The Tale of Motharan, Lorekeeper
by Wakim Trismagistus

I write to you to tell you a tale of a dear departed friend, one Motharan. He was a Lorekeeper from fabled Ta’Illistim and though I didn’t know him well, still he was my friend.

Before I begin, let me tell you of myself so you might better understand my tale. When first I came to the Landing it was after many years of wandering, what you might call a walkabout or a vision quest.

When first I arrived, I was unsure of what I wanted, I had heard of the Landing as a place to learn and study, a place of hero’s, of wonder. I tried many things. For a time I thought I might like to be a ranger. I apprenticed there for a time and had much fun, but, as part of formally being admitted as a ranger, I was asked to take a sort of entrance exam. I was asked to see if I could find where the steel golems and fire rats make their homes.

I did as I was instructed and returned soon after and described my journeys. The trainer looked and me and shook his head, "Won’t do, won’t do," quoth he. "As everyone knows, rangers can not find their way from Town Square to the Well. I’m afraid you’ll have to look elsewhere for a profession."

Well, to say the least, I was dismayed. But, I was determined. So I cast about for another profession.

Two long-time heroes of mine were the Lord Bleeds and the Lord Thalior. So I decided I would undertake their noble profession and become a sorcerer. I always aspired to be a hero like them, to slay powerful enemies and save the town and its citizens. I dreamed of the day I could be like them. But, I was still wet behind the ears. Twenty-seven I might have been, but what a rube I was!

Why, once I was standing at the North Gate when this person flew in, as if on a broomstick. The next thing I knew, lightning bolts were flying every which way, and people seemed to be dying by the score. So I cried out on the amunet, "An evil wizard named Dartaghan is killing people, come help kill him!"

And what was the reply? "Shaddap!"

Blinking a few times in confusion, I soon learned that he had fumbled the pages of his grimoire and cast the wrong spell as he was trying to aid Kodos in rescuing his captive bride. It was a long time after that before I dared think a single thought for all to hear.

In any case, what really decided me was the day I saw Lord Thalior in Town Square Northeast. It was an invasion and the nasty of ultimate nasties was there. Thalior strode in, hair streaming behind him, arms raised. He gestured at the beast and splat! I never knew Dark Catalyst could be such a beautiful thing.

So I struggled on with my studies, toiling as all sorcerers do for years in the stench and decay of the sewers, dreaming of the day when I might take part in a heroic quest and save the fair maiden, or rescue the lost Vorpal Sword of Ultimate Destruction. I studied and learned and toiled and advanced. Each time a quest would come along I'd think, "Here's my chance. I can be a hero." Then I'd get whacked as soon as I walked out the gates.

So I struggled and studied and toiled some more. When I was about fifty trainings, I happened to meet a prophet during the search to re-unite the pieces of the lost Griffin Sword. Finally, I was going to get to be a hero! I cheered and jumped for joy. After the meeting, some of us -- the Lords Kerl and Olorein, the Lady Heathyr and one or two others whose names have dimmed with the passing of time -- sat around the campfire and discussed what it might mean. As we talked, we were approached by an Emissary of Ronan--a wolf. We spoke with it for a bit, then, after some thought and discussion, decided to go to the shrine of Ronan the Dreamer to see if we could learn anything.

Guess what happened next? I was whacked yet again--this time by a Harbinger. However, I did get to hear the voice of a god as he spoke in anger...and I was glad I was already dead.

So I went back to my studies, toiled some more, learned more spells and tried to be what I always dreamed of. I watched those who were better students than I pass me by as if I were a rock in a stream. They zoomed while I plodded. Still, I bided my time. "One day," I said. "One day."

In the winter of my ninety-sixth year--as if the Arkati had finally heard my prayers--that day came. A group of sylvan Lorekeepers from fabled Ta'Illistim arrived to tell of a horrible danger facing us all. They spoke of the Banaltra and the Feithidmor.

You can imagine my delight as I strode about town, slaying many Banaltra, doing as my long-ago hero advised: "Slay Many!" And many I did slay. I stood guard in the North Market, protecting those newly started along their chosen paths. I hunted high and I hunted low, searching, searching for the cauldron and the blade. I searched and searched, but others were more diligent and found the tub and spike before me. Still, I was happy.

But hark! Motharan spoke of needing volunteers to go below and brave the lair of the dreaded beast. Ablaze with the hope that I might possibly enter the Feithidmor's den, I added my name to the list. Alas, my name was way down at the bottom of that list. Still, I took heart; I had dwelt in the Lands for a very long time, and this was the first list I had ever made.

