The Tower

The room Ademar stood in had been completely coated in decades of dust. When the exterior door came crashing to the floor all that dust billowed up in an obscuring grey cloud. The choking grit quickly forced the elf to retreat back outside the tower coughing, and gasping for breath. For several minutes he stood outside the empty doorway brushing the grime from himself as the cloud settled back to the floor.

Once more he entered, sword at the ready. Dust still lingered in the air making his nose tingle, threatening to force him to sneeze. He quickly clamped his free hand over his face to stifle that urge as he pressed into the entry hall. It was not an overly large room being roughly twenty feet wide and perhaps fifteen deep but it was impressive even after having been long neglected. Great slabs of a light colored marble covered the floor the walls were lined in wide wood panels accented with intricate millwork, rising nearly twenty feet up to the heavy open timbers of the ceiling which was set with a large, one time sparkling, crystalline and iron chandelier. In each of the four corners of the room stood dust covered suits of full plate armor. Directly across from the entrance stood a set of double doors built of thick maple wrapped in bands of brass. Ademar imagined that they had matched the exterior door when built but survived the years much better having not been exposed to the elements.

Slowly he paced the span to those doors leaving deep footprints in the still-thick dust which was again, settling on the floor. As he came close to the doors he took a closer look at the armor displayed on either side of them. He quickly noticed something familiar and very much out of place. Embossed into the breastplate of this armor was an erect eagle with its head turned about to the right, the crest of Westheath! It was, perhaps, an older version but definitely the same as he had seen hundreds of times in Caercaster on the uniforms of the soldiers who often roamed the streets. The crest was not the only thing that marked these suits of armor, several nicks and dents adorned the tarnished steel plates, the scars of battle. Unable to control his curiosity Ademar moved before the suit on his right to get a better look. He could discern no stand or other rigging holding up the large plates of shaped metal; it seemed to be completely free standing. Carefully he reached forward and brushed off ages of dust from the breast plate revealing more damage than he had seen at first glance. One particularly large, diamond shaped, hole was punched right through the armor, probably a spear puncture, and was still stained on the edges with long dried blood. Reaching up he carefully lifted the visor of the helm.

With a gasp the elf jumped back from the armor swinging his sword out in a defensive arc before him. The suit of armor stood still before him, visor completely open revealing the very real face of a knight who had once served the Republic of Westheath! His face was twisted in agony, mouth agape in a silent scream. His unblinking blue eyes were wide and dilated yet seemed not to see the elf before him. The visible skin of his face was still full of color indicating that this soldier was somehow preserved from the decaying forces of death.

No longer interested in exploring the rest of the foyer, Ademar moved back to the double doors. Giving them a cursory exam for any traps he turned the handle of one of them and gave it a cautious push. Expecting the worst he was relieved when the door swung freely open without the slightest creaking. His surprise was complete when the door was fully opened and he stepped just inside the next room. Ademar found himself standing in a massive great hall which easily took up half of the towers interior floor space. Not only was it large it was also spotless, everything in the room looked like it had been cleaned and polished just that morning. Many paintings and tapestries lined the paneled walls along with the heads of many game animals, a large and fully dressed table complete with table cloth, plates, goblets and fine silverware, dominated the center of the room. There were three doors leading out of the hall. On the same wall that he had entered the room was two of them, one being at either end of the room, and the third was directly across from him on the far wall. To his far right, tucked into the corner resided a spiral staircase that wound its way up to a balcony above the hall. Hanging from the ceiling were two very ornate and identical chandeliers which were lit not with candles but some sort of soft magical glow which fully illuminated the entire hall.

In awe, Ademar stood there admiring the craftsmanship and artistry of the room. He wandered the hall slowly, appraising the contents of the room before climbing the staircase up to the balcony. Like the room below the balcony was immaculate and carried more fine artwork on the walls as well as thick and well cared for rugs on the floor. Four doors led from the balcony and after a thorough inspection he found that all were connected to simple guest rooms which were small and contained only a bed and a small table in each. The rooms were unlit and completely blanketed in dust, the furniture within was in desperate need of repair. One more spiral staircase led up again but when the elf tried to explore it he found that it was blocked by fallen debris, likely the crumbled remnants of the tower above.

Beginning to gain a small level of comfort in the place, Ademar sheathed his longsword and headed back down to the ground floor in order to continue his investigation of the mysterious structure. It did not take him long to explore two of the three doors which contained dusty and disused rooms. One was an empty privy tangled in cobwebs and containing nothing of interest. The other room was the kitchen which had been ransacked and left in shambles. Heavy dust covered everything, any item of value had long since been removed from the room, and the pantry was completely bare.

As Ademar approached the final door a sudden feeling washed over him, the feeling that there were eyes following his every move. Instinctively his right hand fell to the hilt of his sword and he turned, carefully surveying the great hall behind him. It was just as he had seen it, still and unoccupied. Turning back to the door he found that it was locked. Excitement rose within him evaporating the strange feeling of being watched over, as he rummaged through his pouch for his lock picks. It was always a thrill to discover what treasures lay behind locked doors! With practiced precision he first inserted the tension rod into the keyhole applying light pressure as he manipulated the tumblers with the appropriate pick. Within seconds the lock released and the door was gliding open on well oiled hinges.

Immediately behind the door was a staircase that followed the outer wall of the tower down and to the elfs’ left. At regular intervals were small, plum sized glow-stones set in the wall which kept the wide stone steps well lit. A defined chill was set upon the stairwell which caught Ademar by surprise as he crossed the threshold of the door prompting him to pull his cloak about him as he began his descent. As he moved further down the stairs he again felt as if he were being watched yet, several glances behind him revealed nothing. Again he found his hand wringing the hilt of his sword.

