Argeus the Paladin
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Part 1
The Archwizard’s Gift
His name is Frostflame Manacaster, a befitting name for a befitting wizard. It is not because he is my uncle that I consider his name to actually graced his class. You don’t believe me? You may as well go around the entire of Faerun and ask everyone dabbling in the art of the arcane. There is not a single soul that doesn’t know of my uncle, the only living incarnation of utter mastery in the art of magic, the cosmic-level spellcaster who may as well recreate the world if he feels up to it, and the kind master of mana who considers magic to exist as a friend of the living world and for the betterment of everyone, one that deserves attention, love and passion all the same, nothing more, nothing less.
It’s a pity his adventuring days had gone long past, and as a result of these days, even today, in the little, cozy cottage Uncle Frostflame calls his home, potent magical artifacts, exotic scrolls and countless monster trophies, some of which clearly didn’t even come from Faerun to begin with, lie around the house, finely kempt, groomed and preserved, as witnesses of the various deeds he had accomplished in his long life of adventure. They were so numerous and so exquisite that every greedy Black Dragon would give up its precious eggs just to get a portion of that hoard of magical artifact. He had once told me in a jest that should he one day go bankrupt, all he needed to do is to sell off a third of that museum of magic, and he would have more money in his hand than all of the nobles, kings and queens of Faerun put together.
I never doubt those words. In all honesty, have you ever seen a collection of magical artifact that contains both a Black Dragonhide Armor enchanted with Epic Mage Armor and a fully magically augmented Greatsword that automatically casts Hellball whenever it is swung? Or, in term of exoticness, have you ever come across a Goggle of Death Perception, a replica Einherjar Diviner or Gran Centurio that is arguably more powerful than the original, a remade Alucard Sword with the additional + 15 Attack Bonus and On Hit: 30 DC Instant Death Fortitude/Will/Reflex vs. Vampires, a musket with the words “RIP VAN WINKLE” engraved in it that can shoot rapid-firing, magic-propelled, heat-seeking bullets or a Lightsaber further charged with electricity magic enhancement, all placed together in one single, solid collection of artifacts?
But there are certainly downsides of keeping such a huge hoard of magical artifacts around his residence, for breaking a valuable magical object and the fair value money’s worth of it was one thing, but creating a mess that could potentially destroy the entire continent and everything in it is another. Knowing the sheer amount of magic contained in that hoard, it could happen. Uncle Frostflame, however, has told me more than once that he had casted a restraint spell, rendering most of these artifacts inert while they are on display. He has been wise to administer such a move, for, knowing him, I wouldn’t be much surprised if one day he ends up destroying the whole of Faerun, or, potentially, the universe as we know it in a bizarre accident had he not taken such a move.
You may ask me, then, what kind of a person Uncle Frostflame is, right? You will be surprised, for underneath all those powers, I have found my Uncle Frostflame to be nothing more imposing than a gentle, kind old man with a penchant for good wine, good food, and telling his nieces and nephews the exploits of his youth. I have been paying regular visits to the respectable man over the past few years, but never have I grown bored of his storytelling. Had he not chosen his career to be a wizard, he could have as well been a very successful artist, author, and would have made his millions nonetheless. All of his stories had happy endings, of course, knowing that he was that kind of a vigilante against tragedy, often going out of his way to help other people in dire need. The last time I went to his place, I was enthralled at how he single-handedly subdued not one, not two, but an entire clan of two-thousand-year-old vampires with a variety of mind spell powers, simply by casting every single mind save and AC-boosting spells in his arsenal, and then Hellballed them all to death.
And so, that day, I went to Uncle Frostflame’s place, as per usual, hoping to hear another story of his exploits, only to find himself surprising me once more. Not with a story whose grandeur and epicness exceeding all others, but the other way around.
“Whaaaaat?” I asked wildly, bewildered thoroughly by what my uncle had just told me, so much that I left my mouth wide open like a fool for a couple of seconds. “Did I just hear myself right, Uncle? Did you say that… you once needed help?”
“From a little boy, no less, Zenethil,” Uncle Frostflame nodded calmly. What was stranger, he was speaking of such a disgrace with not the least bit of humbleness or shame.
