The ogre dragged his hulking body down the corridor, a trail of blood marking every step he took. Shredded remnants of chain mail armor hung limply from his arms as he pressed against the wall with one hand for support. In his other hand rested the handle of a once viable weapon, now twisted and unrecognizable amidst the scorch marks and bloodstains across its surface.

Similar smudges marred the ogre’s face as well. He made a small attempt at wiping away the blood flowing from a gash in his forehead, but he knew it did no good. The twinkles of magic didn’t flow anymore since fighting the Big Scaly. Not even the twinkles that made the hurt go away would work.

He tried to make them work. He really did. He warned the others that making too many twinkles made them go away for a while, but they didn’t listen. Well, Sparks listened, but none of the others did. Instead, they insisted he follow them into the Big Scaly lair and help try to kill the thing. And even then, the twinkles worked for a good long time, but Big Scaly was a tough one to kill.

After the twinkles stopped working, his friends began to die horribly. Razors cut through them in big swipes, and hot fire burned them black so they didn’t scream anymore. Many ogres like him died, too, plus lots of blue elfs who tried making their own twinkles at the Big Scaly. They all died, too.

But not Sparks, he knew. Sparks was too smart to die like the others. He was smart just like an ogre. He, too, knew when it was time to run away.

It couldn’t make the worry go away, though. In the big fight, the ogre had lost sight of Sparks. This was not good, because they told him to stay near the blue elf.

He remembered what they said. “You stay near Lord Sparracis, Zogga. He’ll look after you good.” He didn’t know why they called Sparks by that big, long name. He always answered to “Sparks” well enough, and it was easier to say.

The ogre did his best to do as he was told, but he couldn’t stay near Sparks. The Big Scaly made twinkles of its own, causing Sparks to fly across the lair and hit the far wall. There was no way the huge ogre could keep up with that! He tried going across to help his friend, but couldn’t with all the fighting and shouting and roaring through the big room. Others needed the ogre’s twinkles to help them feel better so they could fight more.

Now there were no more twinkles left—not even for himself. More blood came out, making him weaker and colder. He knew this was not good, because people who had too much blood come out of them, sometimes they died. He needed Sparks to help him. He needed Sparks to tell him what to do. Sparks was good at that. Sparks was the smartest person alive, even though he wasn’t an ogre.

Sparks could even make the cold go away, if he wanted to. He hoped he would find Sparks soon, though because the cold was getting even worse. And, of course, he had no more twinkles to make the cold go away himself. Sparks would make it all right, though. Sparks could do anything.

Sparks was his good friend.

Jittery words reached the ogre’s ears. They were those high-pitched voices again that annoyed his ears so bad. Obviously it was those goblins again. They were close by, probably up ahead where the firelight was coming from. The thought of fire pleased the ogre a lot, because as good as the cold was for the hurt, it was starting to make him sleepy. And if he fell asleep, then how would he find Sparks?

Pulling himself tall, the ogre threw aside his smashed weapon, and drew out a rust-covered mace from his pack. It wasn’t as good as his shiny mace, but this one would do fine to finish off those goblins by the fire.

Roaring, the ogre thundered into the small cavern with the goblins. Sweeping his enormous arm in a wild arc, he brought down the rusty mace against one goblin’s puny head, smashing it to bits in a single blow. With his other arm, he backhanded another, sending it sprawling across the room like the Big Scaly did to Sparks. The other goblins in the room rushed up to him, flailing their arms, but their blows bounced off his muscles like raindrops in a storm. One by one, the ogre smashed, crushed, and ripped at the feeble creatures, not allowing even one to run away, just like he’d been taught.

The goblins were weak, and the ogre was pleased at this, since he was in no condition to fight any of the big ones. Unfortunately, the fire went out in the scuffle, causing the ogre to sigh sadly until he heard a voice echoing eerily through the place, calling his name.

“Zogga? Zogga! Is that you? Answer me, you half-witted imbecile!”

That was definitely Spark’s voice! He knew it had to be, but where could he be, anyway? He was probably lost and looking for the ogre so he’d know where he was.

“I here in the room, Sparks!” the ogre bellowed, a rivulet of blood escaping the corner of his mouth. “I kill the gobbies, so it safe for you to come in now!”

