3. The Cathedral Of The Final Scribe
Astor, Kal and Night walked single file along the ravaged beach. The burning wreckage of the nautiloid littered the scenery, polluting the air with ash and smoke.
They came across an injured mind flayer and several intellect devourers. Night dispatched them all easily, throwing precise, flashy spells before the monsters could get close. With every kill she made, she glanced back at Astor and Kal proudly.
Astor couldn’t help but laugh. “That mind flayer was already bleeding out, Nightingale. I’m sure it would have died without your intervention.”
Night pretended to sulk, stomping away dramatically.
They finished combing the beach, approaching the end of the sand, and found a path that led to a cluster of ruins. At one set of double stone doors, a woman knelt with a set of thieves’ tools, busy at work trying to pick the heavy, complicated lock. Her long black hair came down to her waist, tied in a low, thick braid. Red highlights threaded through her hair.
Noticing them approach, she immediately got up, positioning her spear in front of her. Her eyes were a vibrant green, and they quickly scanned the group.
“Oh,” Night began. “You were on the nautiloid.”
The stranger nodded, lowering her weapon. “It looks like there’s more survivors. You two,” she gestured towards the men, “I saw you running to the control room. I assume the crash was your doing?”
Kal stepped forward proudly. “It was me! I landed the ship!”
“And what a landing,” Night added dryly.
Astor was cautious. How were there so many survivors? “Who are you?”
The woman hesitated. “I’m Shadowheart.”
“Shadowheart,” Astor repeated. “Is that your real name?”
“It’s what I go by,” she said, crossing her arms. “I suppose you think your name is any better?”
“Astor,” he said. Then he pointed behind him. “Nightingale. Kalsarin.”
“Splendid. I’m glad we’re all properly introduced,” Shadowheart commented flatly.
“Can I assume you were also on the receiving end of an unfortunate occipital insertion?” Night asked, her finger tapping her temple.
“You could say that,” Shadowheart replied. “I need to find a healer. As do you.”
“Then join us! The more the merrier!” Kal yelled. Then he glanced at Astor and smirked. “If our leader says it’s ok.”
Astor shot Kal a look, then he sighed. “What’s one more?”
“That’s it? Why were you more suspicious of me than her? You should be on your guard.” Night jabbed one finger towards Shadowheart. “Look at her clothing!”
Astor’s eyes scanned Shadowheart’s outfit. Dark half-plate armor hung on her frame under a cloak of deep violet. Her cape was pinned across her chest by a circular brooch, a black disk with a thick purple border. The symbol looked familiar but he couldn’t place it.
“Shar’s holy symbol,” Night explained. “The Lady of Loss.”
“That’s impolite, Nightingale,” Shadowheart warned, her posture stiffening. She watched Astor’s response tentatively.
“Is that true?” Astor asked. “You’re a Sharran?”
“Yes. Do you…have a problem with that?”
Astor looked Shadowheart over. And then at Night who stood smugly beside him. He gave a shrug. “I don’t care who you worship, as long as you’re decent in a fight.”
“That’s awfully accepting of you,” Shadowheart said softly. “I’m a cleric, and I can hold my own.”
Night shook her head. “I don’t have issues with who you worship either,” she explained. “I just think we should treat everyone fairly. No double standards.” She glared at Astor, who promptly ignored her.
“Can you get these parasites out?” Kal asked.
Shadowheart shook her head. “I’m afraid this is beyond most clerics’ skills.”
Kal looked confused. “Why not just ask Shar to remove the tadpoles?”
“I’m a lowly follower. Maybe if I was Lady Shar’s Chosen, she would favor me.”
“I know what you mean.” Night shrugged lightly. “I worship Mystra, but she hasn’t answered any of my prayers.”
“The gods are fickle,” Shadowheart said with a small smile. “We’ll have to make do without divine intervention.”
Astor clenched his fists. Who could actually remove these tadpoles? This situation was sounding more dire by the minute.
Kal glanced at the ruins. “Why were you trying to open that door?”
“The markings on the outside indicate it used to be some sort of temple,” Shadowheart explained. “Maybe there’s something useful inside.”
