Neverending Nights

Tawmis Sanarius – Human (Son of Contar Stoneskull and Yennica Whitefeather)
Taren Bloodhorn – Minotaur
Blaz’tik – Insectoid
Silvertan – Lizardman

How many days has it been?

Day and night pass, without any way to record it. I feel like I have danced on the edge of my sanity; and yet the others continue to look to me for leadership. How was I, a rich, spoiled, runaway child, “elected” as leader of this motley crew?

My brown eyes, hazy and unfocused, looked at Taren Bloodhorn, the massive minotaur who had been my friend for years now; and the only person on this world I truly trusted.

Taren extended his hand to me. I felt his firm grip as he pulled me up, his eyes never leaving mine. “You’re growing weak. Despite Blaz’tik’s efforts, the wound you got from the arrow has become infected.”

I smiled at Taren, and shrugged off his concern. “I’m just a little tired.”

Tarne’s eyes went to my shoulder, where he had tore the shirt apart to rip the arrow out. The edge of the wound was black. I quickly covered the infection with the tattered remains of my shirt. “Like I said, I’m just a little tired.”

Taren huffed, the sounds reverberating in his throat, like rusted, iron gears turning for the first time in centuries. I took another deep breath, “We need to keep moving. We’ve been down here for weeks now, possibly, surviving on meat of slugs –“

“Snails,” Silvertan smiled, correcting me again. (1 – Read about the ‘Snail/Slug’ reference here)

“Right, snails,” I amended. “Who knows what eating that meat is doing to us, being tainted by magic,” I went on to explain. “We need to get out of this place. Now.” I began moving forward.

===

Taren followed my footsteps until Blaz’tik’s insectoid arms grabbed him, halting the minotaur. Taren looked down at the Insectoid. “The wound,” Blaz’tik began to explain, “it has – tic!- become more and more infected. He will not…”

Taren tore his arm away from Blaz’tik’s grasp. “He will be fine. We will get out of this. We will find him proper medical attention.” The minotaur quickened his pace to walk behind Tawmis.

Blaz’tik frowned. The Insectoid Mage knew that the human’s wound had become infected with The Void Touch; an infection that spread into the blood stream, turning it black, spreading rapidly. The infected individual would first suffer fevers, which the human had already begun; then become delusional, then finally a very painful death. The honorable thing would be to kill the human now. There was no way to escape Mount Grimrock in time and get a cure. The human would be dead soon; and death would be extremely painful.

===

It’s burning up in here.

I can barely breathe. Too many people.

There. I see Taren. “Taren!” I shout. “Over here!”

Taren Bloodhorn. Minotaur. My best friend. My only friend.

I pat Taren on the shoulder, which takes some effort, since he towers over me, as all Minotaurs typically stand no less than seven feet tall. “What shall we drink tonight?”

Taren looked at me, “Drink? There’s nothing to drink.”

“Nonsense!” I replied, gesturing with a wide sweep of my arm. “At the Silent Quill, there’s over sixty different ales to pick from – and,” I added with a wink, “some of the finest ladies! Even some female Minotaurs. Though,” I nudged him, “I am glad you can tell the difference between male and female Minotaurs.”

I could hear another voice, barely audible over the crowd within the Silent Quill.

“He’s –tic!- hallucinating,” the voice said.

“Hallucinating?” I turned to face the Insectoid, and suddenly found myself no longer standing in the Silent Quill. I was in some kind of dungeon.

“What’s going on here?” I grabbed the Insectoid by his tattered robes. “Where have you teleported us to?”

Taren’s strong, black, furry arms separated us. “He hasn’t teleported us anywhere, Tawmis. He’s right. You’re hallucinating. It’s the infection.”

“The infection?” I began to ask, then I felt it. The pain in my shoulder. I moved my shirt and saw the black around the wound. I covered it again, and looked at Taren. “It won’t be long now will it?”

“I’m –tic!- afraid not,” Blaz’tik replied. “The fever, then –tic!- the hallucination, then the –tic!- pain as the final blackness goes through the heart,” Blaz’tik explained matter-of-factly. “It will feel like –tic!- a thorny rose stem going through –tic!- your bloodstream when it reaches your heart.”

“Rose stem,” I muttered. “How… unromantic.”

There was a time, all I wanted to do was die.

For this life, I had been given, to be over.

