Greyhawk Musings: A Fistful of Baubles, Part 2: Skrellingshald

The Crone's Hut

The crone cackled, waking Hradji with a start. He surfaced. He reeled. He swayed. He fought the urge to swoon. Get hold of yourself, he raged. Women might be forgiven such weakness, but not one such as he, the son of a jarl.

That alone steeled his blood. He shook off the swoon and anchored himself upon the earthen floor. He inhaled. Too deeply to his liking. The closeness of the hovel was thick with her fetid musk. He closed his eyes. Opened them to hers smiling blindly back at him. Even though those milky orbs must reveal only a hint of what might be before her, if that, the aged witch had seen his momentary weakness, and she was laughing at him. She would, wouldn’t she? He wondered, and not for the first time, why had his father tolerated the wizened “Fist” for so long? She would never be Rhizian, no matter how long she might dwell among them.

“What did ye see?” she asked.

He shrugged. “I don’t know, he said. “Things.”

She spat. The spittle hissed in the fire. “Tell me, lest ye misinterpret thy dreams.”

Mountains. A city. Towers and domes and spires, all glimmering gold in majestic splendor. And orbs. Baubles of agate and onyx and jade, nazars that flowed and pulsed, even as they devoured any light that had the misfortune to fall on them. A blacker void beyond. He said as much. And suppressed a shudder.

“Ye have yer answer, then,” she said.

“That is no answer,” he fumed. “It’s a nightmare brought on by this burning herb.”

“Ye beheld a city of great wealth and power, high in the mountains,” she rasped. “An ancient city. A magical city. What city might that be, then?” She waited, her query as thick and as harsh as the smoke that watered his eyes and caught in his throat.

The Crone

“Skrellingshald,” he supposed, his disbelief clear.

“Aye,” she said, her pleasure stretching her toothless grin almost unto the crevasses that issued from her cold, hard eyes. “Skrellingshald,” she said. “Tostencha,” she breathed, as though in awe. And glee. “What remains, that is.”

Hradji shook his mane. “It’s nothing more than a myth!”

“Is it?” she whispered, bemused by his scepticism. “No myth; a ghost, mayhap, left to linger to warn one and all against the lord’s wrath.”

“Lord? What lord?”

What could only be reverence revivified her as she said the name, hissing it as if uttered by a snake.

***

Hradji Beartooth

No myth; a ghost, mayhap, rasped in Hradji’s mind’s ear. Beware, she had warned. Evil dwells there, greater evil than ye have ever known.

But she would say no more.

Evil? he thought. He scoffed. What did that old fossil know of evil, hidden away in her stinking hut, and blind to all but the most ashen of images? Vermin, more likely. Easily crushed underfoot.

But he was not so bold as to deny the danger the kobolds presented. He had already seen enough of them to ensure that he keep a keen eye on the gables and eaves as he and his found their way in Flan-file ever deeper into the narrow warrens of that long dead city, always expecting the snouts of the dragon dogs to be glaring back down on him. To no avail. The elf’s chosen path had proven true, for their swift passage had escaped all but the vigil of grotesques peering out of the snow overhead, and from those statues staring blankly from long dormant cisterns that broke ground in each and every open space they dashed across. Only snow-choked pots and denuded brush lurked in the courts of this forsaken place.

How long had it been since another had looked upon them, he wondered? He imagined children’s laughter. Mothers’ calls. Greengrocers and silk merchants hawking wares, and the scent of meat roasting on spits. What happened here, that they should flee such a city?

The crone’s cackle haunted his ears.

Evil has dwelt here...

They made for the central dome. What might still be had in this desolate place would surely be entombed within, they surmised, all else likely looted long ago by the kobolds and whatever else dwelt here. What, indeed? Evil has dwelt here, Fridmund had declared, resurrecting the witch’s warning. Its presence was palpable. One glance at each of their faces betrayed as much, and thus, none argued with him. The high dome rose higher and higher as they closed with it, its spires steeper with each sighting as they crossed each wide, open space in turn, until they spilled out into its vast court and stood at the base of the stair leading up to its towering façade.

Frescos ringed its eave, fields sown and reaped in turn, scribes toiling at table, priests revering the rising sun. Its lattice gate lay twisted and rent, discarded in what could only be described as wrath. The lavishly carven doors that once graced its lofty edifice were long awry. Defaced. Defiled. But despite their hanging askew, their majesty was still plain: Pelor had reigned here in all his shining glory once. No more. Shadows were creeping up on its tarnished majesty. And beyond those sundered doors darkness smothered his blinding light.

