Chapter 11 - Abelard - Abra Cadabra, the Orcs disappear!

The party had chosen their ground well. A long open stretch of road, the only cover for a quarter mile was the small grove they, themselves were hidden. Abelard would stand ahead, alone, set defensively, and taunt the Orc Warband into the kill zone.

The ground between was thick with sudden overgrowth. Spiked, challenging, Druid formed, overgrowth, that made the valley near impossible to cross at any measure of speed. The Orcs would be forced to either wade, slowly, into the party's unending barrage, or turn tail and run. Abelard's job was to keep them angry enough that they wouldn't even think of the second option. 'They're Orcs', thought Abelard, 'How hard could getting them angry really be?'

All in all, the battleground strength was dictated by one simple, but powerful, bit of Tactical Brilliance... "Let the Druid do her thing!"

*

As the first sounds of the Orcs reached them, the others set themselves behind cover and Abelard moved to where he could watch for the Warband's approach. When the Orcs came to the 'point of no return' that Trillium had pointed out to him earlier, Abelard stepped out and, summoning his axe, began calling out to the biggest Orc he could see. “Hey Ugly!", he taunted, waving his axe. "Think the dozen of you can take little old me?"

As one would expect of Orcs, this caused them to, without a moments thought, draw weapons and charge towards him. Axes and clubs high, war cries bellowing from their mouths, they charged, thoughtlessly, directly into Trillium's laid trap.

To their credit, the Orcs completely shrugged off the cuts and scrapes, as the Druid enhanced vines tore away at them as they shoved their way through. But the damage was only a wonderful side affect, the main benefit was that the growth slowed their charge to a crawl. The Orcs, growing, if anything, More intent on reaching Abelard with every wound received, continued to force their way forward, recklessly.

"Oh, did I mention I brought a few friends?", he shouted as, with a moment of focus, he called on his link to Scyntillax and his axe stretched and curved, morphing into a longbow. As he did so, the others stepped out and began launching projectiles at the Orcs along with Abelard.

Arrows and sling stones rained down on the snail-charging Orcs, seeming to only egg them onward. 'There was plenty to insult about Orcs', Abelard thought, 'But their ferocity and courage were unmatched.' The front rank of Orcs, heads bloodied from stones, arms and chests peppered with arrows, and legs shredded by foliage, continued to power their way forward. The Orc Chief led the charge, powerful stride outpacing the others.

As ferocious and powerful as the Orc charge was, the Orcs themselves began to succumb to their injuries, slowing even as their blood continued to feed the ground. The Orcs, who had not even managed to reach halfway to the party to engage, had already lost. They were already dead... They just didn't know it yet. The result was inevitable. Already written in the stars. 'The stars... or Beyond.', Abelard thought to himself as he began to summon forth a newfound power his Dragon Patron, Scyntillax, had whispered to him in his dreams one previous night. A power he had not yet found the right situation to use.

The young Warlock continued to summon energy through his tether to his Patron, letting the power build and build, calling forth more Eldritch energy than he had ever risked summoning at once before. Then, with a bellowing roar of pure anger, Abelard slammed his shadowy longbow to his shield, opened a gateway among the charging Orcs and summoned forth the cold, dark, emptiness between the stars.

For a brief moment there was just an expanding darkness, one that the Orcs simply ignored in their furious attempt to reach the Half Elf and his friends, and then... and then that darkness begin to change, to shift, becoming something more, but also less. Becoming nothingness. From that nothingness Whispers seemed to call from the darkness, growing, until, still whispers, they were nearly a roar, hungry for warmth. Slurping sounds, like something large and wet were licking itself with countless tongues. And those whispers... Abelard could almost... ALMOST make sense of what they said. Were the answers they so desperately needed held within?

As the sounds grew into a cacophonous roar, the darkness began to feed. One by one, the warcries of the Orcs within the dark space disappeared, simply ceased to be, mid-roar. One by one they ended until, leaping out the front edge of the darkness, the War Chief continued to storm forward... Alone.

Even as the Chief fell victim to the, now focused, attacks of himself and his companions, Abelard strode forward, switching back to his favored Axe, and hacked down the weakened and walking dead Orc.

For another moment, Abelard basked in the power of this new ability he had called forth, proud of what he had accomplished, and eager to use it again. That pride lasted all the way until he turned to see the looks of horror and shock painted across the faces of his travelling companions. Horror that remained as they looked from the cold, empty, whispering Void to Abelard himself.

Suddenly ashamed, but unsure exactly why, Abelard released the Void back to where it had come from, and looked to his friends. Behind him, a 20 foot circle of oblivion, where nothing remained but dirt. Plants, vines, and the Orcs themselves, gone. Forever floating out there among the stars.

**

Abelard looked to the others, as they stared back at him. Whispers, slurping, and battle cries gone, the silence seemed immense. And then, just as suddenly, the silence was broken as everyone tried to speak at once.

"You should not...", began Buskin, shaking his head sadly, disappointedly.

