#partypartay

In trying to walk Rexx Found that his arms and legs were still encased in ice, a silvery-blue color in the dimness of this echoing dome. The man hemmed and hawed before slowly approaching the still-struggling Rexx. He looked sad, Rexx realized now that the man was closer, and pained, as if he did not want Rexx to be imprisoned as he was. His human body was frail and emaciated, his fingers and overly elongated nose tinged black with fierce frostbite. He made an effort to speak an introduction, though he needn’t have bothered; without effort Rexx could feel the knowledge inside his own mind swelling and recognized this man as Syman the Ice King.

When Syman attempted to speak his voice came out in a rough, primal roar that echoed endlessly off of, what Rexx was able to surmise, the inside of his own mind. Rexx’ mind was not accustomed to thoughts connected to words, and Syman found there was no place for them in this cavity of a brain. He paused, startled at his own ferocity, and considered the enigma of Rexx; he needed to share the history of the crown, to explain its importance, but the forbiddance of words would make the exchange tricky. Rex attempted to escape the ice once or twice, but he found the more he struggled the more he was encased, until only his head was left uncovered.

Syman shushed Rexx’ struggles, lost in his own thought. After a time he snapped his fingers and rushed off to an impossible corner of the domed chamber, and when he returned to the light in the center he dragged behind him an object out-of-time; a full double-bass drum kit complete with cymbals and snare. Rexx reviled the object as an anathema, but Syman shushed more forcefully before sitting on the short stool behind the drums and beginning to play. His rhythm was simple first, bordering on primal beats from the basso skins. As he began to drum the cacophony filled the domed chamber of the vacant mind, and Rexx understood Syman’s intent.

The exchange of knowledge was two-way, Rexx’ info had simply been more compact; Syman had learned of Rexx’ tribe’s ritual of passing on knowledge through drum-circles and cave-paintings, and set about telling the long and tragic history of the crown in the only medium available to him. As he banged the skins and metal disks a phantasm of Rexx’ tribe filled the cavernous chamber and the walls took on the deep umber of ancient stone as black bleeding lines of primal paints blossomed, revealing images to accompany the bone-deep sense of narrative flowing from the drums.

Rexx saw as the lines swirled to a circle before jackknifing into jagged mountain-tops; the lines blurred as the perspective changed to show the mountains closer as rocks tumbled down in an avalanche; below the stones lay a blocky humanoid, made of living rock herself, who climbed from the rubble with nary a scratch; the paint stretched over the entire cavern, a mosaic of heroic deeds done by the stony avatar; she was shown to wield a massive axe and cast the power of snow before her wherever she strolled; a small unimpressive stick figure entered the paintings in the trail of the stone-woman; over time, the stick figure drew closer to the woman and Rexx could recognize the distinctive nose of Syman drawn over the figure’s face.

The pace of the drums changed; throughout the cavern Rexx’ tribe stood in phantasmal fury, a deep resonant chant accentuating the tale the drums told. The visions became more vibrant, showing the journey of Syman and the woman as they joined the legendary Champions of Bahamut, trolling across the country and snuffing out evil wherever they tread. Without warning a crack of the cymbals shattered the image of the stone-woman, the black paint raining down in a deluge of swamp slime. The ringing metal echoed through the otherwise now-silent chamber, and Rexx could see tears running down the face of Syman which turned to single snowflakes as they fell from his chin.

Syman resumed drumming, a somber aria if ever a drum was capable of playing one; the small stick figure distorted, hunched, and drew in the lines into the shape of a crown, a living memory of the bestoned heroin. The figure donned the crown, yet as he did so his own lines became blurred as though a great vibration of power ran through it. Before his imprisoned eyes Rexx witnessed the spirits of land, air and beast dance in a gritty miasma over the spectacle.

Rexx watched as the shattered team reassembled, though the details were obscured by a persistent snow-storm that raged over the visions. The Champions of Bahamut rose to power and slew a mighty evil, though by now the storm was so great Rexx couldn’t see what form the evil took. The images cleared away, leaving the blank stone of the cave once more. With a fading chime along the cymbal Rexx saw the smoky black swirl of evil rise once more, and silhouettes of his Party rising to stand against it.