Originally posted by sepulchrave on 01-21-2002

Lady Despina’s Virtue

I originally posted this on the old messageboards - not realizing that they were going to be
frozen quite as abruptly as they were. It’s still messy, and hasn’t been organized properly.
The first post was posed as a question on the general forum some time back in November
and,
unexpectedly, aroused a lot of interest. There was a follow-up post and, finally, a third post
to explain the ongoing situation. I’ve also added the fourth (as yet, unposted) post at the
end.
The saga still continues, although I am way behind in writing up my notes on it and there
is a LOT to reproduce. I will post as often as possible to the story thread if interest is
sustained: my main gauge on whether to continue will be the number in the “viewed”
column - I realise that written feedback in story hour tends to be a little thin.
The style is rather odd - a story in places, game stats thrown in, some meta-stuff in other
places. I suppose this reflects the hybrid nature of the original posts. Over time, I’m
assuming that a more coherent style will emerge, although I kind of like the conversational
approach: I’m not a novelist and have no pretensions in that direction. If it seems a bit dry
in places then I guess that’s just the academic in me.
[FIRST POST IN GENERAL DISCUSSION- SOMETIME IN NOVEMBER 2001]
I have an interesting moral dilemma currently occurring in my game, both from an in-
character and a meta- perspective.
One of the PCs, a 14th level Paladin, the prized possession of its player for 10 years or so
(he was converted from 2E), is currently attempting to CONVERT a succubus, and
demonstrate to her the error of her ways.
The demoness, sent as an envoy from a certain fiend whom the Paladin had previously
offended, was
charged with the mission of corrupting the character.
Now, the Paladin is your typical high-chivalry pageants-and-tourneys type, embodying the
ideals of courtly life. He is fair-minded, just, merciful, chaste and so forth.
The Demoness, warded by an amulet of undetectable alignment, has insinuated herself
into the retinue of a certain Duchess, posing as the daughter of a minor noble with a fine
pedigree, with various letters of recommendation. She has been posing as a guileless,
naiive and hugely compassionate handmaiden
who is strikingly beautiful. The Paladin was instantly smitten -in a chaste way, of course-
and has been carrying her token while he jousts.
Having sought her out (and she proved very elusive), the Paladin has been recently
courting her, and spending much time with her (reciting poetry, singing ballads etc.- he has
a very fair perform skill). To his delight, he has found the lady to be highly intelligent,
well-versed in metaphysics and deeply spiritual. They have spent many hours engaged in
wide-ranging philosophical debate and found that
they only differed in their opinions on a few minor points (heheheh…)
However, in the last session, following leads that our hero might be being duped, the
deception was revealed. The Paladin drew his weapon and prepared to smite the evil thing.
The demoness sat demurely and began to weep, begging for his mercy and saying yes she
had been
sent here to corrupt him and yes that was her original intention but that he’d begun to
CHANGE her, and if only he’d give her a chance that she’d prove that she’d overcome her
evil ways.
The Paladin, to his credit, didn’t buy any of that and thought it was a crock. He raised his
sword again, preparing to send her back to the Abyss, expecting her to retaliate. Still, she
sat, motionless, and lowered her head.
Suddenly, the Player was overcome with doubt. What if she IS redeemable? Are demons
forever
damned? Is there an ounce of potential for her to be anything other than Chaotic Evil -
after all demons DEFINE what evil is. And now, another dilemma besets him: if he kills
her, here, in cold blood with this doubt in his mind has she WON? Does the very act of
slaying her WHILE HE HAS DOUBTS
mean that he has contravened his alignment, and is corrupted?
Opinions, please.
[FOLLOW-UP POST]
Sorry to keep you all waiting: loads of RL stuff to deal with, and the session was delayed.
Furthermore, a bucket load more ethical questions are now confounding the Paladin: I
think the player is starting to hate me…
I realise that this might be more appropriate to the storyboards forum, but I’m willing to
risk the wrath of the moderators. Nothing has been finally resolved, but here is the gist of
what happened last time.
We were scheduled to play on Saturday night, and the Paladin player (Marc) arrived an
hour early to try and resolve it before the other two players showed up.
The Paladin stayed his blow (for which the Demoness was obviously grateful), although
he kept his
blade poised to strike if necessary. He proceeded to explain that, naturally, he doubted her
intentions and was very aware that this might be some kind of ploy which she was
executing on him, and that he found himself in a very difficult no-win situation. He
complimented her for the subtleties of her deceit in this matter - which elicited another
outburst of tears from the maiden, as she explained that she was GENUINE in her desire
to find a better way of being.
She spoke in apparent candor, saying that the intrigues and manipulations and seductions
and
corruptions that she had perpetrated in the past - thousands and thousands of them across
aeons of time
- left her feeling jaded and sullied and worthless and self-loathing.Her perversion and evil
came not from her ORIGINAL NATURE - which was bright, and celestial, “like a star
burning in the
firmament,” as she poetically rendered it - but from the corrupting influence of those
demons who far outranked her and whose evil was immeasurably deeper.
The Abyss itself, she protested, was a place of such infinite evil that, what hope did one of
her minor stature have of redemption if she were forced to return to the place? Only by
being sent to the mortal plane, and thus to a place from which all good had not been
expunged, had she realized again the
possibility of another existence. She wanted only to live out an earthly existence in quiet
penance, and then die. She had no desire to return to her formal celestial abodes, as she
had “forfeited that right, eternally, countless aeons ago when I made an error of judgement
in the cosmic war. I was new-formed, and guileless - remember this was BEFORE evil
was. There was no taint on me, or on most of the
others, but subtle, provocative words were spoken quietly in our ears, and we succumbed.
We were
naiive.” Grazz’t, her master in the hosts, was one of those closest to the source of the
corruption and threw his lot wholeheartedly with the rebels. “What choice did I have?”
Note that this account is, from the Paladin’s perspective, more-or-less cosmologically
accurate,
although he hadn’t heard an account first-hand from one of the Fallen Ones before. Rather
sneakily, I
must admit, I was pandering to Marc’s general sympathies towards the Miltonian Lucifer
in Paradise lost. Quickly, the Paladin gestured in the air and cast the spell “discern lies.”
Obviously, I rolled the D20 in secret.
The Paladin quizzed her for a while, received answers that were bafflingly plausible, and
evinced no perturbations in the demoness’s aura, and then shouted out to his squire, who
was waiting in the
antechamber. He instructed him to fetch his friends, who were nearby in the quadrangle -
he needed their advice.
We had a beer recess and waited for the other players to arrive.
It’s worth mentioning at this point that the other two characters - a CG/N Half-Elven
Fighter 5 / Thief 5 / Bard 6 and a NG Human Druid 13 also belong to players who’ve been
around for a while. Ortwin,
the Bard, has seen various incarnations from 1e onwards. Neither of them are spring
chickens and
they’re both pretty aware of my general sneakiness as a DM. Note that both characters
also have
radically differing cosmological perspectives to the Paladin, which makes for interesting
gaming…
The Bard and the Druid arrived presently, the Paladin apprised them of the situation
(causing the Bard to laugh almost uncontrollably), and earnestly sought their advice.
They debated various possibilities, and the Paladin became anxious. Technically, although
a holy
warrior, as one not ordained, he ought to seek the advice of the nearest clergyman (the
Priest who services the Duchess’ chapel, a lowly 3rd level traditionalist), but felt that he
was unqualified to answer in the matter. This caused a momentary paradox, as the Paladin
realized that failing to do this was a breach of correct forms. Nonetheless, he opted to see
his own confessor instead, none other than the Archbishop of Morne, High Priest of
Oronthon in the capitol, 70 miles distant. The Druid cynically asked him,
“And what if you don’t like his solution?”
The Paladin answered, “We’ll deal with that if and when it arises.”
This caused a problem - what to do with the demoness? Obviously, assurances from her to
her good
behavior were not sufficient, but they could hardly take her with them: she couldn’t
physically enter the Fane anyway, as it was hallowed ground. Ortwin, the Bard, offered to
remain with her, whilst the Druid and Paladin wind-walked to the temple to succor advice
from the priest.
In their absence, the Bard and the succubus talked genially about various subjects,
including the
importance of the independence of the spirit. He was wary, but found her nonetheless
beguiling.
Arriving in the capitol an hour later, outside of the orangery of the Archbishop’s palace,
the Paladin and his friend were greeted by a minor functionary who eyed the Druid
suspiciously. Unfortunately, the
Archbishop was indisposed, having just gone on a meditation retreat.
“How long will it be?” the Paladin asked.
“We are not sure,” the official answered. “He is communing with Oronthon. Apparently
with some urgency. I am not sure why. He seemed concerned, as if some great event
challenged the very structure of the church.”
The Paladin groaned.
[THIRD POST]
Okay, after many requests…
The reason that I’ve put off elaborating any further is because the plot has got immensely
convoluted with all kinds of Machiavellan intrigues being perpetrated (mainly by
demons), which has left the
Paladin rather flummoxed. The Druid has been making snide remarks about the
inevitability of this
kind of thing when a religion becomes dogmatic, institutionalized and divorced from its
“roots” (i.e.
Nature, from his perspective), and the Bard has, as usual, been viewing the entire
proceeding with unconcealed humour. Further, another player has joined the group - a
wizard(diviner)/alienist who is played with a frighteningly convincing display of insanity
by a friend of mine called Danny.
It transpired that the Archbishop (on meditation retreat, if you recall) was to remain
closeted for some time before the Paladin could speak with him: two weeks, in fact. I
allowed the entire party (with the exception of the new character) to level up during this
period: they were, in fact, long overdue, but I generally insist on an in-game period of
down-time to be made available before I allow this to happen, to represent consolidation
of skills etc. This was the first opportunity that they’d had for a while. During this period,
the Paladin (who spent a LOT of time in prayer), took it under advice from the other
characters to make absolutely no contact with the demoness: they would keep an eye on
her. He slept in the chapel, just to be on the safe side. At the point where the Paladin was
to return to the Temple to seek advice from his confessor, the party consists of
1) Eadric (ee-AD-rik). A 15th level human paladin with a lot of stress in his life. He wears
a flashy suit of magical full plate, has a big magical shield and has a big magical sword
called “Lukarn” - an intelligent, lawful good, keen sunblade with the special purpose: slay
chaotic evil creatures. Eadric
likes tournaments, acting in a chivalrous manner, and gallantly courting fair damsels.
Often the vissicitudes and grim realities of the world prove to be a disappointment to him,
but he marches on optimistically nonetheless. He’s kind of a stereotype, but he’s played so
well by Marc that it enhances rather than detracts from the experience.
2) Nwm (NOOM). A 14th level human Druid whose prized item is his self- made “staff of
the
woodlands” capped with an “orb of storms” rescued from a blue dragon’s possession.
Nwm is apparently sardonic and skeptical, but secretly idealistic in a “peace, man” kind of
way. A guy called Dave plays him as a cross between Timothy Leary and Oscar Wilde.
3) Ortwin. A Half-Elf Fighter/Rogue/Bard 5/5/7, with a mischievous sense of humour but
a good heart -
usually. Not someone to cross, he’s been known to stray a few times from his announced
CG alignment when vendetta is involved. Rob, his player, says that if he were a modern
era character, then Iggy Pop would be his idol but he’d dress like David Bowie and sing
like Freddy Mercury. Ortwin has an “Iron Horn of Valhalla,” a “Cloak of Displacement”
and “Dread Githla”: a +4 Keen Scimitar with both the Throwing and Returning
enchantments, which I have had cause to regret his ownership of more than
once. He also has a scroll with a number of powerful spells on it which he’s been afraid to
use because of the possibility of them misfiring.
4) Mostin the Metagnostic: A wizard (diviner) 6/ Alienist 9. Mostin is played by Danny,
who has some interesting insights into the nature of psychosis. Mostin is CRAZEE. Not in
a charming, eccentric, lovable way, but in a deeply disturbing, pathological way. He has
strange, obsessive compulsive
behavioural traits, and makes bizarre rituals out of seemingly mundane activities. Danny
returns to the group after an absence of nearly a year: his last character, a monk called
Skaddius, was killed in a tussle with a Nalfeshnee demon and its cohorts, and declined to
be resurrected. The in-game rationale was that such a step would be an impediment to the
character’s enlightenment, although in fact the player had too much RL stuff going on to
commit to the game. Mostin is in possession of a “Portable Hole” full of all kinds of nick-
nacks including the fabulous “Looking Glass of Urm-Nahat” - a Mirror of Mental
Prowess, and by far the most powerful single magic item I’ve ever allowed in a game. I
must be mellowing as I get older…
I will post again at some stage: please try to understand that to do this justice requires
time, and that between other responsibilities, including a tabletop campaign and a PBEM
game, as well as work and
family, ongoing revelations about this game may get pushed onto the backburner.
Sooo…
During the short sabbatical and training period, at the invitation of the Duchess of Trempa,
Mostin the Metagnostic arrived at the castle where the events to date had been occurring.
Mostin’s reputation as someone who can simply “find things out” is almost unparalleled.
Various strange happenings, apparently without explanation, had caused some alarm
amongst the castle’s inhabitants, and various minor diviners had been consulted but to no
effect. Nwm, usually helpful in these matters, had proven mysteriously silent. Eadric was
in prayer and could not be disturbed - looking for inspiration, from the Duchess’s point of
view
Trees withering. Food rotting on plates. Holy water boiling and candles flaring up in the
chapel. That kind of thing.
Mostin, of course, through the use of his divinations, quickly determined the truth: a
demonic influence was at work in the Duchess’s court. Ortwin and Nwm discovered
Mostin’s arrival too late: they tried to corner the character before he mades his discoveries
known, but failed to do so in time. Stoking his repugnant, malformed hedgehog (a
pseudonatural familiar), Mostin informed the Duchess of his
findings, and elicited cries of consternation from her and the courtiers gathered there. All
of this was unknown to Eadric, who was still praying fervently in the chapel.
“There is a DEMON in your midst,” he announced dramatically, enjoying the effects of
his revelation on the crowd. Before the hubbub had subsided and the Alienist could point
out the culprit, Ortwin, paramount master of BS, thinking on his feet, quickly invoked a
“shatter” spell, causing all of the chandeliers to explode, and eliciting panic in the court.
Next, a thick green mist with red eyes seemed to escape from his mouth , groaning and
with a stench of sulphur (a major image). The hall was in
chaos, with maidservants screaming and old women fainting everywhere, retainers vainly
drawing their swords. Ortwin collapsed to the ground, apparently insensible. In the frenzy,
Nwm managed to whisk Mostin away and impress on him the complexity of the situation.
Out of sheer perversity, Ortwin, lying prone with one eye open, caused the hideous
manifestation to chase after the Duchess, and it flew
around above her head for a few moments before it evaporated harmlessly.
The succubus, posing as a handmaiden, pretended to be as shocked as the other courtiers
and fled through the nearest exit.
Having briefed Mostin, the alienist reluctantly agreed to dissemble, and informed the
Duchess that the threat had removed itself “for the time being, at least,” - he was covering
his back - but that Ortwin must rest in the chapel until the effects of his “possession” wore
off. Trilgar, the lowly castle minister and confessor, was dismissed despite his
protestations, now that an “expert” was there. Mostin pointed out that even the rumour of
his coming was enough to force the demon out and his reputation was
thereby increased.
Taking counsel with the eerie and discomfiting Mostin in the chapel, Eadric, Nwm and
Ortwin
discussed their options. All three of the original characters knew Mostin by reputation, and
so were quite glad of his input in matters. The crazed alienist began by immediately
attempting to contact Eadric’s deity, Oronthon, by means of a “Contact Other Plane” spell.
“Best we go straight to the top,”
he explained, “and cut out the intermediaries.” Eadric was uneasy about getting a mage to
do this, as he knew that a priest’s information was generally more reliable. Still, he
couldn’t wait for the Archbishop to come out of retreat. And that’s when the REAL
trouble began.
Mostin, with a Will Save of +16, wasn’t afraid of going any crazier than he already was -
not that that would have deterred him anyway. With an incandescent blue Ioun Stone
buzzing around his head, he
bravely embarked on his psychic journey. Now, for those of you familiar with the “Contact
Other Plane” spell, there are certain situations where it can be “blocked” by other entities.
Unfortunately for Eadric and his friends, this was one of those situations. And I LOVE
spells which have vague
descriptions like this, as it means that I can legitimately do what I like without feeling
some guilt about
“Breaking the Rules” - or other such nonsense..
Anyway, the attempted conduit to Oronthon’s presence, mediated normally by a Planetar
called
Urthoon, was intercepted by the Balor Rurunoth who had been observing events with
interest from the astral plane at the behest of his overlord, the demon prince Graz’zt.
Rurunoth’s impressive Bluff skill was sufficient to utterly confound the intuitively
impaired Mostin. His spell trace was redirected to the awesome, inspiring and terrible
presence of Graz’zt, posing as the Paladin’s deity.
“Er…Is the Succubus posing as Lady Despina (the handmaiden’s name, btw) genuine in
her desire to redeem herself,” Mostin asked plaintively.
“YES!” The voice boomed in the alienist’s head.
“Can her efforts be aided in some way by the Paladin Eadric?”
“YES!” The voice boomed again.
“Must he acquire some object to accomplish this?”
“MAYBE.” The voice boomed.
“Is there another way, without acquiring an object?”
“NO!” The voice boomed again.
Mostin scratched his head and thought for a while. The answers weren’t entirely
consistent, but better than he’d hoped for.
“What is the name of this object?”
“VIRTUE.” The voice boomed.
Figuring that the answer to the third question kind of made sense now, Mostin pressed on.
“Whose Virtue?” He asked.
“IRRELEVANT.” The voice replied, and Mostin realized that he’d wasted a question.
“The virtue of the succubus posing as the Lady Despina?”
“CORRECT.” The voice boomed, for the final time.
Emerging from his trance, Mostin proudly announced that he’d spoken to Oronthon - “a
nice sort of fellow” (this made Eadric’s hackles rise), and the answer was simple. They
must find the Succubus’s virtue, and restore it to her.
“And where would that be, exactly?” Nwm inquired archly.
“Er, he didn’t say. Or I didn’t get the chance to ask him. You should ask her - perhaps
she’ll know.”
Eadric quizzed Mostin further. “I thought that you were supposed to be able to find out
anything,” he said. “Where is this virtue located?”
Mostin, bristling at his reputation being questioned, agreed to cast another spell in order to
find out - he offered to contact “Oronthon” again but the Paladin declined, saying that he’d
rather go through more
conventional (and reliable) channels.
“How about a quick ‘Vision,’” Ortwin suggested, slyly. “We know it’s her virtue that
we’re looking for now - I assume that this magic is available to you?”
“Of course it is,” Mostin retorted, “and my thoughts exactly. Although you should
understand, Eadric, that it takes a certain toll, and will increase our account.”
“Our …account?” The Paladin inquired incredulously.
“Precisely. Firstly, I have lied to the Duchess in order to protect your girlfriend; second I
have just mediated between you and your deity and third I am about to subject my mind to
great strain on your behalf. I’d say that you already owe me a fair reward.”
The fact that Mostin had told an outright lie - at the prompting of Nwm and Ortwin, of
course, was news to Eadric, and his stomach dropped. It seemed whatever he did (or did
not do) was quickly
“soured” somehow. He bemoaned the situation - not for the last time. Someone had lied on
his behalf, and truth was always the first victim when the seeds of corruption took root.
The fact that Mostin had called the demon his girlfriend simply made him mad.
A long argument ensued about whether he should immediately come clean with the
Duchess - a lie was a lie, after all, and should be exposed. Quite different from merely
keeping a secret. After a debate which degenerated into bickering and name-calling
(mainly between Nwm and Eadric), the Paladin
eventually agreed to let the lie slip in the interests of the greater good - i.e. the possible
redemption of the Lady Despina, although he felt seriously compromised in the process.
The intangible Rurunoth watched events gleefully through a color portal and, wreathing
himself in
astral fire, took off like a thunderbolt toward the Abyss in order to relate events to his
master.
Simultaneously, in the chapel, the lights flared and the font began to overflow with blood.
Eadric immediately became defensive again. “Alright. That’s it. We tell the Duchess. This
is obviously an omen. Oronthon is displeased. How could I even contemplate letting this
go any further?”
Despite their protestations, this time the Paladin was resolute. (Ortwin was in it up to his
neck now, largely because it would expose him as the perpetrator of the ‘evil green mist’ -
and he didn’t want the Duchess asking questions such as ‘and why did the manifestation
appear to chase me?’) Eadric stormed off towards the Duchess’s chambers, prepared to
wake her if necessary. Both Nwm and Ortwin new that it was pointless to argue with him
when he was in this mood.
“S**t, Nwm. DO something,” the Bard begged the Druid. After a moment’s thought,
Nwm sighed and touched Ortwin on the shoulder, and both evaporated into mist. To get to
the Duchess’s chambers, some 200 yards away, would take the armoured Eadric around
two minutes.