When the Mages from the Academy of Des, known as the Crimson Order, ripped my mind apart, peeling back memory after memory, and burning them like old parchments, seeking the location of the Orb of Zhandul; knowing that my parents were the only ones rumored to have ever escaped Mount Grimrock, and supposed found the Orb and put it somewhere, because the items was so powerful it could not be destroyed by Mortals.

When the Mages found that I knew nothing, they sold me into slavery, in hopes I would perish, or that the people of Namaer would be blamed for my abduction, leaving the Crimson Order free of blame.

But the day I jumped into the Arena to help defend Taren Bloodhorn, my life took a drastic turn. Suddenly all the thoughts of dying, perished as I fought by this incredible noble Minotaur, who I could tell was innocent of the crimes he had been charged with. (2 – Read more about Tawmis’ origin here)

Now it’s here. Death.

I can feel it breathing on my neck. It whispers my name.

I can almost hear it laughing.

Telling me to surrender. To give up. To stop living. So that I could finally be free of Mount Grimrock and find the peace I so richly deserved.

But I kept taking that next step forward.

My stomach churned. My hands trembled. My knees ached. I felt the world spinning every second I took just one more breath.

Giving up would have been the easiest thing to do.

But that’s when I realized, I never wanted to die. Not even when the Mages of the Crimson Order broke my mind and spirit. Not even when I jumped into the Arena to help defend Taren against impossible odds.

I never wanted to die.

I wanted to fight. Fight to keep living.

I would not die by giving up.

If I was to die, it would be for a noble cause.

Something that others, who survived, would speak about. Tell the tales. So that I would live on, as an immortal, in the form of evolving stories of my heroics.

Sometimes, we don’t get to pick how we die.

It suddenly felt as something gripped my heart with a chilled fist.

I suddenly felt the massive hands of Taren pull me back out of the corridor I had been struggling to walk in. A cold chill ran down my body. As I turned to look at everyone else; I could see they were all experiencing the same thing.

So it wasn’t Death.

Unless it had come for us all; at the same time. (Not entirely impossible down here, I imagine).

From the shadows I saw it.

A figure adorned in black robes, that somehow seemed darker than the unlit shadows of Grimrock. What should have been fingers looked like extended tentacles, like that of an octopus. My eyes stared in abject horror, when I noticed, cloaked in the dark shadows of its hood, there was no facial features; but slithering forth were the same tentacle appearance. Marble white to grey in color, the figure seemed to float across the floor.

When we were sure it was gone, Taren turned to Blaz’tik, “What in the Gods was that thing?”

“Stories –tic!-,” the Insectoid began to explain, “calls them ‘Goromorg’,” he shrugged, “which loosely –tic!- translates in the ‘Common’ tongue as ‘The Soul Stealers.’”

“That certainly,” Silvertan hissed, “explains the sensation I felt in my chest.”

“They –tic!- emit an aurora of fear,” Blaz’tik explained. “Rumor –tic!- has it, that the Goromorg are the original Designers of Mount Grimrock.”

“The First Mages?” I asked. “That would make them…”

“Thousands of years old,” Blaz’tik finished my sentence. “Yes. Once believed to be human, the Designers – the First Mages – obsessed with magic, sold their –tic!- very sanity and souls, to improve and learn –tic!- and become better Mages. It is said –tic!- that they made a pact with a ‘Dark God’ that –tic!- bestowed these powers upon them and supposed –tic!- changed them in its image. They are, without a doubt, -tic!- the most powerful Mages in existence, but the cost –tic!- of magic was … what you saw. They –tic!- no longer appear human. They –tic!- emanate that fear –tic!- aurora, because there is nothing human – it’s literally the –tic!- magic within them flowing outward, seeking to drain any and all –tic!- magic it senses!”

“Why did it not detect you?” Silvertan asked.

“Because without my spellbooks, I am –tic!- unable to memorize spells,” the Insectoid shrugged. “There is next to no magic –tic!- emanating from me, and any magic that is –tic!- is drowned out by the more powerful magic flowing within –tic!- Grimrock.”

Then I felt it.

I clutched at my chest. I bit down as hard as I could.

Taren was at my side. “What is it? What is wrong?”

“Rose… bushes,” I managed to sputter out.

Damn the Mage. He was right. It literally felt like a rose stem was being pumped through my veins; and its thorns were ripping me apart inside.

I let out a scream and collapsed.

Just before I faded into darkness, I heard Blaz’tik say, “It heard. It’s coming back. I can sense it.”

===

Perhaps Taren is right.

Sometimes, I’m simply too stubborn.