After moving down what seemed like twenty feet or so, Ademar came to the end of the stairs which were framed in a broad, bricked arch beyond which was another well lit room. Uneasiness welled up within the pit of his stomach as he reached the arch. Moving as quietly as he could he slowly pulled his blade free of its’ scabbard. After several deep breaths the elf pressed on beyond the arch. Here he found himself standing in a crypt which was surprisingly well lit by the same glow-stones that lined the stairway. Much like the great hall this room was dust free and in very good repair. Six rectangular sarcophagi were lined up side by side and evenly spaced across the room; each had an arrangement of seemingly fresh flowers atop it. Beyond them was a highly decorated mausoleum constructed of polished marble. Flanking the iron and stained glass door to the mausoleum were two identical statues of armored knights standing in mourning. Their swords point down before them and their unhelmed foreheads resting upon pommels.

Despite his uneasiness, something began to tug at him from the burial chamber, urging him to go to it, demanding that he open the door. Unconsciously the elf moved forward and before he knew it he was standing directly before the door now himself flanked by the large stone guardians. At the nape of his neck hair stood on end and his body shivered though not from the chill of the crypt. Magical power radiated from the place with a presence that was nearly palpable to Ademars’ sharp senses. And still, he found his hand on the handle to the mausoleum door.

“Go back!” Came a harsh whisper which seemed to come from right next to him.

The elf released the handle and spun about. He found himself to be alone still. A bit unnerved, he stood there for a moment, eyes darting about the room. When no threat presented itself he took a few deep breaths to steady his nerves. The draw of the tomb crept back into his consciousness seeming to ease his trepidation. Ademar turned back to the door and, without even checking it to see if it was locked, he leaned his sword up against the door and pulled out his lock picks. Kneeling before the portal he went straight to work on the intricate mechanism.

Again the harsh whisper came to him louder and more emphatic this time.

“Leave now!”

Although the voice startled him, he had already solved the locks’ puzzle and the old iron door before him stood ajar. A long hiss of stale air rushed out at him. Ademar quickly snatched up his sword again and stuffed his tools back in his belt pouch while taking a few cautious steps away from the door. He wanted to leave, wanted to run from this mysterious place, but the draw of whatever was on the other side of the door held him firmly in place.

Feeling as if he were in a dream he watched helplessly through his own eyes as his body slowly walked to the door. He found no will over his hand as it reached out and pulled the door fully open. Ademars’ eyes grew wide as the chamber was revealed to him. It was illuminated just as the crypt behind him and that illumination revealed a hoard of sparkling gold, silver, and gems. The mausoleum was impeccably clean just as the great hall had been. All around the perimeter of the chamber at waist height ran a stone shelf roughly twelve inches deep. Neatly organized upon that shelf were all manner of riches from rare furs, to crystal goblets, to jewelry, to showpiece swords, to lose gems both cut and uncut. Beneath the shelf, on the floor, rested many closed chests which, the elf had to assume, contained coins as well as more gems.

At the center of the chamber was a large rectangular slab of marble. At rest upon that stone bench were the skeletal remains of a humanoid richly dressed in dark, scarlet robes and bedecked in fine jewelry. In the skeletons’ hands, resting upon its chest was a polished silver rod encrusted with small diamonds and topped with a fist sized emerald. Topping the bare, white skull was a circlet of gold etched with an intricate thorny leaf motif. Anchored at the center of the band was a five pointed star that carried diamonds at each point which sparkled with a soft, white, light all their own.

The circlet! That was what he was here for. Ademar knew that was the source of his urges, the reason he had opened the door. Its call to him was even more powerful now; it demanded that he move forward and take what was rightfully his. His hands began to sweat as he reached for the circlet; it suddenly felt very warm in the crypt. His heart pounded within his chest and his breathing became labored. As carefully as he could, Ademar lifted the headpiece from the skull.

As soon as the circlet cleared the skull Ademar was washed with a sense of immense power accompanied by visions of conquest and unimaginable riches. He watched, again feeling disconnected from his physical self, as the now pulsing band was turned over in his hands and began moving to his own head.

Ademar was so enamored by the circlet that he did not see the bolt of energy that raced across the crypt and between his arms to blast him in the chest. The thin elf was thrown back into the wall next to the door and his world went white. Feeling as though he had just been jolted from sleep, Ademar found himself sitting against the wall facing the stone pedestal. He found his hands empty, longsword somehow sheathed at his left hip.

A voice caught his attention, the same voice which had whispered to him earlier, only this time it was louder and full of anger.

“You will not have the Crown! It is mine and mine alone!”

Looking up on top of the pedestal, Ademar came face to face with the source of the voice. Standing upon his own remains stood the ghostly figure of a man wearing long scarlet robes and wielding a silver rod, his long black hair flowed in an unseen wind and dark eyes blazed with hatred. The ghost did not advance but began gesturing and quickly chanting a spell. Without another glance the elf jumped from the floor and raced from the mausoleum. Sanastarus smiled upon Ademar that day. As he mounted the steps a great ball of fire erupted in the crypt behind him scorching the walls and floor at his back and singing his cloak. On he raced up the stairs taking them two at a time then banging hard not once, but twice, into the now closed door at the top of the stairs before throwing it open and continuing on. Through the great hall he ran and out the foyer. He ran on and on, north again into the forest not daring to stop. He crashed headlong through the brush and trees not caring how much noise he made nor how much pain he endured as branches and brambles alike slapped across his body.

When he finally did stop running he had left the forest and twilight was upon the world. His lungs burned and his legs ached but most of all he still felt the biting sting of the ghosts’ magic missile a poignant reminder of what he had just experienced. Ademar made a vow to himself that evening, a vow that he would not touch another thing set within a crypt for the rest of his days.