Elminster in Hell

That seemed like a good idea to Elminster, drifting numb and wearily in floods of chaos that no longer brought pain to his bruised and battered wits. He found a dark cavern that was undisturbed as yet, where the memories were covered with the dust and cobwebs of long neglect, curled up therein, and let Avernus fade away from him as Toril was beginning to do.

No, don't go to sleep on me! I am not pleased.

Are you going to show me every last kiss you've received in your overlong, miserable life, human? You try my patience too far!

[searing mind lash, bright bursts of pain, shredded memories tumbling]

Well, wizard? Speak to me!

[pain, writhing, gasping struggle to mind speak]

Every memory shown ye, devil, is one lost forever to me. To show ye every last thing, and lose it all, would not be the act of a sane man.

And are you a sane man?

[silence]

Well?

[grim silence]

[diabolical laughter, booming and roiling through every dark corner of a shuddering mind]

'This is ridiculous!' Rathan cursed as they hurried down the stairs, leather creaking and mail jangling. 'Up tower and down! Why can't all these craven fools march up to the gate and declare themselves, like in the children's tales? Twould be far easier on my aching feet!'

'I'll try to remember to tell them that,' Torm called back merrily. 'I'm sure this is all just a misunderstanding and that anxious regard for your bunions is and will be the first and overriding concern of all armed Zhent war parties who show up in the dale a-raiding!'

Rathan's reply was a heartfelt roar of anger. He felt for the flask of firewine at his belt as he ran down the steps, bouncing and lurching. Three turns farther, he got it unstopped and up to his lips-which was about the time his elbow had a brief but painful meeting with a protruding block in the stone wall.

Firewine stings when dashed into the eyes, and overweight priests of the goddess of good fortune throw all caution to the winds when pursuing holy business. So it was that Rathan was off balance and moving far too fast. Momentarily blinded and fumbling with his flask stopper when he should have spared a hand for the rail, he launched himself where he imagined the curve of the stairs to go.

He was regrettably mistaken.

The wall was unforgivingly hard, almost triumphant in its bruising resistance, and it was curved. The stairs were similarly hard, worn smooth by years of many feet, and pitched in a steep descent. Rathan was large, round, and loud in bellows and roars of pain. He bounced off the wall once, twice, thrice, ricocheted from the central pillar, tumbled down over the edges of three very sharp steps, and struck the curving outer wall again, liberally doused with lubricating firewine this time and driven into a more or less helpless ball.

Tymora encourages her faithful to take chances, but Rathan Thentraver was neither a slender nor energetic man. His armor was more impressive to the eye than it was to the sword-or to immovable stones.

His precipitous descent down the stairs began with a startled shout and a clatter and commenced to acquire the full-throated thunder of crumpling armor and a hurtling, heavy body that is embracing its fate with holy rage rather than the silence of acceptance or insensibility.

Torm was not slow of wit or foot, but he could jump only so high before negotiating his own inevitable meeting with stone walls, steps, or ceiling. His frantic leap to avoid his bouncing, rolling friend failed. He rebounded from the ceiling down onto the whirling armored ball. With a stream of colorful curses all his own, Torm was swept down the stairs in similar rolling tumult.

The smile of Tymora brought a Zhentilar guard captain striding into the antechamber. The crossbows of his men had cleared the tower entrance of guards and driven the few defenders into flight out through the kitchens. His duty was clear. 'Open yon door,' he snapped, through the din of shrieks, laughing men, and horses thundering past outside.

Obligingly, his men did so, blades and bows at the ready. A spiral stair awaited-thankfully without guards or any traps. The boldest guard took a cautious step forward and peered up into the gloom.

'Well?' the guard captain snapped.

'There's something,' the soldier replied, with a frown. 'A sort of crashing…'

The officer snorted. 'A 'sort of crashing? What son of crashing?'

Rathan's hurtling form rattled around the last bend, bounded off the edge of a particularly hard step, and sailed down into the antechamber like a large, jagged armored juggernaut. He smashed the guard captain to the floor like an angry cook dashing an egg. Zhents scattered as a raw groan arose from the wreckage, A ribbon of blood slowly followed, and the soldier at the doors turned and snarled, 'That sort of crashing. Sir.' Crossbow leveled, he grimly approached the chaos of armor plates and heaving flesh.

The smaller, much quieter ball of Torm hurtled out of the doorway and struck his legs. With a crack, the crossbow fired its bolt into the nearest Zhent. The bowman's head cracked almost as loudly against the floor.

Torm fetched up against Rathan in a cursing, panting tangle. 'So how are your bunions, Old Barrelhead?'

Rathan's reply was long and loud and extremely colorful. Tymora was not visibly present to wince and cringe, so Torm did it for her.

Well, that was impressive. Not useful, but at least impressive.

[images plunging]

'It is my hope, Lord, that you never find out,' Tessaril replied, her eyes grave. As she spoke, there was a sudden crash, inside.

Another crash? Hmmm. The rest is lost. Another human wench, this one with eyes like smoke. Nothing but a snippet left… but is this not her face again, over here?

'Now,' Tessaril said, 'we wait. Would anyone like something to eat, before conquering Zhentil Keep?'

Bah!a snippet only, again-i could have sworn there was more…

If ye handled my remembrances more gently, devil, ye might see more. There was more to that… but 'was' is the right of it, now;ye destroyed it!

Don't tell me what to do, little man! Nergal will rummage as he pleases!

[mind lash, pain, frenzied rushing images]

They chuckled, and then the Royal Magician of Cormyr lifted an eyebrow and asked disbelievingly, 'This little maid called Shandril?'

'Aye, Shandril. She didn't know that no one dares attack Manshoon in his lair-so she went ahead and attacked him.'

Again the little maid of spellfire. You have spellfire too, do you not?

[silence]

Elminster! Elminster!

Sorry, devil, I was in too much pain to bear thee….

Cute ploy, human. Cute. Never mind-I'll search without your help or clever comments.

[images spinning]

bah! I want to see another op your real memories, something clear and lengthy and useful tome… something vivid and relevant about one of the seven sisters coming into her power. give such a memory to