Even to die, it seems.

My eyes fluttered open.

Immediately I was gripped by the pulse pounding sensation of fear, which only seemed to rush the sensation of ‘the rose stem’ growing through my veins. I let out a gurgle of pain, blood trickling out of my mouth and onto the cold, grey floor of Grimrock. I stared up and saw that demon mage thing – the Goromorg had Silvertan in one of its tentacle hands, and Blaz’tik in the other; while its face had somehow ensnared Taren’s own face, and appeared to be sucking the life from him. Taren’s body was rigid, not moving.

“No,” I growled. “No. Not like this. Not like this. This is not how he dies.”

I forced myself up, my arms shaking violently, my body begging me to lay down again and sleep the Forever Sleep.

That’s thing about me, I realized early.

I don’t want to die like this.

I am fighting to live.

I force myself up, first onto my knees, then slowly I stand and draw the sword I had acquired from one of the undead soldiers earlier. I wanted to run and charge the Goromorg, but I could barely walk, without needing the wall to support me.

The Goromorg seemed so focused on devouring the soul of my dearest friend that it had never heard me approach. I shoved my sword into the creature’s back, and aimed the blade upward. I wasn’t even sure if this damn thing could be killed.

It didn’t even let out any sounds of pain. It did, however, drop all three of my companions and turn its attention on me. When it turned, it yanked the sword out of my feeble grip. If anything, I had bought my companions, and my dearest friends, only a few more seconds of life, assuming they were not dead already.

“Come at me,” I spat at the creature, my blood splashing onto its black robes.

It seemed to pause and stare at the bloodstain for a moment, before both tentacle hands lunged around my throat, wrapping around it tightly, like slimy, tiny, extended fingers. I tried to raise my arms to fight it, to somehow pull myself free – but this was it. I had given everything I could.

This was how I would die.

Staring into the soulless eyes of this Goromorg.

Suddenly the Goromorg rose about three feet; a look of surprise in its soulless eyes; before the white glow faded to a cold grey, and the creature released its hold on me. We both collapsed to the ground; me, dying, my own legs unable to support my weight; the Goromorg, dead.

I looked up and saw Taren’s minotaur horns covered in black blood.

He immediately kneeled down, “You did it. You saved us.”

I chuckled, blood glistening on my lips, “That’s what a hero does.”

“We thought you were dead already, as did the Goromorg as it passed you,” Taren tried to smile.

“I got better,” I muttered. My vision was fading. He was a lot more blurry than I remembered him being. Reminded me of that one night at the Red Dragon Inn – I don’t think I have ever been as drunk as I was that night.

But this wasn’t because I was intoxicated.

This was it.

I was finally, truly, dying.

My hand reached out to Taren’s rough, Minotaur cheek. “Live. Make it through here. For me. Tell my story…”

Taren swore that Minotaurs were incapable of crying, because they lacked tear ducts in their eyes, but I could swear I saw his eyes glittering more than usual in the torchlight.

“I will, my friend,” I heard him say. “I will.”

Then my world went black for the last time.

(Writer’s Note: I flipped back and forth from narrative perspective; because in hindsight, I wouldn’t have done it directly from Tawmis’ view; because it limits what I can do! I returned to this story, because I purchased Realms of Arkania on STEAM {if you haven’t, you should, especially if you like Legend of Grimrock). Anyway, was just going to be a short segment, but the characters had a lot to say apparently, and it just kept going… so is this the end? You don’t REALLY think this is the end, right?)

The arrows fly by as we take cover on each side of the hall.

They’re all looking at me for an idea. To lead them.

Why? I have been nothing but a slave for most of my life.

Then it dawns on me. Now that they know who my true parents are, they’re expecting something out of the “legendary son” of Contar and Yennica. But I am not that son. I am not the son I should have – could have been. The Mages saw to that when they stripped me of my mind, and tore away at the very fiber of my soul.

They’re waiting for me to tell them what to do.

How to get out of this.

Since we have been pushed in here, we have been reacting to Mount Grimrock.

We will never survive this way.

We have to be proactive if we hope to survive this.

I looked at Taren Bloodhorn. For several years now, he has walked side by side with me. He has seen the look in my eyes. He knows what it means.

We fight. We make a stand. Live or die. We will not go down as cowards.

And I will tear down every Mage enabled abomination that stands in front of me.