“But… how, Uncle? You can destroy the whole of Faerun given that you want to. You can kill a hundred dragons in an hour and still be able to come back for more. Hell, you have broken the Dimension Wall between worlds for more times than anyone can count and come back with the loot every single time!”
“Regardless of what you may think, Zenethil, being an Epic Wizard said to be very closely borderlining divinity doesn’t mean that I am invincible,” Uncle Frostflame spoke wisely. “And in the situation that spawned because of that, I have been proven to be ever weaker than the average person.”
“What was it that could have hurt you so much, Uncle Frostflame?” I eagerly asked, trembling in fear – a creature that could have defeated Uncle Frostflame would have been powerful enough to challenge the Gods themselves, and Ao bless us if that creature ever comes to Faerun.
“It was a long story, son,” the old man nodded in reminiscence. “It all began with one of my adventures, an adventure like all other… or not. I suppose you have seen this scroll, haven’t you?”
My uncle then stood up, strolled to a displaying shelf nearby, picked up a particular magic scroll, and then returned to his seat, displaying an endless pride as he spread the scroll before me. I couldn’t understand what was inscribed there, naturally, and this was one occasion that I actually resented becoming a Paladin and not a Wizard. To me, the arcane handwriting on the scroll looked no more than senseless wriggling of the illiterate.
“Behold, Zenethil,” my uncle said formally. “This scroll is the very reason why I had ventured over the Dimensional Barrier that day. The scroll in which I recorded everything needed to cast a spell unknown to Faerun.”
“A spell… unknown to Faerun?” I asked in astonishment.
“Yes, and judging from my knowledge, it was a spell… how can I put it, if I were able to cast it right, it would have been ten times more powerful than your average, daily epic spell at least. At most, it can destroy whole armies in seconds. The spell called Army of the Dead, as it was known as.”
“Army of the Dead?” naturally, I leaped from the chair in disgust, my Paladin zeal forcing my head from the potentially necromantic artifact. “Uncle, I thought you have vowed never to resort to necromantic spells, however close to death you are?”
“Relax, young Paladin,” Uncle Frostflame tapped on my shoulder, signaling me to sit down. “This spell doesn’t do what it sounds like.”
“So… what is it then, to have such a gruesome name?” I asked.
“Let me tell you the whole story then. It is rumored that, in a land far, far away, a place not too different from our dimension called Middle Earth, where orcs and trolls and humans and elves and dwarves regularly engage in warfare, there is an amiable king of the humans by the name Aragorn the Second. It is rumored that in combat, he can summon the very spirit of courageous, celestial warriors, who ride like the wind, has no corporeal bodies, but whose edge pierces flesh and armor and stone alike. They are known as the Army of the Dead, or the Dead Men of Dunharrow.”
Uncle Frostflame took a short pause, with a sigh, before resuming his storytelling.
“They have helped him to his crown, vanquished his enemies, and written his name in history as one of the most successful kings that Middle Earth has ever known. As the eager wizard I was at that time, at the peak of my career and convinced that I can do anything short of destroying and recreating Faerun like you said, I was convinced to grab hold of this power. Not because I would like to wreck havoc, but because I want to find out just why it could be that powerful and spread the knowledge.”
“Did you do it, Uncle?”
“Well, naturally, I deduced that, as King Aragorn the Second was known to be a warrior king, not a wizard, he must have summoned the Army of the Dead by a powerful spell scroll, of which he must have kept a copy. I decided to once again breach the Dimensional Barriers to the land of Middle Earth, in search for this powerful spell…”
******
“This amulet…”
Kira Yamato sat in his chamber, staring at the artifact on his neck. One may call it a good luck charm, a safety amulet, or simply, a beautiful necklace embedded with a big, elegant topaz, one that could be pawned for a hefty sum of money in any shop in any dimension. The gem itself appeared to have been a wonder all by itself – it wasn’t cold or tingling to the skin, but rather radiates a warm, soothing aura whenever it comes into contact with his flesh. It was as if there was a tiny reactor of some sort embedded within the gem, providing him with warmth and comfort even during the most freezing of temperature.
