58 – The Book in the Tower
"They say that nymphs can blind a man with their beauty, but I'm just not seeing it. Or much of anything! [Pantomimes blindness.]" - Garrick Anthras, during a (failed) comedic performance at Mithral Hall
A low, steady noise –like a perpetual intake of breath– accompanied the air elemental as it buzzed across the carpet and tiles. The sound made the little mist-grey cloud easy to hear coming, and easy for Imoen to track by ear behind her potted plant, crouching low as she could. As the sound swept by and seemed to recede she bobbed her head a bit, trying to catch a better peak through the tall fronds of the snake-plant without making anything rustle.
Which way is it facing? And did it even have a…yes! That puffy bit of extra cloud at the top looked like a head, and if so then those little recesses had to be the eyes! The elemental turned past the nearby stairway's banister and glided on, bobbing as it went, and Imoen ducked away and held her breath.
The thing (Creature? Construct? Entity? Was it male? Female? Neither?) was just a few paces away. She hadn't seen a facsimile of ears, but surely it would hear if she made a sound. Or maybe it was deaf, but maybe it could smell her? Where those even really eyes, as she had guessed? And if so was its vision keen or weak? How does a living puff of slightly-sapient cloud perceive the world around it anyway?
But as her mind and heart raced the vacuum-sound droned by and receded further along the curved walkway. After a few moments Imoen dared another peak over the rim of her clay pot, and caught a glimpse of the cloud's trail (Or tail?) as it climbed the spiral staircase on the far side of the chamber. Then it was gone.
Hrm. That was the second time she had watched the elemental bob by (at least she thought it was the same one.) A long patrol too; a bit less than a quarter of an hour, perhaps? That left her plenty of time for the next step.
Still crouching, Imoen made her way along the walkway, past caged and potted plants, and over to the western window. As Edwin had predicted, the wards outside around the window's frame were devious and multi-layered; glyphs spaced out on the surfaces so that there was nowhere an intruder could touch without setting them off.
The glyphs on the inside windowsill were a different matter though. A few carefully applied pinches of alchemical powder dissolved the symbol of an alarm spell, the script glowing faintly and then winking out with a slight sizzle. The miniaturizing spell used to smuggle her inside had long since worn off (and a good thing! She was short enough as is,) and with a little stretching she was able to reach even the top of the windowsill.
Next she unmade the harder-to-reach wards, and then the ones on the glass itself. A careful turn of a latch and a tap opened the window a crack, and then, making sure not to push it out too far, she worked her way to the outer wards, a pinch of sharp-smelling powder at a time.
Sizzle-pop. Sizzle-pop. The enchanted traps had only been drawn right by the window, the slanted roof appearing to be unwarded, probably because it was a likely spot for birds to land and waste the spells. She could just imagine: being awakened early in the morning by an alarm only to find that some pigeon had been fried on your windowsill, forcing you to cast the spells all over again.
Once all the arcane writing was erased Imoen pushed the broad, double-paned window fully open, cringing at the slight creak that it made. One more glance around to make sure there was nothing moving through the gardens on this level of the tower, and then she raised a hand and conjured up a tiny light-cantrip. She simply willed it to blink three times above her palm, then snuffed it out with a thought.
With the signal sent she sat back and waited, leaning against a large pot filled with tall, sharp-bladed grass that smelled a bit like lemons. It was odd, Imoen thought as she glanced around at all the decorative plants, to think of Ramazith having a green thumb. Did he have elemental gardeners? Examining the room a bit more she recognized a few common alchemical ingredients: yarrow flowers, mandrake plants, forktongue, and hyssop. Decorative and functional.
It wasn't a long wait before a figure wriggled up onto the pagoda-roof before her, stood, and then effortlessly slipped through the window. For a moment he was swathed in the black of the night behind him, but as he crept forward his cloak took on the brown earth-tone of the chamber's floor and walls, and from his hood spilled messy locks of auburn hair. Looking up to Imoen, Coran's eyes glinted with a mischievous twinkle, surrounded by the green of his bandit-mask tattoo. His lips quirked as well, as if he was about to say something cheeky, but he held back.
So he can be silent. Forget sometimes that when I first met him he was working as a scout.