“Keep shouting, Zogga!” Sparks yelled from somewhere down the corridor. “Keep talking, and I’ll come get you!”

“Okay!” the ogre replied. Blinking, he muttered some incoherent words. “Uh… What you want Zogga to say!”

“Anything!” his friend shouted back. “Just keep talking so I can follow your voice!”

“I found this room with the fire to get warm, but gobbies put it out before Zogga could kill them! It getting real cold, Sparks! Zogga getting very tired with no twinkles, so you hurry up, okay?”

The ogre’s vision began to cloud, and he could no longer keep his footing. He knew Sparks would be with him any minute, and use his twinkles to start the fire again. It was only a matter of time, if only he could stay awake long enough. But he was so very tired that he could hardly keep his eyes open.

The ogre awoke to the sight of his friend’s blue face hovering over him. Apparently he’d fallen asleep.

“Sparks! You came to help Zogga!” he said with as much enthusiasm as he could muster in the cold. It must have got real cold while he slept, because now he shivered all over.

“I’m here, Zogga,” the blue face said solemnly. “It seems you took your share of nasty blows from the wyrm, too. Lie still now.”

“Zogga been lying still forever,” the ogre muttered. “Zogga need to go someplace warm. Will Sparks please start the fire again? It very cold in this place.”

“Zogga, It’s too late. I don’t think…” the dark elf’s words trailed off as he looked at the ogre’s pleading eyes. “Very well. I’ll start the fire for you. I suppose it’s the least I could do for your sorry hide. Stay here.”

The ogre nodded weakly. He was too tired to go anywhere right now, anyway.

Dark robes rustled softly as the Teir’Dal stood. With a toss of his magic hand, Sparks started the fire again, much to the ogre’s delight. It was going to be okay now. Sparks was here. Sparks would save him. Sparks could do anything.

“Zogga, do you know where we are? I don’t recognize this place at all.” Looking around, the dark elf inspected the small cavern. “I’ve never seen the markings on this wall, so it’s safe to say I’ve never been here before.”

The ogre shook his head.

“No, this not where we came from to fight Big Scaly,” he replied. “Had to escape through the icy wall to get here.”

The wizard looked down at the ogre quizzically.

“What are you blithering about? Icy wall?”

“Yes.” The ogre nodded, pointing toward the corridor. “Back down that way, Zogga crush down icy wall to escape Big Scaly.”

“Then what is this place?” Sparks asked.

“Zogga dunno. It cold, like all these places down here.”

But Sparks wasn’t listening. He walked around the cavern, looking at the walls like they were real important. They looked pretty normal to the ogre, but then his eyes weren’t as good as blue elf eyes were. Whatever it was, those walls made Sparks go quiet and serious, like he always did when important stuff happened.

The ogre wasn’t interested in important stuff, though. Important stuff always made his head hurt and tummy rumble. All he wanted was to sleep. He needed rest so he could get up and kill more of those annoying goblins. It wasn’t easy, though, since Sparks kept wanting to chat.

“Zogga!” Sparks’s whisper echoed through the cavern. “Do you have the slightest inkling of what you just discovered here?”

“Huh? What Zogga do wrong now?”

Sparks shook his head, his face still close to the walls.

“No, no, no. You did nothing wrong. In fact, it seems you could well have uncovered something very right…very right, indeed. I must report this to Neriak without delay.”

“Oh, good. Maybe now Zogga sleep for a while? Very cold and tired…”

Turning about in a whirl of robes, Sparks faced the ogre lying before the fire. The dark elf’s eager face turned solemn as he approached.

“My dear dimwitted Zogga, you may have very well unveiled the Teir’Dal’s salvation over all our enemies of this accursed land,” Sparks said.

“Zogga did good?” the ogre asked weakly.

“You did splendidly,” the wizard answered. “In one panicked frenzy of your dullard mind, you managed to blindly stumble across what has eluded the gods for millennia.”

The ogre smiled. He didn’t understand most of what Sparks ever said, but he could tell when the blue elf was pleased. Even now, he could see the wizard’s eyes glow with excitement, far more than he ever saw before.

The Teir’Dal fell to one knee next to the ogre’s heaping form.

“It’s quite a shame, really,” he said, his tone ponderous.

“Wha-?” the ogre asked, not understanding.