Astor picked up the set of thieves’ tools on the ground and walked past Shadowheart. He stood at the heavy doors and knelt at eye level to the keyhole. Several moments of fiddling with the thieves’ tools later, there was a soft click, and he swung the doors open. Musty stale air hit them from the dark hallway inside. “Well, let’s take a look.”
After wandering the winding corridors of the ruins, the party found themselves inside an abandoned cathedral. The chamber was home to several groups of skeletons, who walked its dusty halls dressed in the ragged remains of scholarly robes. Some even held ancient, tattered books.
The four of them split up to clear the undead out.
Shadowheart’s radiant magic quickly took care of several clusters of skeletons. Kal’s claws handled a handful more.
Across the room, a loud boom echoed as dust and wind kicked up around Night. Her Thunderwave spell had knocked three skeletons away from her, throwing them against the floor in scatterings of bone.
Nearby, Astor moved silently, spinning around the skeletons, dodging their attempts to swipe him. One clawed him on the shoulder, ripping his shirt, and he cursed. In return, his dagger slashed across its ribs, shattering brittle bone. The skeleton collapsed into a heap.
He noticed Night nearby, watching him, stifling laughter. “Did our fearless leader just get clawed by a measly skeleton?”
As Night taunted him, she was oblivious to a skeleton sneaking up behind her. It readied an attack with its rusty short sword.
In one smooth gesture, Astor threw his dagger in her direction. It soared through the air over her shoulder, and directly into the skeleton’s empty eye socket. The impact knocked the undead off its feet, and it hit the ground loudly.
Some of Night’s indigo hair were cut loose by the dagger. “Ah.” She blinked, her hand touching her hair. She turned to look behind her.
“Your noisy spells will attract more of them, miss archmage,” Astor replied coolly. “Now be a dear and fetch my dagger for me.”
Night grumbled something under her breath and turned to retrieve his dagger.
With all the skeletons destroyed, the chamber was silent.
The group strolled along a side hallway, admiring the intricate carvings on its walls, filled with worn depictions of corpses and graves. One large mural showed the aftermath of a battlefield of war. A robed scholar stood observing the scene, writing on a long scroll.
“Is this a temple for a god of death?” Astor mused. His fingers traced the details in the walls, appreciating the craftsmanship that survived a millennium.
Night slowed down in front of a depiction of skeletal scribes. “The current god of death hates undead. This can’t be his temple,” she reasoned. “But perhaps one of the previous gods. There’s…Myrkul. And Cyric. The portfolio of death has changed hands often.”
“What about Final Scribe, Jergal?” Shadowheart suggested. “He’s ancient, and no one worships him anymore. Could explain why this place was abandoned.”
Night paused, thinking, her fingers tapping her lips. “This temple does have a Jergal atmosphere.”
Meanwhile, Astor and Kal trailed behind them. “Do you worship any gods, Kal?”
“I pray to no one,” Kal replied with a grin. “Why let others dictate how I live?”
“Same here,” Astor said. “What’s the point? It’s not like the gods do anything for us.”
Night glanced over her shoulder with an amused look, but she said nothing.
Somewhere in a far corner of the cathedral, Kal’s sensitive ears picked up the faint murmurs of conversation. Finding a set of stone stairs leading down, the party approached quietly. At the bottom, the stone doors to an old crypt stood slightly ajar. Voices drifted from the room.
“This ■■■ is tedious, is it not?” a voice asked, gruff and deep. “The mistakes of your past continue to trouble us, even now.”
“What is done cannot be undone,” another voice said, raspy and carrying an emotionless cadence. “But ■■ will be finished soon enough.”
“My chosen will watch the other ■■■,” the first voice replied. “This one is…the more complicated ■■. But I’ll be around in this avatar.”
“Your assistance is noted,” the raspy voice said. “A rare diversion for thee, milord? Away from thy throne, and upon the road once more. Thou must be pleased.”
A low laughter rumbled from the first man.
Astor was intrigued by the conversation. There were parts that were indecipherable, and he exchanged a brief look with Kal. Silently, he inched closer to the entrance to hear better.
Suddenly, the door swung open violently, seemingly on its own. In the small stone chamber, two men sat on the closed lid of a richly adorned coffin, set on a raised platform.