Behind the elf a second, smaller figure climbed through the window; a woman half his size, with big feet and hands. Beneath her cloak there were splashes of dark purple, and the hair that peaked from beneath her cowl was dyed a bright shade of violet. Once she had settled onto the floor and glanced around Alora flashed a bright smile in Imoen's direction, though she too was quiet as a mouse.
The three thieves shared a quick nod, then Imoen turned and took the lead, creeping along the path that led around the indoor garden, mindful to keep close to the encroaching plants. If any guardians appeared there was plenty of cover to vanish into. At least on this floor; Mask only knew what the next level would hold.
Low as she could crouch, Imoen padded over to the spiral staircase at the far side of the chamber and climbed the steps, ears open and searching for the hum of that patrolling elemental. All was silent though, even after she topped the stairs and found herself on a floor much like the previous one, if even richer with greenery; a garden of tall plants in earthen pots and wispy vines dangling from wooden lattices spaced along the walls.
The plants were different –and denser– here, but the layout was the same: the round garden-chamber took up the entire story of the tower, and a spiral staircase that led to the next level was visible on the far side. There was a straight, open path through the middle of the room, from one staircase to the other. Or they could creep along close to the wall.
The straight path felt a little too open for her liking, so Imoen turned to the tower's wall and began to inch forward. She hadn't gone two steps, though, when Coran stopped her with a gentle hand to the shoulder. When she turned to give him a questioning look he shook his head and pointed up and over her head at a vine that hung from a trellis, near a window where the city's light filtered through.
It was a plant she didn't recognize; licorice-black and whipcord-thin, ending in fine hairs that brushed above the floor. Coran gestured at the vine, then put his hand to his neck and pantomimed choking.
Imoen frowned at that, looking from elf to plant and back again. Was that..? Could it really be an assassin vine? A carnivorous plant she had read about in bestiaries, which strangles passing animals and uses their corpses as compost for its roots.
Nasty. She turned towards the central path and gave the hardwood floor a long, wary look. The choking vines would either catch intruders or force them to walk the middle, so there were likely traps hidden on the central path as well. If Ramazith was the devious bastard he seemed to be, at least.
Slow and cautious, with her eyes sweeping the floor and searching for glyphs, Imoen started through the center of the chamber, fronds and manicured shrubs towering over her at either side.
Her eyes were on the floor, but a sharp tap from Alora had Imoen freezing in place and looking up, heart lurching. It lurched even more when she spotted the brown, winged creature that was lazily drifting over the hedges just ahead.
Silent but frantic, Imoen slipped off the open path and curled up behind the nearest pot, and as she hunched down she spotted Alora doing the same on the other side, hiding in a bush. Coran had vanished even more completely; likely bundled up in that handy cloak of his.
She couldn't see the creature now, but she could hear the gentle flap of its leathery wings. Some sort of imp, it had looked like. Imoen's racing heart ticked off the long, tense seconds, pumping cold blood through her veins. Waiting and waiting.
Hopefully Coran would know when the thing had passed by, with his keen ears and all. Or if nothing happened she'd eventually have to risk a glance-about. Would the imp be roosting with the hanging vines? Or would it just fly around endlessly?
A sharp shout nearby had Imoen gasping and turning her head.
"Yowchies!" Alora's voice cried out from the darkness, low in volume but high in pitch, and the halfling immediately leapt out from beneath the bush and rolled across the open floor. What is she-?
A trail of smoke rose from Alora as she righted herself and frantically whipped off her cloak, tossing it away. Smoke, but Imoen couldn't see any flames in the darkness. Instead some of the darkness seemed to be flowing out from beneath the bush where Alora had been hiding. There was a strange scwicky sound as it pushed past leaves and slithered out, wet and glistening; now a vivid shade of orange in the dim light.
The undulating pool of something flowed forward faster than it had any right to, Alora still sitting on the floor and back-scampering quick as she could. As the thing moved, a slimy segment separated and rose up into the air, dripping.
It arched like a tendril. It smacked down like a lash.
Alora rolled across the hardwood and out of the tendril's path, letting out a yelp. Wisps of hissing smoke were rising from spots on her back as she scrambled to her feet and dashed away from the slithering pool; stray droplets had splattered, and burned pinprick holes through her shirt.
Imoen had hesitated for a blink, trying desperately to think of something 'stealthy' to do. So much for that!
Instead she launched herself out from behind the plant and rushed at the quivering mass of slime, pressing her thumbs together as her fingers fluttered forward. No way was she sticking her dagger (and wrist) into that thing! And this spell had worked on slimy stuff before.