Nwm and Ortwin “Wind Walked” there in six seconds.
[It’s worth noting that at this point, I placed my watch on the table and began counting
down in real time before the Paladin reached them. It started at 90 seconds - it takes 5
rounds to assume the mist form]
The Duchess was asleep in her huge four-poster bed, and Nwm asked “What now?”
“That’s easy,” Ortwin replied quickly, “just touch her and we’ll take her for a spin - if she
wakes up she’ll just think she’s having a dream.”
“We can’t do that,” Nwm explained, “it doesn’t work like that. She’ll just stay put on the
bed unless she’s awake.”
[SEVENTY SECONDS]
“Well let’s wake her up, then,” Ortwin shouted. He was getting nervous. That woke her
up.
The Duchess came to and looked terrified at the two misty apparitions hovering above her
bed.
“Fear not,” Ortwin said in his most soothing voice, before she could scream. “We are
gentle spirits, come to show you wondrous sights. Simply close your eyes and relax.
Today has been a hard day for
you. You have nothing to worry about.”
[FIFTY SECONDS]
[Another OOC Note: Ortwin has a huge Bluff Skill, +24 including bonuses, or something
like that]
Astonishingly, the Duchess complied. Ortwin rematerialised, all the while speaking in a
slow, hypnotic voice reminiscent of a guided meditation.
[TWENTY SECONDS. Eadric’s armoured boots were now audible, stomping up the stone
stairs and
along the hallway.]

The Bard vacillated for a few seconds, drew his hood up over his face, and cast a “silence”
spell. The spoken spell jarred the Duchess from her reverie, but her screams at the hooded
intruder in her room went unheard, as did the knocking at her door.
originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 04-19-2002
Sorry for the slight delay
Unfortunately for some reason I can’t retrieve my password - I have therefore elected to
take the logical step of registering as “Sepulchrave II” - notice it’s also capitalized this
time.
I thought that a new thread was probably in order.
Many thanks to all of you for those “bumps”…
Eadric waited outside of the doorway for a few moments and, upon hearing no reply,
assumed the
Duchess was still abroad and went to find her. Ortwin, still within the effect of the silence
spell, now found himself staring at the Duchess in fascination: she merely sat up in bed,
screaming voicelessly.
Fortunately it was dark and his hood was drawn up, so that she hadn’t recognized him. Or
so he hoped.
He scuttled over to the window, outside of the range of his own magic, quickly
pronounced a sleep
spell, and the woman fell into a cataleptic stupor [alas, she is a lowly 3rd level aristo].
Hopefully she’d wake up, and think the whole episode had been a bad dream. If
questioned, the Bard made a note to
recount his own, horrific “night terrors,” when he’d been under lots of stress. Ortwin
opened the window, looked out, waited for a guard to pass, and clambered down the ivy
into the quadrangle.
Still within the confines of the chapel, Mostin waited patiently, amazed at the sudden and
dramatic disappearance of his three new companions. The blood in the font interested him,
although he was
unsure as to its significance as an omen. Almost without thinking, he cast a detect magic
spell to see if anything was untoward. The font radiated a faint aura of evocation, but a
residue of divination
remained in the air nearby as well. Mostin’s interest was piqued. Someone scrying
perhaps? Surely not!
Who would dare scry on Mostin the Metagnostic? Unthinkable. And he surely would have
noticed. He
brooded for a while, and then invoked detect scrying.
There it pulsed, high in the west transept of the chapel, around ten feet above the ground: a
colour pool.
Mostin’s stomach sank, and he groaned. Someone – or something – in astral form, had got
the jump on him. He leaned against the font, stroked his hedgehog, and tried to put things
together in his mind.
A few minutes later, Ortwin scuttled back into the chapel. “Where are the others?’ he
asked “Have they returned yet?”
Mostin gave a negative grunt.
Noting the alienist’s discomfort, Ortwin pressed him. “What else have you divined?”
Feeling indignant at his own oversight, with his ego battered and his reputation on the line,
Mostin erupted into a characteristic fit of screaming, which left the bard rather bewildered
and demonstrating to Ortwin for the first time Mostin’s precarious grasp on sanity. The
bard waited patiently while the alienist vented. Mostin eventually calmed down, and
related his latest findings.
“An astral gate? Here in the chapel? How splendid!” Ortwin’s irony and mirth were barely
concealed.
“Who do you think was looking at us? Perhaps you should inquire more closely. The
vision dweomer might…”
“Yes, yes, yes.” Mostin replied, and grudgingly invoked the vision spell.
The alienist’s eyes glazed over and he drooled for a few moments.
“So what did you see?” Ortwin asked anxiously.
“Er…I’d rather not say, until I’ve had time to think about it.”
“I’m sure the duchess would be eager to know about the colour portal.”
Mostin looked venomously at the bard, and picked his words carefully. “I saw an…
entity…observing us.”
“Perhaps you could be a little more specific.”
“The name Rurunoth springs to mind,” Mostin added.
Ortwin, unschooled in demonology, looked blank. “Is that supposed to mean something to
me?”
“He is a demon,” Mostin explained.
“Ahhh! Small, medium or large type?”
“Er…VERY large,” the alienist confessed.
“So he was responsible for the blood in the font?” Ortwin inquired.
“Most likely,” Mostin replied.
“And the trees wilting, food rotting and such?”
“That would seem plausible.”
“Well, that’s good. At least its not a bad omen from Eadric’s tedious god. We can relax on
that count.
What do you know about this Rurunoth?”
“He is a servitor demon to one of the abyssal princes,” said Mostin.
Ortwin twitched reflexively. “It’s OK. You don’t need to say his name. I can guess which
one it is…”
After the others had been located and apprised of the situation, Eadric launched a barrage
of questions towards Mostin, none of which, from the Paladin’s perspective, proved to
have satisfactory answers:
“…but this is holy ground, how could a demon…?”
“The astral plane is not holy ground,” Mostin explained.
“So the omen…”
“Was not an omen,” Mostin explained.
“And your communing with Lord Oronthon…”
“May or may not be entirely reliable,” Mostin confessed grudgingly. “And technically I
was inquiring, not communing.”
“But you don’t know its veracity for sure?”
“No, but the answers seem to fit plausibly if they were delivered from a deity of
Oronthon’s type.”
“That doesn’t mean anything, does it?”
“No, not really,” Mostin admitted.
“And this ‘Rurunoth’ – he is a Type VI demon,” Eadric ventured.
“That phraseology is somewhat antiquated, but yes, more or less.”
“We should find Despina. We need to talk to her again, ” Eadric’s voice conveyed a
mixture of longing and apprehension.
“Fool,” Ortwin muttered, shaking his head.
Eadric trooped off towards the south tower, where Despina and a number of other
handmaidens were
quartered. Ortwin and Mostin followed the Paladin from the chapel and Nwm, reluctantly,
tagged
along.
As they walked across the courtyard, the Druid observed Mostin carefully avoiding the
cracks in the flagstones, and stroked his beard thoughtfully.
“Isn’t this rather suspect,” Ortwin mentioned archly, “you know – four men descending
upon a bevy of maidens at two o’clock in the morning. Not that I’d usually have any
complaints, mind you, but I think you at least ought to show some decorum, Eadric. Mud
sticks, and we wouldn’t want your reputation
sullied for the sake of an abyssal wench would we?” Eadric ignored the obvious taunt,
walked up to the gate of the tower and hammered loudly. A sleepy eunuch opened the
door.
“This is Eadric, Baronet of Deorham,” the Paladin announced in a perfunctory manner. “I
have Mostin the Metagnostic with me, and we are making inquiries regarding the events
of the past few days. As an approved church inquisitor, I demand entry. Please inform the
ladies to dress and make themselves
presentable.”
After waiting for thirty minutes outside, the group were finally admitted and entered the
reception room, where a dozen or so handmaidens – including the Lady Despina - had
gathered.
“These are routine inquiries,” Ortwin assured them glibly, and pulled a scroll and quill
from his belt before anyone else could speak. “Please do not be alarmed. We are merely
trying to reconcile the events of the past week or so, and form them into a coherent
report.”
“At two in the morning?” Complained a woman called Silla.
“And to dispel the false rumours of diabolism which are currently circulating in the court,”
Ortwin added dramatically, staring at Silla. She spoke no more.
“We will speak to three of you tonight,” Ortwin continued, “You Lady Silla, as you must
be anxious to return to your beauty-sleep, you Lady Esme and…er…you Lady Despina.”
The last words were spoken as if a random name had been plucked from the air.
“I’ll give you credit,” Eadric muttered to Ortwin, ” you are a sneaky bugger.”
Only after Silla and Esme - subjected to a barrage of irrelevant questions by Ortwin – had
been
discharged, was Lady Despina brought in. Under the steely glare of Mostin and Eadric, the
lusty gaze of Ortwin and the ironic stare of Nwm, the succubus sat demurely on a small
stool, her nightgown
covered by a thick cloak of peacock feathers.
“Lady Despina,” Mostin began, “You may dispense with the formalities.” The Mage
raised his hand,
and uttered an incantation, dispelling the artificial form which she had assumed. In place
of the demure handmaiden, another form appeared: horned, muscular, sexless, with eyes
of fire and a pair of great leathern wings, which seemed to instinctively retract about the
nude form, as if in modesty. Around the creature’s neck, hanging loosely, the group briefly
glimpsed a pendant set with a single black opal, before the wings shrouded it.
“What is that token?” Mostin asked quickly. “May I please see it?”
“No!” The creature replied in an eerie voice, with a hint of something akin to anguish.
“Lady Despina,” said Eadric softly, “how can we trust you if you are unwilling to co-
operate? Please render the item up to Mostin. It will be returned to you if it proves
harmless.”
Reluctantly, the creature complied, and then resumed its previous form. Mostin inspected
the amulet closely, and asked “What is this? And why do you insist on assuming a form
which others would find more palatable?”
“I have grown to like it,” she replied.
“Well, I’ve made my point,” Mostin said haughtily, “it should at least dispel any
infatuations about your…womanliness…that others here might feel.”
“What is the token?” Nwm asked insistently, half to Mostin and half to Despina. The Lady
did not answer.
“It is magical, with some kind of abjuration dweomer. It will take me some time to
procure the items necessary for the proper analysis of this object,” Mostin explained
grumpily, “although I may make a cursory inspection tomorrow. In any case, it must wait.
‘Lady Despina’ – if that is your preferred name
– we are about to subject you to an arduous series of tests in order to gauge your
motivations and your true nature. Do you comply?”
“No, please,” the maiden began.
“I should rephrase that,” Mostin interrupted. “If you wish to remain here, you WILL
comply, do you understand?”
Despina nodded quietly.
“Furthermore, you will voluntarily relinquish your natural demonic resistance to such
methods of enquiry.”
Despina gave an astonished look, but agreed nonetheless. “I don’t trust any one of you,
except you, Eadric.” The handmaiden looked imploringly at the Paladin. “You must make
assurances that no harm comes to me, or I will hold you and your God responsible.”
Eadric coughed, looked embarrassed, and dumbly nodded.
An hour later, tired and hungry, the group gathered in the empty great hall around the
dying embers of one of its three large fires. Ortwin reclined on a soft chair of leather and
sipped from an oversized goblet of firewine.
They had discerned lies, detected evil, chaos, thoughts and magic. Mostin had used true
seeing to
determine whether any other influence was present.
He was mentally exhausted, but satisfied.
“She is less evil than one would have anticipated for a demon,” he remarked, “and it
seems plausible that her reluctance to surrender the amulet was due to a fear that the taint
was still wholly on her, and would be revealed.”
“I still don’t buy it,” Ortwin remarked. “It’s too convenient. We’ve probably missed
something, or overlooked a niggling detail. Still, she revealed her knowledge of Rurunoth,
and gave us some pointers in that direction. But we’re still in the dark about the accuracy
of your communication with Oronthon.”
“Tomorrow,” Eadric sighed, “we’ll go to the temple, and seek advice from the archbishop.
His retreat should be over by now. And Despina is secure, I believe. But I can’t hold her
for ever under
ecclesiastical law, and the Duchess is bound to ask questions.”
“’IT’,” said Mostin, “not ‘her’ – ‘it’”
In the uppermost room of the ramshackle tower of owls, the door to which was guarded by
Eadric’s
squire, Tatterbrand, Lady Despina sat on a soft bed within the magic circle which had been
inscribed on the floor by Mostin.
“Why not sit down, Tatterbrand?” She asked politely. “Perhaps you could tell me a
story…”
originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 04-20-2002
So, this is the second half of the post that I would have made yesterday if I’d had time to
check it for typos etc. Inevitably, there is some gloss on my part, but the
melodrama/humour mix is pretty accurate
- remember this was a couple of months ago, and I don’t keep game records THAT
accurately.
I clearly remember the terms “anally fixated” “apotheosis” and “toadies” being used by
Danny (Mostin)
however…
IC:
In the balmy midday sun, Eadric stood next to his celestial steed and companion,
Contundor. The
Paladin was arrayed in full battle gear and waited anxiously for the others to arrive, pacing
restlessly to and fro. The Duchess of Trempa sat upon a bier surrounded by guards and
attended by her maidens –
from whom the Lady Despina was notably absent. She mused about events of the previous
night, and
Eadric was deliberately evasive when questioned about her strange nocturnal experiences.
“I’m sure that Mostin could uncover the truth,” he assured her, “although, regrettably I
need him with me today. We are going to Morne. If all goes well, we will return within the
day, and I can inform you of the developments which we have uncovered.”
“And the Lady Despina? Must you confine her so? Surely she cannot be involved in these
strange goings-on. Her credentials are impeccable.”
Eadric grimaced.
Ortwin of Jiuhu arrived, dressed in his tattiest travelling clothes and wearing his studded
jerkin – an item for which he had been roundly criticized for wearing around court in the
past. “Peasant’s attire,” as the Duchess had kindly put it. No love was lost between the
two, and now the Duchess eyed him
suspiciously, and tried to place him within the scheme of the last night’s “visions” – or
whatever they had been. Ortwin nursed a hangover. As usual, the firewine of the previous
night had not agreed with him. He shaded his eyes from the sun, located the Duchess in
his view, and gave a dramatic and grossly exaggerated bow – an act which he knew would
annoy her.
Nwm and, eventually, Mostin arrived. Nwm was still upset because he had been told that
his bear,
Tostig, could not travel with them. He had argued that the bear would be more use than the
Paladin’s horse in a pinch, although he had to concede that its effects on the archbishop’s
orangery – disastrous when Tostig had last visited the Archiepiscopal Palace some months
before – were better avoided given the sensitive nature of their mission.
Mostin was dressed in dapper, fashionable clothes with his hat tilted rakishly to one side.
His swagger would have been more convincing had those present not noticed his tendency
to count as he walked,
carefully avoiding the gaps between the flagstones of the courtyard. Somewhat surprised,
Eadric
noticed the rapier hanging from Mostin’s belt.
“I didn’t know that you could use a rapier, Mostin,” he inquired openly.
Mostin looked slightly sheepish, but didn’t say anything.
The Duchess, Ortwin knew from long experience, was about to give a lengthy and tedious
speech about quests and uncovering the truth. The bard swallowed hard and wondered
why they couldn’t have just
slipped away discreetly. Unfortunately, this was never the case with Eadric. Standing
above the Paladin as he knelt on one knee, Trilgar, the aging and pompous chaplain,
sprinkled Eadric with holy water and incanted various prayers and supplications. Eadric
then kissed the ringed hand of the Duchess – his land-holding overlord - and received her
blessing. So much feudal bull
, Ortwin muttered to
himself.
After the predictable oratory delivered by the Duchess, the group prepared to depart. They
would be wind-walking again – much to the excitement of Mostin who had never before
experienced that mode
of travel. The Alienist’s own suggestion – that the others, including Eadric’s horse – climb
into his portable hole while he teleported, had been greeted sceptically by both the Paladin
and the Bard. Nwm now quickly touched the others, and they dissolved into mist.
As they left, an incredulous look passed across the face of the Duchess, as she recalled the
events of the previous night.
Waiting in the nave of the fane, Eadric looked around nervously. They had been kept
waiting for two hours already. The temple guards – dour and unmoving - stood in silent
vigil near the exits and around the high altar. Ortwin slouched across one of the pews in an
irreverent posture, idly passing a silver coin between his fingers as he gazed around at the
sumptuous trappings of organized churchdom.
Mostin, stroking his hedgehog, muttered inaudibly to himself. Nwm sat stiffly and
uncomfortably, and wondered why they had not been received in the Orangery, which was
much more to his liking.
Eventually, the High Prelate – Cynric of Morne - accompanied by six paladins dressed in
white and
bearing ceremonial maces, and a collection of lesser priests and functionaries, took his
place on the archiepiscopal throne beneath the vast emblem of Oronthon – an eagle
rearing defiantly upon a golden solar orb. He was old – near eighty now – and his face
betrayed a great strain. His usually benign
expression was instead stern and judgemental, a sign which made Eadric’s stomach sink.
Ortwin coughed, and flicked the silver piece into the collection box, where it landed with a
“plunk.”
After fixing each of the group members in turn with his clear, ice blue eyes, Cynric
eventually spoke, his voice a hoarse whisper. Although age had taken its toll on his body,
the archbishop’s spirit shone through like an incandescent beacon. Here was the vicar of
Oronthon on Earth, one who had spent so long in the divine presence that he seemed a
virtual demigod. Like those who had gone before him,
Cynric would not die, but undergo a divine assumption and be transported bodily to
heaven where he would bask eternally in the light radiated from his deity. Or that was the
popular conception, at least.
Nwm seemed unimpressed.
The Archbishop’s first words, therefore, came as something of a surprise – both to Eadric
and the
assembled priests.
“Not everything has been revealed to me,” he said. He paused briefly, and then continued.
“Do you believe the creature?” He asked Eadric directly, his eyes burning into the Paladin.
“I’m not sure, holiness” Eadric replied honestly, “although I prefer to give her the benefit
of the doubt.”
“Are you swayed by unchaste thoughts?”
“That is entirely possible, holiness,” Eadric admitted.
Cynric remained silent for a while before he spoke again. “You have committed a number
of minor infractions already, in order to pursue this possibility. Am I correct?”
“Yes, holiness,” Eadric said guiltily, “I felt that circumstances warranted it. I felt that there
must come a point where dogma must give way to an inner prompting.”
Ortwin grinned broadly.
Cynric suddenly became intense. “Be very careful, Eadric, that is the path to heresy. Do
not think that your vision is deeper or clearer than mine: this is why we have the LAW. If
you abide by it – both in letter and spirit - you are exonerated of personal responsibility,
and the blame – if there is any – falls upon me. Do you understand?”
Nwm opened his mouth, about to point out the logical fallacy in that last statement, but
thought better of it.
“Yes, holiness,” Eadric replied, “but you were not available. You were in retreat.”
Cynric gave an ironic smile. “Regrettably, that is so. As I say, not all things are revealed to
me.”
There was a long, difficult silence before Eadric finally plucked up the courage to speak.

“Holiness, because you were not available, I acquiesced to Mostin the Metagnostic’s
suggestion that he act as mediator between Lord Oronthon and myself.”
The admission brought mutterings and sharp intakes of breath from numerous members of
the
assembled clergy. Mostin’s head rose up at the mention of his name.
“I trust that Lord Oronthon gave you sound advice?” Cynric smiled humourlessly as he
looked at Mostin.
Mostin bristled momentarily, and then erupted. [His gist of his diatribe, IIRC, went
something roughly like this
“I admit to no superior anywhere within the cosmos - least of all your patriarchal, anally
fixated god.
My apotheosis is assured. I will transcend all limits observed by petty religion, and expand
until my consciousness embraces the totality of possible existences. However, I admit that
my perfection is still some distance away, and I may have erred in my communication
with the entity which you worship.
The truth is still unknown to me. In any case, I don’t subscribe to your dogma, so I’d be
grateful if you didn’t use the same condescending tone with me that you do with your
toadies.”
“Right on, Mostin,” Nwm chimed in.
Ortwin laughed uncontrollably.
After their forcible ejection from the fane by the temple guards, Mostin, Nwm and Ortwin
stood in the courtyard. The Druid plucked an apple from a nearby tree and munched on it.
Mostin had calmed down. “Er, I didn’t go too far did I?”
“Not at all,” Nwm assured him, “the old fart needs taking down a peg or two from time to
time. He should adopt a more ecumenical perspective.”
Cynric, Archbishop of Morne, sat informally in a small cloistered room with Eadric. The
lesser clerics had been discharged, and although Eadric was no less nervous than before, at
least the gossiping of the temple functionaries was stayed. After apologizing for the
conduct of his friends, Eadric earnestly beseeched the Archbishop for guidance.
Cynric shook his head. “The Curia is divided, Eadric. All of the Venerable Masters know
of the current situation – I have not kept it secret from them. I hold the final say, but there
are temporal as well as spiritual considerations. When I finally depart, I must assure the
continuity of tradition.”
