excess.”
Rumpol turned away, for he had been one of those hearty drinkers.
“Fortunately, the Feywine survived, but I do recall that it was moved to the fifth rack, that being the most stable,” Thobicus finished. He motioned to one of the others. “Do go and help out dear Banner,” he bade, “before the man comes back here raising Cyric himself against me!”
The priest ran off for the door, and the conversation resumed, again without much concern. Fifteen minutes later, it was Rumpol who remarked that the two wine hunters were long overdue.
“If one of the lesser priests stole that bottle, my good mood will vanish,” Thobicus warned.
“There was an inventory of the wine cellar,” Rumpol said.
“A list I saw, though I do not recall any record of Feywine,” added the other, and he gave a jovial laugh. “And I would have noted the presence of such a treasure well, I assure you!”
“Of course the bottle was mislabeled,” Thobicus explained, then he nodded, as if something that should have been obvious had just come to him. “If dear Banner decided to test the wine before he returned, then likely we will find our two missing brothers sitting in a stupor in the cellar!” the dean roared. “Feywine, in its own subtie way, bites harder than dwarven ale!”
He rose to leave, and the other two were quick to join him. Their mood was light, any fears or suspicions quenched by the logical assumption offered by the dean. They got to the wine cellar door, and Thobicus took up and lit one of the small lamps set in a cabinet to one side, then led the way down the wooden staircase, into the darkness.
They heard no chatter, no drunken conversation, and grew a bit concerned when they saw that their lantern was apparently the only source of light in the damp, shadowy cellar.
“Banner?” Rumpol called softly. Thobicus stood by silently; the remaining priest began a quiet chant, thinking to bring a great magical light into the area.
That priest jerked suddenly, drawing the attention of his two companions.
“I fear a spider has bitten me,” he remarked to Rumpol’s questioning expression, and he began to jerk spasmodically, his eyes twitching, then rolling back into his head.
He fell facedown to the floor before Rumpol could get to him.
“What is this?” Rumpol cried, cradling the fallen priest’s head. He began a frantic chant, beginning a spell that could counter any poison.
“Rumpol,” Thobicus called, and though the priest did not interrupt his frantic spellcasting, he did look back to regard the dean.
His words fell away as he looked upon Kierkan Rufo, the vampire’s face bright with fresh blood.
The vampire extended one pale hand toward Rumpol. “Come to me,” he bade.
Rumpol felt the wave of compelling willpower roll over him. He rested the fallen priest’s head back against the floor and rose without even being conscious of the movements,
“Come to me,” the vampire said tan tali zingly. “Join me, as has your dean. Come to me and see the truth.”
Rumpol was inadvertently sliding his feet along the smooth floor, drifting toward the darkness that was Kierkan Rufo. Somewhere in the back of his mind he caught the image of an open eye above a lit candle, the symbol of Deneirian light, and it shook him from his trance.
“No!” he declared and pulled out his holy symbol, presenting it with all his heart against the undead monster. Rufo hissed and lifted his arm to shield himself from the spectacle. Dean Thobicus turned away in shame. The light from his lantern went with him as he walked around the next rack, but the light in the area near Rumpol did not diminish, bolstered by the power of his presented symbol, by the light that was in the sincere priest’s heart.
“Fool!” the vampire proclaimed. “Do you think you can stand against me?”
Fester Rumpol wasn’t shaken. He basked in the light of his god, used his sincere faith to blast away any horror-inspired doubts. “I deny
Rumpol turned away, for he had been one of those hearty drinkers.
“Fortunately, the Feywine survived, but I do recall that it was moved to the fifth rack, that being the most stable,” Thobicus finished. He motioned to one of the others. “Do go and help out dear Banner,” he bade, “before the man comes back here raising Cyric himself against me!”
The priest ran off for the door, and the conversation resumed, again without much concern. Fifteen minutes later, it was Rumpol who remarked that the two wine hunters were long overdue.
“If one of the lesser priests stole that bottle, my good mood will vanish,” Thobicus warned.
“There was an inventory of the wine cellar,” Rumpol said.
“A list I saw, though I do not recall any record of Feywine,” added the other, and he gave a jovial laugh. “And I would have noted the presence of such a treasure well, I assure you!”
“Of course the bottle was mislabeled,” Thobicus explained, then he nodded, as if something that should have been obvious had just come to him. “If dear Banner decided to test the wine before he returned, then likely we will find our two missing brothers sitting in a stupor in the cellar!” the dean roared. “Feywine, in its own subtie way, bites harder than dwarven ale!”
He rose to leave, and the other two were quick to join him. Their mood was light, any fears or suspicions quenched by the logical assumption offered by the dean. They got to the wine cellar door, and Thobicus took up and lit one of the small lamps set in a cabinet to one side, then led the way down the wooden staircase, into the darkness.
They heard no chatter, no drunken conversation, and grew a bit concerned when they saw that their lantern was apparently the only source of light in the damp, shadowy cellar.
“Banner?” Rumpol called softly. Thobicus stood by silently; the remaining priest began a quiet chant, thinking to bring a great magical light into the area.
That priest jerked suddenly, drawing the attention of his two companions.
“I fear a spider has bitten me,” he remarked to Rumpol’s questioning expression, and he began to jerk spasmodically, his eyes twitching, then rolling back into his head.
He fell facedown to the floor before Rumpol could get to him.
“What is this?” Rumpol cried, cradling the fallen priest’s head. He began a frantic chant, beginning a spell that could counter any poison.
“Rumpol,” Thobicus called, and though the priest did not interrupt his frantic spellcasting, he did look back to regard the dean.
His words fell away as he looked upon Kierkan Rufo, the vampire’s face bright with fresh blood.
The vampire extended one pale hand toward Rumpol. “Come to me,” he bade.
Rumpol felt the wave of compelling willpower roll over him. He rested the fallen priest’s head back against the floor and rose without even being conscious of the movements,
“Come to me,” the vampire said tan tali zingly. “Join me, as has your dean. Come to me and see the truth.”
Rumpol was inadvertently sliding his feet along the smooth floor, drifting toward the darkness that was Kierkan Rufo. Somewhere in the back of his mind he caught the image of an open eye above a lit candle, the symbol of Deneirian light, and it shook him from his trance.
“No!” he declared and pulled out his holy symbol, presenting it with all his heart against the undead monster. Rufo hissed and lifted his arm to shield himself from the spectacle. Dean Thobicus turned away in shame. The light from his lantern went with him as he walked around the next rack, but the light in the area near Rumpol did not diminish, bolstered by the power of his presented symbol, by the light that was in the sincere priest’s heart.
“Fool!” the vampire proclaimed. “Do you think you can stand against me?”
Fester Rumpol wasn’t shaken. He basked in the light of his god, used his sincere faith to blast away any horror-inspired doubts. “I deny
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