I looked to the others, “We will not survive like this. We need to take action. It may be our death, but let those Mages know we did not die like cowards. That we stood and fought, not cowered in the corner. I have an idea…”

I stood in the door way and watched five archers take aim and fire; as soon as their boney fingers were about to release; I stepped to the side and let the arrows fly harmlessly by. If anything, these archers, because of their undead status, were considerably slower than they were when they were living. I stood in the hallway immediately again, and watched – and counted – nine seconds, before I had to step aside again.

I looked at Taren. The massive minotaur nodded. “Nine seconds, to reach them,” I explained. “After that, the rest of us charge in.”

I stood in the hallway again; and another round of arrows launched. As soon as I stepped aside, Taren charged in, head down and gorged three of the undead archers; as much as a minotaur can gorge something without flesh. Two impaled on his horns, one he grabbed by the spine as he charged by. As the undead archers slowly turned to face him, Silvertan and I ran in, striking the undead from behind, trying to shatter their spines; hoping this would quickly end the fight.

Blaz’tik meanwhile chanted something that was beyond any of us to understand. “Chalek –tic!- tavarium kon-Chala!”

And from his fingertips bolts of lightning erupted, honing in on the skeletons tattered, metallic armor.

I watched as the undead archer that Taren Bloodhorn had grabbed by the spine was flung around like a child’s plaything. In many ways, I hoped these undead could not feel whatever pain Taren was putting it through. Granted it had no skin, no nerves, no feelings – but it was a restless spirit because of the Mages and their cursed magic.

I felt a sharp pain in my shoulder and looked down to see an arrow sticking out of it. I looked up to see Silvertan still struggling with one of the undead archers. “My apologies,” he hissed. “This one has quite a bit of fight in him.”

That’s when I saw Taren approach it, and with one punch from his massive fist, he shattered its skull and spine, sending the rest of the undead horror, crumbling to the ground. “You nearly hit me,” Silvertan hissed.

“Casualties of war,” Taren growled and ran to me. “Are you all right, my friend?”

“Fine,” I muttered. “Just yank it-“

He didn’t wait for me to finish before he pulled the arrow out. I screamed in pain as the arrow head ripped at my flesh. I could feel the warmth of the crimson blood seeping into my shirt. I looked at Taren and winced, “I don’t suppose you have any Crularious, do you?” (1)

Taren shook his head. “You have an odd sense of humor, my friend. You could have been killed.”

“We all could have,” I answered, placing my hand on the wound to apply pressure. “But we can’t live in Fear here. We have to take charge. Take control. Or Grimlock will claim us.”

Silvertan extended his hand to me to help me up. “I am truly sorry I was unable to stop the archer before he fired, human.”

“I believe you,” I said as I stood, wincing. “We need all of us to survive this.”

“Agreed,” he nodded. “I am also sorry for how I treated you previously. I thought you a spoiled child, who somehow ended up in here, trying to prove yourself as ‘legendary’ as your parents. I see now I should have learned more about you and what you have gone through.”

“Let’s have a drink over all of this when we get out of here,” I smiled.

“Agreed,” Silvertan repeated. “I shall pay for the drinks.”

“Try not to pay from one of the King’s Men’s pockets,” I smiled.

“Fair enough,” Silvertan smiled.

1. Crularious is a plant. It’s effects are explained in the previous story entry found here.

(I feel the origin of Tawmis was a little sparse, so I revisited it…)

There’s a thousand reasons I hate Mages.

One of which, they raped my childhood from me. When I was thirteen years old, a sect of Mages from the Academy of Des, known as The Crimson Order, abducted me and ripped my mind apart with magic; stripping away at me, layer by layer, seeking to uncover the possibility that somewhere, deep within my subconsciousness, I had heard my parents speak of Orb of Zhandul which was rumored to hold almost limitless god-like magical powers.

Day after day, they stripped away another layer of my mind. The sensation is similar to having your skin peeled away by a dull knife. Day after day, crying out for help – and all you get are shadowy figures hiding beneath their cloaks, chanting their magic, and ripping your mind apart. Day after day, month after month, year after year, for seven years.

For seven long years, I wondered why my mother, Yennica Whitefeather, one of the most powerful Mages, never found me, never rescued me.

For seven long years, I had those Mages of the Crimson Order rip my mind apart. I believe at some point they stopped caring about finding the Orb of Zhandul, and just didn’t know what to do with me – so I became their experiment, their plaything.