I took a deep breath and vowed to continue. The next day, as I feared, others more worthy were chosen to go below. Even so, I was happy, and I swore that I would do my best to protect the town while they strove below. The Day of the Huntress arrived and all that eve into the wee hours of the morn, I helped as best I could, patroling the town and slaying all Banaltra I came across. Then I rested, wanting to be ready for the next day, Feastday.

I awakened in my room at the Inn and dressed quickly. I've never been very religious. I suppose I'm what you might call neutral-white. I don't worship Liabo nor Lornon but rather strive always for the Balance betwixt and between. Still, I said a quick prayer for those who would go below that day.

I took my place in the Market, as was my wont. The day was bright and clear. "A good day to die," I thought quietly to myself. Evening arrived and with it, so too did Motharan. We gathered about him by the linden tree, then strode down the walkway to set the tub on level ground so he might work the magic he had spent hours, even days, on end researching. He was gaunt, with shadows under his eyes from lack of sleep. He looked worn out. Yet, looking into his eyes you could see the fire of hope dawning. He gazed about those gathered round, nodding his head to a few, hugging others. I shall never forget it. Truly, a good day to die.

He spoke softly of what was to come. The dangers, the possibility of defeat, the chance at victory. Then he set to making his potion.

"Whiskey!" he cried. "Stem! Simmer and boil and bubble!"

Such a stink arose from the tub. Then linden leaf and linden branch were added to thicken the stew. There was a brilliant flash when the wizards cast their fire. The crowd gasped. For we'd made...

...a nice charred stick.

Oh, what a row! Such a din did arise. "Again, again!" we all did cry! So back to the tree to cut a new branch. Again we tried, with a touch more care. Aloeas stem, whiskey, flower, branch, stir, stir, with a dollop of lifekeep. We smelled such a smell as never I've smelt. Wondrous to the nose. We knew he had done it. One final blast of heat and we had our gnarled baton.

Back to the tree. But what was this? We were missing two volunteers, one an empath, one a sorcerer.

I'll never forget that day. My friends gathered round and hugged me. "Wakim," they said. "Take Wakim. He's brave and true and noble." Pyrno, Fumblina, Songie, Paole all cheered me on. My heart swelled with pride. A tear came to my eye. Can you imagine my pride to hear those I loved cheer me so? You know what they say, "Pride goeth before a fall." But alas, I am getting ahead of myself.

And then, then the thing most unlooked for. Motharan turned to those gathered, raised his hand for silence and spoke thus: "I purposely did not pick Wakim the first time. I have seen Wakim slice through a hundred Banaltra without breaking a sweat."

This from a Lorekeeper from fabled Ta'Illistim. Finally, during the winter of my ninety-sixth year, I was going to be a hero.

Who knew? Who knew?

After some debate, Motharan continued thus: "If Dannielle falls, we'll use Wakim as the backup. However, lets hope that doesn't happen. I sense he will kill many Banaltra this night."

And so it was decided. I returned to the solitude of the garden. I cast my spells, preparing for what was to come. I girded myself with weapon and shield. And waited. Finally the way was open and in went the first team. And out came the Banaltra.

I walked through the gate and the safety of Oleani's Garden and began my patrol. Many Banaltra I slew that night, for I took courage from my hero's battle hymn, "Slay Many." Slay many I did...until in my haste, I misjudged and cast Mana Disrupt on myself and died. Ah, what a harbinger of things to come.

I was dragged to the Garden by a quick thinking lad. Twick was his name. I don't know whether to be grateful or sad that he saved me that day.

I was healed and raised. Recovering my mana and spirit, I stood in agony, wanting to return to the fray. As mana returned, I renewed my defenses, groaning at how long it was taking, despairing over how much mana I was using to renew my spells.

And then the summons came. Kilthal called to my mind saying, "Yer needed!" followed quickly by Fumblina saying, "Wakim, you're going down."

I rushed to the tree. This was my chance, my dream! I had dreamed so long. Finally, I'd do something worthy. I'd be granted a title and be called Lord Wakim!

I went to the tree, stared at the crack and listened as Motharan said simply, "GO."

Go I did. I joined those below, Lord Anterrio, Lady Lyranni, Lady Songie, Lord Paole, Charna, joined also by Kurut and Jauckha. We struggled through the damp, dank earth. Then I saw a root from the tree above hanging over a abyss. The others had been here before; I had not. They cast Breeze and Call Wind. The root swayed hither and yon. But no one could reach it; it was too far away.