She tried to intone the arcane words as low as she could, but there was nothing stealthy about the flames that burst from her fingertips and rushed out in a jet before her. Where the fire struck the ochre stuff it instantly began to blacken and boil, and the sizzle and popping reminded Imoen briefly of bacon.
Or it did until the horrid smell struck her nose that is. Then she couldn't help but turn her head and suppress a gag. Eww! It's like burning puke!
More and more of the slimy pool bubbled and popped, and Imoen pressed, daring one step forward, then another. Bubbles, gurgles, and then came a slicking sound as a tendril of the stuff rolled up and back like a scorpion's tail. The counterattack!
Ack! She took a skip-skip-skip to the side as the gloppy appendage slapped down and slithered along the floor, chasing after her feet. There was a sting followed by a deepening burn on her forearm (a stray drop or two?) but she bit down and kept her hands up, flames still flowing from her fingers.
The put-put-put of Alora twirling her sling sounded nearby, and then a white-hot comet streaked past Imeon and splashed into the ochre pool, bursting into flames. The little puff of fire expanded into a blackened hole, and Alora followed through, swift and sure, by slinging another burning stone.
Gotta love those fire enchantments.
All that fire had the gelatinous pool breaking and dividing into quivering clods and droplets, and a good thing too, since Imoen's flames had begun to sputter out. Just as she was pondering how exactly to be sure the thing was dead an inhuman shriek right behind her drew her attention and she spun.
A flutter of wind struck her face as something craggy and monkey-shaped loomed up and close. Ack!
It seemed suspended in the air –frozen– but then as Imoen snatched up her dagger time resumed, and instead of attacking the thing just crashed to the floor, letting out a brittle crack and breaking into a thousand pieces.
Just behind the shattered thing (a statue? No, it had to be a magical construct. The impish creature?) stood Coran, both of his daggers pointing forward. He shot Imoen a grin, eyes twinkling just like always. An instant of smug mischief, and then he and the other two thieves remembered where they were and moved on instinct, shifting into a defensive crouch, turning and coming together; back to the back to back.
The stench of the burnt slime hung heavy in the air, and the echo of the imp shattering still seemed to ring in their ears. Surely Ramazith could smell or hear this, even down on the bottom floor where Imoen had last seen him. Surely an army of mephitis and slimes and elementals was on the way.
But a long moment passed in silence.
Then another, and another.
And then came the slow and relentless vacuum sound, echoing off the bare walls. They all felt each other tense up, and once again they all scuttled off to hide, quiet as they could. This time Imoen found herself packed against Alora, behind the big earthen pot she had used before and watching around the corner. She held the grip of her dagger tight, hoping that it could pierce living-wind well enough when the elemental came in swinging. The blade (which she had lifted off of Montaron's corpse a couple of lifetimes ago,) had a decent enchantment on it, at least. She'd just never tested it on-
The transparent cone-body, dust devil-arms, and cloudy face of the air elemental bobbed its way down the spiral stairs, then turned at the bottom, and without pause it sputtered on along the outer walkway, soon slipping behind the plants and out of view. The three thieves shared a nervous glance and waited.
Eventually the living cloud floated into sight once again (apparently ignored by the assassin vine) and approached the second flight of stairs. Then down it went, vanishing. So…air elementals don't have a sense of smell? Or maybe it just didn't care.
Imoen was happy to get away from it at least, and without tripping over any other monsters they managed to creep over to the staircase and climb, Coran now in the lead. He peaked up over the lip of the next floor and did a careful lookabout ounce he was there, but soon gestured for the others to follow.
All was silent and still in the next story of the tower, which appeared to be a workshop of sorts. Desks and tables lined the room, topped with equipment in meticulous order. Imoen recognized much of it: a bellows sitting by a small brick oven, tongs and mallets and countless cutting tools laid out upon a table nearby. There were tripods and braziers on a second table, along with stands holding glass vials. Next to those stood a great copper sphere with several tubes sticking out at various angles, which sat next to a device of the sort Imoen had seen the monks of Candlekeep use to strain tinctures through cloth bags.
Beyond the little laboratory lay two stone slabs, stained orange in places and sitting next to a table lined with familiar tools. It was the sort of setup the priests used to prepare corpses for burial in the Candlekeep Crypts, a sign that perhaps Ramazith dabbled in necromancy.