“It’s a shame your days on Norrath are coming to an abrupt end, as it is,” the wizard explained. “Such a discovery would deliver wealth and power to you in Neriak beyond your wildest conceptions. You could very well have become a living idol in my culture, if not for your tainted bloodline and muddled brain.”

The ogre smiled broadly at the blue elf’s praise, his head resting in a red puddle. How’d that get there?

“Perhaps it’s just as well I’m unable to extricate you from your injuries,” the wizard continued. “For I would have had to end your worthless existence anyway. You see, such status in Neriak would be far too much for the likes of me to pass up. Either way, I have now reaped a future filled with avarice, and I have you to thank for it.”

“You welcome,” the ogre replied, still smiling. Again, he didn’t understand most of what Sparks said, but he knew he did good, and that’s all that mattered. “You take Zogga back to blue elf city, then?”

“I’m sorry, Zogga. I forget how doltish you can be, even for a simpleton such as yourself,” Sparks answered. “So, I’ll make it simple for your quivering mass of muscle to comprehend. I can’t take you to Neriak.”

“Oh…” the ogre’s brow furrowed. “Sparks?”

“Yes, Zogga.”

“It still getting too cold in here, even with fire. Could you make more fire for Zogga?”

“Of course, dear Zogga. Of course.”

Sighing contentedly, the ogre closed his eyes. At last, Sparks would make things right. Sparks always made things right. That was because he was so smart, just like an ogre. He felt lucky to have such a good friend to look after him.

In a blazing flash of light, Lord Sparracis cast his spell.

The cold, charred ogre bones crunched beneath Dreketh’s bronze heel, causing her to lose her balance momentarily as she made her way into the cavern. Grabbing hold of the wall for support, the shadow knight kicked irritably at the offending debris, scattering it across the small room. Several smaller corpses lay strewn throughout the room as well, in a variety of grotesque poses. Unlike the ogre’s scorched remains, the freezing cold helped preserve the other bodies well enough to identify them as goblins.

“Innoruuk’s bane, what happened in here?” the shadow knight cursed as she stepped in from the corridor, followed by Laera and the headmistress.

Xon Quexill glanced distractedly over his shoulder from examining the writings engraved upon the wall.

“I don’t know,” he replied, returning to his work. “According to N’Threk, the wizard remained sketchy on the details of how he discovered this place.”

“A wizard?” Laera piped in, cringing at the signs of death all around. “What happened to him? Where is he now?”

“He was executed,” Quexill said dismissively, his hand tracing over the engraved words. “Apparently the man’s heedless lust for fame and fortune for sake of this discovery offended the priest’s sense of righteous piety.”

Hugging her mantle closely about herself, Laera shivered.

Their journey to the caves of Permafrost had been a hard one, if not particularly long. The Teir’Dal necromancer led them on an unerring course toward the north, which did little to ease the young wood elf’s distress. The farther north they rode, the colder it became, causing Laera to sorely regret losing her blanket in the avalanche, as she had. As evening approached, the sun dipped low in the sky to her left, and Laera had soaked in what few rays of sunlight remained before they were fully obscured by the pitiless horizon.

And here she was now, trapped below hundreds of feet of stone in a place she doubted had ever once known the warm touch of sunlight. The dreaded chills could have returned, and she wouldn’t even have noticed it, the druid thought to herself bitterly.

This realization offered no comfort to Laera as she tried to rein in her fear of confined spaces. Most of the underground passageways were smaller than any place she’d braved before, yet she held her irrational fears at bay out of desperation. She was bound and determined not to allow her fool cowardice to control her this time.

“That’s an ancient form of Koada’Dal,” Netheel said.

Looking to where the headmistress pointed on the wall, Xon Quexill nodded.

“Indeed,” he confirmed thoughtfully. “As well as gnomish, Erudian, Elder Teir’Dal… even the unique dialect of the dragons is included with this menagerie of the written word.”

“What does it say?” Dreketh asked, searching for a language she could understand among the inscriptions.

“What you see before you are the words of prophecy, as spoken by the Queen of Love,” Quexill answered, still tracing over the intricate symbols. “It is written repeatedly in every tongue that existed during the days of Zeranon two thousand years ago. The vernacular used is flawless to the era, even down to the beveling of the symbols themselves.”