“Lord Oronthon has been unforthcoming,” the Archbishop continued. “Since the crisis
began – revealed
to me in a visitation by Rintrah* - our God has been unresponsive. He simply refuses to
reply to my questions, and all of my queries have been answered by Urthoon.** I suspect
that I am being tested as much as you are.”
“Er, what exactly are you saying, holiness?”
“That, in all conscience, I can neither approve nor condemn any course of action that you
choose to take. I am not anathematizing you, but you must realize that my hands are tied.
Certainty is denied me, therefore I can give you no help in this matter. You are correct
when you speak of inner promptings –
not that I’d say it in front of those others: after all, it IS the road to heresy, at least among
the unenlightened.”
Eadric’s mind reeled in a succession of radical paradigm shifts as he tried to grasp the
importance of what his confessor had told him.
“Holiness, Mostin spoke of virtue, and that it must be regained. What did he mean?”
Eadric asked.
“Do not trust the alienist’s certainty. He has spent too long in dealing with things that
shouldn’t be dealt with. He is quite mad.”
“But can you think of a better place to start?”
Cynric shook his head and admitted that he couldn’t.
As the Paladin turned to leave, Cynric spoke to him once more. “Eadric, you realize that
you may not come here again until this is resolved, either one way or the other. You will
return either victorious or humiliated.”
Eadric nodded dumbly.
“So what did the old geezer say?” Ortwin asked as Eadric mounted Contundor.
“I’m on my own.” The Paladin responded.
“Existential truth, man,” said Nwm, grinning.
.
*Rintrah is a Planetar in Oronthon’s host. He is responsible for mortal revelations.
**Another Planetar…
originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 04-23-2002
Quote:
As that as far as the story has gone so far sepulchrave? How long ago did your party
role play
this?
No, indeed. One of the reasons that I was reluctant to begin posting again, was because
things
were happening in-game much faster than I could post them on the boards. All of the
events
recounted so far were in the first three or four sessions. I was making notes, intending at
some
stage to compile them, but never seemed to have time.
This next post - a fairly crucial one in terms of the direction that the party decided to take -
relates to two sessions early in the new year. The story arc wasn’t completed until half
way
through March. At the END of this post, I guess that things are about one quarter
resolved…
Soooo…
Before returning to the court of the Duchess, at Trempa, the group decided to pay a brief
visit to Eadric’s own fief.
Deorham – which consisted of around ten thousand acres of prime arable land centered on
the
village of the same name – was some thirty miles from the Ducal seat, and abutted the
main
highway from Trempa to Morne. Like most of eastern Wyre, Deorham was characterized
by
rolling green hills and pastures, copses of oak, elm and beech trees, and numerous small,
sandy
streams. When Nwm was present – which was frequently - the Druid generally ensured
that the
weather was fine, and that it only rained at night. Hence, much to the envy of his
aristocratic
neighbours, Eadric grew vines that bore huge grapes, and had produced several notable
vintages.
A mile from the village of Deorham, perched upon an outcrop of granite, was the castle
known as Kyrtill’s Burgh. It was an odd, ramshackle collection of buildings half covered
with ivy and
surrounded by a decrepit stone curtain wall which Eadric – spending much of his time
adventuring – had never quite gotten around to repairing. Kyrtill’s Burgh boasted a single
tower
(known simply as “The Steeple”) which rose from the precipitous northern flank of the
hill. It teetered improbably above the cliff, but had successfully withstood assault from
both the weather
and – only several years previously – a large gang of irate Hill Giants.
It was late evening by the time that Eadric, Mostin, Ortwin and Nwm arrived at the castle,
ate a
relaxed meal, and retired to the roof of the Steeple to discuss their next move. Once, two
ballistae had been mounted there, but Nwm had long since shaped them with his magic
into a gazebo,
pointing out that whatever enemies Eadric made at this stage of his career, they were
unlikely to
be cowed by a pair of large crossbows.
The conversation rapidly became very intense.
Mostin had had an idea.
“Have you ever heard of Goetic magic?” The alienist asked. He was greeted by blank
stares from Eadric and Nwm. Ortwin raised an eyebrow as an obscure memory rose to the
surface of his
mind, but said nothing.
“Okay,” Mostin went on. “Say, hypothetically, I killed a horde of ghouls by throwing a
‘Fireball’
at them, would you say that that is a good act?”
“I already don’t like where this is going,” Eadric replied.
“Well,” said Mostin, irritably, “would you or not?”
“I suppose so,” Eadric sighed.
“Say, then, Nwm killed the same horde of Ghouls by using a ‘Sunbeam’ – would you say
that is a BETTER act?”
“That much is certain,” Eadric said. Ortwin snidely pointed out that Oronthon was a solar
deity.
“How about,” said Mostin, “if I used the spell ‘Destruction’ to achieve the same end – not
that I have a Necromantic repertoire, mind you – but just suppose that I did.”
“If this is designed to be a test to determine whether I support the principle of the end
justifying the means, you’re wasting you’re time,” Eadric said rather stuffily.
“But you do admit that a spectrum of grey exists between ‘good’ and ‘bad’ acts,” Mostin
continued.
“Of course,” snapped Eadric, “I’m not that naive.”
“You’re wasting your time, Mostin,” said Nwm, “we’ve covered this ground a thousand
times before. Just give up now and accept the pompous ass for who he is.”
Mostin was undeterred. “Do you concede that the MOTIVATION behind the act is an
important
factor in determining whether its good or bad?”
“ONE factor, yes,” Eadric agreed.
“But the difference now,” Mostin said, slyly, “is that you are on your own – as you
yourself said.
You do not have the church to fall back on. They’ve washed their hands of you. They’ve
said ‘Er,
we don’t know what to do. We don’t HAVE any rules for this. Bye-bye!’”
“It’s not quite that simple,” Eadric said, patiently, “but I don’t expect you to understand.”
“But the fact remains,” Mostin pushed further, “that it is you who have to make the
judgement call now. You cannot go to Cynric and ask ‘can I do this?’ or ‘should I do that?’
You are now
your own moral and ethical centre.”
“Temporarily, at least,” the Paladin conceded, “but I also have centuries of writings by the
Church’s theologians to fall back upon. The doctrines that I adhere to do not exist in a
vacuum,
but are the product of many years of considered thought and prayer by holy men. I can
turn to the
scriptures to find my inspiration.”
Ortwin laughed. “There is always dogma, Mostin. Don’t underestimate it. You should see
his
library here. Hundreds of volumes written by the most tedious and exasperating
philosophers,
mystics and venerable grandees you have ever seen.”
“I should very much like that,” Mostin said unexpectedly, “perhaps we could go now, and
find what your Church has to say about Goetic magic.”
The library, which consisted mainly of religious discourses, occupied around half of the
second
floor in the main bailey. Numerous scrolls, papers and dusty tomes cluttered the shelves or
lay
piled upon tables and desks. The place smelled damp and musty. Like the rest of Kyrtill’s
Burgh,
it was rather neglected. Mostin tutted condescendingly and, five minutes later, although
the
clutter and confusion remained, the alienist had cleaned the room thoroughly by means of
a
cantrip or two and gathered all of the dust into a neat pile in one corner.
After around an hour of searching through the more general theological works in the
library,
Nwm eventually found a reference to a treatise called “The Ethical Use of Arcane Magic:
an
Oronthonian’s Guide,” written two hundred years previously by a deacon called Rhodin of
Iua.
Rhodin had been an obscure functionary during the time of the Archbishop Brord, and had
displayed some talent as a wizard before his conversion.
Eadric was unsure as to whether he possessed the volume, but a surprisingly brief search
produced it. Opening its cracked, leatherbound pages, Mostin seemed delighted to find
that it
contained a whole chapter on Goetic magic – although the tenor of Rhodin’s opinions left
him
rather disappointed.
“Beware the temptations of Goetia,” it began, “for those who would use diabolism to
achieve their foul ends, our Lord has no mercy. Pain and suffering immeasurable shall be
their lot, as
their souls are condemned to the pit. There they will immersed in great lakes of boiling
lead,
until the last days.”
Rhodin’s discourse continued in a similar flowery and rhetorical vein for several pages,
admonishing the true Oronthonian against using dark magics and citing numerous (more
reputable) theologians to back up his point. Further into the chapter, beneath a stylized
plate of a wizard fleeing from a horned demon, Rhodin finally addressed the nature of
Goetic magic.
“What is Goetia, you may ask? It is the greatest peril. It is dealing with fiends to achieve
your ends, and claiming that your ends are good. Only the purest and most stalwart of
souls may
endure such vileness without the taint falling upon them. Are you one of these? I doubt it.”
Several magical diagrams followed, accompanied by descriptions of summoning rituals.
“So what exactly is your point, Mostin?” Eadric asked apprehensively.
“Consider,” replied Mostin, “that we have a succubus – a demoness – confined within a
thaumaturgical diagram, dimensionally anchored, and locked in a tower fifty miles from
here.
Consider also that our ends are ostensibly good. Would you not say that we are
ALREADY
practicing Goetic magic?”
“Hmm,” grunted Eadric.
“He’s got a good point,” Ortwin agreed, “although I’m not sure what he’s getting at,
either.”
“So you’re saying I’m going to boil in a lake of lead when my final Judgement is passed?”
Eadric asked.
“Not at all,” Mostin replied. “Read the words: ‘…for those who would use diabolism to
achieve
their foul ends…’ I would argue that our ends are not foul, and therefore the stipulation
does not apply to us. Not that I’d give this crank much credence, anyway.”
Eadric banged his head with his fist. “Then why are we even reading this if you think that
this Rhodin is a crank,” he shouted.
“Because he is one of yours. An Oronthon worshipper. His opinions should matter to
YOU, if not to me.”
Ortwin laughed loudly. “He’s got you there. Besides, if you’re ‘stalwart’ and ‘pure’ then
it’s no problem. And, of all the people I know, you possess these two regrettable qualities
in the largest measure.”
“Why thank-you, Ortwin,” Eadric said, drily, “that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to
me.” He paused. “So what exactly IS your point, Mostin?”
The Alienist drew himself up dramatically to deliver his big idea. “As we are now fellow
Goetians – those who deal with fiends to achieve honouable ends – my recommendation is
simple. We summon Rurunoth, trap him in a pentacle, and force him to spill the beans.”
Eadric groaned. “You really are nuts, aren’t you?”
“Quite,” said Mostin, “but that’s not the issue here. Think about it: you have no support
from your Church, and have no way of determining what the official line would be in this
matter.”
“I know that they wouldn’t be too keen on THIS idea,” Eadric pointed out.
“Maybe,” said Mostin, “but here are the facts. One: we have a succubus, who may
genuinely seek redemption, to consider. Two: her master (or former master) is Graz’zt, one
of the most feared of
the Abyssal princes, and one whose designs you have slighted in the past. Three: the Balor
Rurunoth is somehow involved in this plot, and acted as the go-between, conveying
Graz’zt’s
orders to Despina, and maybe playing the role of enforcer. I believe we can coerce him to
reveal
the larger machinations behind the current situation - I would guess that he is close in his
Master’s counsels.” Mostin paused for a while before he continued.
“Four: Rurunoth is a powerful foe in his own right. He is responsible for causing blood to
erupt from the font in the Duchess’s chapel, trees to wilt and people to fall ill. He deserves
to be taught a lesson. And to entrap or foil him WOULD be a good act, and would give a
few thousand
damned souls a brief respite from their allotment of eternal pain and suffering. Five: it is
within my power to accomplish this act with the minimum of risk – after all, I am one of
the most
renowned spellcasters of the northern world, and dealing with extraplanar creatures is my
particular speciality. And, lastly, and most importantly, Six: if something DOES go wrong,
we
can take him.”
“You think so?” Nwm asked, dubiously, “demons are tricky. Big fiery demons are very
tricky.
I’m not so sure.”
“I certainly don’t like it,” Eadric said. “I’m no authority in these matters, but it doesn’t
strike me as the best course of action.”
“I think it’s a great idea,” said Ortwin, “when can we start?”
“No time like the present,” replied Mostin.
“NOT IN MY HOUSE!” Eadric had demanded, so Mostin had erected his portable manse
–a
charming, rustic villa - in a small glade in the woods, several furlongs from the castle
walls. The Paladin’s eventual agreement to the summoning was due in large part to the
fact that, whether
Eadric was present or not, Mostin and Ortwin had determined to go through with it.
Somehow,
Mostin had touched Ortwin’s biggest weakness – a sense of absurd braggadocio – and the
Bard
was instantly swayed by the potential kudos that such an act might bestow upon him.
Eadric
already had visions of Ortwin, drunk and leaning on a bar, recounting his exploits to an
enrapt
audience.
While Mostin spent three hours inscribing a magical diagram in minute detail upon the
floor of
his cellar, Eadric prayed fervently to Oronthon for guidance, and Nwm meditated beneath
a
nearby birch tree. Ortwin decided to drink a glass of firewine, and then had a brief nap in
one of Mostin’s six comfortable bedrooms.
It was past midnight before the diagram was complete. Mostin explained the procedure.
Ortwin
noticed the deranged look in the Alienist’s eyes as he spoke, and felt somewhat
uncomfortable.
Oh hell, he thought, its too late to back out now.
“First,” intoned Mostin, “we’ll need to invoke LOTS of spells upon ourselves – just as a
precaution, of course – before I begin the summoning proper. So what do we have in our
respective armamentaria?”
“Three ‘Barkskins,’ a ‘Death Ward’ and a ‘Protection from Elements,’” said Nwm. “I’ve
got no
offensive spells that would even touch a Balor – if I’d known we were going to be doing
anything like this, I’d have spared the Windwalking, gone with your Portable Hole
suggestion,
and prepped a couple of ‘Sunbeams.’”
Mostin sighed. “How about you, Eadric?”
“Er. ‘Bless,’ ‘Prayer,’ ‘Shield Other,’ ‘Magic Circle Against Evil’ and ‘Holy Sword’”
“Excellent,” said Mostin, “I trust that, as I requested, you brought another bastard sword
from your armoury?”
“Yes,” replied Eadric, “although…”
“Good,” interrupted Mostin, “you see, I need your own sword – Lukarn – for the ritual. It
will be the first and most effective line of defense if things go awry”
“This is getting worse by the minute,” said Eadric.
“Ortwin?” Mostin inquired.
“Oh, you know,” said the Bard. “This and that.”
Mostin stared hard.
“’Cat’s Grace?’” Ortwin offered.
“I suppose every little helps,” said Mostin, condescendingly.
“Just get your ego under control,” complained Nwm, “you’re wearing me out.”
Mostin ignored the jibe.
Buffed as well as time and circumstances would allow, the alienist began incanting.
Mostin
placed Lukarn, a vial of holy water and a small solar disc upon the ground next to him and
gestured.
A ray of green light shot from his outstretched palm and infused the silver tracery upon the
ground with an eerie glow. The trap was anchored. The alienist began to chant.
Time dilated for those present, as Mostin’s form seemed to pulse with arcane power. Here
was
the certainty that the Archbishop had warned Eadric about, and Eadric mused in a half
dream
state what “Metagnostic” meant. Was it “Meta-Gnostic,” or “Met-Agnostic?” Did such
distinctions matter, the Paladin wondered as the pressure in his psyche grew. Mostin
probably
didn’t care.
The Alienist moved his arm and spoke a series of loud syllables. Candles sputtered, and
rising
from nowhere, an arcane wind seemed to tear at the very souls of those present.
Nwm nodded, and Eadric invoked a prayer. A circle of hope blossomed around him,
emanating
from an old and unremarkable sword.
Mostin the Metagnostic spoke a single word which echoed across the worlds. It was a
command which penetrated the deepest reaches of an alien realm, a place where no sanity
had ever existed.
“RURUNOTH!”
In the Abyss, something stirred.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 04-24-2002
Here we go again.
Of course, the last scene in this post was unknown to the players. It’s my own, vague
interpretation of events in the Abyss. I thought I’d throw it in for fun.
***
A roar reminiscent of a cataract filled the cellar of Mostin’s comfortable retreat. Within the
diagram, black fire shot forth in columns, merely to dissipate against a barrier which was
visible only in relief – it flickered like a void against the shadows beyond it.
Ortwin looked at Mostin, and saw fear in the Alienist’s eyes. “What the…,” the Bard
began.
“WAIT!” Mostin commanded. “He is trying to escape.”
The convulsions within the pentacle lasted only a few moments, before they abruptly
ceased.
They were replaced by a perfect hemisphere of silent, impenetrable darkness.
Mostin was shaking, but tried to look relaxed. “We’re safe,” he said.
“So where is he?” Eadric asked uncertainly. “In there?”
“Oh yes!” Mostin replied, recovering some of his cockiness. “He’s in there all right. It
would seem that he’s reluctant to reveal himself, however.” The Alienist turned towards
the blackness.
“Are you feeling shy, Rurunoth?”
Silence.
“He’s not very talkative, is he?” Ortwin offered.
Silence.
“This is freaking me out,” moaned Nwm. “He’s safe, right? Let’s go upstairs for a while. I
need a drink.”
“For once, I agree,” said Eadric.
Eadric threw off his armour, and the quartet sat silently for a while in Mostin’s small but
comfortable drawing room. Nwm was the first to speak.
“If I remember aright, we’ve got 24 hours to put an offer on the table. Correct, Mostin?”
The Alienist nodded. “If we choose to make an offer. And every day we hold him, we can
renew
our offer, but he has a chance of breaking free.”
“How big a chance?” Ortwin inquired.
“By my calculations, the odds are only very slightly in our favour.”
Eadric groaned. “I thought this would involve a ‘minimum risk.’ It’s starting to sound even
worse than I’d feared.”
“There are other options.” Mostin ventured.
“Go on,” sighed the Paladin.
“We can kill him,” said Mostin, flatly.
“Assuming we CAN, what good will that do?” Ortwin snapped. “We’ll gain no
information, and incur his undying enmity – although we’ve probably earned that already.
He’ll merely reform in
the Abyss.”
“I suggest this course of action only in extremis – for example, if the trap fails and no
bargain has been struck. But you are wrong. Rurunoth has been CALLED, not summoned.
The distinction is
subtle, but important. He is here, fully. If he is slain, he is destroyed. Forever.”
“That would be cutting Graz’zt’s right hand off,” Eadric said. “It is tempting.”
“Not really,” Mostin smiled.
Eadric shot a quizzical look towards the Alienist.
“Prince Graz’zt is served by six Balors, of whom Rurunoth is one,” Mostin explained.
“SIX?” Repeated Nwm. “Sh*t. Why didn’t you mention that already?”
“I didn’t think it was important,” said Mostin blandly. “I could also tell you the military
dispositions and allegiances of every Duke of Hell, and the names of a hundred Seraphs,
Thrones
and Virtues in Oronthon’s host – which is probably more than Eadric here could – but it’s
simply
not relevant.”
“Get back to the point, Mostin,” Ortwin interrupted. “What other options do we have?”
“I can trap his soul permanently – or attempt to do so. The chances for this are fairly high,
as we know his name. If I can get hold of a certain buffing spell which I don’t currently
possess (and
have been meaning to acquire for some time), the odds will increase further in our favour.”
“But we need information,” Ortwin reminded the Alienist. “Rurunoth is no good to us if
we can’t communicate with him.”
“True,” Mostin admitted, “but the usual stipulation on the binding spell which now
contains him, is one of a kind of ‘reciprocal exchange.’ Normally, the mage offers the
bound creature
something that it desires, and requests a service in return. I’m not sure whether his simply
divulging information deserves a particularly high price – at least from his point of view.
Right
now, he is silently brooding, wondering what our next move will be. He knows who we
are, what
motivates us, and how best to reach our innermost needs and desires. His silence is simply
his
opening move in our negotiations. And he fears us – as much as or more than we fear him.
Demons are ruled by fear. He has much to lose in this matter, and risks the ire of his
master if he acts prematurely and without thought of the consequences. The scales are
delicately balanced.”
“So what exactly ARE you suggesting, Mostin?” Eadric asked.
“That we open a dialogue, and that our foremost communicator should attempt to sway
him,”
replied the Alienist.
“SWAY him?” Nwm asked, incredulously.
Mostin was exasperated. “Get a grip! Rurunoth is not a god! Nor is he a foe beyond our
combined resources. He is ancient, cunning and formidable, yes. A fiend of great power.
But he
is flawed: a slave to greed, lust, and the desire for dominion. Trust me. It is why celestials
are MUCH harder to deal with than demons.”
“Then Eadric should undertake the negotiations,” Nwm said. “He is the foremost diplomat
amongst us, and less likely to be swayed by subtleties which the demon can offer.”
Eadric nodded, resigned to the task.
“No,” said Ortwin. “I’ll go, for precisely the opposite reason. Of all of us present, I’m
closest to the daemonic in perspective. I’m vain, lustful, self-centered and arrogant.” The
Bard grinned
broadly. “I am also the best liar in the world.”