Hopefully just necromancy. Imoen noticed that one of the slabs had steel manacles attached the corners.
They crossed this laboratory with as much caution as the previous floor, waiting for the hidden ochre jellies or exploding glyphs, but each nerve-wracking step just brought them closer and closer to the next flight of spiral stairs.
Once again Imoen found herself filing in behind Coran as he scouted his way up the staircase, the edges of the elf's cloak bunched up in his hands so he could wrap it around himself at a moment's notice. He slowed and halted once he got to the top, belly against the stairs and eyes just over the edge, and Imoen slipped and wriggled up beside him to get a peak as well, sensing Alora worm her way in beside her.
They all got a good look at the next floor. They didn't climb any farther.
Ho-boy! Now here was what looked like some real security. And it smelled almost as bad as the slime-creature too. The next level of the tower was bare, open, and guarded by six monstrous things.
They were hunched like apes, their wrinkled and ruddy skin tight in places and gashed wide-open in others, where taut muscle gleamed through. Lips completely gone, their sharp white teeth and blood-red gums glistened in the dim light of the overhead lamps, along with their cataract-white eyes, set deep in blackened sockets.
You could tell that the things had once been human; discern their sexes and some unique features, but the magic that held them together had also warped their bodies: sharpened finger-bones into claws, extended arms longer than they should ever go, turned once-human faces into tight masks, half-skull and half-beast. Their lack of clothes, hunched postures, wild hair and patchy skin made them seem like savage monsters, but the open rips that reveled muscle, tendon and bone made it clear that they were no living things.
That and the smell.
Ghouls! Imoen realized. (Or ghasts? The bestiaries weren't real clear on how to spot the difference, beyond saying that ghasts were much tougher.) They shambled aimlessly through the chamber, slow but restless.
The three thieves shared a worried look, and Imoen thought how useful Viconia's drow sign language would be at a moment like this. She had learned a few of the gestures herself, but doubted that Alora or Coran knew any. So instead they quietly crawled back down the stairs and backed away at the bottom.
Once out of earshot, they conferred in the lowest whispers they could use manage. "Just one inviso spell left," Imoen started, cutting to the chase. She found herself regretting not preparing more of that spell, but there was so much other useful magic, dern it!
Alora wasn't perturbed. "Me and Cory have potions, just in case." She glanced up the stairs. "And I can go lower to the ground than those creepies." A confident smile. "Sure as sure, I can sneak right by."
"And I have my cloak," Coran agreed with a grin and a nod. "'Inviso' yourself, Imoen. We'll slip by them the less fancy way. And chug a potion if one of the ghouls actually stirs." When Imoen gave him a look of doubt and concern his grin just grew. "Don't worry. Me and Lora are professionals." He patted the halfling on the arm.
"Yuppers. Professional sneaky-thieves. And this'll be even easier than slippin' past guards, 'cause ghouls are duuuuuumb."
"Alright, alright," Imoen agreed, turning towards the flight of stairs to chant her words, quick and silent as she could. The familiar ripple of light ran over her, and she vanished.
No reason to hesitate, so across the room and up the stairs she went.
As she carefully placed her feet it occurred to Imoen that unlike the elemental, these things definitely might be able to smell her. They really should include that in the bestiaries. 'Beware: has a keen nose.' The enchantment on her boots helped her keep a brisk pace even as she made sure each footfall was deliberate and silent, and once she had mounted the steps she began to meander, careful to keep as much distance from each ghoul as she could.
Though it made her queasy, she forced herself to watch the creatures as she hunched down and waddled by, searching those raw, grinning faces and glistening eyes for any sign that they were taking note of her or her companions. The ghouls were always in motion, though it amounted mostly to restless shifting and jittery twitching, every movement making Imoen's stomach lurch.
Alora and Coran were up here now, skirting opposite walls and making their way around the chamber the long way, the elf covered completely with his cloak and the halfling so low that she was almost crawling on her belly. Passing through the center of the chamber, Imoen suppressed a gasp and her stomach flopped even more when one of the ghouls turned suddenly and she found herself looking directly into its eyes, the empty white pools edged with rotten black.
But those eyes remained dull, and after a pause Imoen took a step forward, then another, and then the creature turned the other way and she skittered past it, edging her way to the spiral stairs. Once there, instead of climbing, she turned and shuffled a bit to the side, anxiously watching the progress of her friends.