“They’re quite lovely,” the headmistress commented, her own delicate hand tracing the more fluid characters. “Most of these letters I’ve never seen before, even in the archives in the library in Erudin.”

“It is unfortunate, but many of the languages are forever lost to the passage of time.” Quexill backed away from the wall as he spoke. “I fear it could be to our disadvantage, as they might prove crucial to unlocking the way inside.”

“How so?” Netheel asked.

Holding forth his hand, palm toward the inscriptions, the master necromancer spoke a few short words of magic. In answer to his spell, the words emblazoned upon the wall began to glow with a soft blue-white hue.

“Hmm,” Quexill commented, stroking his chin between thumb and forefinger. “As I suspected. All the inscriptions harbor the innate power of speech—not just one of them.”

“Meaning what, master?” Dreketh pressed.

“Meaning that either any of the words could be spoken to reveal the vault,” the necromancer mused, “or all of them must be spoken.”

“How can we tell which it is?” Laera asked, the light of the glowing words reflected on her face.

Xon Quexill turned a sardonic leer to the wood elf.

“Pick a language you understand, and find out, advocate of Tunare,” he said, making a sweeping gesture.

Swallowing, Laera stepped forward. She’d been taught several languages in her training as a druid, yet recognized so few of the words hovering before her against the wall. Figuring it to be the least difficult language she recognized, the young druid picked the words of the Koada’Dal, ancient tongue of the high elves.

“Schyr’ellis drevin l’ar, fein lyrian mar’kest sen drevis par entralian crellis dem ogmaris. Crakken ferlys den ferlon par lellyn weis seryl grenfyl. Veryh ser’chaly ves pyra kellyn f’arless sen Norathalyn del’serryn cyro sen.”

Laera rubbed her eyes as the glow from the words winked out, surrounding them all in apparent blackness, by so sudden a contrast to her bedazzled eyes. The echoes of her words were replaced by a strident grinding sound that proved bothersome to the elves’ sensitive ears.

Like a dagger, a thin column of light pierced through the darkness as the inscribed wall split down the center, each half swinging inward slowly like a set of double doors on hinges. Though visibly painful at first, their eyes soon adjusted to find what lay beyond the widening breach.

Within was an enormous cavern, filled all around with stalactites hanging like ominous cave bats from the walls and ceiling. Littering the floor were stalagmites rising up to meet their mates above, most of which fell short by several hundred feet. The ceiling, in fact, would have surely been lost to darkness were it not for the blinding light emanating from the chamber’s prominent feature.

Though difficult to see in its luminance, across the way stood the most magnificent structure Laera had ever seen. Standing easily four hundred feet tall was an edifice of shining crystal embedded in the cavern wall, appearing as a graceful fortress or stronghold the likes of which no other finery on Norrath could compare. Seemingly delicate spires, arches and buttresses heralded unparalleled craftsmanship in a complex network of whorls and lattices, marking the structure as surely the true dwelling place of a god.

“Behold,” whispered the master necromancer, stepping forward. “The vault of Erollisi Marr.”

As the four elves approached in awe, Laera marveled at how the fortress could appear so dominating, yet so fragile all at the same time. The idea of storming the place seemed laughably futile, but she feared breaking the silence for fear of shattering the impossibly delicate crystal with the harshness of her voice. It was safe to say that the structure fostered—no, demanded—respect and reverence in one shining monument to the Queen of Love.

“The time has come,” Xon Quexill said, his voice quiet. “The advocates of the Pact must now use their combined abilities to unseal the vault.”

In response to the young women’s unknowing looks, the necromancer pointed toward the towering metal gates—the only visible portion of the fortress not made of crystal.

“The vault is imbued with the essence of life,” he explained. “Only those touched by the power of Tunare, Mother of All, may approach and survive to walk its halls. The portal itself is imbued with the essence of death. Only those with the Touch of Innoruuk, Prince of Hate, may breach the door lock and pass. Once inside, you must vie to champion the cause of your respective gods in their struggle to possess the Cup of Ages.” Quexill looked at each advocate in turn. “Failure to fulfill the prophecy will result in the extinction of your race and the ruination of your god.”

Dreketh turned her back to the shining vault to face her father. The time had finally come for the two young women to seize control of the Pact.

