Alaric missed Oxenforde.
More specifically, Alaric missed his apartments in the student towers of the Oxenforde Colleges of the Arcane. It had been three weeks since he had last slept on a cushion or anything resembling such a creature comfort. Alaric missed comfort. Instead of sitting in the University’s scribal hall, perfectly cooled with a functioning climate control charm - he was in a swamp. Scratching at bug bites, and sweating profusely while paddling an overladen rowboat.
“See, look at that Master Galen. A bit of hard work never hurt nobody. It’s good for ‘im”. Dagna Stonehammer sat on the stern of the boat whilst idly polishing the cuff of her ring-mail. Her hearty laugh resounded over the still, algae-covered waters of the swamp.
Alaric scowled at the dwarf’s words. As the least experienced member of their party, it had fallen on the young wizard adept to pilot their vehicle. Galen Sorel held back a rue smile from his seat on the boat’s sideboard. The old man stroked his beard absentmindedly as their vessel dredged through the murky waters, paying no heed to Alaric’s grunts.
The others were even less helpful. Dagna was the unofficial leader of their party. Besides, Alaric was just the apprentice of a client. Dwarven ridicule would just be part of the experience.
Fennic Windrose, their scout, was perched at the bow, eyes peeled for the slightest hint of movement in the water or nearby reeds. Every now and again, a silent hand-sign would point the way - indicating the direction Alaric was to row towards.
Lysa Smallfoot was curled up in the keel, munching quietly on an apple, a small bag of nuts, and what looked to be a few stalks of celery. The halfling was their infiltrator, and had yet to say more than two to three words at a time. An unusual trait for a halfling, but an excellent one for sneaking around undetected.
Grayson Thatcher was the muscle. A blond headed brute of a man, he leaned on the opposite side of the boat as Galen. Donned in heavy plate, rivulets of sweat poured down his brow. He looked even more uncomfortable than Alaric. However, he bore the heat without a sound and paid little attention to the suffering apprentice. The burden of a few oars was nothing compared the heavy shield, pack, weapons, and armor strapped to the man’s frame.
Galen took a swig from his canteen. He chided the dwarf for her teasing. “Some of us didn’t grow up in the mines of Aurich, my dear.” He set aside the canteen. “The boy has been doing quite well, all things considered. But you are of right of course.” The old man chuckled. “A little exercise is good for the young. And far more practical than for us aged.”
Dagna chortled at the master wizard’s response. A dwarven lady of middling age, her graying hair tied up in a tight braid did nothing to detract from the rippling stout frame of muscles under her armor. Dwarves were a resilient and sturdy folk. Even in her advanced years she would be more than a match for any of them. Naturally, she looked down on feeble scribes who preferred to live in plush cities.
Scrawny arms burning, Alaric prayed for relief that would not come until another hour of rowing through the marshes had taxed him to his limits.
“We’re here,” whispered Fennic. “Bring us up to the bank.” He directed them towards a muddy shoal.
Alaric wasn’t sure why the half-elf always whispered. He had a personal working theory the ranger was just a pretentious snob trying to sound cool - but supposed the usual retort of “living a life without disturbing the environment” was technically still plausible. He rolled his eyes and put the oars away after pulling ashore.
Galen disembarked, the elderly scholar hoisting his robes to avoid getting them muddy. The rest set about unpacking the supplies…onto Alaric’s back.
“Oh gods please no,” he cried out.
“Hah!” Dagna laughed. “What few gods might be left out there sure as the hells won’t be answering that prayer boy-o.” The cleric of the earthmother slapped him hard on the shoulder before jumping off onto the muddy shore, chuckling even more as he stumbled under the blow.
“Master Galen sir, are you sure this-one ‘ere is the best you could come up with? Not much to work with back at that fancy school of yours, eh? What happened to the last one, get ‘imself eaten or somethin’?”
Dagna had been Galen Sorel’s party leader of choice for over a decade. She had seen apprentices come and go, but it was clear she was less than impressed with his current companion.
Alaric almost wanted to cry. He was tired, hungry, and aching from every conceivable joint. Still, he bit his lip and held back any tears. He was too annoyed at the coarse dwarf to allow her the satisfaction of knowing how the ridicule was getting to him.
He had never been a particularly accomplished mage when it came to practicum courses, even amongst fellow wizards. He understood the applications of such spells as fireballs and lightning blasts better than any in his class. But actually twisting the threads of magic? No. The applied side of casting a spell was another matter entirely. Study could teach you the nature of magic, sure. But accomplishing spellcraft took years of repetition and careful practice.
