Chapter 10 - Abelard - Apparently Hopswych makes Everything Hungry

Abelard allowed himself to be drawn up the hill by Buskin's delighted exclamations that they would "Want to see this!" Falling in beside Zigras, the young Half Elf couldn't help but recall how excellent her timing in returning to the party had been.

Blinded, stunned by the screeches coming out of the dozens of mouths of whatever that pile of body parts had been, Abelard was sure that his goose was cooked. He had begun to try to come up with a way that his death could allow the others to escape, trying and failing... When suddenly, piercing through the cobwebs had come the angelic voice of their too long absent Bard. And suddenly, without any reason other than he had heard her speak, Abelard knew they were going to be ok.

Abelard smiled, absently, down to Zigras who, seeing the gesture, returned the smile quizzically. Did he really smile so little that it would confuse a friend? He supposed he did. Huh.

The sights from atop the Pipeweed hill was, indeed something worth seeing. The view of the Small Folk half of the village was nearly complete. The river below, winding to where it merged with the Lustra to the South, the decorated Apple tree to the North, to the West, the West hills, and homes of the Hedgegates. It was a good spot to get a lay of the land. On the other side of the river... Yes, that was big blue Trillium, seated in the park across the river, surrounded by a small, and happy, army of Halfling children.

During the party's stop atop the hill that young Buskin had led them up to get a view of the Smallfolk half of Hopswych, Abelard looked to Zigras. "Zigras. That... dagger from the sorceress... Do you plan to make use of it? Or just keep it for emergencies? I had an odd dream...I would like to experiment with it. I think I can make use of it. I'm not sure... I've never tried something like this before. But I think I can... um... borrow its properties?"

The dream had been that of a conversation with Scyntillax, now unmasked to be a Silver Dragon of no small history of being on the side of the small and the downtrodden. In the dream Scyntillax had hinted that Abelard could learn to harness the power of magical weapons to enhance his own. Had suggested that he option was there, and Abelard held the ability, but the 'How'... Well.. Abelard guessed he might just be about to find out.

"The poison dagger? Yes, of course!", Zigras replied as she reached into the bag of holding and carefully pulled out the dagger, dangling between thumb and finger, and handed it over to Abelard.

Abelard took up the blade and, careful not to touch the blade itself, for the sickly greening glow still made him more than a little uneasy, looked it over. "Thank you Zigras. If we don't have anywhere to be for an hour or so, I'd like to try something. You are welcome to watch if you are curious, but I don't know what, if anything will happen."

Abelard walked a few paces into the grass from the bench and set himself down somewhere he will not be disturbed. Dagger in one hand, he summoned forth his shadow axe into the other. He gently laid the axe down on the ground in front of him and, with a long, deep breath, he cleared his mind and focused his attention on the axe.

Operating entirely on instinct, while watching the shadow tendril wisps of the axe play with the grass, he placed the dagger carefully atop the axe blade and began his silent, focused meditation.

Dagger and Axe set in front of him, Abelard held his hands over the weapons and called upon that tenuous cord connection he always felt between himself and his Patron. There, but not there, a beating line of power. Beating, but not to His heart. "Scyntallax, guide my hand!", he muttered aloud. The young Warlock then, carefully, began to draw Eldritch energy from the link, letting it build within him. Holding his hands out over the weapons, he watched as the inky, shadowy, blackness looped and roiled around his hands and wrists.

Then, suddenly, as if someone had flipped a switch, the curling black energy leapt downward and was gone.

Abelard sat, staring at the weapons before him wondering if he'd done right? Wrong? Nothing at all? His shoulders slumped as nothing seemed to happen. Not that he wanted to spend every morning and night having to read the same book like a Wizard... That sounded like a nightmare Abelard hoped he never encountered! But there was definitely something to be said for having a User Manual and knowing what to do and expect!

With a sigh, Abelard considered what to do next? Try again? Give up for now? It wasn't as if he had a hundred ideas of what to try next...