“What if we refuse?” she asked simply, her bronze arms folded.

Quexill turned a wary eye to the shadow knight. Apparently this move on his daughter’s behalf came as no surprise to the necromancer.

“Then as custodian of the Pact of Zeranon, I will destroy you both,” he said.

“And what of Zeranon’s Chalice?” Laera chimed in, coming to stand next to her dark elf companion. “What of the gods’ precious prize? It will remain locked away forever beyond your grasp!”

“Do not flatter yourself, child,” Headmistress Netheel answered in response. “Though crucial to this dispensation, your role as advocate is hardly unique. You will be replaced by another. And they would be replaced by another, if need be. And another. And another. Tunare’s will is inviolate, child. You shall champion the Mother’s will, or be struck down by Her divine outrage at such heresy.”

Laera gazed darkly upon the headmistress. Widdlethorp’s words burned in her years again, now that all pretense had been removed. “You have been duped! You are the playthings of your gods!”

“Do not test my resolve in this matter, daughter,” Xon Quexill warned, addressing Dreketh. “In my rage, I came within a breath’s width of ending your life in the Hall of the Dead. Had not Kella N’Threk interceded, you might not have lived to see this day, or any other upon this world. Doubt my sincerity at the risk of your own existence at Innoruuk’s almighty judgment, shadow knight. For, one way or another, you belong to Him now.”

Dreketh countered her father’s words with a wary look. Pausing to exchange a brief glance with her wood elf companion, she nodded, returning her gaze to the master necromancer.

“I owe you my life and so much more than I could ever repay, Xon Quexill,” she muttered darkly, her voice tremulous with emotion. “But by virtue of the Pact and the lessons I have been forced to learn for its sake, I now understand the true nature of things. I have no father. All I have is obligation personified.”

Turning on her heel, Dreketh marched toward the lucid vault of Erollisi Marr, leaving the wood elf to her own parting words.

“It seems now that I am not the only sacrifice to grace Tunare’s altar.” Laera shook her head slowly, a lost look of sorrow in her eyes. Turning quickly, the young druid rushed ahead to escort her companion as together they stepped toward the looming gates.

Their lives and altruistic integrity left behind them, the two advocates of the Pact of Zeranon made their way to the gaping vault entrance.

“You’re sure about this?” Dreketh asked out the corner of her mouth as they climbed the steps approaching the metal door.

“Without a glimmer of doubt,” Laera replied evenly, her eyes staring firmly ahead.

The shadow knight stopped to face the wood elf, her mien profoundly serious.

“Do you trust me?” she asked, point blank.

“Everyone I’ve ever trusted has disappointed me in the end,” Laera stated, her clear, green eyes unwavering as she tugged at the fur-lined gloves she wore, to remove them. “You are my last hope to reclaim the belief that virtue exists anywhere on Norrath. Not as gods or elves of our races, but as individuals. I beg you from the bottom of my heart, Dreketh. Please don’t let me down.”

With that, the wood elf raised her hand to cup Dreketh’s cheek in her palm. Closing her eyes, the druid cast her spell, endowing her companion with Tunare’s blessing. Where once the mere thought of being touched by the goddess’s influence made her skin crawl with repugnance, the sensation had now become all too familiar for the dark elf. She could feel it as her body became suffused with the druid’s power—warming her, filling her, protecting her. It was a sensation she’d come to grow quite fond of, and even missed over the recent days of their journey.

Looking once more toward the necromancer and headmistress standing alone in the distance, Dreketh reached up her armored hand to place her palm against the cold metal door. In a blink, the shadow knight’s Touch was released, its powerful shock wave emanating outward in a dazzling play of bursting light and sound. In response, the metal door vanished along the event horizon to disappear entirely from view, revealing little more than darkness in the gaping tunnel beyond.

“Let’s get this over with, then,” Dreketh muttered.

Turning, the advocates stepped into the vault of Erollisi Marr, disappearing amidst the disorienting blend of darkness and light—both opposite, but equally blinding.

All was quiet inside, causing Laera’s ears to ring with the inaudible remnants of the shadow knight’s Touch. The massive hall in which the advocates found themselves arced gracefully over their heads to end in a pinnacle at the ceiling. Ahead, it stretched off into what seemed infinity to the young elves, interrupted occasionally by several Ts and cross-sections leading off to either side. The floors were padded with a soft, but supportive, resilient carpeting that effectively muffled their footfalls from disturbing the quiet serenity.