“That,” agreed Eadric, “may very well be true.” The Paladin sighed. “Thank-you,
Ortwin.”
None of the group slept easily that night, and Mostin lamented the fact that he hadn’t
prepared
‘Mordenkainen’s Magnificent Mansion.’ An extradimensional pocket would have given
them all
the feeling of security which was sorely needed. He’d had a fiend or two in his cellar
before, of
course, not to mention a number of other bizarre extraplanar creatures. But this was
something of
a different order.
Before sleeping, poring over his books and looking unhappily at his repertoire, the
Alienist knew
that it was time to get hold of some dweomers with some serious firepower, as well as
some
utility spells. He knew a mage or two who might be open to a trade, although he had little
to offer them in return. He needed a week, at least, to procure, copy and absorb the spells.
There were
others, of course, but these struck the Alienist as the most pressing. Mostin made a list.
Fox’s Cunning
Permanency
Iron Body
Wall of Force
Disintegrate
Symbol
Mostin’s eyes glazed over, as a brief vision appeared in his mind of slinging mighty
magicks at
powerful outsiders. Ahh, this was what it was about. Mostin stroked Mogus, and the
hedgehog
made sympathetic crooning noises.
In measureless halls of iron, shaped aeons before from the primal stuff of cursed and
violent
matter, and since sustained by the merest iota of his great, dark Will, Prince Graz’zt
fumed.
Damned souls wailed in terror across the abysmal deeps as fires leapt up and acid poured
in
unbroken sheets from the swagging sky, driven by a wind of hate. The Prince’s own
lieutenants
and captains feared to approach him, lest they suffer the same fate as the Marilith, Uzmi.
She had been too eager to gain his favour, and had misread his mood. For her, death would
have been
kinder.
Not since his own incarceration had Graz’zt been so humiliated. The war with Orcus was
quickly
forgotten, and his plots and strategies, which spanned half a thousand worlds, were driven
from
his mind. A thirst for vengeance so profound overcame him that his visage contorted in
violent
paroxysm.
The bitchling, Nehael, on the verge of some perverse atonement. Rurunoth ensnared. And
now
this.
“WHEN?” The question thundered from the Prince.
The Balor called Ainhorr, vast and hoary beyond the measure of even his peers, moved
forward
and then abased himself, pressing his pitted forehead to the ground.
“Three days hence, Sire. In a neutral place of your choosing.”
Graz’zt’s aspect changed dramatically, and his countenance became beatific and serene.
“Ainhorr, you will go to meet the embassy,” the Prince spoke softly. “Who are they
sending?”
“Enitharmon and Urthoon, Lord,” Ainhorr replied.
“Aah,” said the Prince. And the briefest look of melancholy passed over his face.
And then Graz’zt laughed lightly. “Take one whom you distrust the least, Ainhorr.”
“Sire.”
“And see that you observe the correct forms.”
“Yes, Lord.”
“Do not fail me.” His mood was poison again.
Ainhorr bowed deeply, and departed in terror.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 04-28-2002
A post which may seem slightly surreal in places. It should be noticed that the ‘Ortwin and
the
Balor’ exchange revolves around two critical skills: Bluff (Ortwin +24, Rurunoth +18) and
Sense
Motive (Rurunoth +20, Ortwin +1). Ortwin just has to hope that the old blarney will prove
sufficient.
Mostin’s acquisition of the ‘Great Shout’ spell transpires to be very useful at a later time.
Sonic attacks are nasty.
I should mention in passing that Mulissu, a major NPC, is an Evoker 9 / Cleric 1 /
Elemental
Savant 10. She’s pretty dangerous.
Finally, note that the magic item exchange is fairly typical of my campaign. I never allow
such
things to be purchased on the open market, and generally insist that they are either made
by the
characters (as time permits), or are exchanged for like items. It tends to effectively limit
items in circulation.
Mulissu, as she now preferred to be called, was a witch of considerable power and
resources. Her
outright contempt of temporal affairs meant that, excepting a handful of powerful
spellcasters,
few denizens of the material world had even heard of her.
Mostin had met her in the guise of ‘Theleen’ during his peregrinations on the Elemental
Plane of
Air, and, mistaking her for a sylph, had unsuccessfully attempted to seduce her. The witch
had
casually demonstrated her magical superiority by transforming Mostin into a disembodied
head,
which she then placed in a glass jar. Only when the Alienist agreed to perform a task for
her – to retrieve a fabulous magical gem from the Xorn King – had Mulissu agreed to his
release. The
quest complete, Mostin and Mulissu had parted on less than amicable terms.
Mulissu now abode in a pocket of airy matter, some thirty miles across, which drifted
aimlessly
through the Ethereal Plane. Here she conducted her studies in relative seclusion, seeking
to
uncover forgotten secrets, and to penetrate the mysteries of wind and lightning.
Mostin had determined to visit the witch in an attempt to procure a number of spells from
her.
That she was the possessor of the ‘Binding’ spell, the Alienist knew: his own captivity at
her
hands was testament to that fact. He also knew that her repertoire, although focussed on
the
potent triune of evocation, conjuration and transmutation, was both eclectic and extensive.
Over a hurried breakfast, during which Ortwin was mentally preparing for a day of intense
duplicity, intrigue and temptation in his negotiations with the captive demon in the cellar,
Mostin made an announcement.
“I will probably be leaving for a few hours,” the Alienist said, abruptly.
He was greeted by a stunned silence.
“I am going to – hopefully – secure the spell that I spoke of, and perhaps others that will
aid us in our endeavours. I aim to be back by noon, although such things often take longer
than expected.”
“Er, Mostin,” said Ortwin, “I’d kind of hoped you’d be on hand to help out if things got…
messy.”
“There is no risk until after midnight tonight – when the sun is at the nadir, then Rurunoth
may make another bid for freedom. Hopefully, you and he will have reached some kind of
understanding by that time. In any case, I intend to be back long before then. We should
plan on
discussing how to proceed over lunch.”
“Gods, Mostin,” said Nwm, “You make this sound like some kind of tea party. Where are
you going, anyway?”
“The Deep Ethereal,” the Alienist replied, turning to leave. “And Ortwin,” he added, “I
know that I probably don’t need to tell you this but, under no circumstances whatever, for
any reason, break the circle or trespass into it.”
“Thanks for reminding me,” Ortwin replied sarcastically.
In his workroom, after locking the door and magically barring it, Mostin erected a tall
mirror –
the fabled Looking Glass of Urm-Nahat – and stood before it, invoking its scrying magic.
Mist
filled the mirror for a few moments until, under the force of Mostin’s will, a scene
coalesced on
its surface. An island of rock, suspended in the air, upon which was built a castle with
delicate
minarets of pearly white, topped with domes of gold and lapis. Mostin enviously
wondered
where Mulissu had acquired the resources to build such an extravagant home.
The Alienist’s focus narrowed, scanning chambers separated by intricate wooden screens,
courtyards with fountains and exquisite lifelike statues, and finally came to rest beneath a
pomegranate tree. Here the witch Mulissu, beautiful, serene, and clad in a sky-blue dress,
sat
munching on fruit and writing with a huge quill into a small leatherbound volume. She
looked up
briefly with a look of irritation on her face, and gave a swift gesture.
The mirror went blank.
A predictable response, Mostin thought. In fact, the Alienist had been surprised that she
was not
already warded. He refocused his mind, and the mists began to clear again. Mostin
selected a
spot outside of the castle walls, on a narrow platform of rock in front of the (largely
decorative) gate.
Steeling himself for what might be a difficult morning, Mostin stepped through the
looking glass
and vanished.
**
Ortwin, fortified by a glass or two of wine from one of Eadric’s better vintages, swallowed
hard
and descended the steps into the cellar alone. Silently and irreverently praying to half a
dozen
assorted deities for some kind of guidance, the Bard mustered as much of his legendary
braggadocio as was possible, and blithely swaggered forward.
Rurunoth still had not manifested, but was cocooned within his hemispherical void.
Ortwin
marched up, pulled a stool from near one of the wine racks, up-ended it, and sat as close to
the
circle as he dared.
“Hello, Rurunoth,” he said casually, “you can cut the darkness crap. We both know that
things are delicately poised. Unless we can strike a deal pretty soon, I’m afraid that we’re
going to have to kill you. No big deal: we’ve fried bigger fish than you before.”
Mere inches from the Bard’s face, the Balor’s head appeared: a huge, fanged, maw with
bestial
features framed by a mane of fire. Behind, vast and hulking, wreathed in lurid purple
flames, the
winged body, hunched as it was, still towered over Ortwin. The Bard looked into the
creature’s
eyes – pools of insatiable darkness – and, for the first time, knew that he apprehended true
evil.
Rurunoth’s whip, seeming to possess a life of it’s own, coiled and uncoiled within the
circle, fire kindling along its length. The Balor drew its great sword along the floor,
causing sparks to jump
forth, before swiftly hefting it and stabbing violently at Ortwin.
The Bard reflexively startled, almost falling off of his stool. Rurunoth laughed – the most
vicious sound that Ortwin had ever heard – as his sword failed to penetrate the invisible
barrier which
surrounded him.
“Bring another,” the demon commanded in a hoarse whisper. “You are unworthy to deal
with
me.”
The darkness returned.
Ortwin sat in silence for a moment, contemplating his next move. The great bluffer that he
was,
he was not adept at gauging the purpose behind others’ actions and words. He had always
relied
on his ability to force his point without giving his adversaries time to consider or react.
The
demon had seized the initiative back again. If Ortwin did not act swiftly, he knew that he
would
lose the battle of wills.
Just keep talking, he told himself.
“If I looked like you, Rurunoth, I daresay that I’d be inclined to swathe myself in darkness
as well. I suppose your appearance is an inevitable result of being on the losing side
during that
embarrassing rebellion: I mean, what were you before all that nonsense broke out? A
Deva? A
Planetar? I’d say that you’re rather diminished in stature now, wouldn’t you? Foul-
looking, bad
tempered, no friends. Groveling to another master, who probably treats you a lot worse
than your
old one. Perhaps if you atone, like the succubus, you can find your way back up to your
former
heavenly abodes. You’ll get your harp back, nice new cloud to sit on. You’ll probably start
off
low: you know, a glowing ball of fuzzy light, but after a few eras, you might get a job as a
trumpet-blower or, even better, in a celestial choir. Do you like singing, Ruru? You don’t
mind if I call you ‘Ruru’ do you? Shall we sing a song together? I’ll start. If you don’t
know the words,
just hum along: you’ll pick up the tune in a while.
And Ortwin began to sing. Not a comic ballad or a timeless folksong, at which he
excelled, and
which had caused kings to laugh out loud, or to weep with melancholy. Ortwin sang an
annoying,
repetitive and facile drinking song, common to the least reputable establishments in his
native
Jiuhu.
**
Mostin, after banging on the gate for several minutes, was eventually addressed through
an iron
grate by an irritable mephit with a high pitched-voice and sharp, jerking movements of its
numinous body.
“Begone,” it commanded, shrilly. “You have no business here.”
“I am Mostin the Metagnostic,” the Alienist announced haughtily, “and I have travelled an
immeasurable distance to discuss profound and far-reaching philosophies – far beyond
your feeble comprehension – with your esteemed mistress. Kindly relay news of my
arrival to her.”
“She knows you’re here,” the mephit chirped, “and bids you farewell.”
The grate closed.
Mostin raged silently for a few moments, before mastering himself and calming down.
Mulissu
was magically potent and notoriously fickle, and it behooved the Alienist not to vex her.
Although he possessed a dozen different ways to enter the castle, she would utter some
terrible
spell upon him if he did so without her permission.
“Kindly inform your mistress that I have items that may aid her in her magical research,”
Mostin shouted at the gate. “I wish to make exchange to our mutual benefit and
satisfaction. I wish only for a few moments of her valuable time.” The Alienist cursed
silently as he uttered the last words.
An hour passed.
The mephit reappeared at the grate, a look of smug satisfaction upon its face. “You are
fortunate,” it piped to Mostin, “the Lady Mulissu is enjoying a brief rest from her arduous
studies. She will receive you in the glass refectory for a period of seven minutes.” At this,
the mephit opened a smaller door in the large gate, and gestured for the Alienist to enter.
“Be sure to act with the utmost decorum and propriety,” the creature admonished Mostin
as he walked in.
Mostin smiled venomously at the door-ward.
Mulissu reclined upon a long couch, covered in the luxuriant blue fur of some unknown
creature,
her arm draped in a carefully considered pose of nonchalance above a large bowl of
pomegranates. Above her, several mephits flew in small circles, chattering noisily as they
argued
amongst themselves. A large djinni, arms folded across it chest, stood behind the witch in
stern
appraisal of the Alienist as he approached and nearby, a distortion in the air marked the
presence of an elemental. It was producing a light breeze which wafted through the
refectory.
“Greetings, Mulissu,” Mostin said curtly. “Is it your custom to keep guests waiting for an
hour at your gate?”
“Only when it is you, Mostin,” the witch replied humourlessly. “What do you want? And
why
were you spying on me?”
“I was not spying – had I chosen to do so I would have employed a less conspicuous
means. I
was merely finding an anchor for the Looking Glass of Urm-Nahat, prior to making my
translation to your realm.” Mostin knew that both mentioning his possession of the mirror,
and describing Mulissu’s elemental bubble as a ‘realm’ were likely to make a good
impression on the
witch.
“Hmph,” she replied. “You have five minutes left. Get to the point.”
“I wish an exchange. You have an extensive collection of scrolls and devices which I
would like to peruse and inspect. I feel my repertoire is in need of some revitalization. I
have several unique objects which may be of interest to you, and may aid you in your
research.”
“I doubt it,” Mulissu said, although Mostin could tell that her interest was piqued.
Negotiations continued for a further hour, and Mulissu proved a stickler for calculating the
exact value of all items concerned. Mostin finally departed without several objects to
which he had
more than a passing attachment. His pseudonatural helper – an animated mass of arms and
other
appendages – he exchanged for a scroll which bore four potent spells: ‘Great Shout,’
‘Sympathy,’
‘Mass Manifest’ and the much sought-after ‘Symbol.’ Unexpectedly, his rapier, the
Cordwainer’s
Needle - due to its electrical dweomer - aroused the witch’s interest as something of a
curio.
Mostin agreed to part with it for less than its technical worth. In its place, the Alienist left
with a scarlet and blue Ioun Stone, and a scroll containing three more spells: ‘Permanency’
(about time,
thought Mostin), ‘Fiendform’ and ‘Disintegrate.’
Mulissu seemed wholly unimpressed by Mostin’s Metamorphic Apparatus. “So what?”
She
asked. “Why have a gadget to do that? I can use a spell more effectively. It’s worth
nothing to me.”
Mostin guessed correctly that the witch was bluffing.
“I will trade it for your Circlet of Blasting, and the ‘Spell Engine’ dweomer,” Mostin
offered.
“How absurd, certainly not,” Mulissu insisted.
“In that case, our exchange is complete. I will waste no more of your valuable time.” The
Alienist turned to leave.
Mostin left with the circlet, the spell, and a feeling of immense satisfaction.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 04-30-2002
Quote:
.. he traded his hedgehog? how Could he?
Naahhh….the Pseudonatural Helper was a magical gadget invented by Mostin. It had
arms,
tentacles etc. and aided the Alienist in his work.
Quote:
flinch or not flinch?
Bluff vs Sense Motive, then Will Save.
Ho, hum. Here we go…
Predictably, the demon Rurunoth did not hum in unison with Ortwin’s songs. The bard’s
plan – to
irk the Balor to such an extent that he might in a moment of frenzied anger divulge
something of
value to the party – in fact proved to be an effective tactic. Unfortunately, the revelation
was lost on Ortwin. He was enjoying baiting the fiend too much to pay proper attention.
“Come on Ruru, don’t be a party-pooper. Sing along! Perhaps you’ve got some old
favourites
that we can sing together?”
The darkness remained unbroken, but the voice of the Balor echoed in Ortwin’s mind.
I WILL STRIP AWAY YOUR BODY AND PEEL YOUR SOUL. YOUR ESSENCE
WILL
EXPERIENCE SUCH UNENDING PAIN THAT YOU WILL BEG FOR RELEASE. DO
YOU
KNOW HOW MANY LAYERS A SOUL POSSESSES, MORTAL?
“Ooh, I don’t think I know that one. Sing the first couple of lines, and I’m sure I’ll pick it
up,
though.” Ortwin retorted.
YOU, AND THE NATURE-PRIEST, AND THE FILTHY PALADIN, AND HIS
ACCURSED
TURNCOAT WHORE. THAT PRETENTIOUS SCOFFING LITTLE WIZARD. I
KNOW YOU
ALL. AND YOU HAVE OVERSTEPPED YOUR POWERS AND UNDERESTIMATED
MINE. SOON YOU WILL ALL BURN.
“You,” sang Ortwin, “and-the-nature-priest…hum…de…dum…”
**
Mostin made two more short journeys that same morning. The first was to visit a wizard
called
Idro, who dwelt deep within the forest of Nizkur which lay to the west of Ortwin’s home
town of
Jiuhu. Idro, an old mage of small powers, had a reputation for pettiness and pedantry. He
lived
comfortably in his secluded tower, where, attended by numerous enchanted creatures, he
still
dreamed of possessing a greater influence beyond bullying the local population of feys.
After his
admission by two charmed Ettins, Mostin struck a deal with the wizard which secured a
number
of minor spells including the “Fox’s Cunning” dweomer – two copies, in fact – as well as
several potions, and three Beads of Force.
Mostin reluctantly surrendered his Unsavoury Oracle – a diminutive magical statue which
cryptically answered questions put to it – in exchange for the items. Despite its flaws, the
Unsavoury Oracle, like the Pseudonatural Helper and the Metamorphic Apparatus, had
been
created by Mostin. The Alienist sadly stroked Mogus as he lamented the loss of his unique
and
colourful inventions.
Ahh, well, he thought. There would always be time to make more.
Mostin’s final journey – a mundane chore in comparison – was to Morne. There, the bulk
of his
considerable monetary resources were exchanged for a single, huge, lusterless black pearl.
Mostin grinned wickedly at the sight of it.
Mogus gave a small, distraught squeak.
**
Lunch, for which Mostin had promised to return, proved to be at four o’clock as a result.
The Alienist arrived to find Eadric, Ortwin and Nwm sitting on his terrace discussing the
Bard’s
experiences with the captive demon, and wondering how to proceed.
“What did you learn?” Mostin asked.
“Very little,” Ortwin confessed. “I attempted to goad and rile him into some kind of
disclosure, but it proved ineffective. He threatened me repeatedly, and then fell silent
again. Even my most
annoying songs failed to elicit any further response from him.” The Bard neglected to
mention his nearly falling off of the stool.
“We should think about making an offer – if that’s how we plan to proceed,” said Nwm.
“We need to decide what we want, and what he’s likely to demand in return.”
“We don’t want anything, except information,” Eadric sighed. “What is his plan? His
master’s plan? Where is Despina’s virtue, if she has any? Is she genuine?”
“He says he’s going to burn her, as well,” said Ortwin. “We’re all going to burn. He’s
going to peel my soul. You’re filthy and Mostin’s pretentious.”
Eadric raised an eyebrow. “What exactly DID he say, Ortwin?”
So Ortwin repeated the conversation, word for word.
“You dummy,” said Mostin. “If he called the succubus a ‘Turncoat Whore’ what does that
suggest to you?”
“He might be bluffing,” Nwm pointed out. “There’s so much BS flying around these days,
that I’ve really lost the plot.”
“He was really mad,” said Ortwin.
“He’s also a very accomplished liar,” Eadric groaned, “and he’s had aeons to perfect his
art. And you’re hardly a paragon of insight, Ortwin, when it comes to reading others’
motives.”
“But you weren’t there,” the Bard complained. “I was really, really annoying. I could’ve
pissed a Solar off. I think if he’d been trying to fool me, he’d have been more subtle about
it.”
“Maybe he was being SO subtle, that you mistakenly thought he was being blatant,” Nwm
suggested mysteriously.
Eadric put his head in his hands.
“I think it’s time I inquired of Oronthon again,” Mostin announced.
“Er…we still don’t know if it was reliable last time,” Nwm reminded the Alienist. “What
makes
you think that another attempt will be any less fallible?”
“Well of course it’s fallible.” Mostin snapped. “I’m not a damn cleric am I? The point is
we need some kind of direction. Also, I might point out that the main suspect in the
previous casting’s
‘fallibility’ is currently contained in a pentacle in my cellar.”
“Mostin,” Nwm persisted calmly, “we don’t know if other agents of Graz’zt are lurking
nearby, and even if they’re not, why should Oronthon be particularly disposed to talk to
you? Your
actions so far are hardly likely to have endeared him to you – to any of us, in fact.” Nwm
held Eadric in his gaze whilst he spoke.