As Abelard was about to pick up the weapons and leave, his hands actually just beginning to move towards the handles, a bubbling, groaning, hissing sound began to rise up from the grass next to the pipeweed bench. The physical manifestation of Scyntillax's dark gift that is the Warlock's axe-hammer began to subtly, inquisitively, experimentally extended tendrils of shadow towards the venomous dagger left behind by the Shai-Lu's simulacrum. Like an octopus wrapping its tentacles around a discovered mollusk, the shadowy weapon caught and constricted the serpentine blade within its eldritch grasp...

...and began eating it.

The cicadas nearby went silent. The solid metal of the dagger shrieked softly, helplessly, like a trapped living thing, as it was warped, dissolved, and was consumed by Abelard's pact weapon. Until finally, all that remained was a poisonous tinge of green that rippled through the darkness of the phantom, umbral axe-hammer, which now sat in the center of a small radius of withered, dead grass, turned to ash.

Abelard stared down at the untouched axe before him ”Well. That certainly was... something. I’m not sure what I expected, but.... that was something!” He then reached out and, with only a slight hesitation, scooped up the axe to test its weight and make sure it is still as sound and dependable as he had come to rely on. As it swung through Abelard's now familiar warmup routines, the blackened red tinged shadow blade seemed to leave a sickly green trail In its wake.

*

Buskin, having obviously been distracted by the multitudes of signatures, declarations of love, scurrilous rumors and filthy halfling limericks carved into the weathered surface of the smoking bench. Startled from his reverie by the events with Abelard's shadow weapon, he hopped up and walked over to investigate it more closely. "Did you merge the magical properties of the knife into your axe hammer?" "Does it have the same once a day poison, or is it all the time?" "Did the keenness and accuracy of the magic blade transfer to your weapon?"

Abelard just stared at Buskin as the flurry of questions commences. ”I... um... Maybe? I’m just following a hunch and some gut. I’m honestly not sure exactly what just did.” He takes a couple more swings with he green tinged blade, taking the time to unsummon and resuming it to verify the properties remain. ”It feels very well balanced. The blade is as sharp as anything I’ve ever seen. And it still has that greenness to it. But I guess I’ll know more once I have something to hit!”

Then, assured that the blade moved and felt exactly as it always had, Abelard dismissed it and began a completely useless attempt to cover the dead grass spot by combing over the nearby grass with his boot.

After a half dozen more rapid fired questions, Buskin relented, grudgingly coming to terms with Abelard's low information approach to doing magic. "It's a dark wonder to be sure. I hope there is not occasion to use it for a good long while. Unless you'd like to use it to inscribe your names on the smoking bench- it would honor me and all of Hopswych if you left your marks here!"

Indicating a worn inscription carved in a childish hand, he continued "It was from here that Umfrey and I set out on all of our adventures, and I have that same feeling of adventure bearing down on us, such that my feet scarcely touch the grass!" The little fellow paced about, running his hands through his mop of curly, silvershot hair. The pipeweed had clearly taken hold.

Abelard turned to admire the oft carved wooden bench, drawing out his beltknife. "Leave a mark? I would be honored."

Holding the drawn knife to his lips in thought, he decided what he wanted to say, and how. Kneeling down, and then kneeling some more, as the bench was quite low, Abelard found a spot where whatever carvings that had come before had been worn away by time, he carefully began his carving.

Slowly, for Abelard was neither a master carver, nor an expert in Giantish runes he had decided to use, the carving took shape. Giantish, at least the bits he understood from his studies, was an imperfect language. But could be used to get a rough translation across, and the odd, bulky, runes should give some future Bench lookers some entertainment guessing. "Returned Breath. Of Buskin's Den."

Abelard stared at the carving, mentally confirming he had not reversed a rune, or called ill will on anyone's ancestors with an accidental line. It wasn't perfect, but it was as close as he could get to what he wanted to say. "Abelard. Friend of Buskin."

The young Warlock nodded to himself, pleased, then returned the knife to its sheath and looked to his fellow companions.

***