[h3]Spring Wind Keep. 15th Day of Summer[/h3]

Olivaster watched as the crowd listened intently. Moving as her words were, he was not swayed. He was more than well aware of what they were up against. There was an old foreign adage, “Me Nem Nesa” - it is known. While perhaps not common knowledge and most certainly not spoken about at social gatherings Olivaster knew the truth. As courageous and honorable as this quest had been they were thirty leagues up shit-creak without a paddle and there was no one left to search for them. 

[b]“Terrific…”[/b] Olivaster scoffed shaking his head. [b]“Perhaps you have been fooled but I would rather spend my time in preparation for the journey.”[/b]

[b]“You’re not going anywhere Oli,”[/b] Lewin sternly replied placing a firm hand tightly on his younger siblings shoulders. [b]“We may not all be fighters or followers of frightening unknown gods like you,” Lewin mocked, “but we are Wrathmont’s and we do not turn our backs on our brethren.”[/b] 

[b]“You know little of what you speak brother.”[/b] Olivaster grimaced as he tried to pull away.
 
[b]“Relax Oli,”[/b] Wini laughed nudging him in jest laughing, [b]“if you’re right, you’ll get your chance to show the Duchess what you’ve got in store. Maybe she’ll handle it your way.”[/b] 

Shaking his head Olivaster pulled away from his brother, slipping from the grasp his brother struggled to maintain on his dampened robes. Little problem had he had with this. He may have lived in the duchess’ world and under her rule but he had little concern for her beyond the order she provided as a means for him to conduct his own business. The camp was near silent with the exception of the few soldiers that were pacing the small village to keep watch. It only made it easier for Olivaster to return to his own tent in the rain.
 
Pushing the flap open as it danced in the storms breeze, Olivaster walked into the tent that was positioned on the outside of the smith that his family had set up. There had not been much inside. A single bed roll in fairly decent shape given how little it had truly been used. His own bag, which too seemed immaculate. In fact, known of his things had looked like they had seen very much adventure despite his comings and goings across the land in search of knowledge. 

But one structure stood out amongst the barrels and racks that had been placed around his tent in order to aid the family in their smithing duties. A small wooden table, rectangular in shape only about waist high from the ground. The legs were intricately carved with symbols that appeared beyond that of human, elf, or dwarf. The top of the table as well carried these same carvings. Upon the table top was a strange construct composed of near pristine white material, worked and connected to form what appeared to be a thick arm with fingers grasping an empty orb constructed of the same material. The orb was empty, but barbed with thorns. The entire structure was also carved with runes of an unknown kind. The entire piece was certainly foreign to this land. 

Olivaster rested his staff upon the bedroll. Next to it, he placed the book he most typically carries on his person. Pacing he began to contemplate the implications of what he was about to do. It was difficult for him, weighing the necessity for contact versus the potential for alienation, discovery, treason. He came to sit upon the bedroll, crossing his legs. Resting his face within his open palms Olivaster sat in quiet contemplation. He knew time was running out. 

[h3]15th day, 6th hour, Olivaster’s Tent - An Old God Awakens[/h3]

With haste Olivaster stood up from his bedroll. He could not wait any longer. There was no more time. Waiting would risk discovery. Discovery would breed murder and treason. All of it would risk her desires. It was paramount that Olivaster did no such thing. For what she offered in punishment was only far greater than what she would ever offer during his lifetime. But upon his completion of her great will, she offered him immortality amongst the stars. A position beside her in the great pantheon. A position of godhood. 

Swiftly he moved to his bag. A mental image appeared in his mind. A mental image of the things he was looking for. A pair of candles, black in color and ordinary in shape. However, they were quite necromantic in construction, arcane in nature. A small ordinary pouch closed tightly with leather thread, a strange symbol engraved upon a bone coin that hung from it. A strange white flask with a black stopper on top also labeled with the same strange symbol engraved upon it. Finally, a small vile of the same color and constructive material as the flask with the same strange symbol engraved upon it. 

Each and every item was withdrawn from the bag as Olivaster put his hand inside of it. It was as if he was not even looking for it - as if the very thought was more than enough for him to locate the item he was looking for. Everything about it was rather arcane. With everything in a manageable pile upon his lap, Olivaster gathered everything up and carried it over to the small shrine and quickly initiated preparations. 