Once I was 20, and I could fight back – they knew they had to get rid of me. They took me and traded me in Namaer – where I was thrown into slavery. I was forced to work the kitchen – where, one day I recognized the distinct smell of Crularious – a plant used to slow down the bleeding. The Crimson Order had used it on me, when they cut me open, experimenting on me. It has a different effect when consumed; it poisons the blood stream when digested, causing grogginess. I watched as they crumbled it into a serving a food that was meant for “one of the gladiators of the ring.”

I managed to become one of the servers for the food that day; and saw that it was meant for one of the minotaurs – Taren Bloodhorn – as his final meal before the gladiator ring. I tried to warn him before he consumed the food about its contents, but I couldn’t reach him. So when he entered the ring, I could see that the poison was already taking effect. He was lucid, barely aware of his surroundings. So I did something that came from somewhere deep within me – I jumped the railing and yanked my chains with me, and stood next to him, and helped him. The crowd cheered at this unexpected turn of events, thrilled to see chaos among the guards who had tried to stop me.

In truth, I was ready to die.

I wanted to die.

I had no childhood. I had no good memories. I was a slave. Beaten.

I was ready to die. This was my way of fighting those that would suppress the wills of others.

Back to back, we fought round after round of charging minotaurs, until the crowd had become so enamored with effort to survive – that they roared our names. The King was forced to call an end to the fight, or face the possibility that he would lose favoritism with the people.

After being paraded around for several days, we were set free, but banned from returning to Namaer.

Taren swore a blood oath to me, that one day, he would repay saving my life. I told him, I had not wanted him to walk with me because of a Blood Oath. I had already been a slave, I knew what it was like, and I would wish it on no other.

Truth be told, the death wish that dwells within me, has long remained. Taren has repaid his Blood Oath to me more times than I can remember. Too many times, since our freedom, have I provoked a fight that I knew I could not win. Too many times to remember, it was Taren who showed up and saved me, time and time again.

It wasn’t until Taren nearly died for me, that I saw something I had never seen before.

Friendship. Love. Caring.

He was not with me because of the Blood Oath. He was with me because he was my friend.

My first, true, honest friend.

That moment changed my life forever.

But the one thing that has never – and perhaps never will change – is my hatred for The Mages.

Because as soon as the riddle was solved and the door opened, there was a row of undead archers…

I stared at the runes with a raised eye brow.

There was a locked door, and despite Taren Bloodhorn’s best efforts, he could not shatter it. That mean the door was guarded by magic. Which, of course, would explain the magic runes next to the door. “I can’t tell what the Flerigan that says.”

Blaz’tik stepped forward, “Allow me.” He crumbled up some of the mushrooms in his hand, and began chanting, “Herd ben has wot, sey thay dew wot, werds the me sho, wey the me sho!”

Blaz’tik then took the mushrooms that were now glowing a faint blue, and rubbed them across the runes. And slowly the very runes themselves glowed a gentle green color and revealed the words, “A Lone Pillar Of Light Stands Alone In The Night.”

“Wonderful,” I sighed. “A riddle. The Mages who made Grimrock didn’t think using their magic to animate the dead, and twist living things into new creatures was enough…”

“This is not just a riddle,” Blaz’tik answered. “This comes from an old story.” Blaz’tik stopped to think about it. “The Three Gods. When they first discovered our world – the Three Gods – The Trinity – battled for who would rule over the World.”

“I am familiar with the story,” Taren nodded.

“The story goes that the Trinity came to our world, each with a desire for it. One wanted to rule it, One wanted to burn it, One wanted to give it life,” Blaz’tik continued.

“The God who sought to Burn the World, battled the Life Giver, and burned his light out. That is how Saolaviris became The Moon.”

“The God who sought to Rule the World, battled the Life Giver, and was shattered and spread across the skies, which is how Yularien became the Stars.”

“And the Life Giver, Trelena, became our sun. The story ends, with ‘A Lone Pillar Of Light Stands Alone In The Night’ – surrounded by the moon and stars.”

“The torches,” Taren said, looking at the other torches in the room. “Only one must remain. But which?”

“The one facing the door,” I said. “Because that’s the one facing the door – the way we need to go.”

Quickly the others snuffed the remaining torches save for the one facing door with the runes on the wall. And as the last torch died, the door rose…

A moment’s rest.

Something we all needed, and finally got. We had just killed off something else this cursed mountain or its makers had shaped with magic – something Blaz’tik called “Crowern.”

We made a fire and, despite how they looked, used our weapons to cook the flesh of these creatures.

“So what are these things?” I asked the insectoid.