Belying the crystal exterior, the inside of the vault was build from an unblemished, pure white substance neither advocate could rightly identify. It had the appearance and luster of stone, yet no mark or impurity betrayed the graceful smoothness of the quarry. Laera brushed one wall with her fingertips, expecting the jarring coldness of the stone. To her surprise, the material felt comfortable, if not slightly warm to the touch.

Though pristine, the décor was not featureless. In various places throughout the hall, carved frescoes and colorful murals graced the walls depicting people of various races in equally various states of undress and posture. Statues filled ornate alcoves ranging in size anywhere from the minute to the larger-than-life. The eerily realistic portrayals were a celebration of the body in all its wondrous beauty and sundry forms. Races of all types were revealed in plays of aesthetic eroticism throughout the hall, causing Laera to blush a number of times at some of the more obvious displays they witnessed.

As she leaned in close to make a whispered comment to Dreketh, the two women jumped, startled at the sudden voice behind them.

“Renounce your soiled apparel of the uncouth world, living mortals,” the voice barked. “For you trod upon holy ground.”

Whirling about with her companion, Laera’s heart stopped at seeing who stood before her.

“Ranin?” she whispered in disbelief. “Ranin Treestalker?”

Performing a courteous bow from the waist, the ranger’s semi-translucent form dipped low respectfully before the advocates of the Pact.

“In spirit, if not the flesh, chosen ones,” his strong voice rang out again as he stood tall once more—a marked difference from the rasping quality it held in life.

The two young women stood dumbfounded by their former protector’s unexpected appearance. Laera noticed immediately how the disfiguring scar was now absent from the ranger’s striking face, replaced by a cordial smile. Though the man stood clad in the woodsman’s fatigues he had worn in life, all trace of their careworn nature was gone. Instead, the green and brown ensemble shown magnificently as if newly tailored—much like the normally dour ranger’s disposition.

“How is it you’ve come to be here?” Dreketh asked, her voice carefully monotone.

“The vault, this place,” the ranger gestured all around, “is the repository for all things the Queen of Love holds most dear. It is Her sanctuary, where the power of love and harmony rule uncontested by all persuasions to the contrary, making it the ideal place to secret an item such as the Cup of Ages.

“Look around you,” Ranin Treestalker made a show of the obtrusive artistry surrounding them. “What you see are tokens and signets that make Erollisi Marr the goddess She is. What you see is the culmination of who She is, and Her divine influences upon Norrath—Her divine influences upon you.”

Swallowing, Dreketh cast a fleeting glance to her companion as the ranger continued.

“So, in respect to Her gracious invitation for you to share in this sanctuary, you must discard all trappings of war and hatred during your time here. You will be quite safe from harm. Fear not, for your belongings shall remain unscathed, awaiting to guard and protect you upon your return to the world of the living.”

“Uh…” Laera blinked nervously as she took a timid step backwards. “I-… don’t know if I can…”

Remembering the wood elf’s habit of wearing nothing beneath her leather tunic, Dreketh masked her smirk with a gauntleted hand.

Stepping forward, his face a play in sheer benevolence, the ranger placed a translucent arm around the druid’s shoulders.

“Modesty bears little meaning in this place,” he confided. “But the Queen of Love wishes Her guests to be comfortable and content in their stay, above all else. To those ends, appropriate apparel has been provided for you both.”

Without motion or ceremony, the druid’s next breath found her clad in draping robes whose color precisely matched the curious stone surrounding them. Reaching down, her fingers sifted through its seamless folds as the material slid effortlessly over her skin. The breezy fabric covered her from shoulder to toe, yet remained comfortable to the extent that she had the uncanny and slightly disturbing sensation of not wearing anything at all.

Looking up with an astonished grin, Laera discovered the shadow knight similarly dressed. The white garment had the effect of setting off Dreketh’s pale hair as well, causing the dark elf’s skin to turn a curious shade of night blue by contrast. The effect was stunning, and Laera had to wonder what she looked like to the Teir’Dal’s eyes.

“You will find the Cup of Ages this way,” the ranger said.