One man was gaunt and wrapped in dusty strips of cloth bandages. His skin was grey and sunken tight against the bones of his face, and his eyes glowed faintly green in deep sockets. Long, decaying robes hung from his thin arms. He looked like a walking corpse.
The other man looked human, square-jawed with a dark, tanned face. His eyes were a bright green and his black hair was wild and thick, streaked with abundant grey. A dark chainmail and leather outfit framed his heavy build, with a wide belt at his hips.
The robed figure levitated effortlessly off the coffin, until he landed on his feet in front of Astor. “So he has spoken, and so thou standest before me. Right as always.” His voice had a chilling effect, and it hung in the air. “You mayest know me as Withers.”
“Wha—“ Astor begun to ask, before he heard Night gasp and push past him.
“Lord Kelemvor, it is an honor to be in the presence of the Judge of the Damned,” Night announced. She bowed deeply towards the person still sitting cross legged on the coffin lid.
In response, the man waved a hand dismissively through the air. “Ah, Nightingale, was it? I’ve heard murmurs of your recent dismissal from Mystra’s service.”
Night stiffened.“I have…made many mistakes.” Then she slowly stood upright again. “What are you doing in the temple of a previous God of Death?”
“Oh?” Kelemvor laughed, the sound sharp in their minds. “You know whose temple this used to be?”
“Um. Might it belong to Lord Jergal, the Final Scribe?” Night replied politely.
Kelemvor hopped off the coffin and strolled over to Withers, patting him roughly on his shoulders. “It seems at least some mortals still know of Jergal,” he said to his companion, smirking wryly. Then he turned back to Night. “But you know, Jergal works for me now.”
Night’s eyes widened. “Oh, I see.”
“Isn’t that right, Withers?” Kelemvor winked at the robed figure, who exhaled deeply, looking disinterested.
Lord Death then turned his attention to the rest of the group. “I am Kelemvor, the current holder of the portfolio of Death. This is one of my many avatars.”
Astor had been watching this conversation with focused attention, his mind hard at work on the implications. He cleared his throat. “My name is Astor,” he said smoothly, “Nightingale is a member of my party.”
Behind him, Kal and Shadowheart gave their own introductions, Shadowheart acted way more tense than Kal.
“What an interesting group,” Kelemvor noted with amusement. Now, you all have a long journey ahead of you, but it is nothing you can’t handle. In fact, I’m quite envious of the stories that’ll be written in your name.”
“…Are you really the God of Death?” Astor asked skeptically. “It’s hard to believe.”
“Astor!” Night shouted in horror, slapping his shoulder lightly.
Kelemvor laughed again. As he approached Astor, his green eyes flashed. “You walk beyond the line that should have claimed you, centuries ago,” he said quietly, looking almost sad. “For all of our sakes, see to it that you do not cross it again until this journey comes to its end.”
Astor froze as a chill crept up his neck. At that moment, he felt like all his secrets were laid bare in front of the massive existence before him.
Kelemvor was smiling, but while he looked fully human, there was a depth to his expression that was deeply disconcerting. He continued walking past Astor, Kal and Shadowheart, and out the door. He raised an arm above his head and waved without looking back. “I’m off to ■■■, Withers.”
The party’s attention turned back to Withers.
“So, er, you were told to meet us here?” Night asked carefully.
“Indeed,” Withers replied calmly. “Now I have a question for thee. What is the worth of a single mortal’s life?”
Kal immediately yelled a response. “The only life that matters is mine!”
“Wow Kal,” Night muttered.
Withers nodded. “At this particular junction, perhaps that is not so far from the truth.”
Astor’s shock finally wore off. He cleared his throat. “It depends on the mortal, obviously.”
“All lives are the same, no one is anymore special, because when we die we all go to the same place—the Fugue Plane,” Shadowheart countered.
“Excuse me, I think some of us are definitely more special,” Night chimed in.
The group of four argued over their opinions for a bit while Withers watched intently.
“Very well.” He regarded the group. “I have learned of thou faces and will see you again at the proper time and place.” With a flick of his wrist, he vanished in a puff of stale air.
The party stood quietly, caught off guard by the strange man’s sudden exit.