“They’re a Mage’s attempt –tic!- at creating the ultimate currier –tic!- bird,” Blaz’tik said as he gnawed on a raw crowern remain. “Mages mutated and created –tic!- the Crowern so that it could –tic!- fly great distances, and defend itself, should it –tic!- come under attack from those who try to stop –tic!- the message from being delivered.”

Blaz’tik regurgitated some of the meat then swallowed again. I felt myself get nauseous even as I continued to try and cook my dead crowern over the small fire. “More than –tic!- likely,” he continued as he gnawed on the raw meat, “the mages of Grimrock –tic!- used the messenger birds… now, it’s been so long that they haven’t –tic!- used them, the messenger birds continued to return to Grimrock, and breed among themselves –tic!- until they were flying all over the dungeon, feeding on snails and –tic!- anything else they came across.”

“So,” Silvertan’s slithering voice said, as he paced back and forth, keeping an eye down the hall. “You two,” he gestured to Taren and I, “seem very close. What’s your story?”

I felt my muscles tense. Silvertan had made several references to my parents since we were thrown in here; but did not directly say anything. I saw Taren looking at me, as I nodded. “Blood Oath,” I said.

“So you saved the minotaur’s life?” Silvertan asked, knowing that’s how Blood Oath’s worked in the Minotaur society.

“Mutual,” I said. “We saved each other’s life. I released Taren from the Blood Oath. But he has told me that it’s not been properly repaid.”

“I was falsely accused of a crime in my city within Namaer,” Taren explained.

“May I ask what crime?” Silvertan asked, his serpent like eyes focusing on Taren.

“Murder,” Taren said matter-of-factly. This seemed to halt Silvertan’s pacing. He looked at Tawmis. “He,” Taren explained, gesturing at me, “had been a slave in Namaer, working in the kitchen cleaning. He saw them prepping my final meal before my combat in the Arena.”

Taren explained that Minotaurs charged with murder, were brought into the Arena of Justice, to fight legions of soldiers that poured into the Arena, wave after wave – usually until the Minotaur accused of murder was killed, or until the crowd began cheering for the Minotaur. Those who survived the Arena were pardoned, but not found innocent and thus exiled from Namaer.

“When he saw them poisoning my final meal before the Arena, he made his way to the edge of the Arena, and jumped in, using the chains around his ankles and wrists, to help me in the Arena,” Taren explained. “This action turned the crowd in my favor, and they began cheering for me. As always, the Emperor, fearful that those within the Arena might gain more popularity than himself; and that killing them would turn the crowds against him – he raised his hand and pardoned my murder, exiling both Tawmis and I from Namaer.”

“So what is the son of Contar Stoneskull and Yennica Whitefeather doing as a slave in Namaer?” Silvertan asked, his slithering tongue flicking in and out, as if he could not wait to taste the answer on his scaled lips.

“Wait, -tic!-“ Blaz’tik suddenly exclaimed. “You’re the –tic!- son of Contar and Yennica?”

I sighed.

“I am,” I said, quietly.

“They’re the only ones said to –tic!- ever have escaped Grimrock over –tic!- twenty years ago!” Blaz’tik said excitedly, still gnawing on the raw crowern. “You must know –tic!- of the Orb of Zhandul? The one that –tic!- Sancsaron sought?”

There it was. The one thing the Mages had kidnapped me for. To pick my brain.

“I don’t know about the Orb,” I said, my voice edged with annoyance. “The Mages of Des … kidnapped me when I was only thirteen years old. And used magic to pick my brain apart, layer by layer, to see if my parents had ever mentioned it – and if I knew the Orb’s location buried in my subconscious. When they couldn’t find the answer, they knew they couldn’t just put me back after there had been such a wide search for me. They sold me into slavery in Namaer for some trivial spell components.” I turned to Silvertan, “So yes, I am the son of Contar and Yennica. And that is how I ended up a slave in Namaer.”

I could see it in Silvertan’s serpent like eyes. The answer was not what he had hoped. He had thought that I was a spoiled boy, who grew up in riches.

“They still seek you out,” Silvertan said. “Your parents.”

“I never went back,” I answered. “Between what the Mages did to me… to my mind… and then a life of slavery… Their son is dead.”

I knew why Blaz’tik asked about the Orb. According to the rumor, my parents found the Orb in Grimrock, and having determined it was too powerful for any mortal to possess – did away with the weapon. But the Mages speculate that such a weapon can not be destroyed; and that it must be hidden somewhere.