As if disregarding all those positive qualities, the Ultimate Coordinator never seemed to have paid the artifact much notice, though. Over time, he had taken to wearing this memento as a habit, an automatic action whenever he put on his shirt, even during battles. Maybe it wasn’t a keepsake of friendship. Maybe it didn’t bear much mental impact on him. Or maybe, it was because he had gotten it from a particularly wacky man who claimed to be a wizard, whose antics didn’t do him any good in the first place.
“Frostflame Manacaster,” Kira whispered as he held the artifact in his hand, clutching it tightly as he reminisced what Rau had told him in the clash just now. “You said this amulet will help me when I need it. But why… why doesn’t it work? Why do I have to go through this all?”
Almost at once, Kira resented having ever said those words. That’s right. The lucky charm, after all, could not change him. It couldn’t change who he was. It couldn’t change the fact that he was an artificial human in at least one sense of the word. It couldn’t change what had already been done. It was not that wacky wizard’s fault, however he would try to think that way. Not to mention, that day he saved that wizard due to a wholly childish, altruistic motive, not because he wanted anything in return.
A knock on the door startled Kira a good deal, all of a sudden. When his astonishment settled down, Kira gave out a sigh as he shuffled towards the control unit. He didn’t want to be disturbed at all, but then, the familiar voice just on the other side, the sweet, convincing voice he had grown to endear.
“Kira, are you there?”
Lacus. One, or more like it, the one woman significant to him.
Kira stood still by the door for a moment, as he struggled with himself whether or not to reach for that button to open the door. Part of him, the depressed, childish half, would die to receive a word of comfort from her, and the other part, the more matured Kira Yamato, struggled to keep his hand off the control panel. However faintly, he did realize that his sorrow was nowhere near hers. After all, her father had just died, a greater loss than any of his, up to date.
As the inner struggle went on, Kira was pinned where he stood, his hand frozen in mid-air. In the end, his childish side scored a decisive victory, as the Coordinator shivered, reaching for the button, closing his eye while the other half protested fiercely.
There was a soft zip as the door opened, revealing behind it the pink-haired woman. And she was smiling, to Kira’s astonishment. It was a soft smile, though, and somewhere underneath it, she seemed to be trying her best to bury her weeping disposition just a short while before.
“Lacus? What are you…” Kira sounded genuinely astonished, not because of her presence, but rather because of her, albeit very remotely, cheerful appearance.
“I… I have heard it all, Kira,” the ex-idol singer said.
“I see,” Kira turned away, as if his mature half had taken its due. Or maybe it is because he had had enough finally.
“I thought… I thought I can help you…”
“Help me?” Kira said rudely, his childish, temperamental side taking full control of his tongue. Almost immediately, he realized what kind of effect this had had – Lacus stood stunned at the doorway, in an astonishment no less than his own just some seconds ago.
“I mean, I am okay,” Kira turned to Lacus again, trying to appear normal and smiled, although it was quite obvious how fake it was. “I… well, I’m just slightly stressed. And… you don’t look too well yourself, do you?”
Kira’s on-the-spot observation was quite accurate. Lacus never looked like she had recovered from the loss of her father, as so reflected by her pale and sorrowful features. That realization quite made him respect the young woman even more. Apparently she had steeled herself just to see him through this.
“Well, but…”
“Don’t worry,” Kira said, for some reason, flashing out his topaz amulet before Lacus. “I have this amulet to protect me. I won’t collapse that easily.”
Kira had never been a good liar, but for this occasion, somehow his voice sounded strangely persuasive. A smile that, despite his depression, still shone quite brightly, comparable to the flash of the gemstone itself, sealed this impression further, leaving a particular sense of bewilderment in the young woman.
“I’ve never seen you wearing this,” Lacus stared at the object with due curiosity.
“It is a present from an old… acquaintance,” Kira replied. “A man that I only know by name.”
“Would you like to share the tale?” curiosity seemed to have taken over the sweet Lacus at the moment being, as she momentarily forgot the purpose of the meeting in the first place.
“Oh, well,” Kira smiled, his mind starting to be absorbed into the tale of a few years in the past. “It is a long story…”
“I don’t mind,” Lacus replied.