They mounted the stairs in silence, their footfalls all too loud despite the breath of wind that shifted the snows underfoot, and stood beneath the gable that had once housed those massive doors, peering within. Shields did little to cut the wafting that chilled their souls. Numb fists gripped axe and sword.

The dome rose into the heavens...

Lanterns aglow, the interior was revealed as their beams swept here and there about the rotunda in their desire to exorcize the fear that skulked in every nook and hollow.

The dome rose into the heavens, a wide stair climbing each wall to a clerestory of shattered windows, the kaleidoscope of broken leaded glass dappling the bucolic tilework at their feet. Tentacles of snow slithered into the nave from the once palatial atrium.

“I’d hide my treasures in the crypt, if it were me,” Cinniúint whispered, his words repeating within, his first single footfall become legion. Even his too quickly drawn breath leapt back from the walls. He stopped, turned, and smiled, “Let’s hope there are none about to hear us, shall we?” None did, or none revealed themselves if they had, as they invaded the ruin. They spread out, each intent on what might be secreted in the shadows, Fridmund’s softly sung lyric accompanying them:

“Is there a man, whose judgment clear

Can others teach the course to steer,

Yet runs, himself, life's mad career,

Wild as the wave,

Here pause -- and, thro' the starting tear,

Survey this grave.” ^*1

The stair beckoned. Hradji wished to look upon this once great city before plunging into its depths. He made for them, waving off Gunnar who made to follow.

“I’ll only be a moment,” Hradji said. “Keep watch.”

“Don’t,” Cinniúint protested, his word echoing tenfold, before Hradji had scaled more than three risers. “It’s not safe,” he said. “What if you’re seen?” he pleaded.

Overlooking the Dead City...

Hradi waved Cinniúint’s concerns aside, and before long he was atop the gallery, and then the terrace, overlooking the dead city in the waning light of day. He inhaled the kiss of winter, felt its embrace. It smelled of coming snow. And was colder than it ought to be. And despite the wind, a pall hung over all he beheld, as still as the tomb it now was. Nothing moved as the pale disk of the sun touched the surrounding peaks, and the shadows deepened.

The dragon dogs will stir soon, Hradji thought, reluctantly withdrawing into the confines of the dome. Best to be about the business he had come to do.

He paused before descending, watching as his companions lit from one alcove to the next, from nave to chapel, shifting broken tiles, testing the flagstones beneath, peering behind the buttresses. They pried what they may, until each vestibule was eliminated, and then scaled the apse.

It would be a miracle if they found anything, Hradji thought, as he picked his way through the detritus, his path etched in the layers of dust. The remains of marble tile crackled underfoot as he too shifted what he might: the shards of what remained of pews, their ends blackened by fire; fragments of torn tapestry crumbling to dust. There was nothing to be discovered. Just dirt and shattered reverence.

He scaled the steps to the altar, his hackles rising with unease. There was something wrong. He cast a glance from the altar to the pillars surrounding it. The images of Pellor were unmarked, free of the defilement that could be found everywhere but atop the dais. Indeed, it was still flanked by tarnished candelabra, blackened by ages of neglect. He fingered one.

Silver! Surely these would have been the first items plundered by the kobolds. So, why had they left them? Why had they left the apse untouched? Fear? Maybe the little dogs knew something they did not.

Scáthú

They rapped the altar, felt along its seams and joins, pried at it. But it and the temple continued to hold its secrets unto itself, until Scáthú took hold of a sconce affixed to a pillar and was rewarded by a click! They leapt back when they heard the following low, yet riotous clack. Weapons snapped to ready, sinews taut with expectancy as a floor panel unpinioned and lifted and gasped, clattering tiles, stirring the dust to a plume, revealing a winding stair that led into the bowls of the temple.

Hradji inched closer and felt his hackles rise as he smelled the exhalation of ages. It stank of stagnation and long decay. He wished he were asea, just then, under an open sky, under the watchful gaze of Vatun, wherever he might be.

Scáthú slipped into its blackness, advising all to await his return. Cinniúint sat, his back to the pillar, outwardly unconcerned. “He’ll be back,” the Flan said, palming a deck of cards and casting them before him, mumbling an inexplicable phrase as his eyes rolled up into his skull.

The crone’s query, What did ye see? rose unbidden. Hradji shuddered and turned away. Magic, he cursed. Who could follow such an unnatural path?

A moment later, the elf emerged from the darkness.

“What did you see?” Hradji asked.

“Crypts,” Scáthú said. “Tunnels. They go on some ways.” He took note of Cinniúint gathering up the cards that lay before him. “What did you see?” he asked.

