Written by the EM Team
The power was inimitable and without equal or peer; he could feel it flowing through him as he channeled the energies of the shrine itself into the spell that he’d pieced together from his own research and what Gilforn had taught him. Was this how Nystul had felt when he had created Trammel? The rush of power that coursed through Gilforn’s hands as he fashioned the gates initially? Or could this perhaps be something else entirely…the power of his friends Virtues at work? He let his wandering thoughts go as he focused on the spell, and felt the power suddenly rush out in an instant. Flames and fury rushed forth along the course of tiles that formed the Honor chalice, as magical energies cascaded along the path before them. It was exhilarating and incredible, and a line of purple flame stood blazing as a testament to the power that was used. He approached the gate slowly and took a breath, looking back at those gathered, and stepped through…and came out the other side into Britain in Trammel. Exactly where he’d wanted to. He stepped back into the gate to speak briefly to those still gathered at Honor, Ilshenar.
After he’d addressed them and spoken briefly, he once again stepped through the gate, but this time arrived in a cracked and broken landscape. A harpy screeched loudly as it’s flapping wings led it towards him on a dive, but he was not deterred for an instant. It took only a moment to hurl his hands out and chant the words. “Vas Ort Grav!” The heavens shook with a resounding peal of thunder as a burst of lightning arced out of the sky and took the harpy full force in the chest, blasting it aside into so much cooked flesh. Lord Blackthorn straightened his robe as he eyed another approaching harpy, which chose discretion over valor and fled. He took only a moment to look at the landscape around the gate, and he held his hands out much as he had at the Honor shrine. Here, too, he could feel that same power, just waiting to be used and set to some definite purpose…and he let his hands drop down to his sides. No matter what power there was here, it wasn’t what was needed. He stepped back through the gate and headed towards the camp in Ter Mur.
Having reached the camp he sat down and looked over his notes. The cures were keeping the disease at bay and none of those treated were showing anything but signs of remission. There were no recurrent cases and reinfection didn’t seem to be occurring either. Even with the gargish plague counteracted and the Honor moongate fixed, there were other problems…though the one that troubled him most was what was occurring in the cities of the once unified realm of Britannia. They were on the verge of outright warfare amongst some of the cities and it was difficult to think of anything that might be able to be done about it…but there was always a solution to any problem. Some of them just took a bit more lateral thinking than others. A heavy step heralded the arrival of another, and Blackthorn waved him over.
“I’m surprised to see you return and come calling once more, Lord Dupre. I had assumed that your own endeavors with the True Britannians had once again drawn you away.”
“I wish that I were in those lands, where cold valorite and iron answered all problems. Not in this one where the nobles duel with words and propaganda.”
Blackthorn steepled his fingers together as he lost himself in thought, finding his way back to his original ideas of lateral thinking. “Dupre, I think perhaps that your answer isn’t all wrong. It just needs to be applied correctly.”