“That was… six years ago, on Heliopolis, that this happened…”
******
“I see, so you failed to capture the mechanism of the spell.”
“At the first glance, yes. The fact was that the summoned Army was simply the lost spirit of those who had sworn to support the King’s ancestor and failed to do so, thusly having to repay the debt even after death. As much as I respected King Aragorn the Second’s hospitality, I know that there was no way he would give me an alternative method to execute the Army of the Dead. Not to mention, the entire army seemed to have vanished after they had completed the King’s bidding in the War of the Rings,” Uncle Frostflame replied. “But I, Frostflame Manacaster, don’t give up that easily. I decided to look for an alternative route – to ask for help from the Dead Men of Dunharrow themselves.”
“They are dead, Uncle. What good do you think they will do?” I asked eagerly.
“Now this is where my endless supplies of magical toys came in handy,” Uncle Frostflame continued heartily. “I happened to have something called the Wand of Lathander, which is currently residing in the corner over there,” my uncle pointed to an epic rack of wands of all sort in on the top of the shelf. “This wand, being blessed by the God of Dawn Lathander himself, grants the wielder the power of a powerful Cleric – the ability to communicate with souls in the divine world. I decided to, independently, set off to Dunharrow to speak to the spirits of these Dead Men myself, to see if I could persuade them to help me.”
“And… what was the result, Uncle?”
“It took me around three days to get to Dunharrow. Don’t ask how – you should have known my favored traveling method by now, Zenethil,” Uncle Frostflame continued. “With the Wand of Lathander to help me, not to mention my uncanny ability to sniff out magic, I was able to trace the last of the Dead Men. It appeared that not all of them had been granted freedom from the world after all, and some of them still remained, strewn around the place, not yet been granted passage to the next plane of existence.”
“Why was this so?” I asked, “It is universal knowledge that once a spirit is freed, he can pass on the Heaven or Hell, depending on his choice in life…”
“Let me correct, these remnants of the Dead Men are not as unable to leave the world as they were banned from doing so in the first place. You know, centuries of existing as stray spirit can be particularly… enjoyable, when compared to the flames of Hell. These Dead Men who failed to leave were those who, based on how they had lived their life, supposed to be sent to Hell for afterlife. In simple terms, the equivalent of thugs, thieves and muggers among the men of the White Mountain.”
“And so… you recruited them, Uncle?”
“Who did you take me for, Zenethil?” Uncle Frostflame looked downright displeased. “But I did strike a deal with them, though. If I help them to avoid a horrible fate in Hell, they WILL help me as a reborn version of the Army of the Dead. Significantly weaker than the default, but nonetheless, still the Army of the Dead.”
“I guess you went to Hell on a trip, didn’t you, Uncle?”
“Ahem… don’t forget that your Uncle is the drinking buddy with the Grim Reaper in three different dimensions, a favorite unofficial advisor of another Major God of the Underworld, and Best Friend For Life with two other minor deities of Death. I have my way around things, you know,” proudly declared Uncle Frostflame. “When it comes to the divine world, who you are doesn’t matter as much as who you know. So it took me around two weeks, a Wand of Plane Travel, and a Divine Pass to complete the diplomatic run for the Army of the Dead the Lesser.”
“So… finally you got your very own Army of the Dead, didn’t you?” I asked, still feeling queasy from the notion. “But… one thing, they are stray spirits, and two, they used to be unworthy people in the first place…”
“That’s right,” Uncle Frostflame replied. “I also felt… uneasy around that bunch, so I decided to strike another deal: They only have to serve me once before they are free forever. So I jotted down the incantation of the spell in this scroll, casted the spell on my topaz amulet, and hoped that I would never have to use it again.”
“But then, Uncle, I haven’t heard the part in which you were hammered. Did this happen at all?”
“It happened right after I decided to leave the world of Middle Earth, Zenethil. And it was not a pleasant experience,” Uncle Frostflame shivered. “I was a fool to have thought that the Dimension Door spell would work all the time with no failure at all. It turned out that the Dimensional Door I started at that time had been particularly flawed, and it collapsed right on me the moment I tried to leave Middle Earth.”