Contrary to initial impressions, the companions discovered they were not alone in the vault. As the ranger explained, the vault remained a repository for all things dear to the Queen of Love. Apparently this included souls as well as pieces of erotic artwork. Other ghostly visages besides that of Ranin Treestalker occupied the halls and inhabited the rooms of the sanctuary in much the same way Dreketh remembered the denizens inhabiting the Lodge of the Dead.

The spirits paid them little mind as they followed the ranger’s lead through the halls, causing the shadow knight to pose a question.

“Are all these souls bound to Erollisi Marr?”

“Well…to some extent, as you understand it, I suppose,” the ranger answered, rounding a corner. “Though not all were disciples of the Queen of Love in life, each has been granted a standing invitation to dwell within these walls, and enjoy all the comforts they have to offer. Until recently, spirits came and went as they pleased, indulging in whatever whimsy matched their desires at the time.”

“Why until recently?” Laera asked, taking the wondrous sights all around as she followed.

“Because of the Pact of Zeranon,” the ranger explained. “Through circumstances of Her own unwitting design, Erollisi Marr suddenly found Herself in an eminently compromising position. Her seduction of Ferrell Zeranon ended in his ruination, true, but the Queen of Love was left holding the proverbial bag, so to speak. With the Chalice literally in Her hands, it took every ounce of Her better nature to refrain from using it to serve Her own ends. She knew all too well that if any deity of Norrathian influence were to partake of its power, it would spell the doom of all things. Turn here.”

Ranin pointed a ghostly hand off to the right, allowing the advocates to alter course before continuing.

“Her options were limited. Not trusting anyone, even Herself, to drink from the Chalice in order to destroy it, She placed it here in Her sanctuary where it remained safely beyond the reach of the principal gods whose power and authority transcended Her own among the planes. In an effort to keep Herself averted from temptation’s gaze, She placed upon her ‘vault’ the unique door lock and sent it to Norrath, effectively casting it out of arm’s reach.

“As a consequence, the visiting spirits at the time have been trapped inside for these millennia. Without recourse, they have whiled away the centuries, waiting for you, shadow knight, to approach under Tunare’s sanction and unseal the gate with your Touch. I was the first spirit to enter or leave this place in two thousand years, all due to the Queen’s desperate panic to secure the Chalice and its power.”

The small entourage came to a halt before an ornate door. Ranin Treestalker turned to face his attentive audience.

“Nevertheless,” he said calmly, making no move to touch the door. “The Chalice still existed. So long as it did, She knew there was always a chance for its reclamation by those who sought to possess it. That day is now visited upon us. Stand fast, advocates, for the reclamation is now at hand.”

Silently, the door opened of its own accord, revealing a room of softly muted light. Glowing spheres illuminated each of the corners as they floated above the palms of sculptured hands resting atop pillars sweeping up from the floor. The remainder of the room lay bare, save for a circular table in the center, awash fully in a pillar of light emanating from high above.

Breathless, the shadow knight and druid entered the room, their eyes transfixed on the object resting in the center of the table.

The Chalice stood on its base, its equivocally goblet-like shape twisting in a grotesque curve, looking vaguely like plaster in its unwholesome, organic shape. The surface was rough, the color and consistency of coal as it jutted upwards to cradle the bowl amidst its assortment of craggy “fingers”. A sharp glint of brass crowned the ensemble, the bowl itself shining brightly by merit of the light that enshrined the artifact.

Once Dreketh regained the power of speech, she posed the question that had been hounding her ever since leaving Highpass.

“Is there blood still inside?” she whispered.

The ranger’s complacent smile broadened.

“See for yourself, advocate of Innoruuk.”

The shadow knight approached the hideous object as if stalking a darkweed snake hidden in the brush. Reaching out, her blue hand made contact with the rough surface, her fingers wrapping around the petrified base.

Laera could barely contain herself as she watched her companion slowly lift the Chalice from its shrine, bringing it out through the light’s edge with eyes closed and hands tremulous. Holding their prize before her, Dreketh whispered something inaudible before opening her eyes and peering into the Cup of Ages.

A quivering breath escaped the shadow knight’s lips, the crimson stain of defeated gods meeting her eyes as it lapped gently against the brass sides of the Chalice.

The ranger’s voice spoke form the darkness.