“I’m not sure,” Cinniúint shrugged, not quite supressing a shiver as he glanced at Fridmund as the skald sang:

The poor inhabitant below

Was quick to learn the wise to know,

And keenly felt the friendly glow,

And softer flame;

But thoughtless follies laid him low,

And stain'd his name!” ^*1

***

The necropolis faded into the distance, the meagre light of the brands they held aloft insufficient to the task of illuminating how large it might be. Pillars rose, arching at their limit. Sarcophagi lined the walls at their base, spilling out of alcoves. Despite the height, Hradji could feel the weight of the temple above press down on him. Dust invaded his lungs, each breath more laboured than the last.

What the hell am I doing down here,

The Necropolis

he wondered, gazing at the sheer number of tombs, not knowing where to begin. He inspected the one closest to him, buried under its veil of dust and webbing. They clung to his palm, his sleeve, his face. He grew impatient and burned them away, revealing the now featureless visage of the once elaborately carven figure beneath. How long had it laid here? Eons, surely. Should he shift the capstone? he pondered, cursing the inevitability of becoming the looter of graves he was destined to be. Better to burn upon a pyre than moulder in a tomb!

“What are we looking for?” Ylva asked, her face awash with the glow of her torch.

“A king’s crypt, I should imagine,” Cinniúint said. Where might that be, Hradji asked? Where it would likely not be disturbed, Cinniúint answered. Scáthú slipped into the darkness, leaving Angnar and Runolf to follow, leading them deeper and deeper into the darkness where light found little purchase, where shadows danced, and where their footsteps echoed profusely regardless their care. Chamber after chamber followed, the pillared archways giving way to cobbled tunnels and alcoves without end. Then, more stairwells spiralled and plunged deeper still, where claustrophobic rooms bricked with bone waited. This one was lined with arm bones, that one with femurs. That one with skulls. In each, yet more sarcophagi rested. Did these heathens not revere their ancestors?

Cinniúint

None of these chambers interested Cinniúint, for he and the elf continued on even as the corridors narrowed, becoming almost impassable, before widening once more into a chamber as expansive as that very first they had climbed down into. Arched. Pillared. But devoid of sarcophagi. At its end was an ebon door carven with horrors. Figures writhed in the fold of tentacles that twisted into an unresolved distance, a vague figure in its depths, ominous in its presence.

Ylva clutched her pendant and called on Wee Jas’ benevolence. She shivered. “There is great evil here,” she said, her eyes bright with apprehension.

Hradji’s nape bristled. The crone’s words rose unbidden, no matter that he tried to suppress them. Evil dwells there, greater evil than you have ever known. He clenched his axe, and ignored the bead of sweat that trickled down his spine.

Fear is the only enemy, his father had once taught him. Defeat it, and you will soon discover that courage and grit, and cold steel, is its equal. All bends to steel. The dead cannot walk without legs, the wizard hath no Art without arms, the beast no bite with the heft of the axe buried deep in its skull. Hradji was becalmed by his father’s voice. He exhaled, and felt the unease fall from him.

Cinniúint passed a hand before the door, intoned a phrase, and nodded to Scáthú, who set to work inspecting its joins, its latch, its lock; and in a moment, there was an audible rotation of tumblers.

A Mockery of What Soared Above

Beyond lay a mockery of what soared above. The mirror of Pelor’s, another rotunda greeted them, so vast that its dome arched beyond the reach of the torches. Even the Flan’s lantern could not divine its height. Its beam swept back down, darting about without much purchase, then down again, where it revealed a circle of tall, black, fluted columns that disappeared into the darkness above. Beyond those, the walls held the light firm, keeping their secrets close for the time being. The beam danced across the floor. Where the mosaic of the temple above was bucolic and blissful, an epiphany to the grace of the light and bright world, this one defied description. A riot of red and black and purple blended, nightmarish silhouettes that scattering even as they resolved in the mind.

Scáthú slipped within as far as the first column, where he waited and listened. Hradji followed. Then the twins, Gunnar, Fridmund, finally Ylva and Cinniúint. They waited for doom to fall for far longer than seemed necessary, but the unnaturally suffocating silence necessitated such a wait. Their eyes adjusted and the subtleties of design became apparent.

The walls were of deepest purple, with recessed alcoves hung with thick, plush tapestries that had somehow resisted the ravages of time, hiding what might lie behind them. Hradji could only stare at them for a short time before nausea overcame him: faceless slaves tormented by mysterious horrors that engulfed them, enveloped them, tore them, and devoured them while their postures writhed in what could only be described as ecstasy.