No,” said the Paladin. “This time I agree with Mostin. I am denied the correct channels
through my choices thus far, but I desperately need some kind of guidance. But how about
contacting an
intermediary, rather than Lord Oronthon himself? An angel of the host - perhaps Urthoon,
who
acts as conduit?”
Mostin sighed in an exasperated fashion. “Angels and demipowers are less reliable. They
don’t know the full story, and are more apt to dissemble. Direct communication with the
Godhead is
most likely to produce the truth, which, I assume, is what we are still looking for here?”
“Do it,” Eadric commanded.
Had Mostin attempted to reach Urthoon, his attempt would, in fact, have failed. The
planetar,
along with his celestial superior and the greatest of Oronthon’s generals – the solar
Enitharmon –
had been dispatched on a mission of utmost urgency. Surrounded by a phalanx of devas
and
archons, the pair sped across the outer reaches towards their appointed meeting with the
agents of Prince Graz’zt. The rumour of their passing caused essences of less than perfect
purity to flee in terror, whilst those few who were worthy were drawn towards the light
and basked. In their
wake, the astral mists were suffused by a colourless radiance.
The celestials did not speak with their silver voices, or even converse in thought, one to
another.
Their aspects serene and impassive, they moved and acted in consummate harmony. A
single
organic Mind, driven by the purpose instilled by the beloved Lord whose spark dwelled in
them.
Redemption.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 05-01-2002
Okay, maybe the last update for a while:
Mostin’s second attempt to contact Oronthon was also unsuccessful. Unlike his previous
effort,
which had been intercepted by Graz’zt, this time the spell did, in fact, reach the presence
of the deity.
The Alienist was ignored.
Having temporarily withdrawn direct communication from even his earthly vessel, the
Archbishop of Morne, the Shining God seemed disinclined to surreptitiously advise his
champion, Eadric, through the dubious medium of Mostin.
As Cynric had pointed out, Eadric was on his own. Perhaps the deity waited patiently for
events
to unfold as they would, guided by some prescience which no other possessed. If Eadric
was to
experience any communion with Oronthon, either vicariously or directly, then the time
was not
now.
Mostin pouted, and contemplated the difficulty involved in devising a spell which would
FORCE
powerful extraplanar creatures to divulge information. His own “Metagnostic Inquiry”
came close to the mark, although the replies were couched in such obscure and riddling
terms, that they were often worse than useless.
Eadric said little, and seemed to enter a mood of deep depression. It wasn’t that events
were
beyond his control, but quite the opposite: he had TOO MUCH responsibility, and felt ill-
equipped to deal with it. His friends, Ortwin and Nwm, reliable in their own way,
possessed
wildly different perspectives. Mostin he did not completely trust, and still doubted his
motives.
And then there was the demon in the cellar.
“I am at a loss,” Eadric sighed. “We cannot contain him in this way indefinitely, and I am
loathe to strike a deal with him – in any case, I suspect that any price that he demands
would be
unacceptable to us. We can banish him, or attempt to slay him, or – as Mostin suggests –
trap him
permanently.” Eadric groaned. “Why did I ever agree to this?”
“You didn’t,” Nwm chimed in. “But Mostin and Ortwin were going to do it anyway. I
think both you and I are blameless in this matter.”
“Perhaps your gods are more lenient than mine,” Eadric said.
Nwm nodded, knowing that this was certainly the case.
“This is the wisest course of action,” Mostin said, producing the huge pearl from his
pouch. “The gem will contain his essence. And I’m speaking purely in terms of
probability here: as soon as I
attempt to use a spell upon Rurunoth, he might force his way from the circle. A
‘Banishment’ is a
relatively high risk dweomer: even if the circle holds, the chance of it working is small.
Besides, I haven’t prepared the spell and it would have to wait until tomorrow.”
“How convenient,” said Nwm sarcastically.
Eadric nodded in agreement with the Druid. “Mostin, I might be less suspicious of you if
you
weren’t so enthusiastic about all of this.”
Mostin cackled. “Try to understand, that this is what I live for. It is what I’m best at – one
of the best that there is, in fact. I’m not carrying all of this religious baggage around,
which says ‘This is Permitted’ or, ‘This is Forbidden.’ But I think on balance, I’m quite
principled.”
Ortwin nodded. “I don’t think he’s a bad fellow, Ed, just crazy.”
“Very well, Mostin,” said Eadric, his eyes burning into the Alienist. “I will trust you again
– and hope you can deliver us from the mess that we’ve created with your help. But be
warned, wizard,
if I find that I have been manipulated by you for your own purposes, I will have my
vengeance.
Do you understand?”
“Perfectly,” said Mostin, smoothly.
**
Mostin held the great, black pearl in front of the sphere of darkness in the cellar. “Do you
know what this is, Rurunoth?” He asked.
Fires leapt up within the void, and crashed against the invisible barrier which contained
the
demon.
YOU WOULD NOT DARE the voice thundered in the minds of those present. Rurunoth
manifested and, drawing himself up to his full height, launched himself against the barrier.
It held.
Mostin laughed maniacally. “Now, now Rurunoth,” he chided, “its not your appointed
time yet.
You know that.”
Mostin pulled one of the scrolls from his portable hole, and read from it.
His consciousness expanded.
More spells followed. Wards, protections, augmentations. Eadric unsheathed his sunblade,
closed
his visor and hefted his shield. He stood opposite Ortwin, with Rurunoth between them, in
case
the circle should break and they were forced to engage the demon in combat. The Bard
nonchalantly drew his scimitar.
Opposite Mostin, Nwm stood at the fourth cardinal point, anticipating the necessary use of
multiple Flame Strikes. His weapons, he knew, were useless against the demon. Instead,
the
Druid had summoned a Dire Bear, warded it from the flames, and enchanted its teeth to
penetrate
the Balor’s defenses.
Mostin spoke a summoning spell of his own – his most potent – and was flanked by two
vast,
cracked figures which seemed to grow from the bare stone of the cellar floor. At first,
Nwm took
them for huge elementals, but closer inspection revealed them to be some bizarre parody,
drawn
from the insane regions beyond the edge of the cosmos.
Throughout, Rurunoth threatened, and cajoled, and entreated, and pleaded, and finally
begged.
YOU MUST MAKE AN OFFER, he screamed.
“Why?” Asked Eadric.
WHAT DO YOU WANT? Terror, now.
“Nothing from you.” The Paladin said. In a moment of clear certainty, the fear fell from
Eadric as he looked at the forces arrayed against the demon. There was no way that
Rurunoth could prevail
against them, even if the spell failed and the circle broke. The demon would flee, if he had
the
chance, or be cut down in a matter of seconds otherwise.
“You are nothing,” said Eadric.
A cloud of Ioun stones buzzing around his head, Mostin spoke three short words in an
unknown
language, made an arcane gesture, and held the black pearl aloft.
“Rurunoth,” he said.
There was a wail, and an incandescent light burst briefly from inside of the thaumaturgic
diagram, as the demon’s physical form was reduced to ash.
Mostin sighed, and bowed his head for a moment, before dismissing the two
pseudonatural
monstrosities that he had conjured.
The pearl bore the faintest trace of an inner glow.
Eadric walked up to Mostin and held out his palm.
“All right, all right,” said the Alienist. “I was going to give it to you anyway.”
**
Its worth noting that I simply overruled the effective use of “Contact Other Plane” - it
would’ve been rather inconsistent if i’d allowed it to Mostin but denied it to Cynric.
When Mostin pronounced the “Trap the Soul” spell, his effective Intelligence was 26. The
DC vs his spell was 28 (including the +2 DC increase for knowing the demon’s name)
AND no SR
applies. Poor old Ruru.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 05-02-2002
Okay, so I can’t resist:
**
The Tower of Owls – the tallest of the nine spires of the Castle of Trempa – lay near the
largely
neglected southern wing of the Ducal Palace. The topmost floors had long ago rotted and
collapsed to form a single, ruined space, which, exposed to the elements and left
unattended for
three generations, had attracted a number of birds which lent the tower its name.
Below the upper wreck, the tower had eight stories in somewhat more serviceable
condition. The
lowest five were used to store various oddments which had, over the years, been
accumulated by the duchess and her forebears: old paintings, items of now-unfashionable
furniture, rusting
weapons, carpets, faded tapestries and broken toys amongst them. Layers of dust covered
everything. It was a standing joke amongst members of the ducal household that,
whenever
something had outlived its usefulness, it would be “put in the tower.”
The irony was not lost on the succubus Nehael – otherwise known as Lady Despina –
who,
sitting on her couch within the confines of a diagram inscribed by Mostin the Metagnostic,
was
firmly anchored to the spot. She had been closeted upon the eighth floor, in a cold, round
stone
room, barred from below by an iron door guarded by Eadric’s squire, Tatterbrand.
Although
Tatterbrand had made an attempt to make the place comfortable, and constantly reassured
Despina that she was confined for her own protection as much that of others, his efforts
were
largely wasted on the succubus.
“I am a demoness, Tatterbrand. I am impervious to the elements.”
“Yes lady, of course,” said the squire, continuing to stoke a small fire in the hearth, which
produced more smoke than heat.
“I could seduce you very easily, Tatterbrand,” Despina said softly.
“Yes, lady,” Tatterbrand replied, a look of total openness on his face, “I’m sure you could.
But I’d really prefer if you didn’t. It would cause all sorts of problems, and I’m sure my
master would be very upset.”
Despina sighed. What strange creatures mortals were.
“What would you do, Tatterbrand, if you were in their position?”
The squire laughed. “Lady, that is why I am content to remain a squire and not become a
knight.
I have no interest in bearing responsibility or acquiring power. It makes life too
complicated.”
“Do you have no goals? No aspirations? No dreams?” The succubus asked.
“No, not really,” Tatterbrand confessed. “To eat, to sleep. To act when appropriate. To do
as my master bids.”
“But is there nothing that you desire to possess, to have?”
“Well,” Tatterbrand said, as if about to divulge a great secret, “between you and me, I’ve
always wanted to keep bees.”
Despina arched an eyebrow. In terms of exercising dominion, it seemed a rather modest
goal.
**
On top of another tower, fifty miles distant – the “Steeple” at Eadric’s Castle of Kyrtill’s
Burgh-the Paladin, together with Ortwin, Mostin and Nwm, sat and relaxed, watching the
sunset.
“What happens now?” Ortwin asked. “I mean, we have the pearl, but what do we do with
it?”
‘We should consider that it is still vulnerable to interference – magical or otherwise,”
Mostin answered. “We must be cautious.”
“We lock it away, somewhere very safe,” Nwm said. “We ward it with powerful runes, and
bury it deep.”
Mostin agreed. “Give me a day or two,” he said wearily. “I need to master the
‘Permanency’
spell, and one other.”
Nwm nodded.
Together, the Druid and the Alienist wrought a series of potent spells to ensure the safety
and
security of the pearl which contained the Balor’s essence. With the looking glass of Urm-
Nahat,
Mostin scried and located a suitable site: an isolated cyst in the continental bedrock,
seismically stable, and sixty miles below even the deepest reaches of the Underdark.
The remote pocket was sealed by a seamless ‘Wall of Stone’ so that even the smallest
fissures in
the rock were blocked.
Nwm Hallowed the chamber, and tied it to a Dimensional Anchor cast by Mostin. Now,
only the
Alienist and the Druid could use extraplanar travel to access the cyst.
The pearl was placed in a small casket in the centre of the chamber, surrounded by a
permanent
Wall of Force. Magic Mouths were placed on the walls, to warn those who might, by some
strange fortune, discover the hidden pocket in the rock.
Finally, upon the casket itself, in phosphorous and mercury, Mostin inscribed a Symbol of
Insanity.
“I’ve bled my finances dry, and even my life-essence for him now,” Mostin said to Nwm.
“He owes me.” He was speaking of Eadric, of course.
The Druid nodded grimly. “He will not forget it,” he said.
“Nor will I,” Mostin replied.
And, even in the Abyss, after long eras, the name of Rurunoth faded into memory and was
finally
forgotten.
Mostin decided it was payback time.
“So, technically,” mused Eadric, “if I did remunerate you for every spell that you had cast
since your arrival, as well as your time, components and so forth, how much would I owe
you
Mostin?”
Mostin produced a small notebook, and made a quick tally.
“Eighty-eight thousand two hundred gold crowns, give or take,” the Alienist announced.
“Holy sh*t,” exclaimed Ortwin, “I’m in the wrong business. Can you cover that, Ed?”
“No,” the Paladin replied, “not unless I sell my lands and castle, and even then, - given the
Burgh’s condition - I’m not convinced that would be enough. Fortunately, this is church
business
and they should foot some of the bill.”
“SOME of the bill?” Mostin inquired sarcastically.
“They will pay for direct monetary loss, recompense you if you have invested some of
your
reservoir of permanent magical energy, and also make a small payment against your time
and
efforts. Incidental expenses – for example the clause here,” Eadric pointed, “where you
require one thousand eight hundred gold pieces for a ‘magical rapier, undervalued in
exchange’ will not
be considered. They assume a degree of philanthropy.”
“Philanthropy,” Mostin repeated slowly, as if hearing the word for the first time.
The revised sum – thirty six thousand five hundred gold crowns – was less to Mostin’s
liking,
although he agreed nonetheless. Nothing was more demeaning to a wizard than a
bankruptcy
which forced the touting of magical items to all and sundry.
“So should we go to Morne, to arrange for approval?” Mostin asked brightly.
“Oh, no need for that, Mostin,” Eadric replied. “As an inquisitor, I am more than qualified
to release the money to you. I’ll just write you a check to draw against the temple funds.”
The Alienist’s mouth dropped open in an expression of disbelief. Here was such an
enormous
potential for financial abuse that his mind boggled.
Then again, thought Mostin, that’s probably why he’s the paladin and I’m not.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 05-05-2002
In which the sh*t hits the fan, and the DM muses: “so what would I do if I were a Demon
Prince…” and proves that he’s a Rat-Bastard.
**
The same day that Eadric, Ortwin, Nwm and Mostin left the Paladin’s castle at Deorham
to
return to Trempa, the celestials Enitharmon and Urthoon met with the Balor Ainhorr and
his
nominated second, the Cambion, Feezuu.
Feezuu was a creature of uncertain loyalty – in which regard she differed little from any
other
demon – who depended on the Balor for her position and acceptance at Graz’zt’s Abyssal
court.
She was, however, regarded with a particular loathing by many of her compeers due to her
mixed
parentage – a fact which enabled the half-fiend to move with impunity through regions
from
which true demons were barred.* Ainhorr’s election of Feezuu as his co-ambassador was a
shrewd move on behalf of the Balor, and sent the message that Graz’zt’s influence in the
world
of men was not restricted to the more ‘conventional’ channels.
Enitharmon had been charged with both relaying information of Oronthon’s particular
interest in
the plight of the succubus Nehael, and to warn Graz’zt that undue meddling would not be
tolerated. If, through the Prince’s intervention, or through the medium of human mages
and
demonologists, fiends were invoked onto the Prime plane in an effort to eliminate the
demoness
or prevent her possible atonement, then the celestial host would retaliate ‘swiftly and
decisively.’
Unfortunately, the presence of Feezuu – half mortal herself – took the sting out of the
Solar’s
threat, and caused a brief smile to play across the malign aspect of Ainhorr. The Balor did
not
respond, save to emphasize the fact that he was there only to hear the embassy and relay
news to
his master. He gave no warnings, issued no threats, and, most pointedly, did not mention
the
ensnarement of Rurunoth by individuals implicated in the Nehael affair. The Balor’s
reticence in
this regard only strengthened his position, as Enitharmon had been prepared to counter
any
accusations of perfidy and duplicity levelled at his own Lord.
The Solar accurately interpreted the Demon’s silence as a bad portent but,
uncomprehending of
evil and unable to fathom its reason, could only proceed to restate his appointed message.
The
Celestial’s eyes bore into Feezuu as he spoke in certain knowledge that, whatever was to
transpire, the Half-Fiend would play a crucial role in Graz’zt’s machinations.
The speed and ruthlessness of the Cambion’s actions, however, may have come even as a
surprise to Oronthon himself. Only moments after the embassy was finished, Feezuu
contacted
the Prince, made a translation onto the Prime Plane, teleported to Morne, entered the
Orangery of
the Palace, and slew the Archbishop Cynric as he was dozing in the afternoon sun.
Cynric did not ascend bodily to heaven, as his predecessors had, but was instead
consumed in
necromantic fire.
Graz’zt had acted swiftly and decisively.
**
Upon returning to Trempa, Eadric immediately sought out the Duchess and apologized for
the
delay. One day had become two, and then three, as the binding of Rurunoth had taken
more time
than he had anticipated. After paying his respects, the quartet immediately repaired to the
Tower
of Owls, and Despina was released from her magical bondage.
“I have decided to allow you the benefit of the doubt,” Eadric informed the demoness, “as
the evidence – on balance – points towards your sincerity. I am still less than convinced,
however. If you mean to follow this course of action, then you must adhere to a regimen of
prayer, scriptural
study and earnest soul-searching which Nwm and I will both direct you in. You will avoid
the
court, as many of the ladies are garrulous and whimsical – two characteristics which
would not
benefit you at the moment. I will arrange lodging for you at the Abbey of Osfrith, half a
day’s
ride from here. The nuns will see to your material needs.”
“I have none,” Despina replied.
“Nonetheless, the Abbey will provide a suitable environment for contemplation. You will
follow the sisters’ direction in all matters whilst there: you will clean the floors, wash
clothes, prepare food, chop wood and perform a variety of other mundane tasks. When
you can step across the
threshold of the chapel in the Abbey, we will regard it as a token of your progress. From
that
point, you will attend mass and your catechesis will begin in earnest. At no time, under
any
circumstances, and for any reason, will you manifest further magical or supernatural
powers. If evidence of this comes to light, I will regard it as a sign of your apostasy and
my support for you will be withdrawn. Do you comply?”
Despina nodded.
“Good,” Eadric said. “We will depart in the morning.” And the Paladin retired to his
chambers.
That same night, Eadric’s dreams were troubled and portentous. Fire raged in his mind as
two
eagles soared and screamed at him, before turning on each other and locking claws,
plummeting
downwards towards the ground. Black rain fell from lowering clouds, and the sun was
obscured.
Pits and chasms opened in the earth. Eadric awoke in a cold sweat, and found that sleep
eluded
him for the rest of the night, as he pondered the meaning of the dream.
Just after sunrise, Eadric, Tatterbrand and Despina left Trempa for the Abbey of Osfrith –
a
pleasant morning’s ride on a late summer’s day, the dawn mists evaporating quickly under
a
warm sun. They spoke little on the journey: the Paladin was preoccupied with the
nightmare that
had visited him, and was steeling himself for what might transpire to be a difficult
encounter
with the Abbess.
**
“She is not to attend mass?” The old woman sitting behind a small table in a spartan office
looked incredulous at Eadric’s request “Why ever not?”
“The taint lies heavily upon her,” Eadric replied.
“All the more reason that she should receive communion,” the Abbess retorted.
“No,” said the Paladin, “you don’t understand. The taint lies SO heavily upon her, that she
cannot physically enter the chapel.”
“Are you possessed, child?” The old woman was aghast. “Perhaps we should call in the
exorcist.”
“I don’t think that would be appropriate,” Eadric was about to continue, but decided that
pulling rank was easier. “This is Inquisition business,” he said, “and I am afraid that I
cannot divulge the particulars of this case. Please try to understand that this is for the best,
and is only one part of a much larger picture. She will, in time, attend the chapel. But not
for the moment. I am personally undertaking her rehabilitation, but she will live here if
you have no objections: I think the
environment would benefit her. I, or my representative, will speak with her at least twice a
week,
and we will also speak with you and the other sisters to gain impressions as to her progress
and behaviour. Assign the usual tasks to her, as you would to any other lay sister, but
excuse her from mass.”
“It is very irregular,” the Abbess sighed, “but very well. She looks like such a sweet
thing.”
“Hmm,” Eadric replied.
**
In Morne, the Great Conclave of Venerable Masters was assembled to debate the events of
the
previous day, and to decide upon a course of action. Accusations were flung back and
forth
between leading Church magnates. What had been hoped by some to be an opportunity to
resolve
petty differences in the face of an assault on the body politic of the Church, instead
became a
forum through which the various factions attacked each other.
Cynric had elected no successor.
His unnatural death was taken by some as a sign that he had lost Oronthon’s blessing.
Others
considered him a martyr to the cause and called for his immediate beatification.
The debate raged for eight hours, and focussed largely around Cynric’s decision to allow
the
Baronet of Deorham to proceed in his efforts to convert a fiend: a judgement which, at the
time,
had been questioned by many but none had dared to refute. Divinations were made, and
Oronthon’s advice was earnestly sought.
The Bright God declined to answer.
Taking his silence as a sign of displeasure, bitter words were spoken by many present at
the
conclave.
