Vision of Rai and Apollyon

A vision seen by the party upon gaining the third Jade Piece of Rai’s Hand.

As Kenzo grabs the jade fragment, the world shifts.

You are standing in a vast domed room. A beam of sunlight shines through the oculus of the dome, the circular opening at the crown of the vast ceiling. The sunlight reflects from the polished marble floor, somehow, lighting the room and sparkling off countless silver stars set in the ceiling.

You can feel the pulses of energy flowing around. The deep, ancient magic of this place courses like a river beneath your feet. Some distance away - close enough to grasp - you can feel the rough chains of magic woven by Cha’mutte, binding Apollyon. It takes no effort at all to divert a portion of the magic flowing beneath your feet, pulling the chains tight.

You probe, and feel the layers, and layers, of traps and bonds. More powerful magic that even you could create. The hardest to hold are the magical bonds that keep Apollyon powerless, that keep him unable to even access his magical power. This is the magic that should have - would have - killed Apollyon, if not for his careful preparation, hiding his life force even from Cha’mutte.

Somewhat easier, but still challenging to hold are the physical bonds, the chains that bind him to his final resting place, that keep the powerless corpse of Apollyon tied physically to his tomb.

Simplest of all are the locks and wards around the tomb itself, requiring no effort at all, really, to maintain. Should all else fail, these are the last resort, for Apollyon cannot truly regain his full power until he is physically reunited with his the soulstone that holds his life force, and is once again able to feed it the souls of the dead.

Suddenly, time ruptures and the vision splinters

You see past, present, future, all at once. The magical bonds that keep Apollyon powerless, and that chain him, immobile, to his tomb, fracture, have fractured for many years, are fractured. The flow of energy shifts, is shifting now, and magic pours into Apollyon’s tomb, yet his soulstone, his phylactery, is still trapped. The souls of the dead killed in Apollyon’s name give him power, pour into Drankor, are pouring into Drankor. Many, but too, far too few. Hundreds, when thousands would have been better. Enough, maybe, to shatter the last wards and locks and be free, but it will take time, weeks, to do it now. The chains are breaking, will break.

The vision ends.