An Amber Dawn, ((events across the Empire)) Options

[Netheril]

*The following are just a handful of examples of events and occurrences that transpire across the cities of the Empire in the remaining days before the Final Dawn. For those who pay attention to such things, the only cities untouched by these phenomena are Deci and Halgar.*


Lasher Thintail burrowed deeply into his den, and closed his eyes with a contented sigh. It had been a prosperous night’s hunt, his trove of finds would support him and his ratkin for weeks. He started to drift off to sleep, lulled by the drip, drip, drip of sewer water from a nearby pipe.

Suddenly he flinched, and within a moment was fully awake. Something was wrong. His ears flicked upright, and his rodent nose twitched with alarm. What was wrong?

He abruptly realised that the sounds all around, usually so familiar and reassuring, had all ceased. No water dripped, no pipes creaked, the very earth around him had ceased its gentle rustle of regular movements and displacements.
Slowly and carefully he reached down and unshuttered his lantern. The light it shone forth was not its usual warm candlelight, but a vibrant amber that seemed to coat his own form and everything around him.

With wonder he saw a solitary drop of water hung glistening in the air, motionless, its progress somehow halted in the midst of its descent from the nearby pipe. The waters of the sewer seemed frozen, undoubtedly still liquid, but unmoving… still as the grave.
He tried to move, but it was as if he was encased in treacle, his greatest efforts produced the barest flicker of motion.

Then as suddenly as it had started, normality reasserted itself. The drop fell and splashed into the water, he could move unhindered, and the amber tint all around was gone.
At first, none of his fellow ratkin believed his tale… but in the days to come such things became more and more commonplace in Thimon.

…………….

Bertrand the roofer scampered around the hidden highways that only men of his trade truly knew. His balance was renowned amongst his fellows, never had he missed a step, and he had no fear of the heights he worked. A respect, sure, but also a love of a different vantage to that which most knew.

The city of Mordred’s Rest was his. He may be of common birth, but it was men like him that kept its roofs and walls intact, who tended and nurtured the city as it grew. Caring for the buildings was easier perhaps than caring for its populace, but no less important in his opinion.
As he mused on this he worked, making sure no tiles had slipped, no gaps existed in the armour of the buildings he worked upon, no chinks that would allow access to the elements.

He whistled as he toiled, for he enjoyed his life. He worked hard, he had good friends and a loving family who were well settled in the Rest. And soon it would be time to finish for the day, and go enjoy a quiet pint of ale before heading home.
He moved towards the last patch he needed to check this day, nearing the edge of the building, and then suddenly, without warning or comprehension…he plunged to his death.

It was as if the roof had disappeared beneath his feet, was all he had time to think as he fell to his inevitable end. Several passers by froze in shock and horror as he plummeted from two stories high, hitting the cobbled pavement with a very final thud. His splayed limbs amidst a pool of crimson told all that witnessed of his fate.
But nonetheless several rushed over to see if they could be of any aid. But as they came close an amber shimmer, a heat haze but unlike any they had seen before, obscured their vision. And when it cleared the body was gone, and Bertrand the roofer was stood atop the building once more, cheerfully whistling as he worked away, oblivious to the awestruck gazes of those below.

……………………………

Gasher sat back in his chair and unleashed a prodigious belch. That had been some feast. He smiled and slowly stood, a little unsteady on his feet. He had blown the last of his mercenary pay on this finest of meals, at one of the best taverns in Sellaville. The sort of establishment that usually would not allow his sort across the threshold.

But it was amazing what doors a fistful of grulls would open. It had been worth every crumpled note. The finest wines, the most succulent meats; in quantities that should have fed a company of four.
But he was alone now. The only survivor. And so he had toasted his fallen companions, and feasted in their honour.
He looked around one last time, at platters now adorned with nothing but bones, at the empty jugs scattered about the room, and the pastries…oh the pastries, they truly had nearly defeated him.

He staggered out of the private dining room, nodded to the tavernkeeper and his wife and expressed his gratitude and appreciation with another heartfelt belch. With a nonchalant wave he left the tavern behind without another backwards look. His mourning was done, new adventures and companions awaited.

So he did not see the look of absolute astonishment upon the faces of the proprietors, when they went into the dining room to clear up his leavings. Only to be confronted by an untouched banquet, every serving of food lay out where they had first placed them several hours ago. Every jug of wine untouched and unopened, the entire room as pristine as if no guest had crossed the threshold that night.

………

Marillian Maervax, light elf archer and Gothiel guardswoman, pursued her prey through the streets of the city.

She could not say what had caught her eye, but something about the cloaked figure ahead was wrong. She had learned long ago to trust her hunches.

Slowly but surely she gained on her target, as they turned a corner and came in sight of the Cathedral she overtook him, and spun to face the male elf that had so caught her attention.
But she found herself frozen, staring at a kinsman, yet unlike any elf or drave she had ever encountered. Amber skin, and shining metallic eyes with a glint of amber deep within, this elf met her gaze with a capricious smile, a slow wink and then…he was gone. As if he has never stood there, in the middle of the street, just moments ago.

Several other passers by were turning to stare, but at her, as if she had lost her mind, stood there in the middle of the street accosting nothing but thin air. As she stood and wondered, she reached into her pocket and drew forth something that she would swear had not been there before…a small amber bead.

……………

The skeletal figure sat on a carved oaken chair, engraved with fine details, what it lacked in comfort it more than compensated with beauty and workmanship of the highest order. Comfort had ceased to hold much meaning to this creature.

It’s burning red eyes perused the tome before it. It wore robes emblazoned with the symbol of a skeletal hand clasping a living, fleshy hand in a firm grasp. Hovering next to the lich was an arcane staff, casting a dim light that was just sufficient to read by.
The creature’s studies lasted for many hours, before it finally placed the tome down upon a sturdy side table, and sat motionless for a while.

And then it spoke, in a voice that was absent all emotion, despite the words it uttered…

“This will not do, this will not serve at all.”

None were there to see this, none were there to hear this, none were there to read the title of the tome…

”The Amber Throne”

…………

His power was known, his influence felt. All was as it should be. Or at least, it would be. For this final dawn would be more than ever before a beginning, a renewal of the old, a new dawn, an amber dawn…