Was it those foul images that repelled Hradji towards the centre of that dark space, or was he coaxed by some other force? He could not say, but before long he stood before the steps leading up to the dais at its centre, bounded by an alter rail as repellant as were the tapestries: Thorny vines entwined with the tentacles of serpentine bodies without certainty where one began and the other left off. Ebon eyes stared out from both flora and fauna, and seemed to follow him wherever he might go. A trick of the light, he convinced himself, even as he tightened his grip on his axe.

More curious by far were the tall candelabra that rounded the altar atop the dais. Half were topped by clusters of black candles, the others by globes of what looked to be agate and onyx and jade.

Beltar’s tits, he thought. Those globes were the very image of those he had dreamed while befuddled by the crone’s herbal fire.

He ascended the stairs.

“Beartooth,” Cinniúint yelled, taking no heed to what might hear him. “Don’t!”

But Hradji was compelled. Even as Cinniúint bellowed, Hradji held one of the oddly familiar nazars in hand. It glowed. It throbbed and burned. But it cajoled as well.

What wonders we shall do, it promised. Soothed. Caressed.

The air thrummed. Darkness deepened even as a light throbbed above the altar. White hot, it swirled and coalesced, crimson and blackened. Yet icy cold. Like death.

Hradji backed away. Missed the first step. And would have fallen had Gunnar not caught him.

Features resolved from the haloed light. A furrowed brow. Glyphs above and below black, depthless eyes.

The visage looked at each in turn, settling finally on Hradji.

What do I see before me?
What doth I see before me?

Hradji risked a glance at Gunnar, and saw that he stood transfixed by the vision before them. So, it’s not just me, Hradji thought. Then he looked to Cinniúint, and saw fear in the wizard’s eyes. The wizard was slowly backing away, his hands at his satchel and his bandolier of pouches. Hradji took note that the others had fanned out, Angnar shielding the wizard, and Runolf Ylva. He heard Fridmund’s lyre. The elf was nowhere to be seen.

Look at me when I speak at thee!

Hradji did as he was bid.

I know thee not. But I have dreamt of one such as thee, come to disturb mine slumber.

Hradji asked, “Is it real?”

Of course I am real!

Cinniúint said that it was, but not in how Hradji meant.

“What does that mean?” Hradji bellowed. “Speak plain!” he commanded.

Who art thou, thief?

Thief? Hradji felt his blood boil. Fear is the only enemy. “Thief? I’m no thief,” he said, stepping back into the light. “I am Hradji, son of Glothji. Who are you?”

Nothing. A memory of what was.

What might be laughter resounded in Hradji’s mind.

Surely, thou knowest me, thief; else why have thee come? When Hradji did not display the presumably expected awe, the glyphic, ghostly pate stated: Keratis beeth mine name.

“Keraptis, eh? Aren’t you dead?”

To be continued….

*1 - Excerpt from “A Bard’s Epitaph,” by Robert Burns, 1786

Is there a whim-inspired fool,

Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule,

Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool,

Let him draw near;

And owre this grassy heap sing dool,

And drap a tear.

Is there a bard of rustic song,

Who, noteless, steals the crowds among,

That weekly this area throng,

O, pass not by!

But, with a frater-feeling strong,

Here, heave a sigh.

Is there a man, whose judgment clear

Can others teach the course to steer,

Yet runs, himself, life's mad career,

Wild as the wave,

Here pause -- and, thro' the starting tear,

Survey this grave.

The poor inhabitant below

Was quick to learn the wise to know,

And keenly felt the friendly glow,

And softer flame;

But thoughtless follies laid him low,

And stain'd his name!

Reader, attend! whether thy soul

Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole,

Or darkling grubs this earthly hole,

In low pursuit:

Know, prudent, cautious, self-control

Is wisdom's root.

Special thanks to Kristoph Nolen of Greyhawk Online and the Oerth Journal, who reached out to me to submit something to the Journal. If he had not, this piece might not/would not have been written.

It originally saw the light of day in Oerth Journal #35, and can still be found there, forevermore. I encourage you to download the issue, and many more, as the articles within are written by fans of the Greyhawk setting for fans to use as they see fit.

The Art:

Winter-Forrest by vykoukal

Ramusa-The-Consumed by atzemper

Rollo-Lothbrok by carny-kapturek

Forgotten-Faith by typhonart

Rotunda-Ceiling by carleycrib25

Christmas-Hoont-Bloodborne by anatofinnstark

Alamril2 by amavaarts

Catacombes-de-Paris-3 by jumboto

Tattoo-Man by b-kid12

R-lyeh-fast-concept by morkardfc

Ghost-of-Hope by sephiroth-art