28th day of Elient, 1492 DR - Continued.
The air in the Elfsong Tavern was heavy with dust and despair, thick enough to choke on. Shattered glass glittered on the floor like a sea of cruel diamonds, and splintered furniture lay strewn about as if tossed by an angry god. My companions and I stood amidst the wreckage, our eyes wide with shock, each of us grappling silently with the revelation that had just been thrust upon us.
Karlach, dearest Karlach, had been tricked into a deal with Raphael – a deal that might very well cost her her soul. The thought of losing her like this – not on the battlefield, but to some infernal bargain – made my heart clench like a fist. But there would be time for grief later. For now, we had to act.
Or, at the very least, passionately argue about how to act.
"By the gods," Gale breathed, his voice strained. "We cannot bring the Netherese crown to Raphael. It's too much power in the wrong hands, and his arguably qualify as the worst possible hands we could consider."
"Then we find Karlach," Tav interjected fiercely, his eyes blazing with determination. "We get her out of this deal. We save her, no matter what it takes!"
I could feel their passion, their fierce love for our fallen friend, and it gave me strength even as it threatened to overwhelm me. My own words caught in my throat, lodged there like a fishbone, and I found myself unable to speak. Instead, I listened as my companions argued, their voices a cacophony of desperation and resolve.
"And how would we accomplish that? Not that I am in any way unsympathetic to her plight, but of all the possible objectives in front of us, only one is remotely within our reach. The Crown itself," Gale insisted. "We harness its power for ourselves. It may be the only way to counteract whatever hold Raphael has over Karlach."
"Or it could destroy us all," Tav countered, his voice dark with foreboding. "We have no idea what forces we'd be unleashing. No, we must focus on finding Karlach first. She's our priority."
Their voices rose and fell, blending together into a storm of emotion that seemed to shake the very walls of the Elfsong Tavern. I wished I could join in, lend my voice to theirs, but it felt as if some invisible hand were pressing down upon me, stifling my words before they could escape. This was not the time for me to talk. It was the time for the chronicler to listen.
Shadowheart's voice cut through the cacophony of our heated debate. "Enough!" she exclaimed, her eyes blazing with a fierce determination that silenced us all. The air around us seemed to crackle with tension as we turned our attention to her.
"Look at us," she continued, gesturing to the devastated Elfsong Tavern with a sweep of her arm. "Baldur's Gate is in ruins, and there's only three of us. I want to get Karlach back as much as any of you, but right now, we can do nothing. We need more hands."
Her words struck a chord within me, and I found myself nodding in agreement. Our party was indeed in dire straits; the loss of Karlach had left us short-handed and ill-prepared for the challenges that lay ahead.
As thoughts of Karlach's plight weighed heavily upon my heart, a hoarse voice suddenly spoke from the shadows, sending a chill down my spine: "Dost thou require a new ally?"
Withers emerged from the darkness, his skeletal visage as plain and calm as ever. My companions and I exchanged uneasy glances, uncertain how to respond to his sudden reappearance. We had believed him gone, yet here he stood before us, offering his assistance once more.
"Where did you come from?" Tav demanded, his voice tinged with suspicion.
"I have been... observing," Withers replied cryptically, his hollow gaze never wavering from Tav's face. "I have seen thy struggle and heard thy pleas. Perhaps, together, we can find a way to save Karlach and restore balance to this shattered world."
The thought of allying ourselves with Withers filled me with unease, and I could tell from the expressions of my comrades that they shared my concern. While we had accepted his help before, it had been driven by our need and despair, seeing few to no avenues for our survival. But Shadowheart's earlier words echoed in my mind: we were in no position to refuse any help that was offered, no matter how dubious its source.
I looked at the others, and to my surprise, their gazes strayed in my direction. As a mere chronicler, I had spent more time in camp than any of them had during our travels, and spent the most time with our mysterious undead companion than I would have liked, at least at first.
"Very well," I said finally, steeling myself for the pact we were about to forge. "We accept your offer. Together, we will find a way to save our friend and set things right."
"Good," Withers hissed, his bony fingers interlocking as he regarded us with something I imagined might have been akin to satisfaction. "Then let us begin."
"So can you bring back those helpers you offered before?" Tav inquired, his voice strained with the weight of his concerns.
Withers shook his head slowly, his bony visage never betraying a hint of emotion. "Alas, that is no longer possible. The destruction of the Absolute hath severed their connection to this realm. They have passed beyond my reach."
A look of disappointment crossed Tav's face, but it was quickly replaced by determination. "Then what can you offer us? Will you join us? We are too few."
"No," Withers said, his hollow gaze drifting across our assembled group. "Fear not, for I have another solution. There exist others from a different realm - well versed in the Absolute, and whose loyalty would be beyond reproach. If one of them so chooses, he may even be granted the power necessary to serve."
"Another realm?" Tav muttered, his brow furrowed. "Where? And how can we trust them?"