By four in the afternoon, a list of charges had been drafted against Eadric which ranged
from
minor technical misdemeanors to blasphemy, diabolism and consorting with demons.
And they knew nothing of Rurunoth.
By six in the evening, the Curia passed a measure by seven votes to three that Eadric was
to be
impeached as a heretic. There was one abstention: the Bishop of Tyndur failed to endorse
the
vote, but fear of repercussions directed towards him meant that he refused to follow his
own
convictions.
The next morning, sixteen Templars led by the Deputy Inquisitor General, Tahl the
Incorruptible, left Morne for Trempa.
*Most fiends can only enter the Prime Material Plane under special circumstances. They
can be
1) Invoked through magic or ritual, which allows a sojourn upon the Prime;
2) From the Astral Plane, possess certain individuals by means of a ‘Magic Jar’ or similar
ability, or
3) They may, with the intervention of their overlord (a Demon Prince, Arch-Devil etc.),
visit the
Prime for a particular purpose. This may be a fact-finding mission, an attempted
temptation of a
specified individual, or to create general mayhem. Such an intervention on the part of the
fiendish overlord is extremely taxing and represents a large investment in terms of
personal
energy, and is generally only undertaken if a modicum of success is assured. The succubus
Nehael (Despina), who was appointed to seduce the Paladin Eadric, could only have made
her
planar transit with the aid of Prince Graz’zt.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 05-07-2002
Outriders mounted on swift steeds bore the news of Cynric’s assassination across Wyre,
and it
was on the evening of the same day that the conclave was convening, that tidings reached
the
Duchess and her court at Trempa. Eadric and Tatterbrand returned from the Abbey to find
a mood
of indignance mixed with deep sadness. The chapel was thronging with mourners – some
hysterical with grief.
Eadric said nothing, but retired alone to the Tower of Owls, climbing into the wreck of the
uppermost floors, and barring the trapdoor. He wept long and hard, and feelings of guilt
flooded
through him. Here, surely, was an attack by the Fiend whose schemes he had thwarted,
and who
had sworn to ruin him. Cynric, although conservative and often overly doctrinaire in his
approach, had been Eadric’s mentor, his confessor and his friend.
Eadric prayed fervently for a sign or portent, or at least an acknowledgement that his
supplications did not go unheard.
Oronthon remained characteristically silent. No angels appeared, no omens were shown,
and no
quiet inner voice spoke to Eadric. Instead, the sky slowly became overcast, and then began
to
drizzle with rain.
The next day was dull, and the air was heavy and oppressive. Mostin was closeted in a
suite
within the castle, poring over his new scrolls and consolidating his collection of magicks.
Eadric, burdened with grief and remorse, was summoned by the Duchess in order to
illuminate her on
the sudden unexpected decision of Lady Despina to retire to the Abbey of Osfrith.
Eadric spent the whole morning with her. He came clean, and told her everything: even
down to
Ortwin’s illusion, which had caused so much consternation in court.
Her reaction surprised him.
“Eadric, dear, I do wish you’d told me all of this in the beginning. It would have saved a
lot of trouble.”
“You would have called for Inquisitors from Morne,” he replied.
The Duchess sighed. “I most certainly would have not. I would have still called for that
ghastly little wizard (she was speaking of Mostin): there are too many followers of the Old
Faith* here,
and I have no wish for the eye of the Inquisition to be directed towards Trempa. They are
less
tolerant than some.”
“I am a deputed Inquisitor myself,” Eadric said. “I know where the boundaries lie between
ecclesiastical and mundane law. In any case, I needed to speak with Cynric before I made
a
decision.”
“And what did he tell you?” She asked.
“To use my own best judgement,” the Paladin replied.
“In that case, you should regard yourself as absolved from blame in this matter.”
“Unfortunately,” Eadric replied, “I am less certain of the decisions that I made. The
episode with Rurunoth should have been avoided: I suspect that it may have been directly
responsible for
Cynric’s murder. Lord Oronthon has withdrawn his support from me: he will not
communicate
with me, either directly or through any medium available to me. At the last, he failed even
to speak with Cynric.”
The Duchess became irritable. “Look at my aura, Eadric,” she snapped, “what do you
see?”
The Paladin concentrated for a moment.
“I see no evidence of taint,” he replied.
“But you would, if it were there?” She asked.
“Most assuredly,” said Eadric.
“Where does this faculty stem from, Eadric?”
He laughed. She had a good point.
“Go,” she said, “and do whatever you have to do.”
Eadric turned to leave, but not before the Duchess made one final, biting remark.
“Self-pity does not become you, Eadric,” she said.
The Paladin bowed and departed.
**
Eadric and Nwm left Trempa immediately for the Abbey. The Paladin had determined
that,
henceforth, not a moment was to be wasted in the instruction of Despina. His decision to
involve
the Druid in the process had come only after deep deliberation – Nwm was to act as a
moral and
ethical example only, and not attempt to foist any of his ‘weird beliefs’ onto her.
Nwm had happily complied, guessing that, at some stage, he’d have ample opportunity to
turn
the demoness on to the trees.
Much to the Druid’s delight, Eadric had agreed to give the succubus her initial lessons in a
secluded grove away from the Abbey, largely to avoid the possibility of one of the sisters
overhearing their words. Under the bemused stares of nuns, who thronged to the windows
of the
cloister in order to witness the spectacle, Eadric, his strange unkempt friend, and the new
lay
sister tramped off down the hill and disappeared into the trees.
The Abbess stood in her office looking out. Very irregular, she thought.
Despina sat demurely on a moss-covered rock by a small stream, and Nwm took his boots
off
and waded in the water.
“What’s he doing?” Despina asked Eadric in a half-whisper.
“Talking to the fish,” the Paladin sighed.
“Despina,” he began, “you understand the purpose of confession, don’t you?”
“Theoretically, yes,” the demoness replied. “Conscious articulation of past wrongdoings,
and the feeling of genuine remorse, is believed to pave the way for Grace to remove their
burden. I
understand the principle well.”
“Do you feel remorse for your past sins?” Eadric asked.
“Perhaps,” Despina replied. “I understand that many of my actions were futile.”
“You are well versed in religious philosophy,” Eadric said, “and you understand which
actions in your past constitute sins – within the parameters defined by Orthodoxy.”
“Yes.”
“How many sins, at a rough guess, would you say that you have committed?” Eadric
asked.
“Hundreds of thousands? Millions?”
“Millions of Billions,” the succubus replied, “if you include every falsehood I’ve ever
uttered. I remember all of them.”
“All of them?” Eadric was staggered.
“Oh yes, and that’s only if you include YOUR definition of sin.”
“What do you mean?” The Paladin asked.
“Eadric,” she said sardonically, “this may come as a surprise to you, but the rules
governing the behaviour of celestials are somewhat stricter than those to which mortals are
expected to adhere.”
Eadric grunted. He looked around for Nwm, but the Druid had become a fish and swum
off
downstream.
“So what was your very first sinful act?” He asked.
“Ahh, that would be doubt,” the demoness answered.
“In what?”
“The judgement of Oronthon.”
“Hmm, I see.” This was getting very abstract. “And why did you doubt?”
“I cannot tell you,” she replied.
He scowled. “Why not?”
She shook her head.
He pressed her, but she would not answer, save eventually to say:
“Because you are not ready. Because if you knew, you might fall, as I did.”
**
“Nah, it’s probably a crock,” Ortwin said. The party had reconvened at Trempa. “I still
don’t trust her. Don’t get me wrong, I like her and everything, but you can’t expect her to
suddenly become
all sweetness and light after aeons of depravity – assuming she is genuine, of course.”
“Doubt is good,” Mostin said unhelpfully. “Doubt everything. Always. Except that which
is certain, obviously.”
“Your ‘certainties’ are scary,” Eadric said. “I suppose I’ll just have to try a different tack in
speaking with her. Presently, she seems to think that if I knew what she does, then I would
be in
danger of falling from grace. She doesn’t seem to understand that I do NOT doubt the
judgement
of Oronthon simply because I understand that his perspective is infinitely larger than mine,
and
he can foresee all possibilities.”
“That is one advantage of being a deity,” Nwm agreed laconically. “If you buy into the
whole omniscience thing.”
“Ha!” Mostin snorted.
Eadric was about to speak, but Ortwin held up his hand.
“Just don’t, Ed, okay,” the Bard said.
Despite a sadness at his mentor’s death that was all too present for Eadric, a relatively
relaxed
evening – given the group’s recent activities – passed until around ten o’clock. At that
time, a
somewhat unanticipated arrival sent things into flux again. A groom, by the name of Irron,
who
had rendered Eadric long and faithful service at Kyrtill’s Burgh, burst into the Paladin’s
chambers and breathlessly told his story.
“Your keep has been seized, Lord,” he panted. “By the Inquisition. Some are ransacking
the library and your personal effects, looking for ‘evidence’. They are questioning the
servants.
Others are riding hard for Trempa. They will be here by late tomorrow morning.”
“Sh*t,” said Eadric.
“What should we do?” Ortwin asked.
“It depends who is leading them,” Eadric replied.
“Begging your pardon, Lord,” Irron interrupted, “but his name is Tahl. Tahl the
Incorruptible.”
“Sh*t,” Eadric said again.
“I assume it’s not a routine inquiry,” Ortwin said sarcastically. “Will you submit?”
“I must,” Eadric replied, “it’s the law.”
“So I can’t blast them, then?” Mostin was disappointed.
*I.e. Nwm’s religion, Druidism.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 05-08-2002
So, things were about to get sticky.
This session may have been the best roleplaying experience of my life: Dave played Nwm
with
an ingenuity and fervour that I didn’t know he was capable of. I bow to you, Dave.
**
Just before noon on the next day, Tahl, together with his retinue of Templars, thundered
through
the gates of the castle and into the inner bailey. Their bright armour, polished to a
remarkable
sheen, peeked from beneath the unblazoned white surcoats of the Inquisition. Their cloaks
were
white, their banner a plain white field, unadorned. Each bore a lance, a burnished shield,
and the consecrated weapons of Oronthon: the greatsword, symbolic of cutting through
deception, and
the scourge, representing the meting out of their deity’s proper justice. Here were great
knights
who, foreswearing their estates and taking vows of poverty, had entered the service of the
Fane.
Some rode horses with celestial blood running through their veins.
Eadric stood and waited. He had surrendered his arms and armour to Nwm, and
Contundor he
had bidden to ride free for a while. He was dressed in comfortable and well-worn
travelling
clothes, and bore no weapon.
Ortwin, Mostin and Nwm stood on a balcony overlooking the courtyard.
“Er, they look kind of scary,” remarked Ortwin.
“Pah!” Mostin scoffed. “I could take them all out in ten seconds. You ever seen a
maximized
fireball? Drop two of those babies on them and they’d soon be toast.”
“Better not,” said Ortwin, “I think Ed might get mad if you did. He’s in enough trouble as
it is.”
Tahl reigned in, dismounted and removed his great bascinet. He was a handsome man in
his late
thirties - a year or two older than Eadric – with a serious expression, but a face that did not
seem humourless. He strode up to Eadric, and the two embraced.
“What’s going on?” Mostin asked.
“Tahl is Eadric’s friend,” Nwm replied.
“Then why did he seem so scared last night?”
“Because Tahl is Eadric’s friend,” Nwm sighed.
“Ah,” said Mostin, “that does make things rather awkward, doesn’t it?”
“Who replaced Cynric?” Eadric asked the Inquisitor.
“No successor was appointed,” Tahl replied. “And the conclave is waiting for a sign.”
“You are here to arrest me, I take it?”
“I’m sorry, Ed. You’ve been indicted,” Tahl said sheepishly.
“By whom? Eadric snapped. “I am responsible only to the Archbishop of Morne for my
conduct.
I doubt your authority in this.”
“Please don’t make this any harder than it is,” Tahl pleaded. “The Curia voted by seven to
three
for your arraignment.”
“How was the vote divided?” Eadric asked, sighing.
“Mord, Gibilrazen, Hethio, Tomur and Thahan voted against you; Kaurban and Jiuhu both
backed you. The Inquisition and the Temple both voted for your impeachment,
predictably. The
Marquis of Iald supported you. Tyndur abstained.*”
“Tyndur is a coward,” Eadric said.
Tahl merely nodded.
“What are the charges?”
“Four minor breaches of protocol; associating with the known diabolist, Mostin who styles
himself ‘Metagnostic’; attempting to commune with Lord Oronthon through witchcraft;
consorting with demons; fornicating with demons; secretly conspiring to undermine the
One True
Faith; perversion of doctrine; failing to attempt to exorcise or destroy a known fiend;
blasphemy; and acting as an accomplice in the murder of Cynric of Morne who,
possessing the indwelling
spirit of Oronthon, should be considered God on Earth.”
“Deicide?” Eadric laughed at the absurdity.
“It’s a technicality, Ed,” Tahl grimaced. “I should also mention that, just before we
departed
Morne, some financial irregularities came to light.”
Eadric looked bemused.
“A payment of thirty-six thousand five hundred gold pieces to the known diabolist, Mostin
the
Metagnostic.” Obviously, Mostin had cashed his check pretty quickly.
Just as well, thought Eadric, as he wouldn’t get the money now.
“This is crap, Tahl,” the Paladin said. “You know that I’m authorized to make that
payment.”
“Ed,” Tahl said quietly, so that the other Templars could not overhear, “I’ve seen the
itemized
invoice for that payment. ‘Greater Planar Binding?’ ‘Trap the Soul?’ ‘Symbol of Insanity?’
A
pearl valued at 15,000 gold crowns?”
Eadric groaned.
“If I refuse to submit to ecclesiastical law?” The Paladin asked.
“You will be stripped of your rank, excommunicated, anathematized, your name will be
stricken
from all church records, your estates will be confiscated and I am authorized to use a
‘Mark of
Justice’ upon you. You will be shunned by the faithful. In any case, you will be tried for
the
‘accomplice to murder’ charge in a civil court.”
“If I refuse to recognize the authority of the church court?”
“Pretty much the same deal, I’m afraid,” Tahl said apologetically.
“Otherwise?”
“You will stand trial for Heresy. If found guilty…”
“…I will burn.” Eadric finished the sentence for him. “And what does Lord Oronthon
have to say
on the matter?”
“That may very well prove to be your best defence,” Tahl said. “Until this point, he has
said
absolutely nothing.”
Eadric smiled grimly, and held out his hands. As the manacles were fastened around his
wrists,
Tahl spoke again.
“One last thing, Ed. The Demoness. Where is she?”
The Paladin shook his head.
“You know I’ll find her,” Tahl said.
Eadric held his hands up, and looked at Nwm. “The Abbey!” He yelled.
The Druid began incanting. Tahl looked up and swore, and began to cast a spell himself.
Nwm
dissolved into mist, and vanished. Moments later, to Eadric’s astonishment, the same thing
happened to Tahl.
“How splendid and dramatic,” Mostin said to Ortwin, stroking his hedgehog. “The Wind-
Walkers’ Race! Will you write a ballad?”
“I think mime would be a more suitable medium,” Ortwin replied drily.
“How long will it take them to get there?” Mostin asked.
“It’s about fifteen miles away – a quarter of an hour.”
“Pah!” Mostin scoffed. “Come with me.”
The Alienist led Ortwin into his chambers, which, despite his brief time at Trempa, were
already
full of strange devices, alchemical alembics and books, arranged neatly on shelves and
tables.
Reaching into his portable hole, Mostin produced the Looking Glass of Urm-Nahat and
erected it
on the floor. Holding the amulet which had been confiscated from Despina in one hand, he
invoked the Mirror’s power, and Despina appeared on its surface. She was on her knees,
scrubbing the floor of the cloister.
“Impressive,” Ortwin said. “And now you just walk through?”
“Yes,” Mostin said.
“Can I go?” Ortwin asked.
“By all means,” Mostin replied. “The gate is invisible from the other side, so mark its
location.”
Ortwin nodded, and stepped through.
**
Nwm tore through the air at breakneck speed, and it was only after several minutes had
passed
that the druid noticed that a mist like form was following him. He immediately headed for
a bank
of cumulus clouds in an attempt to lose his pursuer, and then cursed his own stupidity as
he
noticed that Tahl did not follow him, but headed directly southwards towards the Abbey.
The
Druid raced down, and now found himself in pursuit of the Inquisitor. He knew he had
little time,
and wished he’d prepared ‘Master Earth’ instead of ‘Wind Walk.’
Nwm plummeted to the ground, and resumed his physical form. The translucent shape of
Tahl
had vanished from sight. Nwm swore again, looked around, selected a suitable oak tree,
and
stepped into it.
Bump, from one tree to the next. Bump-bump-bump-bump-bump-bump-bump-bump-
‘sorry,’ he
apologized to a dryad, bump-bump-bump-bump-bump and Nwm reappeared less than two
minutes later, eight miles ahead.
“Hah!” he said, and resumed his vaporous state.
Nwm arrived at the Abbey to find Ortwin talking to Despina in the cloister.
“How the hell did you get here,” he asked the Bard.
Ortwin just smiled.
“Flee,” the Druid said to the demoness, “Eadric has been impeached and the Inquisition
are
looking for you.”
“I know,” Despina replied, “Ortwin just told me.”
“Well,” said Nwm, “Vanish. Disappear. Teleport. Go ethereal or something.”
Despina shook her head. “I am forbidden to manifest supernatural powers, remember?”
“Oh for heaven’s sake,” Nwm said in an exasperated fashion. “I think we can relax that
stipulation.”
But Despina would not comply.
The Druid was almost blue with desperation. He had three minutes left.
“On your knees,” Nwm demanded.
Despina kneeled. Nwm groped into his pouch and produced a holly berry and some
mistletoe. He
handed the berry to Despina.
“Eat this,” he said.
Despina ate it.
Nwm waved the mistletoe around, mumbled through his beard, and struck the succubus on
both
cheeks with it.
“Congratulations,” Nwm said, “you are now an anointed follower of the Goddess Uedii.
Choose
your totem.”
Despina looked blank.
“A TOTEM!” Nwm thundered.
“An animal,” Ortwin suggested helpfully.
“An Otter?” Despina asked.
Nwm relaxed and smiled. “Excellent choice,” he said, “I like otters. Now take my hand.”
The demoness reached up, and they both dissolved into mist.
**
Tahl arrived a minute later to find Ortwin trying to explain himself to two of the nuns in
the cloister. He was also surprised at the Bard’s presence, but remained in vaporous form.
He asked
where Despina was.
“The Elemental Plane of Fire,” Ortwin delivered one of his most convincing lies ever.
Tahl’s misty face stared hard at Ortwin. “You lie,” he said.
The Bard was shocked. He must be losing his touch.
“Was the Druid with her?” Tahl asked.
“No,” Ortwin lied again.
“That’s twice you’ve lied,” Tahl accused him. The Inquisitor began to rematerialize and,
not
wanting further embarrassment, Ortwin dashed past him, passed through the invisible gate
and
reappeared in Mostin’s chambers.
“Close it,” the Bard yelled.
Mostin waved his hand and the mirror went blank.
Tahl stormed through the Abbey, entered the chapel, made a quick supplication to
Oronthon, and
spoke to the Abbess.
“I am Tahl, the Deputy Inquisitor General,” he said.
The Abbess looked staggered. “What can I do for you?”
“Lend me your font,” the Inquisitor said.
**
Nwm and Despina Wind-Walked for another thirty minutes, heading in the direction of
Deorham
and over terrain that the Druid was intimately familiar with. The folds and wrinkles in the
earth, heavily forested and cut by dozens of small streams, undulated below them. Nwm’s
eyes
constantly scanned the ground.
“Here,” he eventually said, and the pair headed downwards.
They resumed their corporeal forms at the base of a small hill with a bare summit. A
single
menhir of great age stood there.
Despina started towards it, but stopped abruptly and vomited.
“You cannot approach,” Nwm informed her, “this is hallowed ground. Do you wish for
redemption?”
The demoness nodded.
“Then kneel.”
And Nwm began to chant.
Halfway through the ceremony, the Druid’s concentration almost lapsed as he suddenly
became
aware of a magical sensor nearby which was spying on him. He swallowed hard and
continued to
chant his slow, rhythmic chant. The eye vanished, and Nwm knew that Tahl would soon be
heading this way at his best speed. No matter, Nwm thought, it would be too late by the
time the
Inquisitor arrived.
When Tahl the Incorruptible appeared beneath the dolmen, he found Despina and the
Druid
standing quietly there.
“Hand her over, Nwm,” he said. “This doesn’t have to get messy.”
But Nwm shook his head. “She has atoned, and the Earth has forgiven her. She is now
under my
protection, and you are in my temple. If you try to touch her, I will obliterate you. Do not
force me.**”
Tahl gazed hard, and perceived that the Druid spoke no falsehood. He nodded, and then
vanished. His superiors weren’t going to like this. Not one bit.
Tahl smiled.