“So witness the whispered convergence of power.”

“I don’t understand any of this,” Laera stated flatly as she and her burdened companion followed the ranger toward the sanctuary’s entrance. “You’re just letting us walk out with it? I thought Erollisi Marr wanted to keep it safely here for as long as possible.”

“So she does,” the ranger replied.

“What of the whispered convergence of power?” the druid argued. “What of sundered light and shadow being cast upon mortal soil and all that from the prophecy? Erollisi Marr’s prophecy!” Laera leaped ahead to confront the ranger, stopping him in his ethereal tracks. “Not a thing you’ve done in this Pact has made one shred of sense, Ranin. I think you owe us an explanation.”

The ranger’s relentless look of complacency stared back at the druid’s insistent face.

“The Queen of Love knows your heart, druid of Tunare.” He looked Dreketh’s way. “And yours, shadow knight of Innoruuk. Though you have been reduced to pawns by your respective deities, they in turn have become the pawns of Erollisi Marr.”

“What are you talking about?” the dark elf asked dubiously. “It looks to me like they’ve succeeded in breaching the goddess’s sanctuary. It’s the very thing Erollisi Marr feared. But now you’ve as much as handed us the Chalice of Zeranon, to be visited upon the world.”

“Yes, but the Chalice remains out of the reach of your gods, nonetheless,” the ranger responded. “She has every confidence of this truth, because she knows who you are, what you are, and of your clandestine intentions to keep the whispered convergence of power from reaching the hands of either of your patron gods.”

An uncertain glance passed between the two companions.

“How did you-?” Laera began.

“It was preordained from the beginning, druid of Tunare,” Ranin interrupted. “Do you truly believe that your devotion to one another was accidental? Do you believe that your refusal to kill one another for the sake of your gods was a mere byproduct of the Pact? No, but rather it is the Pact of Zeranon by design. None knows the mortal heart better than the Queen of Love, and of what it is capable.

“The most important part of the prophecy was never spoken in the actual words, but added as an afterthought by the goddess. ‘Only by the precepts of love shall the Chalice be unsealed.’” The ranger’s visage glanced between the two advocates. “Scholars of the Pact believed it was a matter of implicit trust existing between the two blood enemies in order to breach the vault, and to some small degree they weren’t entirely incorrect. It was the margin of what remained that brought about the downfall of their presumptuous philosophy. The door lock was never meant to seal it away or all time.”

“Erollisi Marr wanted the Chalice to be discovered?” Laera blinked.

Ranin turned to address the druid.

“How else was She to ensure its destruction?”

Dreketh looked up from the weight of her charge.

“But that violates Her own prophecy,” she argued. “The whispered convergence of power will reign unleashed upon all lands of Norrath-”

“'-by privilege of its keeper,'” the ranger finished the quote. Pointing a ghostly finger to the Chalice in the dark elf’s hands, he continued, “You are the keeper of the Cup of Ages now, shadow knight. And when you destroy it, it will be of your own free will—your own privilege. No one else’s.”

The dark elf’s eyes narrowed.

“What makes you so sure I’ll destroy it?”

“I’m not,” the ranger replied. “She is.”

Once again, the companions found themselves alone in the dark passage breaching the gap between Norrath and the sanctuary of Erollisi Marr. The chess match that was the Pact of Zeranon left the two deep in thought over all that had transpired over the past few months since they’d met, and all the individual chess pieces involved that strove for their own particular checkmate.

Cynicism took its toll as the wood elf began to wonder if life on Norrath wasn’t just a proverbial game to the gods who schemed and maneuvered, exploited and manipulated everyone for their own perverse pleasure. What was a pawn, after all, but something to be sacrificed so that the game could be won? Their conversation with the ranger left little doubt in Laera’s mind what pieces she and her companion played in this game.

Smiling, the druid chuckled softly to herself. In due course, their gods had led them to the end of this journey across life’s chessboard. But somehow in their arrogance as players, the gods forgot to consider what happened to pawns once they reached the other side. She and Dreketh were about to remind them, she thought to herself silently. And together, they were going to drive that lesson home.

So deep in her musings was she that the wood elf failed to hear the subtle ring of metal as the shadow knight’s sword cleared its scabbard.

Chapter 28 - Tears of the Slayer