“No Dagna,” Galen’s dry voice answered the dwarf. “Nobody ate Torell.” The old wizard adjusted his hat - a typical pointy wizards cap, but with an added set of strings to keep it on one’s head in harsh weather conditions. “He graduated last year. I believe he is off in Carmine now, assisting an excavation in one of the old jungle temples.” He withdrew from his person a wand, a carved wooden rod covered in tiny runes. With a swish of the instrument and a few sparks; Mud, grime, and sweat vanished from his body, then everyone elses’ in turn. “And yes.” He continued. “Alaric here is quite talented. I picked him specially for this expedition. I think he’ll be quite useful.” As he spoke, the wizard also produced a spool of irregular silver thread, tying one end of the line to the bow of their boat.
Alaric savored the refreshing charm cleansing his pores almost as much as the words of recognition from his master. Galen was being kind, and in all honesty a little too generous in his assesment of the apprentice wizard. Alaric afterall, had been “specially picked” for what amounted to a charity case.
He had been a star student when it came to arcane theory, histories, inscriptions, and rituals. He had risen to the rank of Adept at only 26 - years ahead of his peers. He had been granted his own scribal hall at Oxenforde to oversee, and had even been alloted a generous fellowship for a course of independent research. On paper, Alaric was the ideal wizard. Studious and hardworking, he had contributed to academic literature on a scale tenfold a nominal wizard his rank. But that was not enough.
For a student at Oxenforde to be recognized as a Master Wizard in their own right, they needed to produce a magical work of substance. Alaric could have designed any number of new spells that would achieve that metric. But without the ability to cast it himself before the Archmages’ dissertation panel, he would never pass the examination.
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Galen Sorel had actually done him a huge kindness. The elder wizard was a professor of Arcane Antiquities - specializing in magical items and artifacts. Most wizards fit the stereotype of sitting in their towers, pouring over books and scrolls - Alaric even more so than typical. But Galen was an exception. The reason? Dungeons.
Dungeons were the foremost locale for unearthing lost artifacts and magic items. There was simply no comparison. Wizards like Galen worked primarily in the field, unearthing new items and bringing them back to secure places like Oxenforde for study. As it happened, runes and ancient inscriptions were also found in dungeons in large supply. Alaric’s specialty. It wasn’t glamorous work, but by transcribing enough ancient text from Galen’s artifacts, he could produce a worthwhile tome and return to his scribal hall (and cushions) with glorious success and never have to spend another day in a swamp again.
Alaric suspected the swamp on some metaphysical level knew of his disdain for it. The last quarter-mile of their journey was particularly miserable. Flies buzzed in the air, biting anyone who disturbed them too frequently. Pockets of erupting swamp-gas and the occasional giant python encounter slowed their approach, as if the stinking mud wasn’t doing that enough anyways.
Regardless of the obstacle, their adventuring party made short work of it. Lysa and Fennic charted their path, crossing the difficult terrain with relative ease. Working with their bows, snares, knives, and endemic nature knowledge they were largely able to circumvent any nasty surprises and shoo off the less agreeable wildlife.
Dagna made regular laps around the party members in their travel configuration, applying a semi-frequent cycle of blessings, charms, ointment for bug bites, and sprinklings of blessed water tinctures. Fevers and rots infested swamps like these, but her efforts would ensure they kept their bay.
Grayson, Alaric, and Galen kept a tight lineup at the core of their group. Chopping with a long knife, Grayson did his best to force the tall marsh reeds back, allowing freer movement. Alaric followed close behind, carrying the heavy camp pack and trying his best (unsuccessfully) to keep clear of the knee-deep mud drifts. Galen carried up the rear, using a rough wooden stave as a walking guide. Tied to the end of it was his spool of thread. They had been walking for over an hour, and yet no matter how far they traveled nor how much metallic silk was left behind them, the spool never diminished any further in size - leading the way back to their boat carefully covered in reeds and fronds back on the waterfront.
It was nearly nightfall. Tall shadows of imminent dusk started to appear behind every blade of bulrush and stalk of swamp lilly. Bit by bit, the ground firmed beneath them. Mud giving way to loose stones and more stable earth. Alaric and Galen shared a knowing glance. Sure enough, a few minutes later Lysa materialized from the rushes and reported in.