Coran had stopped and frozen still, becoming a faint bulge the exact color as the faded blue wall he was pressed up against. A ghoul had turned and seemed to be looking directly in his direction, but it showed no interest, apparently fooled by the camouflage. Meanwhile Alora continued to worm her way along the opposite wall, one careful shimmy at a time, and even though two of the undead were facing her general direction they appeared to be oblivious. She halted suddenly, however, when one of the ghouls got off its haunches and waddled towards her, closer and closer to the wall.
Worse still, the approaching ghoul's head seemed to suddenly snap back and up, bloody nostrils flaring as if it had caught a whiff of something. It turned slowly, scenting and searching, head pivoting from side to side.
Ack! Ack! Ack! Mask help us! Imoen found herself praying when the face of the creature turned in Alora's direction and stayed there, head still tilted too far back to spot the halfling –yet.
With a silent and shocking burst of speed Alora suddenly launched herself from the wall, low and zipping in right behind the creature. The ghoul snuffled at the air and twitched with agitation, but as it turned and looked about the room Alora followed it precisely, keeping right behind it and out of sight. They turned one way, then another. A sharp pivot, another turn, then Alora was aligned with the staircase and she whirled, risking another burst of speed to dash to the steps and climb them at a near jog, her bare, fuzzy feet somehow managing to not make so much as a scrape or clomp the whole way.
The other ghouls were alert now, heads turning and nostrils in the air, but they had all started shifting towards the spot on the far wall where Alora had been. That gave Coran a clear shot at the stairs, and he took it, dashing as fast as quiet feet would allow. The moment he started climbing Imoen fell in behind him, padding her way up the steps until the ghouls were thankfully out of sight.
Imoen had barely reached the top of the next flight and taken a relieved breath when a muffled shriek from Alora set her nerves jangling all over again. Dagger drawn, she dashed fully into the room, eyes searching the bookshelves and tables for danger. This floor reminded her for all the world of Candlekeep; packed and stacked high and wide with books and loose rolls of paper, and if she had counted the tower's floors correctly this was the top story. The wizard's study.
Besides the books other objects crowded the shelves and countertops: vials, jugs, jars filled with a rainbow of colored liquids, feathers, tufts of fur, skulls of varying shapes, and even oddly colored teeth. A bit less tidy than the laboratory below, but perhaps that was just due to the sheer volume of arcane paraphernalia here; so many books and potions and components that it had overcome Ramazith's ability to sort and categorize.
Imoen had to dodge around a couple of these overpacked tables and bookcases before she caught sight of Alora, who appeared to be gaping at something, hands clamped to her mouth and eyes wide with shock. Another step past a bookshelf and Imoen had to stifle a gasp as well, catching sight of a round iron cage and the prisoner within.
Inside slumped a woman, held limp and upright in a tortured position by shackles at the wrists. Her limbs were brittle and twig-thin, and her honey-gold skin (Imoen could swear there was a faint glow there, just beneath the surface,) seemed desiccated; wrinkled like bark and stretched over jagged bones. The golden, shimmering color of her skin was marred further by long tracks on her arms and thighs that appeared to be caked with dry, black blood.
The woman looked to be an elf, judging by the sharply pointed ears tucked behind the mask she wore; a strange, bulky device of riveted leather and wood, with clear glass bulbs attached to the flaps beneath her cheeks. The glass contained some sort of liquid, sloshing with each of the captive's labored breaths. Her head had been shaved bald, uneven stubble beginning to show through, and besides the mask a few strips of filthy, ragged gossamer was all that the poor creature wore.
That mask? A device for collecting tears? Surely not. What an absurd thought.
Coran pushed his way to the bars, a pained expression on his face. "Selderine have mercy," he managed to whisper, and at the sound of his voice the captive cringed back and frantically pulled at her chains, knees bending alternately and hips twisting. It was as if she were trying with all her feeble strength to curl up into a ball. To disappear.
"No!" the captive croaked in a raw, unsteady voice. "You- you can't…"
"It's okay," Coran tried in his most soothing tone, hand out and open. "We're not here to hurt you. We'll get you-"
"It's not! It's NOT!" Both of the captive's knees bent now, rising briefly to her chest, as she twisted and struggled like something wild and wounded. A sob wracked her and she slumped forward again. "No one can see. No one can SEE!"