"Their trust," Withers intoned, his voice carrying an otherworldly weight, "shall be forged in oath and etched upon their very essence—a pledge unbreakable."
"Trust like that," Shadowheart interjected softly, her voice barely more than a whisper, "is not something we have in abundance. I say we take it."
Her words resonated within me, echoing the depths of my own thoughts. Shadows clung to every corner of the Elfsong Tavern, and the air felt heavy with despair. We were grasping at straws, desperate for any chance to save our friend and right the wrongs that plagued this world.
"Very well. Bring forth this ally, then," Tav commanded, his voice resolute. "And we shall see the mettle of his worth."
"At once," Withers responded, dark energies coalescing around his withered hands. His incantations resonated through the very fabric of existence, sending a shiver down my spine. "Or, perhaps, in a while. The weaving of fate is not hasty. It may be an opportune moment for thee to find rest."
I could see those words having an immediate effect on my companions. We were all weary with grief and doubt, but they most of all, were weary from battle.
"Rest," I said, "and I will stand watch."
Withers continued his work. As arcane energy continued to swirl around our undead follower, I could not help but wonder what manner of being would step forth from his incantation. Was this truly our salvation, or another layer of treachery, woven by Withers' unseen hand? Only time would reveal the truth, and time was a commodity we could ill afford to waste.
September 29th, 2023.
Though I find it difficult to comprehend the explanations given to me, I shall transcribe them here as accurately as my understanding of them are, for they hold great significance to the events that were to unfold. In a realm far removed from our own, in a place where magic is replaced by devices of unimaginably complex craft, a man sat alone, staring into a glowing window of light - a window he called a computer screen. This strange contraption, operated with deft movements of his fingers, was seemingly capable of transporting this individual to distant realms in both space and time, unveiling complex tales devised merely for his amusement.
As he watched the final moments of his journey play out before him, a sense of satisfaction washed over him. The trials he had faced, the sacrifices made, all led to this triumphant conclusion. An illusory play unfolded before him, cast into this screen of light. A satisfactory conclusion, I understand, to his efforts. Yet, as the images faded from his view, he found himself confronted by an unexpected turn of events. Instead of the familiar return to his mundane existence, he was presented with a new challenge - the creation of a new character, unlike any he had encountered before.
Perplexed, he searched the vast repositories of knowledge available at his fingertips, known to him as 'the internet', yet found no clues to explain this enigmatic development. With trepidation, he delved into the task at hand, his curiosity piqued by the unusual restrictions placed upon him. He could not mold the appearance of this being - only its abilities and its class.
"Curious," he muttered under his breath, his fingers flying across the keys that operated his machine. "What's this for?"
As he entered the values for his character's attributes, he discovered to his consternation that he could not reduce either strength or intelligence below 13. Charisma, however, could be diminished to a mere six if he so desired. This further confounded him, as such constraints seemed arbitrary and without reason.
"Who designed this?" he grumbled, frustration gnawing at the edges of his mind. "Int is a dump stat in fifth edition. Why are they forcing... Wait."
It was then that he noticed the total points available to him for attribute allocation - 27, a seemingly generous allowance when compared to the default templates provided. He pondered the implications of this discovery, his brow furrowed in concentration as he weighed his options.
"Huh. So I guess... it doesn't matter?" he questioned, his mind racing with possibilities. "Maybe it's a bug."
Despite the nagging doubts that plagued him, he pressed on, determined to see this strange path through to its conclusion. With a heavy sigh, the man resigned himself to his fate. He had wanted to create a paladin, but the constraints placed upon him made it less than ideal.
"An Eldritch Knight would be better with this stat buy," he mused, his fingers hovering above the keys, hesitating for a moment. Yet, stubbornness won out, and with determination, he selected the paladin as his chosen class.
"All right, let's see what we can do with this," he whispered, steeling himself for the challenges that lay ahead.
Upon completing the character creation, the screen shifted to display an imitation of a trade, an unseen storekeeper presenting his wares. A sum of gold was available to him, along with the merchant's offerings: a myriad of equipment choices from within this "game". Most of the truly powerful items were absent, which was no surprise to him. Nevertheless, he found himself faced with the task of making balanced selections, constrained by his limited resources. The allocated gold stipend was more meager than he would have liked. Though, I must add, I have seldom encountered a person truly content with his lot in this regard.
"I guess they can't just give me whatever I want, but at least I can start with some stuff that's not just plain crap," he reminded himself, scrutinizing each option with great care. As he perused the available wares, he could not help but feel the weight of the decisions he was about to make. The stakes were high, and survival in this unfamiliar world hinged on his successful choices here. Secret challenges like this were rarely crafted to a difficulty befitting that of the abilities of journalists specializing in games - or so he claimed.
"All right, let's see," he muttered, focusing his attention on the task at hand.