Olivaster wasted little time, if only because he had little time to waste. The two candles he had acquired were placed in small depressions in front of the shrine to Enathrae, between them a small basin. He took the small cloth pouch in his hand and untied it. He emptied it into the small basin. The contents of which were small strips of what could only be described as fetid, pale flesh - the flesh of the undead. Next, Olivaster pulled the stop from the small vial. The contents of which, a grainy-green powdery substance was emptied into the basin as well. The final ingredient came from the the off-white flask. A black viscous substance that oozed from the flask as if extremely resistant to escaping the flask. The liquid itself seemed to slide out of the container forming tiny faces as it moved, depressions in the fluid wailing silently as it moved.

The concoction was complete. A strange odor had began to fill the tent as the components resting in the basin began to smoulder, wisps of oddly colored smoke wafting into the air. Olivaster placed an open palm over each candle concealing his other hand beneath it. Muttering a few words he lit the candles individually with a few snaps of his fingers. 

[b]“Niyin Ilhar usstan ul'nusst ulu tau,”[/b] he began cupping his hands over the basin, preventing the fumes from escaping. 

[b]“Tyrnae ussta gauka xuil dosst krik'vlicss,”[/b] Olivaster continued opening his hands and inhaling deeply. 

[b]“Dos inbal belbaunin uns'aa dosst yorn,”[/b] he carried on as the smoke from the candles began to coalesce inside the orb composed of bone. 

[b]“Balbau uns'aa dosst zhaunil,”[/b] Olivaster finished as a bright light began to pulsate from inside the orb, stifled by the smoke that had gathered around it like a star. 

[b]“Olivaster Wrathmont, my most promising Acolyte,”[/b] a feminine voice reverberated in the mind mages mind. [b]“You must journey to Nubina. For it is there that you will find a particular scroll. You must gather this scroll. For this scroll will grant you the knowledge to bring me to the mortal realm. It is then you will ascend to power.”[/b]

[b]“Vel'klar orn usstan ragar nindol narkuth, jabbress?”[/b] Olivaster inquired, only to find that the connection had been severed. 

[b]“N-n-no….no!”[/b] He shouted his hands pawing at the remains of the arcane candles that had been burned down to less than half. His eyes searched the basin haunted by the remnants of the concoction that had been used to open his mind to Enathrae’s being. Upon satisfaction that nothing was left to be done, Olivaster sat back in contemplation. 

[b]“I am to go to Nubina?”[/b] Olivaster thought his eyes darting back and forth.

The speech had just concluded. The applause that followed the speech echoed through the tent village. His time was up. Olivaster had to conclude this bit of confusion and regain his composure. He had to secure his belongings and ready himself for the journey. The sewers, the catacombs, some level beneath Nubina was his destination. The question became, how he was suppose to search the city without raising suspicion. 

[h3]15th day, 8th hour, Marching Orders. Road to Nubina.[/h3]

[b]“What a waste…”[/b] Olivaster remarked shaking head.

Olivaster had spent the day marching with the others. He maintained his distance, choosing to creep in the shadows and remain aloof. While he appeared very similar to the other mages, clerics, and wizards that the army had to offer, he felt quite outcast. Olivaster carried a certain aura about him. While the passive gifts of Enathrae may be subtle they had manifested partially in two ways. The aura that all magic users coalesce around their figure and that all magic users can see represents their very being, the very magic seeping from their human flesh. Olivaster draws upon that aura as a means to fuel his own form while slowly weakening those around. Be it not enough to slaughter an unsuspecting user without close proximity and prolonged exposure; however, it is enough make one dizzy or weary. The second is Olivaster’s owns aura, a dark aura - an aura that would certainly put those around him in an uneasy state. This would not necessarily imitate nervousness or fear but those around him would certainly feel something is off - something unsettling. 

Olivaster watched as the druids made short work of the undying corpses, at least, in their upright position. Further as the clerics moved into banish the undying, Olivaster felt a bit of his own anguish inside. The stories they may have been able to tell, or so he thought. Carefully, he followed the others through the sea of the undying and the dead. A presence was felt to him something beyond his own power of comprehension. Something that Enathrae failed to make known to him. 

He knew not to whom he spoke; however, his voice was stern, [b]“Mayhaps we could learn something from these creatures?”[/b] 

Olivaster gestured to the corpses that lined the ground, [b]“Could we not perhaps learn from the fallen?”[/b] 

But perhaps no one had been listening. Olivaster felt as though these undying had something to offer. Perhaps these undead, that of the fallen from decades ago could very well provide some sort of answer to this plight that had befallen the land. Or at least, to Olivaster perhaps they could provide the insight that Enathrae so vaguely eluded to. Where was this scroll within Nubina? How was Olivaster to get there?