"Let's just get you free okay?" Coran whispered gently, his placating hands unseen by the masked woman. He shared a worried look with Alora. "We have to free her."
"Well, yeah," was all Imoen could think so say, approaching fast. No shit. "You see those glyphs all around the cage?"
Both the other thieves gave a nod. "Those are…electric wards, right?" Coran pointed. "The rest though…"
"Yup," Imoen agreed. "You just take care of those trap-triggers there and there, and I'll do the rest." She bit her lip when she realized how pointless it was to point while she was invisible, but Coran and Alora got right to kneeling and sprinkling alchemical powder onto the arcane traps. Professionals. While they went to work Imoen opened up a leather-bound case that hung at her hip.
Always be prepared. Especially when you're infiltrating a wizard's tower. She had come ready to combat magic.
Holding the scroll out in front of her, she unfurled it, took a breath, and then-
Urm? Ack! The parchment –along with the hands that held it– was invisible. How am I supposed to read it? She knew that the first spoken word of the spell would be 'Tiras,' and that before intoning she was supposed to look at her target and see where the weave-
In a rainbow flash Imoen's hands and the parchment, with all its flowing draconic script and spiraling diagrams, appeared. Apparently the opening thought-pattern for the spell was enough to break her invisibility.
She floundered a moment, and then made herself focus, feeling out the threads of magic that wound up from the floor and around each bar of the cage, binding in both a physical and metaphysical sense. Remembering what Xan had taught her. See the threads. Intone the words. Will the threads to unravel. Easy enough.
Casting this spell would probably alert Ramazith, if he hadn't been alerted already, but they'd just have to deal with that. They couldn't just ignore this poor prisoner.
Chanted words ignited the parchment in a flash of white that rolled outward and gathered, glowing but heatless, at Imoen's fingertips, then gesturing the way that the scroll had instructed, she flicked her wrists and launched the crackling energy at the cage. There was a blinding flash when contact was made, and Imoen blinked and turned away from the waring strands of magic.
A moment of sizzling and tension, then it all burst into stars and fell away.
"All gone," Imoen announced, just in case the other two didn't know what the falling sparks signified, and Coran rushed to the cage door with a lockpick in hand. Alora hurried to help, climbing –easy as a monkey– up the outside bars, where she went to work on the shackles.
Imoen glanced around the study. An afterthought: Suppose I should find Edwin's book. It would be somewhere in this library; a large tome with a burgundy-red cover, edged in black and crosshatched with gold threading, entitled: 'Instructions on Obtaining Clear and Unobstructed Thought' and subtitled: 'And Other Meditation Techniques.'
Such an odd request. She had tried to imagine the blustery red wizard searching for inner peace, and just had to laugh. His instructions had been odd in another way as well. 'I know for sure Ramazith owns that tome, but there are doubtlessly other thick, gilded books lying about his study. It would be prudent of you to filch as many as possible, as they are all valuable.'
Growing up in Candlekeep had given Imoen a pretty good eye for truly expensive books and their cheaper counterparts (like the tawdry chapbooks and mass-produced literature she had always enjoyed, and that many of the monks had called 'worthless pulp.') Ramazith's library was fairly familiar: mostly cheap but practical reading material: encyclopedias, histories, bestiaries, botanical materia medica guides, and general arcane tomes. There were a lot of wooden cabinets though, sealed up and perhaps holding unseen treasures. Perhaps-
A thunderclap shook the tower, the floorboards vibrating beneath Imoen's feet and giving her a start. All three thieves paused and readied their weapons, glancing about, but once the rumble had died away all grew silent again.
Maybe that was outside? A sudden storm? Another beat passed with no sign of a lightning-slinging Ramazith, and they all swiftly turned back to their locks, the door to the cage swinging open and the manacles falling away while Imoen worked at the cabinet door she had started to probe.
The moment the prisoner's arms slipped free of their bonds she collapsed, and when Coran attempted to catch her she recoiled, squirming back until she pressed up against the bars of her cage. Imoen gave her a worried glance, then her eyes widened as she saw a large flap of skin fall away from the woman's shaking arm, like a great flake of dead bark. There was no blood or muscle beneath; just a smooth, dark surface, and as Imoen watched the woman's terrified quivering dislodged another loose piece of skin.
Coran had shrugged off his cloak, and now he tried to drape it over the poor woman. "It's alright," he whispered. "We won't hurt you."