One by one, he made his selections: an Adamantine longsword, which he deemed a solid choice; Adamantine splint mail, perfect to avoid critical hits; a Darkfire shortbow, which he named a 'stat stick', the explanation of which made little sense to me; a Sentinel shield, another early game choice with unique advantages worthy of consideration.
He continued, his eyes scanning the list for anything that might prove useful. With his monetary reserves severely depleted, he concentrated in choices that would prove of use in a variety of situations: the Scabby Pugilist Circlet, together with the Gloves of the Growling Underdog, items he regarded as an unbalanced choice for their cost and accessibility by the creators of the imaginary world; an unexpected gem, the Disintegrating Night Walker Boots, which were available for a pittance given their usefulness and rarity; a Vivacious cloak, which he claims served more purpose than pure fashion.
"All right, almost there," he whispered, his fingers dancing across the keys as he added a Moondrop pendant, The Whispering Promise ring, and a Strange Conduit ring to his inventory. The most basic of items that were useful at almost all times.
His choices complete, he surveyed his assembled gear with satisfaction. Though not the most potent of arsenals, he had managed to fill every option of his equipment sheet with the extremely limited budget and selection available, maximizing his potential within the constraints to his satisfaction.
"All right, let's see what the secret level is like. I hope it's not cows again," he mused, uncertainty gnawing at the edges of his thoughts. He knew not what awaited him, but one thing was certain: survival would be a hard-fought battle, if it was a Secret Egg from the East, as he explained to me. An expression I can only assume holds significance in his world.
Having made his selections and balanced his attributes as best he could, given the constraints imposed upon him, he proceeded to level up to the twelfth degree, evenly balancing his choices between a Paladin and a Sorcerer. I regarded this as an odd combination, and his explanation of synergy between smiting and spell slots did nothing to dispel my confusion. Yet, here I report it as it was told to me. As he finished dividing his newfound prowess evenly between the arts of the paladin and those of the sorcerer, an unexpected prompt appeared before him. A disembodied voice, cold and ancient, echoed through his room, its words chilling his very soul.
"Dost thou swear loyalty and dedication to the cause, until thy task is completed?"
The suddenness of the question caught him off guard, the disembodied voice from his mechanical contraption being far more lively than it had been during his previous travels. An odd addition to the game, he mused. Yet, it was delivered with such conviction that it seemed a fitting interpretation of some greater power reaching out to him, demanding his fealty.
"Indeed, I do swear," he said out loud with an airy chuckle, while commanding his rodent companion to touch the button on the screen projection of light.
No sooner had the words left his lips than the world shifted around him. Gone was the comforting glow of his mechanical screen of light, replaced by darkness and the scent of smoke. The once-familiar walls of his room were now naught but distant memories, their place taken by shattered beams and crumbling plaster. He knew a sickening dread deep within his being.
"What the hell?!" he shouted.
His voice, tinged with fear and disbelief, rang out into the void, drawing the attention of the others who shared this dismal space. Among them, he recognized the visage of Withers, his ghastly undead form, with the adornment of golden chains over his skull. It was he who had summoned him. With a gesture both elegant and terrifying with his hand, a flash of arcane power emerged, and the gate that had brought him to our realm closed.
"Welcome, Outlander," Withers intoned, his voice a dry rasp that seemed to echo from beyond the grave. "Thou art now bound by thy promise, sworn in service to our cause."
"Wait...this is real?" he stammered, his gaze darting between the undead visage before him and our party. For a moment, I thought I saw recognition in his eyes. "I-I thought it was just—"
"An amusing diversion?" Withers finished for him, the golden chains adorning his face glinting in the dim light. "Nay, 'tis far more than that. Thy pledge hath sealed thy fate, and thou must see this through to its conclusion, be it triumph or ruin."
I could see the confusion and fear coursing through him, a stark contrast with the formidable arsenal he carried. He was clad with an imposing set of armor, a longsword and a shield strapped to his back.
"Your name, Outlander," Tav demanded, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. He was still clearly wary of this newcomer, unsure whether he could be trusted.
"Leo Sterling," he replied, his voice slowly steadying. It was not him he recognized, but as he looked around, I saw the flash of recognition as his eyes landed on both Shadowheart and Gale. No such recognition when he looked at me.
"Very well, Leo," Tav said, his tone still guarded but begrudgingly accepting of his presence. "We have much work ahead of us."
Author's Notes: Well... Yeah. I can't help it, it's just a fun thing to do, so I'm doing it. We've got an Isekai, because why wouldn't we have an Isekai! Meet Leo Sterling, Sorcadin. The best class in 5e for no other reason that the Sorcadin Guide by Gastronomie, from the Giant in the Playground Forum, is filled to the hilt with Fate Stay/Night references.
I'm easily amused.
And as usual, if you like what you see, you can always support me here:
tinyurl (period) com (slash) y2q9cop6
Stage is set, next... Next we get to know a bit more about what has happened to the party during their travels.