"Abelard! Please do not...", called Zigras, as she tried to warn of the dangers. "=

"That was Not natural, and should never..." Trillium attempted to council, while suppressing her shivers at having her lands invaded by the Far Realm right in front of her.

"Guys", Abelard replied quickly, sounding everything like a teenager trying to talk his way out of being in trouble, "Scyntillax said it was ok!"

***

The after battle discussions did.... not go well for the young Warlock. Zigras tried to explain, in logic and story, Buskin vowing that he would do his best to counter any further Abelard attempts at harnessing the Far Realm, and Trillium. Sweet, wonderful, caring Trillium, basically stated that anyone using such outside powers was unnatural, and she would deal with them accordingly.

And so, even though he tried to explain himself, even though he knew... KNEW the powers he called upon could be the difference between success and death... When faced with the unified front against him from those he cared about, Abelard agreed... He would never call on the power between the stars again.

Frustrated, and a bit angry, the Half Elf wandered back to the now stripped bare corpse of the Warchief, all that remained of the Bloody Grin warband that had threatened them. "They don't understand... I am trying to protect us... To protect them!", he muttered to himself. "We cannot fail. I will find other ways to..."

And, suddenly, Abelard realize that he had not wandered over to the corpse by accident. It was not random... There was... A pull, similar to what he felt of the tether between him and his Patron. There was something there, within the Orc Warchief. A power. A tool. His to call.

"Rise. Rise and serve again. Your time is not done!", he called, feeling the words to be right as they came to him. Clenching his fist and raising a hand to pull at his beard, the Warlock grasped, and Pulled.... Drawing forth, from the Orc he had laid the final blow upon, a shadow, a presence, a... Specter. For a moment, Abelard stared at the Specter, which seemed to stare right back at him. "Yes!", he thought. "This is a handy tool indeed."

Turning, Abelard looked back to the rest of the party who, having finished their after battle preparations, were watching him again, just becoming aware of what he had now done.

"Well great,", he sighed, kicking some rocks off of the path, "This should be fun!", and headed back to the others, silent shade following, dutifully, behind.

****

That evening the party stopped to camp, finding a site atop a small hill that afforded a good view of the surrounding as well as the River, and forest beyond. Abelard appeared, not unusually, withdrawn after the Orc encounter. Alone, and somewhat at odds, with his own thoughts. He nodded at the choice of resting places, and, as the party began their securing rituals, turned to wander a short ways off into the shadows of a tree nearby, the even deeper shadow of his specter drifted along at his back.

He seated himself beneath the tree and, stared into the deeper shadows below for a time. ”Are they right? Is this power you’ve provided me coming from the same source we battle to close off?”, he muttered as he summoned his pact weapon, drawing comfort from its customary axe/blade shape. ”I don’t rightly claim understanding of these Magic’s, but I believed them to be from you... Not from something else. Something outside... Am I wrong to call on these powers? Do I open the doors further with their use?”

As the shimmering molten sphere of the sun dipped below the horizon, and the sky became a glowing indigo of twilight, Abelard immediately began to feel more comfortable. The summer heat was less intense in the crepuscular shadow, and his senses—attuned as they are by the Fey blood of his father’s lineage—seemed to sharpen in the dusk.

Thus the patient presence of the warlock’s patron, the persistent whisper of Scyntillax so faint in the sunlight, became strong enough to be heard with the approaching night.

”I gift you the raw power of my realm, champion,” the hissing whisper uttered. ”To be molded as you sssee fit. For good or ill is in your handsss to desscide. But you mussst keep your bargain asss well. I hunger for the tassste of what oncsse gave life meaning. If you ssseek more power, more sssecrets of the darknesss, the pricsse mussst be paid.”

Abelard nodded at the non-answer answer. "I expect there will be much chance for stories of love and loss ahead. Much more so than in a village of happy go lucky Halflings and their food!" But Abelard pressed further, needing to know if he had risked more than he believed by his actions that day. "But was that the far realm I touched? I think it was. IS it wrong to fight fire with fire? I guess what I'm asking is, did I feed this IX more power with my actions, or turn his attention to us?"

The response, when it arrived from the shadows was mixed. "As vassst as IX may be, the Far Realm is more vassst yet. Not all of the Far Realm isss the domain of Maak Thum N'Gatha. But that doesss not make it any more sssafe. Jussst as the magic of the Feywild powersss the exssstremes of life, ssso does the Shadowfell power the undertonesss. The two are mirrorsss of the Material Plane, one bright, one dark, but woven into the world. The Far Realm... fraysss at the fabric of the reality we all share. Where bright and dark dance and do, the Far Realm... undoes."

When it became evident that no further details were forthcoming, the young Warlock stood and, calling on the Specter to protect the campsite, "You are to guard our rest. Hide. Watch. Tap on the dome if danger threatens. Defend this group if we are attached.", headed into Zigras' dome. A small, concerned, part of Abelard was grateful Zigras had still included him in the group allowed entry within the dome's protections.

Above the dome, the Spectral shadow climbed up into the darkness of the tree and watched, silent and motionless, for danger.

***