I was shocked upon hearing this, apparently. The worst thing to be ever able to happen to a Dimensional Walker like my uncle is when the Dimension Door collapses. Best case, he would be strewn into a distant land, and will have to take a lot of effort to set up another one back to his own world. Worst case, the Dimensional Walker will suffer from a fate worse than death, erased from existence, as if being uncreated with extreme prejudice. Judging from the fact that my Uncle was still there to talk to me, I assumed he had escaped the worst.
“Yes, I survived the ordeal. But barely, Zenethil,” my uncle went on. “I woke up to find myself battered beyond recognition, with an injured jaw, broken arms, and completely unable to cast any spell. Could you think of anything worse to happen to a wizard who can’t use both the verbal and somatic component to cast his spells?”
******
“And then I brought him home,” Kira went on. “His injuries were quite serious at first look, but then my parents… uncle and aunt decided that bringing him to hospital would bring us a lot more unnecessary attention than they would want. In the end, they ended up nursing him back to health at home, with their medical knowledge.”
“He… he survived that, didn’t he?” Lacus asked, curiosity and anxiety obvious on her face.
“That was another astonishment in its own rights. Not only did he survive, it took him about a day after he had regained consciousness to return to full functionality, as if he had never been injured before,” Kira answered. “It was as if he had healed… magically.“
“Magic? But magic doesn’t exist, right?” Lacus questioned innocently. “Was that a trick or something?”
“It wasn’t. At first he was genuinely injured, and in the end he genuinely recuperated. Even today, I don’t know how he did this,” Kira shook his head. “After all, we didn’t know anything about him, not even where he was from, save his name.”
“Frostflame… Manacaster?” repeated Lacus.
“And the fact that he claimed to be a wizard, which my aunt and uncle laughed upon,” nodded Kira. “Now that I think about it, he might as well have been a wizard. There is no way save magic I can explain how that happened.”
Kira drew out the amulet again, staring at it with particular interest. The topaz gemstone lay on his palm, radiating enough heat to warm up his chilled palm.
“What happened next was that the man left our home without even telling my uncle and aunt. But not before giving me this gemstone.” The Coordinator continued.
“I still remember what he said as he handed me the necklace,” taking a short pause to stare at the marvelous beauty of the trinket, Kira continued. “I, Frostflame Manacaster, never accept a favor without repaying one. You, young man, your pure heart and your altruism is what the world today need more of. Take this amulet. With it, fortune and prosperity will come to you and the ones you love.”
There was a moment of silence after Kira uttered the last word. The Coordinator’s hand trembled as he clutched the gemstone, gritting his teeth, as his entire body began to tremble in anger. To Lacus’ astonishment, Kira then sprang up, throwing the amulet on the ground with extreme prejudice, with such force that had it not been for the fact that the floor was well-carpeted, the trinket could have very well broken. Cushioned by the layer of carpet, the gemstone instead just bounced a few time, before falling into a corner of the room, silent as a condemned person.
“Liar,” condemned Kira.
“Kira…” Lacus gazed at him, with a shade of terror.
“Look, Lacus, I have been holding this with me for that long… six years, and in that time, what have happened to me?” Kira asked angrily, snapping at a massive proportion. “Misfortune. War. Sorrow. Losses. What other kind of bad luck can you expect? I was a fool to have failed to dispose of this faux-Lucky Charm when I got it!”
Tears flooded down Kira’s cheeks as he spoke, tears of angst and anger, of sorrow and sadness, and of everything bad that had occurred to him. The pressure had finally proven too much for him to handle. The sudden eruption took Lacus aback for a few seconds, but she wasn’t stunned for long. The young woman quietly stood up, walked to the corner, picked up the trinket, and handed it back to Kira.
“Kira… I… I want to tell you something,” Lacus said, placing the amulet before the Coordinator. “It wasn’t all bad luck that has accompanied this amulet…”
The next thing Kira realized was the sight of a gold ring on Lacus’ other hand, whose design coincided with another, on her fingers.
“Lacus?” Kira asked. “This is…”
******
< Message edited by Argeus the Paladin -- 6/9/2009 5:13:49 >
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