*General note on church politics. The Curia is the main policy and doctrine-administering
body
in the Church of Oronthon, and technically decides on actions if the Archbishop is absent
(for
whatever reason). There are eleven seats: the Bishops of Gibilrazen, Hethio, Jiuhu,
Kaurban,
Mord, Thahan, Tomur and Tyndur; the Inquisitor General and the Grand Master of the
Temple
Knights; and “One Devout Layman” – a member of the laity selected for demonstrating
particular holiness and faith. The last position is currently held by the Marquis of Iald.
The Great Conclave is comprised of the Curia, and around forty other priests of note.
**It’s worth pointing out that in my campaign, certain ancient sites have an energy
associated
with them that automatically maximizes any Druidic spell cast there. Needless to say, this
site
(‘Cambos du’la,’ the ‘Slope of the Leaf’), was one of them.
.
DM Confessions: 1) For story purposes, I allowed Nwm to spontaneously cast
“Atonement” in
place of a prepared “Commune with Nature” and, 2) Even though the spell description
specifically bars outsiders, it does so on the grounds that they are “incapable of changing
their
alignment.” As the entire plot revolves around this unlikely event, it seemed a bit stupid to
disallow the spell.
And they really deserved a break.
(Not THAT much of a break: it still cost Nwm 500 xp)
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 05-14-2002
It got complicated.
From here on, I was making it up as I went along - we all were, in fact. It was impossible
to
cover every contingency, and my head was beginning to hurt. I had no plot left, and the
issues
were too big for me to deal with on my own. It was time for me to give up some
responsibility -
temporarily, at least. So I asked all of the players:
“So where do YOU see this going?” After all, its their game.
This is what we came up with.
**
Three weeks passed.
Even though the demoness’s repentance was regarded as a partial vindication, as Tahl had
pointed out to Eadric, it did not entirely mitigate the charges levelled against the Paladin,
and
Inquisitor’s own orders were clear.
Eadric was contained in a small but comfortable cell beneath the Archiepiscopal palace,
where he brooded about his condition and wondered how much weight Despina’s
atonement would afford
his case. Nwm was not well liked by the upper echelons of the clergy, and the fact that the
green
bosom of the Goddess Uedii had embraced the succubus only served to increase tensions
between members of the Old Faith and Orthodoxy. Eadric himself almost regretted Nwm’s
intercession, and felt that his own responsibilities had been usurped. She was safe, and that
was
good. The fact that the Church had not been instrumental in her salvation, however,
caused him
much lament. He wondered what kind of Tree-ish nonsense Nwm was filling her head
with, and
unsuccessfully tried to suppress a smile at the thought.
Eadric was allowed to speak to no-one except his confessor, the Bishop of Hethio, as the
case
against him was being prepared. This vexed him, as he knew that Hethio had voted for his
arraignment at the conclave, but the Paladin had little choice but to accept it. The first
question that the Bishop had asked was:
“Do you have any other sins that you need to confess, my son?”
And so, Eadric had felt compelled to speak of Rurunoth. The Bishop evinced no surprise,
as
Mostin’s invoice already pointed to something extraordinary. Eadric guessed correctly that
he
might as well come clean – the truth about the Balor was sure to come out sooner or later.
Until
his trial, he’d just play the game.
Ortwin spent two weeks gaining a reputation as a rabble-rouser. The Bard deployed his
considerable communication skills in every tavern, bar and inn in Morne, singing ballads,
reciting poetry and making defamatory remarks about the church. He sang of love,
injustice,
redemption and oppressive dogma. He spoke on street corners, he heckled worshippers
outside of
chapels, and drank huge quantities of firewine.
Within a fortnight the case was a sensation, and Ortwin had gathered to himself a group of
malcontents, lapsed devotees and drunken romantics who hung on his every word. The
Bard
enjoyed himself immensely. The Curia suddenly fell under scrutiny from every quarter,
and after
the first few days, they made attempts to counter Ortwin’s scandalous performances by
sending
their most articulate and charismatic preachers to venues where the Half-Elf was
scheduled to
play.
The Bard lapped it up: as far as he was concerned, the more controversy that he attracted,
the
better.
Ortwin was arrested three times for causing a breach of the peace.
The first time, the city guards, reduced to tears at his words, released him.
On the second occasion, he successfully seduced his arresting officer: a young lieutenant
of the
watch named Qino Sels. Within a day, the Bard had convinced her to distribute anti-
temple
propaganda amongst the city guard and the militia.
His final arrest, which resulted in a hearing with an elderly and conservative magistrate of
the
Royal Justice, was quashed when the Duchess of Trempa, a long-standing critic of
Ortwin’s
behaviour when he had frequented her court, intervened on his behalf. He was released on
the
condition that he immediately cease his performances, to which he happily complied. Half
of the
nobility of Wyre were now assembled in Morne in order to hear the case of Eadric, and
Ortwin
applied himself to seeking audiences with various Barons, Counts, Marquises and Dukes
in an
effort to petition their favour.
Mostin leased a small house in the most fashionable district of Morne under an assumed
name,
erected his looking-glass, and spent much of his time in divination. He made several
extraplanar
sorties in an effort to determine the reasons behind Oronthon’s apparent reluctance to
make his
wishes known.
He consulted with Mulissu in her pocket paradise, although he found the savant ill-
informed
about larger cosmic events, and uninterested by what transpired away from her own realm.
She
suggested that he make a translation to the least rarefied of the heavens and seek guidance
from
the celestials who abode there. Mostin said he’d think about it, and promptly failed to
follow her recommendation*.
After petitioning various passers-by on the Inner Planes – both mortal and supernatural -
the
Alienist made a perilous physical translation to the steaming fringes of Hell, where he
posed a
“Metagnostic Inquiry**” to a Horned Devil. The Cornugon replied with a cryptic quatrain:
The Eagle seeks an effective solution and is thereby satisfied.
If the vine bears too many bad grapes, then the wine will be poor,
And a ruthless vintner is preferred over a bitter draught.
When Rintrah roars, who will listen?
The Cornugon, Mostin rationalized, although a minor authority in the vast diabolic
hierarchy,
might know something of use. The Alienist was in no doubt that the Dukes of Hell knew
of
Oronthon’s silence and were probably observing with interest: the network of infernal
spies was
the most extensive in the cosmos.
Mostin returned through the looking-glass to his rented home and pondered on the
meaning of
the words. The “Eagle” – the symbol associated with the god Oronthon - was a clear
enough metaphor for the deity himself. Rintrah was the Planetar in the celestial host
responsible for
mortal revelation. The wine-making references, however, were obscure, and the Alienist
could
not interpret their meaning. Mostin spent the day experiencing a series of semiotic
paradoxes,
found that he made no progress, and went to meet Ortwin in a nearby inn.
Nwm and Despina were also there. The Druid, together with his new fiendish protégé, had
been
visiting a variety of holy sites, places of natural beauty, and particularly venerable trees.
Both were travelling dressed in the mottled brown and green robes of lay worshippers of
the Goddess,
and Nwm had adopted the guise of an old woman in order to deflect attention from their
true
identity. Morne at that time was a dangerous place, full of zealots and extremists, and the
only
thing which frightened the Druid more than encountering a squadron of inquisitors or
templars,
was a group of overly enthusiastic Uedii worshippers. They might view him as a means to
end
what they viewed as Oronthonian oppression, and hail him as a liberator from excessive
Temple
taxes. Nwm was apolitical, and although critical of the Temple, had no desire to irritate
representatives of the established church beyond that which was absolutely necessary.
Heretic. Infidel. Apostate. Unbeliever. Schismatic. Dissident.
All of these words were currently being bandied about too readily by a variety of self-
appointed
holy men and women in a climate of religious intolerance that made Nwm nervous.
Ortwin was
adding fuel to the fire by his actions and, at the Druid’s behest, the Bard ceased his one-
man
campaign against the Orthodox Church. Aside from numbers of inflamed, disenfranchised
Earth-
worshippers, various heretical Oronthonian groups – including the Irrenites, the
Reconciliatory
Sophists and the Urgic Mystics had begun to attract more attention after years of
languishing in obscurity. They began wooing the public in an attempt to increase flagging
congregations and
dwindling coffers.
The trio discussed Mostin’s exchange with the devil, but could not penetrate its
crypticisms any
more than the Alienist already had. None were experts in Oronthonianism, but the
references
might make more sense to an initiate.
“Can we find someone who might shed light on it?” Ortwin asked.
Despina coughed politely, but Mostin wasn’t listening.
“Ooh, yes,” the Alienist said sarcastically, “I’ll go and find a priest – you know, someone
well-versed in doctrinal matters. Maybe an inquisitor. I’ll say, ‘Hello. I’m Mostin – that
diabolist you might have heard of. Don’t listen to any of the gossip about me, none of it’s
true. I wondered if
you could help me. See, I was talking to this devil…’”
“Well, obviously I was thinking of a more indirect approach,” Ortwin sighed.
“I’m not sure how reliable the words of a devil are in helping us penetrate the motive for
Oronthon’s silence,” Nwm said drily. “Surely a member of the celestial host would make a
better target for inquiry.”
“Perhaps,” Mostin said nervously, “although devils tend to be remarkably well-informed.
In any case, I would guess that only the upper echelons of Oronthon’s servitors would be
privy to his
motives.”
“So you think that a moderate-ranking devil will be better informed than, say a deva or an
archon? Your argument is inconsistent.” Nwm pressed. “Unless Oronthon is purposely
leaking information to fiends.”
“If you have any theories about this,” Ortwin said to the Demoness, “now would be a
good time to share them.”
“I don’t pretend to understand Oronthon’s motivation,” Despina said carefully, “but I am
well-versed in theological matters – it pays if you’re in my line of work. Or my previous
line of work, I should say. I think that Oronthon neatly sidestepped the issue of dealing
with the dilemma that
my petition for forgiveness caused. I don’t think it was necessarily intentional on his part,
but
Nwm’s intercession for me with the Goddess is to Oronthon’s benefit.”
“Explain,” said Mostin.
“Consider,” the Demoness said. “You are a deity with a number of portfolios. You
represent, on
one hand, Love, Compassion, Mercy and Forgiveness. You are absolutely Good. On the
other hand, you signify Justice, Order, Retribution and absolute Law. These two poles are
not
necessarily identical in their needs.”
“Hah,” Mostin snorted. “If you’re telling me that Oronthon is schizophrenic, then he’s no
different from any other deity. So what’s new?”
“The point I’m trying to make,” she continued, “is that the current crisis is a reflection of
that dichotomy. A demoness approaches Oronthon’s champion, earnestly asking for
redemption.
Good Oronthon says ‘sure, no problem,’ whereas Lawful Oronthon says ‘no chance. Your
punishment was just.’ Of course, Oronthon understands this paradox, and that some kind
of
dialectic has to be found in order to transcend it. If he acts, one way or the other, he
favours Law over Good or vice versa. Two absolute truths have come into conflict with
one another, and both
have to be satisfied.”
“Orthodoxy admits to this variation,” Nwm said, “hence its worshippers emphasise
different aspects of the deity***. I don’t see this as relevant.”
“In practice they admit to it, yes,” Despina said “but doctrinally, Oronthon is ‘one, perfect,
indivisible’ and so on. To speculate that Oronthon is, in fact, a moral relativist would not
go
down terribly well with the public – hence such discourse is deemed ‘heretical.’”
Ortwin hooted with laughter. “So do I get to tell Ed? He’ll love this.”
“You must not,” Despina said. “Eadric is like most celestials. They have a simplistic view
of reality which is couched in terms of black and white. It is their faith which sustains
them, and an absolute trust in Oronthon’s perfection. As Mostin says, only those in the
upper tiers of the
celestial hierarchy really understand Oronthon’s will – that the deity is constantly fraught
with
moral and ethical dilemmas which he has to resolve. Yet they still trust his judgement, and
do not doubt him.”
“And you doubted?” Mostin asked.
“I understood, I doubted, and I fell,” the demoness replied. “The same would happen to
Eadric.”
“You underestimate him,” Nwm said, simply. “He is not afraid to confront difficult truths.
If your theory is correct, that there are essentially two kinds of faith in question here – a
blind faith and an informed faith, so to speak – then I would be prepared to gamble that
Eadric falls into the
latter camp.”
“Maybe,” Ortwin said, “although in the past I’ve hardly kept my frustration with Ed’s
stubbornness a secret from him. He has trouble dealing with new ideas. The revelation that
his god is fallible might be more than he can handle. But I can’t believe this is the first
time that this idea has been addressed.”
Despina shook her head. “Its not. Mystics and contemplatives have to get past this point
and
develop a more fundamental relationship with the deity. But your standard Warrior-cleric,
or
Templar, or Paladin has a relatively unenlightened view. They are agents of their deity’s
will, but do not understand it. In this regard they resemble the celestial rank and file.”
“Interesting theory,” Nwm said sceptically, “but if it’s true then why did you approach
Eadric for redemption in the first place? If you consider him to possess only a partial
understanding of
Oronthon, then surely a contemplative who is more ‘tuned in’ would’ve made a better
choice.
You must have known that it would cause a crisis in both his conscience and the larger
body of
the church.”
“I had little choice,” Despina said. “If you remember, he was ready to strike me down
until I begged him to reconsider. But we’d already spent so much time together that I
thought I
understood him enough to risk throwing myself on his mercy. From that point onwards,
until you
acted on my behalf, then he basically called the shots. I trusted his ability to effectively act
upon the will of Oronthon, even if he did not fully understand it.”
“You are forgetting Cynric,” Mostin reasoned. “Whoever Eadric was, when this began, he
is not the same man now. The Archbishop pulled the rug from under his feet when he
withdrew official
church support for his actions. Eadric’s own mentor initiated an existential crisis in his
ward and told him that he was ‘on his own.’ Why would he do that unless he felt that
Eadric was capable of
dealing with it? I am a wizard – I understand this principle well. Sometimes the lessons
you give
need to be ruthless, otherwise they are ineffective.”
“I disliked Cynric,” Nwm said, “but I had no doubt about his sense of foresight, or his
excellence as a teacher. I suspect that he may have had a presentiment about his own
death.”
“And did nothing to stop it?” Ortwin asked, amazed. “He elected no successor, and the
church is in crisis. I don’t believe he would willingly allow that to happen – the
continuation of tradition was too important to him.”
Nwm raised an ironic eyebrow. “You forget the last exchange between Eadric and Cynric
occurred in private. Neither you, nor I, nor the Curia were present. Eadric was vague about
the
details.”
“You think the old bastard was grooming Eadric to take over?” Ortwin asked, aghast.
“Not necessarily,” Nwm said, “but I think he was sounding out possibilities, and Eadric
may have been high on his list of candidates. He may have regarded the Despina affair as
a test of Eadric’s mettle, thus he was disinclined to intervene. He saw it as a potential
catalyst which would have
far-reaching consequences for every aspect of the faith. In the final analysis, however, I
think
Cynric’s foresight failed him: he didn’t expect to die quite as soon as he did.”
“But why choose a warrior when there are so many contemplatives who are attuned more
closely?” Despina asked.
“War,” Nwm said.
“In the church? Precipitated by me?” Despina asked. “I hope not. If that’s the case, then
Graz’zt has won already.”
“Again,” repeated Nwm, “not necessarily. Oronthon may view it as an opportunity to root
out corruption, instill a new direction in a stagnant organization, quiet the bickering
factions and
revive morality. Remember: The Greatest Good for the Greatest Number. Sometimes you
have to
crack a few eggs to bake a cake.”
“But the Inquisition and the Temple are Eadric’s primary antagonists,” Ortwin said. “And
if this is the case, then why hasn’t Oronthon shown some sign to Eadric?”
“I believe its customarily called ‘the long dark night of the soul,’” Nwm replied. “It’s
supposed to be difficult, or it has no value.”
“So what are we supposed to do?” Asked Ortwin. “The trial begins tomorrow.”
“Nothing,” said Mostin. “We wait until Rintrah roars.”
*Mostin is afraid of birds. Celestials with their big, feathery wings are more than the
Alienist can bear.
**Potent Spell (8th level) devised by Mostin with several applications, but designed
primarily to
extract information from extraplanar entities. Like “Otto’s Irresistible Dance,” the
“Metagnostic Inquiry” allows no saving throw (although SR still applies), and the target is
subjected to a mind-affecting compulsion which temporarily renders it docile and
incapable of lying. The caster poses
a single question, which the target must answer faithfully (albeit usually obliquely). The
question posed by Mostin to the Cornugon was “What is the meaning of Oronthon’s
current silence
towards his worshippers?”
***Obviously, although Oronthon is a LG Deity, his worshippers can be NG or LN.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 05-15-2002
“Please state your full name and title before the panel,” the aged inquisitor directed.
“I am Eadric son of Moad, Baronet of Deorham and Lord of the Manor at Jaive and
Sutting. I am a deputed inquisitor. I also bear the title of ‘Protector of the Nineteen
Tenets.’” Eadric looked around the courtroom. It was empty except for himself and a
council of five magnates: Melion,
the Inquisitor General and his Deputy, Tahl; The Bishops of Tyndur and Hethio; and the
Grand
Master of the Temple, Lord Rede of Dramore. Inevitably, the Church elders had decided
on a
private hearing, to avoid the inevitable gossip and speculation which would otherwise
arise.
Eadric was not impressed.
“The last title was bestowed upon you for services rendered to Orthodoxy by the late
Archbishop, Cynric of Morne,” Melion said rhetorically.
“That is correct.”
“Perhaps you could enlighten us as to the actions which prompted his holiness to grant
that title?”
Melion asked.
“It was given to me after my actions in the defeat of the Demon Cerothumulos, who posed
a
threat to the established church around the city of Tyndur.” Eadric looked pointedly at the
Bishop of Tyndur: it was his diocese that had been saved by the Paladin’s actions. Tyndur
averted his
gaze.
“Was this the first time that you had had dealings with demons?” Lord Rede asked.
“Naturally not,” Eadric replied smoothly. “I am expected to deal with any infernal or
diabolic threat which presents itself.”
“What is the prescribed method of dealing with such threats?” Hethio asked.
“Their annihilation,” Eadric answered.
“How old were you when you first encountered a fiend?” Melion asked.
“I was fifteen,” Eadric replied.
“Perhaps you could explain the circumstances,” Melion pressed the Paladin.
“A sorcerer who bore a grudge against my father invoked three minor demons to assail
him
whilst he slept. They are commonly known as Dretch. I picked up my father’s sword and
slew one. My father wrestled one to the ground and grappled with it. Shortly afterwards
the two
remaining demons dissolved – the spell must have ended and they were no longer
beholden.’
“And your father was wounded?” Hethio asked.
“We both were,” Eadric replied.
“Did you immediately seek a priest of Oronthon?” Melion asked.
“No, but…” Eadric answered.
“You know that this is the recommended course of action for the faithful,” Melion
interrupted,
“although we can hardly blame you for your father’s oversight – after all, you were merely
a
boy.” The condescension dripped from the inquisitor’s lips. “Where did you go?”
“We went to see the local nature priest,” Eadric sighed.
“A pagan?” Melion raised his eyebrows in false surprise. The story was well known.
“A pagan.” Eadric confirmed.
“His name?”
“Nwm,” Eadric said.
**
“Shortly after your first demonic encounter, you entered the service of the Temple. To
‘fight the good fight,’” the Bishop of Hethio said. His benign expression did not hide from
Eadric the fact that this man bore him no great love. “You demonstrated certain gifts.”
Eadric nodded.
“Why?” Hethio asked.
“I felt that Lord Oronthon had called me to such a task,” Eadric answered.
“Did he speak to you?” Melion asked.
“No,” the Paladin replied.
“Has he ever spoken to you?” Hethio asked. “Either directly, or through one of his
intermediaries?”
“No,” Eadric said.
“Oh?” Rede asked. “Then you do not view the established church as a valid medium for
conveying Oronthon’s will?”
Sh*t, thought Eadric, wrong answer: the bastards. “Forgive me, Lord. I had assumed that
you
referred to a celestial messenger. The church has efficiently conveyed Lord Oronthon’s
will to
me in the past.”
“Do you think it continues to do so?” Melion asked cannily.
Eadric did not answer.
“Baronet Deorham?” Hethio pressed.
“No,” Eadric admitted. “I don’t think it does.”
**
Ortwin groaned and placed his head in his hands. “Oh gods, Ed, just lie to them and tell
them what they want to hear.” He, Mostin, Nwm and Despina were gathered around the
Alienist’s
looking glass, spying on the proceedings in the inquisitorial court.
“Unfortunately, lying doesn’t come as easily to Eadric as it does to some,” Nwm jibed.
“Besides,” Mostin said, “the court is under a Zone of Truth, so there’s no point anyway.
And you see those huge gaudy amulets that Melion and Tahl are wearing? The ‘Eyes of
Palamabron,’
they’re called. Gems of Seeing with all kinds of other powers. Artifacts.” Mostin’s eyes
glazed over and he drooled.
