genius."

Lyric certainly didn't feel like a genius at that moment. Rather, she felt more like a rat in a maze.

"I should have seen it earlier. For all the times I've drawn and redrawn that map, the shape ought to have been second nature. It wasn't until you mentioned the Hellmouth and I thought of Ortheel that it even started to click in my mind."

"I didn't realize you were a cartographer."

She laughed. "I'm not. I used to make ship's copies years ago, for…you know…"

"For him?"

Lyric wasn't sure why Astarion was suddenly pursuing this line of questioning. He hadn't taken all that much of an interest in the story of her previous life before and though his inquiry seemed genuine, she wasn't sure how much she really wanted to tell him that she hadn't already.

"Yes. For him."

"Tell me about him."

"No."

He cocked his head with a gleam of curiosity in his eyes. "Why not?"

"What's to tell? You've seen some of the memories I have. It's not like it's complicated."

Astarion appeared unconvinced. His voice, though, was low and calming. "Oh, I think it is. I think it's much more complicated than you let on. I mean, it's not every day that a young ranger, acclimated to the wooded wilds, finds herself with intimate connections to the sea. Only then to encounter the kind of man who is capable of carving flesh to suit the standards of punishment… for when a First Mate betrays her Captain."

Lyric's head came up in an instant as she stared at Astarion in undisguised shock.

"Or, did you think I wouldn't know what those wounds were?"

"How…how did you know?" She hissed. "Wha…when did you know?"

"The day I met you. Though it was confirmed, shall we say, a short, private, while ago." He replied evenly. "I told you, I've known plenty of seafarers in my time. The magistrate had its own problems with them certainly and even after I turned, Cazador had all kinds of dealings with those unscrupulous traders who could get him the rare and exotic items he craved. As his spawn, it was often left up to me to make the…. arrangements. It might even surprise you that I have heard the name you are hesitant to speak of before."

"You…you know Olivet?!"

"I know of him." He picked a tuft of lint from his sleeve and flicked it into the fire. "Or, Cazador does in any case. Does it truly amaze you that monsters are so adept at finding each other? Particularly ones that share similar tastes, shall we say."

She slumped into her chair with an anxious heave. "Yeah, ok. Figures, I guess." She then gave an ornery sniff. "That Olivet traffics with vampires really isn't even remotely out of character for him anyway."

"But that doesn't answer the question though, does it?"

"What question?"

"I know how I earned my pain. What did you do to earn yours?"

Lyric steeled herself against the flash of images that tore through her mind without warning. Images of a broken bow, men laying dead on the deck of a great three-masted ship, and of seabirds flying in to feast on the carrion. She saw the boatswain's body and the threads of the flag that covered him. She saw more ships on the horizon and an interceptor bearing down on them with a good East wind. She saw a man with black hair and stormy eyes, sliding a blade from his hip and stepping out onto the forecastle. And then all she saw was blood.

"Astarion? Why are you asking me this? Do you want to know because you actually care or is this some kind of underhanded way to get me to give you leverage you can use later?"

He fell silent but his gaze didn't turn away. For several minutes Lyric was left to wonder after what he might be thinking. But the emotion she saw twisting in the depths of his eyes, emotion he utterly refused to allow anywhere near the surface for long, told her that this was about more than mere nosiness. In a moment of brief insight, Lyric realized why she felt such an inexplicable connection to her erstwhile lover when he was like this. Astarion was much like the sea in many regards; he was tempestuous, unknowable, and he buried his secrets in very deep water.

"Do you understand what the Hecatomb is, Lyric?" He finally replied, posing a question for a question instead of actually answering her.

She blinked. "As in, some kind of place out of time? I think we established that earlier. I don't quite get the specifics because magic has never really been my thing but I think I get the rough concept. Why?"

"Because I fear that the real truth of the matter has been before us all along, we just weren't yet willing to see it. You and I, I mean. Two elves, dragged towards a Hellmouth for the crimes of our existence but spared momentarily for the same reason. That reason being that we know more about the nature of places like this one than anyone should. More than anyone expected us to. And all because of who we are and what it is. What a Hecatomb has always been."

"What? A massacre? A battleground? A tomb?!"

"A scar."