The air atop Judgement Top thickened with tension as Paul Best stirred from his enforced slumber, his eyes blazing with renewed fury. “Give me the book,” he demanded, his voice a low growl as he rose to face Garet, who clutched the forbidden tome tightly against his chest. Garet’s jaw tightened, his grip unwavering. “This book was always mine,” he retorted, his tone laced with defiance.
The argument erupted like a storm breaking over the hills, voices clashing in a chaotic symphony. “I claimed it first when we found it among Rojak’s things!” Paul snapped, his finger jabbing toward Garet. “I killed him—by right of conquest, his possessions are mine!” Garet shook his head, his voice rising. “No, you gave it to me to decipher its language, to unlock its secrets!” Paul’s face contorted with incredulity. “It’s in German, you fool! What language do you think I’d need help with?” The air crackled with their mutual stubbornness, each word a spark threatening to ignite further discord.
Beneath them, the ground rumbled faintly, Tehwhisz’s vast form stirring as if to interject. Her raspy voice, slow and detached, began to form a response to Mordecai’s earlier question: “What do you know about Garet’s Staff?” But before she could elaborate, Paul’s patience shattered. “If you lot continue this course—with him keeping that book—you’ll do it without me,” he declared, snapping his heel into an about-face. With a determined stride, he marched down the hill, heading north toward the shadowed maw of the Old Place.
The party exchanged bewildered glances, their unity fraying at the seams. Yet, a collective decision crystallized—they would heed Tehwhisz’s wisdom. The ancient arbiter’s mottled face remained impassive as she spoke, her voice a gravelly whisper. “Tehwhisz cannot pierce the veil of future or past with clairvoyant sight, for she is no Oracle. Yet, one among you bears such a gift.” The group fell silent, puzzling over her cryptic words, their minds whirring like gears in a rusted machine.
Suddenly, Tehwhisz’s long, greasy brown hair writhed to life, a serpentine dance of vine and strand. With a tender yet commanding motion, the tendrils snaked toward Noelani, the group’s contact weapon specialist, a stranger to these irradiated lands. Like the roots of an ancient Ent from Middle-earth, the hair and vines entwined around her legs, lifting her gently aloft as if upon a verdant podium. Around her, the ground erupted in a flourish of vibrant flowers—crimson and gold blooms unfurling like the banners of some lost elven realm, their petals catching the dim light in a sacred halo. The air grew heavy with a fragrance both wild and otherworldly, as if the very essence of the Old Place had been summoned to enshrine her presence. The party watched, awestruck, as if witnessing a scene from the Third Age, where nature itself bent to honor a chosen soul.
Noelani’s memory stirred, recalling her latent power of Object Reading—a spell she had wielded before, though it had yielded little beyond what they already knew of the Staff’s dark origins. Before she could voice her disappointment, Tehwhisz interjected, her voice resonant with an eerie calm. “Tehwhisz offers a melding of minds, a focused psychic battery to amplify your gift. With sufficient neural resonance, Object Reading may ascend to psychoscopy—true token-object reading. Objects bear an energy field, a quantum imprint of their history, transferable via contact. For a major artifact like the SORCER-MK2, six minds plus Tehwhisz’s own are required to reverse the entropic arrow of time and witness its genesis anew.”
She paused, her gaze settling on Paul’s retreating form. “This demands the alien mind of one from Venus—Paul Best, whose extraterrestrial neural matrix enhances the synaptic lattice, stabilizing the temporal inversion through his unique bioelectric signature.” This pseudo-scientific jargon, laced with science fiction flair, hinted at Paul’s otherworldly heritage, his Venusian physiology a key to unlocking the staff’s past.
Realization dawned, and the party knew they must retrieve Paul. After a brief debate, Mordecai and Garet descended the hill, their figures shrinking against the vast valley. Paul had already crossed its lowest point, climbing steadily toward the Old Place, his resolve unyielding. With an arcane casting, he vanished from mechanized sight, cloaking himself in an ancient black magic that defied sensors. Mordecai unleashed his Ghost 4 Drone, its high-tech optics by Anduril Industries whirring futilely against the spell. Even Mordecai’s keen eyes failed him. How Garet, guided by some instinct or the staff’s sentience, marched unerringly toward Paul’s hidden position eluded Mordecai.
On the next hill, the two former friends faced off, the stillness taut with unspoken history. “Why did you do it, Patriot?” Paul demanded, his voice raw with betrayal. Garet deflected, “Listen, there’s this circle-jerk thing happening back there, and we really think—” “WHY DID YOU DO IT, Patriot?” Paul’s shout cut through, insistent. “Do what?” Garet asked, feigning ignorance. “Take the book,” Paul snarled. “The book was mine,” Garet insisted. “The book is mine! By right of conquest, that book is mine!” The argument spiraled, voices clashing like steel on steel.
Mordecai, huffing and puffing, crested the hill, his great ape form a silhouette against the fading light. At first, it seemed Garet argued with the wind, but as Mordecai drew closer, Paul’s form materialized—faint at first, like cobwebs dissolving in morning dew. “Why do you need it? You gave it to me to learn Ancient English,” Garet pressed. “It’s in German!” Paul roared. “Yeah, so? I need it to understand what’s inside—,” Garet began, but Mordecai intervened, his voice a thunderous command. “Alright, everyone, SHUT UP!”
He seized both by the shoulders, his massive hands a bridge between them. “I’ve seen you fight through hell and back. I won’t let you destroy each other over a piece of history. Give me the book—I’ll carry it until we decide its fate.” Silence hung heavy. Paul glared, unyielding. Garet protested, “Why shouldn’t I keep it? It’s my book!” “It’s not your book!” Paul snapped. Their death stares locked, a battle of wills.
“Listen, Garet,” Mordecai soothed, “I’ll keep it safe. You can study it by day’s light or night’s fire, and I’ll tuck it away after. Are we good?” Paul relented with a grudging, “Yeah, we’re good… for now.” Garet sighed, stubborn but yielding, and handed the book to Mordecai. “Great, now let’s go to the circle-jerk!” Mordecai grinned, diffusing the tension.
Moments later, the group reassembled atop Judgement Top. Noelani, Arkadisuz, and Vulgaris marveled at Tehwhisz, peppering her with questions. Relief washed over them as Paul and Garet’s truce held, thanks to Mordecai’s arbitration. Tehwhisz offered the great ape succulent grapes from her vines and shade under her sprawling branches—a reward for averting disaster.
After lunch, the party prepared for the mind meld. Sitting in a circle, they faced inward, the SORCER-MK2 placed at the center. Tehwhisz instructed them to close their eyes, her hypnotism weaving a gentle trance. Vines encircled their foreheads, linking their minds. Suddenly, a psychic vortex yawned beneath the staff, a screaming gateway hurling them into the past. They witnessed the staff’s creation—its forging in 2045 Berlin, Moore’s genius, Elmar’s theft—every detail vivid as per the Gamma Terra archives: SORCER-MK2
Awakening near midnight, the party blinked through headaches and fatigue, the vision shared among them. Tehwhisz cradled each member, granting a night of respite under her protective boughs. The next morning, under a sunny sky, they broke camp, setting south through the Old Place’s southern ruins, bound for Melkath and the sage Waldis by nightfall.
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