“We’re here. It’s just around the bend,” said the halfling woman. “Reports from the first scouts all attested that the first chamber will be empty. Fennic is verifying. If it’s safe, we’ll make camp inside and get out of the rain.”
“What rain?” Asked Alaric.
Lysa took a long sniff of the air and shrugged. “Dunno. Smells like rain. Probably in the next two-three hours.”
Alaric looked up at the sky. The day had been hot and humid, with constant sun exposure throughout the duration. Only now as night approached was a slight relief from the heat starting to be felt. There was not a cloud in sight.
Another twenty minutes and Fennic returned with a positive report. They continued on.
“Master Galen, how did the first scouts even find this place? There’s nothing out here for miles. And how are we here before the first waves? If there really was a new dungeon, the area would be crawling with search teams. ” Alaric probed his teacher. He of course was referring to scout parties working for the Adventurer’s Guild back in Ambristad. It was their job to locate and investigate potential new dungeons and start the process for exploration teams to start their delving.
Dagna smirked, letting out an audible snortle. Galen only grinned a cocky half-smile before tapping his nose with a knowing wink. “There are archivists at the Guild constantly cross-comparing old notes and journals with updated maps. Every now and then we find a note or reference to some old structure that hasn’t been charted properly. Most of the time it’s a dud, but of course we do get lucky,” the professor had an air of humility about him quite unlike his normal jovial manner. It didn’t last long before Dagna smacked him.
“Oh just tell the lad you old fart. He’d figure it out eventually.” She challenged.
“Well…” the professor hesitated unconvincingly through a smile. “In our case,” he gestured in a circle for their whole party. “Dagna has a cousin up in Aurich. Last winter they cleared out a nest of wraiths on the Myrese border. There was also some nasty business with a Lich as I understand it.”
Dagna nodded grimly.
Alaric shuddered. Myr was far, far to the north, but no distance could be far enough between himself and that desolate wasteland of vile necromancers.
“Anyways,” Galen continued quite cheerfully. “Mr. Drogna Stonehammer happened to find some charts for this area. Wouldn’t you know it, before the area flooded it used to be a site for an old Archon sect. Scout teams never bothered with the area before since it flooded naturally, and nobody wants to build on swampland.”
“But how did we — ”
“The trick, my dear pupil,” Galen continued, “is to pay adventurers handsomely for right of first investigation before the news goes public.”
Dagna grinned at the apprentice. She held up her hands to pantomime a bag of gold. A large bag of gold.
“That way, adventurers can have an incentive to do more than mindlessly kill ghouls, the guild makes a hefty profit, and we get first dibs on any artifacts or records inside. Isn’t that exciting?” He asked Alaric.
Alaric thought about, and started to frown.
“Don’t worry,” the professor said quickly, sensing the concern of his pupil. “We’re not the first ones inside. Guild rules and all that,” he pursed his lips. “The scout teams always investigate as much as they can and assess a danger rating. They get paid extra not to take anything as loot for themselves.”
“Besides,” Grayson chirped in. This was the first he had contributed to the discussion at all - but apparently had been listening quite well. “The area was assessed as ‘Trivial’. We’ll be fiiiiiiiiine.”
Alaric swallowed back his concerns, swatting at another bug bite. Galen had been doing expeditions like this for years. What was the worst that could happen? The adventurers they had hired had been enormously competent so far. Over the last few weeks they had successfully explored four different minor dungeons with zero complications. Alaric’s field guide of rubbings and runic sketches had gotten fat in no time at all.
“We’re here,” the soft voice of Fennic broke through Alaric’s contemplations. The ranger pulled aside a curtain of willow branches and allowed the others to step into a small glade. Alaric stood by and allowed his master and their escorts to walk through first, then followed behind.
Nothing could have prepared Alaric for the unexpected openness, despite the dense surrounding swamp environment. Tall marsh trees with hanging curtains of leaves stretched overhead, leaving the space largely clear, but still almost entirely concealed from above. No wonder the site had never been discovered before. The air was still damp, and an earthy scent of growth and decay flooded his nostrils, but where there had previously been hostile bugs and the threat of snakes Alaric could only help but take in the vision of vibrant flowers on hanging vines, distant birdcalls, and a sense of security and relief to see actual structures - stone walls and roofs before him.
The had arrived at the objective. The Veiled Sanctuary.
Professor Galen clapped his hands together in glee, breaking the reverie. “Well then! Let’s get in there and set up camp. I think I feel some rain coming down.”