"You are!" she insisted, voice panicked and high in pitch. She shouted the next words. "You are hurting! Seeing hurts! No one can see!"
"Here then." Coran pushed the cloak over her, but her shaking threatened to dislodge it. Her surfaces seemed to be cracking in several places now, more withered bark than skin.
Some sort of spell? A curse? Imoen guessed.
But no; the captive's proportions and affect and aura (there really seemed to be a golden glow coming off her shriveled skin,) were so strange and different from a human's. Or even an elf's. And that skin; threatening to crinkle away to dust at any moment. All the signs were there. This was a fey creature, like the sirines, whose bodies had wavered and shifted easy as seawater, and who had burst into foam when they died.
And this woman seemed of the forest; skin drying up crinkly like a plant's and limbs shaped like twigs. A dryad maybe? Taken from her tree but somehow kept alive?
"I'm Coran. Can you tell me your name?" He had reached down with steady hands to undo the straps of the woman's mask, peeling it away with a clink and a slosh of liquid. Vials of captured tears.
She clenched her eyes shut and buried herself in the elven cloak. "You can't see!" She shrieked again. "Ugly and broken! I can feel it in you. You see the ugliness! And that…that…"
With a click the cabinet unlocked and at the same time Imoen snapped her fingers. "She's a nymph," she announced to no one in particular. She had once read that their tears were used to make love potions, horrible as that is when you stop to think about it.
"Truly?" Coran asked. "But nymphs are…" He gasped and looked away, cringing and shaking his head. "Oh, I see."
"Don't see…please…" the poor creature quietly begged, rocking herself in the corner. A bit of her knee flaked off and fell away with the motion, and Imoen looked away too, opening the cabinet.
Dern. What a dilemma. All the books made a big deal about how nymphs were spirits of beauty, and thrived on it. The flipside of that: maybe this woman was actually being physically hurt by them seeing her in this state. It seemed absurd, but…
"I'm…I'm Abela," the prisoner managed, whispering against her knees.
"Well," Coran said in as reassuring a voice as he could muster. "We'll get you out of here, Abela. And I'm looking away, okay? See?"
Several books and arcane scrolls rested inside the cabinet, and one was thicker than the rest, with golden crosshatching and onyx trim. There! That's it! As Imoen snatched the book up the floor beneath them rumbled and shook once again, and she was sure she heard the telltale roar of flames bursting outward somewhere on the level below.
An incendiary bomb. Or a fireball spell.
She whirled from the cabinet and rushed to the nearest tower window, gesturing for the others to follow (hopefully Coran could coax the nymph into moving.) They'd just need to disarm the arcane traps at the window now (a bit late for caring about alarms,) and then they'd have a route of escape. She had a featherfall spell ready, and the other two claimed they could climb anything. Of course Abela might present a challenge…
A sound halfway between fabric ripping and an electric crackle had Imoen turning once again, in time to see a rippling, mirror-like surface burst into being in the middle of the study. A man stumbled out of the portal, frazzled and disoriented, his green and gold silks singed in places. A shake of his head and he quickly composed himself, eyes falling on Imoen and friends.
And he did not look amused.
He didn't look particularly surprised either. "Ah," Ramazith grumbled. "So that's how my wards got breached." The next spell he launched from his fingertips materialized and struck with dazzling speed.
Author's Note: The title of this chapter is a bit of a tribute to old pulp sword and sorcery stories, which often have titles like 'The Thing in/of the Thing.' The very first Fafhrd and the Grey Mouser story Fritz Leiber published was titled 'The Jewels in the Forest,' for instance, and Conan stories tend to have titles like that. Towers also seem to feature prominently.
I'd like to blame my updating this story late (I try to put out a chapter every two weeks at least,) on the fact that I've suddenly found myself working on three jobs at once. But Fallout 4 may also be to blame.
I altered the layout of Ramazith's tower slightly here (as well as the monsters therein.) It seems like having one big spiral staircase that people can just rush up in the middle of your tower kind of undermines the idea of putting monsters on each level. And while I was at it I gave him a bit more of a laboratory. The guy brews potions and creates ghasts and magical items, after all.
Also: according to the lore Ramazith is supposed to be good. And...not even a wizard like in the game? He's a fighter? (What?!) I'm just going to write that off as Volo being an unreliable narrator who's wrong about some things.