@TheDarkOne
Sancireph, ZATAKA tells you that Malichor is reading in the library and it could be a while; it would be best to proceed without him and meet up later. You approach the three statues, each of tremendous stature and presence, to take a closer look at the RED ORBS that are so prominently displayed upon them. As you investigate you feel an incredible surge of heat in the back of your mind, as if a beast is whispering into your subconscious.
The sensation is like the pulse of energy you might feel from another Aasimar, yet it feels... sinister. You are eager to attribute this feeling to the Hedge Wizard whose mansion you now occupy, but alas it is altogether distinct from his own aura.
As you draw closer, you hear a poem in your head.
"A Dwarven soul is made of stone.
It is strong and rigid. Stone is easily shaped by chisel, but such is always a process of subtraction.
An Elven soul is made of wood.
It grows without bound, reaching for the light. There is always ample raw material, but too rigorous a touch risks its demise.
A Gnomish soul is made of metal.
Strong and durable, but easily shaped with the addition of heat. It is always in a state of flux.
A Human soul, however, is that of the man's own shadow.
It cannot be shaped directly, but can be grown or diminished in the right light.
Ah, but the soul of a dragon is the raging fury of flame.
Fires swallow stone, reduce wood to ash, warp metal into slag, and force shadows to flee.
Flames cannot help but consume everything; it is their nature."
You feel a shiver creep down your spine, and then it is silent once more.
What do you do?
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@SUCCESSOR
Reven, the sweet numbing warmth of the alcohol washes over you as you sample the stock. The finger food decelerates the impact slightly, but you remember what you came for and why. Playing with the billiards table you find it has a slight tilt towards the bar; you suspect the table may have been damaged by heavyset barflies in nights long gone.
"Happier days" you hear from behind you as you lean in to look. Flinching, you turn around to see a rat, leaning against a bottle of wine, on the counter of the bar.
"So, what brings you to my not so humble abode on this miserable autumn night?" the rat says, smiling (as if such were possible from a rodent).
You are left speechless. Is this a hallucination? Or some manner of magic? You WERE just thinking about rats and mazes.
"Come, join me in a drink. This is one of my favorites. I've got my own vineyard on the grounds. This one has a nice oak finish."
You take a seat next to the rat.
"You might want to be on the look-out for side effects. The boy likes to test GOURMAND magic on my stuff, and I don't know which bottles he's been fiddling around with."
The rat pours you a glass and you take a sip.
"Well then, share a bit about yourself and I'll return the favor."
He takes a swig from the bottle.
"But don't expect me to keep up with you. This tiny body isn't really equipped to hold the liquor."
What do you do?
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@mrz84
Zataka, you can't shake this uneasy feeling that is creeping down your spine, so you set out to distract yourself by reading the notes on the desk in the aviary. They appear to be some sort of scientific and wizardly hybrid of biological study. The author is trying to quantify the magical capacity of the various species of birds in the aviary; assessing how much magic each is capable of 'housing' (as he puts it) as well as analyzing flight speeds, dietary restrictions, and lifespans. He writes, with much disappointment, that the gutter-birds seem to have the highest magical capacity, and he goes on to theorize that it is their very mundane nature that makes room for more of the 'fantastic'.
The wizard spoke to you in the pumpkin patch through the body of a CROW. Is it possible these notes were his assessment of a potential spy network? The birds... all the birds. They're his eyes. There isn't a single place in the mansion that they HAVEN'T been present.
A pigeon lands on the desk next to you and begins to speak.
"Things are not always as they appear. Try to remember that a book is more than its cover. Oh, and do try to refrain from breaking my walls!"
With that, the pigeon flies back up into the rafters.
What do you do?
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@Xyvol
Malichor, you begin by skimming the chapter on HEDGE BUDDING. The discussion is a little hard to follow because you really only had one Hedge Magic class while apprenticing as a mage, but it sounds like the goal of the ritual is to grow a plant that contains a perfect CLONE of the individual, and then transfer consciousness into the resulting BUD. There are notes in the margins with two different sets of handwriting. The first states simply "Promising. Reliable but requires time and real estate. Dare I put down roots?" The second says "This is hedge magic, yet the transfer requires an act of PSIONIC magic. Cite in the thesis?".
Wait a minute. That SOLDIER said something about finding a body inside one of the pumpkins in the patch. Until now you were working under the assumption that the Hedge Wizard was somehow kidnapping people and sapping their life force. What if it was a clone? What if every pumpkin in the patch is a clone of the wizard?
Clearly he has taken quite the stab at immortality, successfully. There's no way to tell how old he actually is, then, or how POWERFUL he might have become over the years. You thought the mansion was the work of multiple wizards... previous owners and commission works. If this is all at the hands of a single man...
Best not to engage such a man in combat.
You hear pacing and muttering above you. Perhaps TOMA BARTRAND is still in the library. Or could it be TELIVAR?
What do you do?
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@bigjoe
Jerias, you awaken atop a pile of rubble. Cold. There is pale light from above; from the MOON, but it comes from an opening no longer large enough to accommodate you. Your memory is blurred. You fell, that must be how you got here. But fell from where? And where is here?
Your stomach growls. You look to the egg at your back. Warmth, warmth and nutrition. But no, you need the EGG for warmth of a different nature. A rat scurries across the floor. You pounce, clenching it in your claws. Exhaling flames you sear it BLUE RARE and it is in your mouth. For a moment you feel the warmth as its faint heartbeat goes silent inside of you. The rodent helps with the HUNGER. Some, but not enough.
You see a flash in your mind, of tableware and seasoned stakes, of little pink sausages at the ends of your hands where your talons should be, of flagons of mead and ale feeding warmth into you. Warmth that wasn't as hungry as the little fire inside of you. The thought makes you cringe; you shake it from your mind.
There is a RUSTY JAIL DOOR before you; old dilapidated bars held in place by weathering mortar. Beyond it is a torch, illuminating a cellar filled with great casks of wines, as large as a man.
SILENCE.
What do you do?