I said to the team, "There's got to be a way." I thought and pondered, then added, "Okay, here's a real wild idea. What if we need to jump for the root?"

We discussed and thought and pondered and wondered some more. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Lady Songie take a step back, then another and another. Before I knew it, she was off and running. With one jump, she sailed out over the abyss, and, at the last moment, when all seemed lost, she managed to grab onto the root. Once again, the spellcasters cast Breeze and Call Wind. The root swung to and fro. Lady Songie managed to swing to the other side.

When the root swung back across the abyss, Kurut was off. He jumped, grabbed the root and dropped out of sight. Thud! A slab fell across the abyss. We had a bridge. The rest of the team strode across, aglow in the success of the others.

We searched the caves and found the Banaltra nursery. Let me describe it for you. This small room was jammed with newborn and young banaltra. The floor was littered with cracked bones. Older banaltra had killed and cracked open small mammals and rodents to feed the young. The heat from so many bodies was oppressive and the high pitched chittering was deafening.

We retreated and passed through a room filled with poison gas, climbed a ledge and fell into a pit. We scrambled and yelled and desperately tried to climb the wall and get out. To no avail. We plummeted into the lair of the Feithidmor. Before we knew what had happened, Paole was struck down, lying dead at our feet.

So that you will know the horror of that place, let me describe for you what we saw, felt, smelled. The stench of decay in this area was appalling. The bodies of children and old people in various stages of decomposition were scattered about. Some were partially eaten. Others were virtually nothing but denuded bone and bits of putrefied flesh. Those bodies that still had faces revealed expressions of absolute and unrelenting horror. In one corner of the room was a dark pool of inky, viscous water.

I glanced at the feithidmor and I saw that the feithidmor was large, the size of a hut. Its insect-like body was protected by black chitinous armor made shiny by a coating of oily beads of liquid. Four very small, red eyes seemed almost lost in the creature's large head. A fat, fleshy neck could be seen through a tiny chink in the armor. Goblets of flesh hung from its long pincers.

We battled it. I tried everything I knew. I cast Implosion and Mana Disrupt and Elemental Stike and Elemental Blast and Fire Spirit. Nothing. The others tried just as hard. I know not what spells they cast, for I was too busy trying to stay alive.

As I battled, I had time to spare a thought for Vaelyth and his lost son Willy and wife. Or Maiky and her husband who was gone, leaving behind him a charm inscribed simply but with love "M." Was he here, I wondered. Were they here?

Seemingly before it had begun, it was over. The Feithidmor grew tired of our paltry efforts to harm it and left so that it might finish its life cycle. So that it might feed and gorge itself on the living flesh above until it had sated its gnawing hunger and returned to lay its eggs. We had failed. I had failed. The cycle would not now be broken, and the children of my children would have to face the monster I failed to kill.

What does it mean, after all, to be a hero? Heroes are mostly folks who find themselves in the wrong place at the right time. Then, despite their terror or fear, against all odds, they prevail. I sought out this challenge. I was in the right place at the right time. I was where I wanted to be. My dreams died that day. I had my chance to be like Thalior and Bleeds. I failed, utterly and completely.

It's not just that I failed myself, who I am after all? I failed my town, my friends. Think. If not for a quirk, everyone I knew and called friend would no longer walk the face of Elanthia. Consider the enormity of the failure. If Thalior failed to bring down the nasty, Berr would, or Gilluame, or Drizzsdt. If not for a quirk, no one who walks the lands could have stopped it. Many have failed before me, many will fail after I am nothing but dust, but no one will ever be able to match the scope of my failure.

I lost someone I had hoped to know better. I lost someone I had hoped to become friends with. Fellow scholars. Motharn died that day, his soul never to be seen again. I grieve for him, for my failure to bring about the future he dared to dream possible. Goodbye my friend.

I leave you with a final image so that you might know the true magnitude of my failure. I leave you with the image of the bodies of the men, women and children as they lay there in its nest. All the dead are either old folks or children, their ravaged bodies flung about the room like dross. Elves, halflings, giantkin...there are dead of every race. Clearly some of the decomposing bodies were fed on...ragged strips of flesh hang loosely from bits of bone and cartilage.

I sit here in its lair, looking at what remains of the people, the children of Solhaven: bones gnawed, chewed half-through. This is what awaited the town above. Those who still live were saved by a true hero, one who did not fail when faced with his test, Lord Reife. I had my chance to rescue the town, to be a hero. You only get a chance like that once in a lifetime. I had mine. I wish you better luck when faced with yours.

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