“Who’s Palamabron?” Ortwin asked.
“A dead Solar,” Despina replied.
“So they know we’re watching?” Nwm asked, astonished. “Why don’t they do something
about it?”
“Heh,” Mostin laughed, “they tried.”
**
“Why did you participate in the summoning of the Balor Rurunoth?” Melion asked Eadric.
“I did not do so willingly,” the Paladin replied, “I felt it was an ill-advised course of
action.”
“But you took part nonetheless,” Hethio said. “Why?”
“It was in an attempt to discover the machinations of the Demon Graz’zt, and to sever the
link between him and Despina.”
“The succubus Nehael?”
“Yes,” Eadric answered.
“Because, at this point, you still did not trust her?” Melion asked.
“That is correct.”
“Where is Rurunoth now?” Melion inquired.
“I don’t exactly know,” Eadric answered.
“You don’t know?” Rede asked, astonished.
“Nwm and Mostin entombed him beneath the earth. He is protected with powerful wards.”
Melion raised an eyebrow. “You allowed a pagan and a known diabolist to deal with this
threat?
After acceding to an illegal summoning in the first place?”
“Mostin is not a diabolist,” Eadric insisted.
“But he does routinely deal with demons and devils?” Hethio asked archly.
“I wouldn’t say routinely,” Eadric replied.
“Infrequently, then, shall we say?” Hethio smiled. “I think the distinction is
inconsequential, don’t you?”
Eadric said nothing.
“Where is the demoness now?” Melion asked.
“I don’t know,” the Paladin answered. “I believe that she is still under the protection of
Nwm the Preceptor.”
“So her announced desire for redemption was, ultimately, a falsehood,” Melion said.
“I don’t think she would agree,” Eadric retorted.
“But she is now a pagan,” Rede laughed, “that’s not much of an improvement, is it?”
“The Goddess was willing to forgive her,” Eadric said.
“But she’d committed no crime against any pagan god, had she?” Melion taunted. “It is
reasonable to assume that your god – our god – Lord Oronthon - still judges her accursed.”
“Has he told you as much?” Eadric asked defiantly.
“It is the duty of the Curia to interpret the will of Oronthon,” Melion hissed.
“In the absence of an Archbishop.” Eadric snapped. He was getting tired of this. “Why is
Oronthon silent?” He asked.
“Such weighty matters are not for you,” Melion answered. “You are merely a warrior.”
**
“Did the succubus seduce you?” Hethio asked.
“No,” Eadric replied.
“But you bore her token while you jousted, and you courted her. You spent a good deal of
time in conversation with her. What did you talk about?”
“Mainly philosophy and religion,” the Paladin said.
“Did you find her an articulate conversationalist?” Hethio inquired.
“Yes. She is most erudite.”
“Did she sway your opinions on any theological matters?” The Bishop continued.
“Not that I remember,” Eadric sighed.
“And you were…how should I put this…romantically attracted to her?”
“Yes,” Eadric groaned.
“Would it seem entirely unreasonable,” the Bishop asked slyly, “if I suggested that your
urge to fornicate with a demon is responsible for your current predicament?”
“It is not an unreasonable suggestion,” Eadric agreed. “However, neither is it true.”
“Have you ever had dealings with a necromancer called Feezuu?” Melion asked the
Paladin.
Eadric looked surprised. “I’ve never heard of her. Why?”
“Information leads us to believe it was she who slew Cynric,” Hethio explained. “Do you
bear any guilt, or have you felt responsible for Cynric’s death?” He asked.
Eadric grimaced. The question hit the core of his doubts. “I am not sure,” he replied.
“Perhaps.”
**
In his chambers, Mostin went pale as the blood drained from his face. “This is very bad
news,”
he said.
“Feezuu?” Nwm asked. “Never heard of her.”
“She is a Cambion,” Despina explained, “a half-demon. She is the attaché of the Balor
Ainhorr –
who, incidentally, is significantly more powerful than Rurunoth.”
“Who is? Feezuu or Ainhorr?” the Bard asked.
“I was speaking of Ainhorr, but both of them, actually,” replied Despina.
“Great,” said Ortwin, sarcastically. “Could we take her?”
“Not without Eadric,” Mostin replied.
“And with him?”
“Maybe,” said the Alienist.
“Hmm,” grunted Ortwin.
**
“You have, in your possession, certain heretical texts,” Melion said. “They were
discovered at your castle. Have you anything to say about them?”
“I did not realize that they were forbidden,” Eadric answered.
“How did you come by them?”
“Many of my books are the legacy of my father’s estate.”
“Ah,” said Melion, “we come back to your father again. Would you say that your father
was a devout man?”
“Yes,” Eadric replied.
“Although he consulted banned treatises and consorted with local pagan priests?”
“I do not view tolerance as an obstacle to devotion,” Eadric said.
“Really? You have a brother, do you not?” Melion asked.
Eadric nodded. He knew where this was going.
“What does your brother do, Baronet Deorham?”
“He is an ascetic. He has renounced the world.” Eadric answered.
“He is an Urgic Mystic, am I correct?” Melion pressed.
“That is true,” Eadric admitted.
“Do you share his opinions to any extent?’ Hethio asked.
“No,” said Eadric forcefully.
“Please, Baronet Deorham, try to understand that we are only looking for the truth here.”
“Of course,” Eadric said, smiling. He looked at Tahl, and the Deputy Inquisitor could only
swallow and return his gaze with regret. Tyndur would not even meet his eyes.
The others wanted to burn him. Badly.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 05-16-2002
After the preliminary hearing in the trial, Mostin used the mirror again to access Mulissu’s
demi-
plane.
“This is becoming tedious, Mostin,” the Elemental Savant said to him. “This is the third
time you have interrupted my contemplation. I resent your nagging. And now you ask me
to work magic
for you?’
“You have met her, and I have not,” Mostin said. “I cannot use the spell.”
“And I do not have the spell,” Mulissu replied.
“Then we may make fair exchange,” said Mostin, smugly.
“That will involve taking a full day from my studies,” Mulissu complained. “Time is
precious to me.”
“It is crucial to me,” Mostin said. “Please?”
“Very well,” she sighed. “Leave your book here. I will look after dinner.”
“Are you insane?” Mostin asked. “Leave my book with you? My most potent dweomers
are in that book!”
Mulissu raised a single eyebrow, and her hair crackled with electricity. Mostin left his
book and
fled back through the gate.
**
The next day of the trial was little better for Eadric.
“Let us return to the matter of the demon Cerothumulos,” Melion said.
The Bishop of Tyndur looked uncomfortable.
“This demon was potent,” Melion continued. “A Nalfeshnee who had assumed the guise
of a stone giant.”
“That is correct,” Eadric replied, “the Bishop had engaged him in the construction of the
new fane at Tyndur.”
“He was attended by several succubi, who infiltrated the church,” Melion said. “You
demonstrated no reluctance in destroying these creatures. Why did the succubus Nehael
strike
you as any different?”
“I felt that her case was the exception, not the rule,” Eadric replied.
“Did it occur to you that it is utterly beyond your remit to make a judgement about the
desire of a fiend to seek repentance? Beyond any mortal intervention, in fact. Did you
consider that this is a matter for celestials and Oronthon himself?”
“I sought the advice of Cynric,” Eadric said.
“Eventually,” Rede of Dramore laughed. “After using witchcraft in an attempt to contact
Oronthon. Would you consider this to be the correct procedure?”
“I felt that it was justified.”
“Nehael was dispatched because of the offense you gave the demon Graz’zt after the
defeat of
Cerothumulos,” Melion continued.
“Yes,” Eadric said.
“In an attempt to drag you from grace, to offend the church, to cause a crisis of faith, to
scandalize the Temple and to cause as much mayhem as possible. Would you say that her
efforts
have been successful?”
“With your help, they might be,” Eadric said acidly.
Melion seethed, but it was Hethio who spoke. The bishop produced a small locket, with
the
miniature of a beautiful woman inside of it.
“Do you know who this is, Baronet Deorham?” he asked.
“That is Despina – the succubus Nehael, if you prefer.”
“No,” said the Bishop of Hethio, “this IS Lady Despina of Harcourt. Her father is the
Thane of Harcourt. She has two sisters. Where do you suppose she is now?”
Eadric’s stomach sank. He hadn’t even considered this possibility, that the demoness had
replaced a genuine noblewoman. He’d never thought to ask. He wondered what the real
Despina
had been like. “I would guess that she was murdered,” he said grimly.
“Fortunately not,” Hethio replied, with mock brightness. “She is still alive and well, and
living in Harcourt – such a remote fief, that posing as one from there is unlikely to draw
attention. You
might have met her one day.”
The bastards, thought Eadric, they’re f*cking with my brain.
**
“Well, at least you didn’t kill her,” Ortwin said to Despina.
“I was tempted,” the demoness replied, “she is a vain, empty-headed trollop.”
**
“Yesterday,” Rede said, “you admitted that you no longer believed that the church was a
legitimate channel for Oronthon’s will. I have no interest in trying to fathom your motives
for
such an assertion, but you must know that this statement alone is sufficient grounds to
convict
you of heresy.”
Eadric sighed. “Heresy is a politically expedient crime.”
“No,” Melion snapped. “Heresy is holding an opinion which is contrary to the truth.”
“That is one interpretation,” Eadric retorted. “Another is that heresy is maintaining a
viewpoint
which defies dogma.”
“They are one and the same,” Melion asserted.
“Not since Cynric’s death,” Eadric replied smoothly.
“I will not tolerate this insubordination!” Melion spat. “You will answer the questions put
to you.
I am not interested in your uninformed theories. You are a layman.”
Eadric said nothing.
“Would you concur that your brother is a heretic?” Hethio asked calmly.
“His opinions defy Orthodox dogma. Yes, he is a heretic.”
“And his opinions are contrary to the truth,” Melion said.
Eadric said nothing.
“What transpired in your final meeting with his holiness?” Hethio asked.
Eadric laughed. “The Curia were not present for a reason.”
“Remember: the Curia are now the voice of Oronthon on Earth,” Rede said slowly.
“Whatever doubts you may have possessed in the past, you may now put aside. You may
reveal the
conversation.”
“Cynric told me that I was on my own,” Eadric replied.
“But he did not sanction any particular course of action,” Melion probed.
“No,” said Eadric, “but nor did he forbid any.”
“Would you say that Cynric was in full possession of his faculties?” Hethio inquired.
“Yes,” replied Eadric.
“But I remember him saying ‘Not everything is revealed to me’ – I was present at the
initial
hearing, if you recall. Do you believe that Oronthon’s grace was withdrawn from him?”
“No.” Eadric was adamant.
“Despite the fact that he was not assumed?* That he perished under sorcery?”
“No.”
“What else did he say?” Melion asked.
Eadric smiled. “He said ‘I can give you no help in this matter. You are correct when you
speak of inner promptings – not that I’d say it in front of those others. After all, it IS the
road to heresy - at least among the unenlightened.’”
Melion swallowed hard, and called for an immediate recess.
**
An emergency meeting of the Curia was convened, and Eadric was not called into the
court for
another two days. In his cell, he prayed.
During this time, Mostin made yet another journey to confer with Mulissu. She was, on
this
occasion, surprisingly affable.
“What is this ‘Metagnostic Inquiry?’” The Savant asked, holding his book.
“It is most rude to consult another mage’s books without their permission,” Mostin fumed.
“Would you not have done the same?” Mulissu asked.
Mostin had to admit that he would. “Did you transcribe and master the ‘Discern Location’
dweomer?” he asked.
“Naturally,” she replied. “But I did not realise that you possessed so many originals.
‘Metempsychotic Reversal?’ ‘Paroxysm of Fire?’ Please understand that I was merely
browsing.
I have gained a new respect for you, Mostin.”
The Alienist puffed proudly. He knew she was buttering him up, but compliments were
always
appreciated.
“Perhaps more exchanges would be possible,” Mulissu suggested.
“Yes,” said Mostin, snatching his spellbook and dropping it into his portable hole.
The Witch sighed. “Feezuu is on the plane of Limbo,” she said. “I took the liberty of
casting the spell. She is at these coordinates.”
Mulissu invoked Rary’s Telepathic Bond, and a stream of numbers and formulae flooded
into
Mostin’s brain.
“Notice this variable, here,” Mulissu pointed to a complex equation. “This represents the
probability of Feezuu’s domain being in a certain area. If you translate, you need to
consider that location itself is not a constant on Limbo.”
“Domain?” Mostin asked.
“She has a retreat there,” Mulissu replied. “Perhaps, as a Cambion, she is not always
welcome in the Abyss.”
Mostin thought hard for a moment. “What are her relations with the Slaadi?” He asked.
The Witch shrugged. “I have no idea,” she said.
“Did you scry her?” Mostin asked.
“She is warded,” Mulissu said, “but her fortress looks like THIS.”
An image appeared in Mostin’s mind.
“Gods,” he said, “what’s it made of?”
“Blood, I think,” Mulissu replied.
Charming, thought Mostin.
“What are you planning to do, Mostin?” Mulissu asked.
“I’m not sure yet,” the Alienist answered.
“She is dangerous,” the witch cautioned him.
“And beyond me,” Mostin nodded.
Mulissu laughed. “Maybe, in a straight fight. But I’m assuming you’d cheat. What’s the
biggest evocation you can deliver?”
“Against a Cambion? Sonically Substituted Maximized Empowered Lightning Bolt.”
“Not bad,” Mulissu said. “Sonics, eh?”
“It pays when you’re dealing with outsiders,” Mostin said.
“How many of those can you get off?”
“One,” said Mostin.
“Hmm, it’ll take more than that,” Mulissu said.
“I know,” Mostin sighed.
**
“No frikkin’ way,” Ortwin said.
“I’ve got it all planned,” Mostin explained. “We buff up, and assume the forms of Barbazu
devils.
We use the mirror to get to Limbo. We ‘Teleport without Error’ into the castle. I whack her
with
some spells, and if she’s still standing, you chop her up. We ‘Teleport’ out and use the gate
to get back, quick smart, before her lackeys are onto us.”
“Why the devil part?” Nwm asked.
“Barbazu have great spell resistance, and it preserves anonymity,” Mostin said. “They can
also teleport perfectly without my having to use spells.”
“What spells did you have in mind to ‘whack her’ with,” Nwm inquired.
“Quickened ‘Magic Missile’, ‘Disintegrate’, and ‘Great Shout’. If we’re hasted, and we
get the jump, I can get them all off before she can react. Ortwin zaps her with my ‘Circlet
of Blasting.’ If she’s still standing, she’ll probably be stunned from the sonic – as will at
least some of her
cronies. That’s when Ortwin finishes her off. If he takes longer than five seconds then, a)
I’ll be disappointed in him and, b) I’ll whack her with two sonically substituted
maximized ‘Lightning
Bolts’ and another quickened ‘Magic Missile’. If that doesn’t finish her off, then I’m
changing
my vocation.”
“Sounds reasonable,” said Nwm.
Ortwin groaned. “You cannot be serious,” he said.
“You must admit, given the method of Cynric’s death, this does have a certain symmetry
to it,”
Despina said.
“I thought you said we couldn’t take her without Ed,” Ortwin said.
“I reconsidered,” said Mostin.
*Cynric was the first Archbishop not to undergo a bodily assumption into heaven at his
death.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 05-25-2002
Nothing New Here…
Mostin and Ortwin buffed.
Nwm cast “Death Ward” and “Energy Immunity” on both of them. Mostin had gleaned
from Mulissu that Feezuu favoured acid evocations, so the Druid rendered Mostin immune
to acid and
Ortwin immune to both acid and Sonics – the latter was in order to allow Mostin to use
area
sonic attacks without fear of harming the bard. Nwm also cast “Freedom of Movement”
on both
of them, as well as multiple “Protection from Elements.” Ortwin would ignore the first
168
points of damage from all energy sources, except Sonics and acid, to which he was
entirely
immune. Mostin himself was also warded against Sonics, in the event that any of his area
spells
needed to be discharged at point-blank range. Finally, Nwm cast “Attune Form” on both of
them
to protect them from any unforeseen adverse effects from the Plane of Limbo.
Mostin cast “Haste” and “Fiendform” on both himself and Ortwin, and they transformed
into
Barbazu.
Ortwin bore Melimpor’s Girdle and Shield – items which Eadric and entrusted to Nwm, as
well
as his own scimitar, Githla. An empowered “Cat’s Grace” restored his Dexterity to close
to its
original level - Bearded Devils were not renowned for their agility.
Mostin had thought long and hard about how best to deploy his spell resources and how
best to
retain their anonymity – or at least deflect attention away from themselves. He was sure
that
Feezuu had many enemies, although he didn’t know who they were.
The duo had agreed that they would enter under the guise of an Infernal strike team. The
Alienist
summoned devils before they translated – 3 more Barbazu and an Osyluth. Mostin hoped
that the
Bone Devil would be considered the de facto leader of the troupe and draw attention away
from
himself and Ortwin. He had prepared “Great Shout,” two “Disintegrates,” three quickened
“Magic Missiles,” a double empowered sonically substituted “Fireball,” two singly
empowered
sonically substituted “Fireballs,” three regular sonically substituted “Fireballs,” three
“Dispel
Magics” and a variety of divinations. Mostin had also prepared “Plane Shift” in case
something
went awry with the gate opened by the Looking-Glass of Urm-Nahat, and they needed to
beat a
hasty exit from Limbo.
Ortwin had been turned into a veritable killing machine. Mostin felt invulnerable.
After their diabolic allies had been summoned, Mostin telepathically communicated his
instructions to them, opened the gate to Limbo, and they entered the miasma. Raw chaos
engulfed them.
“We have around one minute,” the Alienist thought to Ortwin. “Make every second
count.”
They teleported into the centre of Feezuu’s keep, an island of semi-permanent matter
sustained
by the Cambion’s will, and appeared in her audience hall. The smell was overpowering –
Mulissu had been correct when she’d guessed that the place was constructed from blood.
Being somewhat disoriented, Mostin hadn’t qot quite the “jump” that he’d hoped for.
Aside from Feezuu, there were only around a dozen Slaadi of minor rank present, which
wasn’t
too bad.
Except that the Balor, Ainhorr, was also there.
Oh F*ck, thought Mostin, he’s big.
The Alienist glanced to see Ortwin, but the Bard had reacted with uncanny prescience. A
conspicuous, shield-bearing Barbazu had already teleported behind Feezuu and was
slashing
violently with his scimitar at the Necromancer.
The Bone Devil, who had sought to engage a Blue Slaad in melee combat, instead
crumpled
under the gaze of Ainhorr into an infinitesimally small point in space.
Mostin swallowed and knew that if he attracted attention, would probably be next. Oh,
well, he
thought. He let loose his “Great Shout” and flung a quickened “Magic Missile” followed
by
“Disintegrate” at the Balor. The sonic blew a hole in the magically sustained blood walls,
and
several Slaadi stopped in their tracks. Feezuu was staggered. Ainhorr brushed off all of the
spells, his concentration unaffected.
Two Red Slaadi and a Blue Slaad began tearing at Mostin with their claws, but they could
not
effectively overcome his infernal protection.
Despite her disorientation, Feezuu managed to deliver a quickened acid bolt at Ortwin,
followed
by invoking “Destruction” upon the Bard. Fortunately, his wards protected him from both
attacks.
Ortwin slashed again and again and again and again at Feezuu, viciously prosecuting a
frenzied
attack.
Ainhorr’s gaze turned to Mostin, and the Alienist felt the weight of the Balor’s will
pressing
down upon him. It was titanic, and smashed through his infernal resistances.
But it did not penetrate the core that was Mostin, beneath.
Mostin smiled and let loose two more potent Sonics at point-blank range and hurled
another
quickened packet of “Magic Missiles” at the Balor. Summoned Devils and Slaadi alike
exploded
under the force of sound. Feezuu reeled: she was in trouble. The Alienist telepathically
instructed the last remaining Barbazu to interpose itself between himself and Ainhorr.
Ainhorr looked moderately irritated.
Feezuu reacted swiftly.
The Cambion cast a quickened haste upon herself. Mostin was unaffected by the first of
two
potent, rapid magical assaults, although the second almost overwhelmed him. But Ortwin
screamed as the water was wilted from his body twice in succession.
GET OUT! AWAY FROM THE BALOR! BACK TO THE PORTAL! Mostin screamed
telepathically to the Bard. Ortwin must get out of range of the Implosions. The Half-Elf
didn’t
need telling twice. He slashed at Feezuu again, and teleported away to a safe distance.
Ainhorr held up his flaming hand and invoked a “Symbol of Death” which caused the
intervening Barbazu to die in a spectacular fashion. But Mostin, warded from death magic,
was
unharmed.
Ainhorr fumed in disbelief, and drew his sword.
Sh*t, thought Mostin, and fired off his last sonic attack and quickened “Magic Missile” at
Feezuu. The Necromancer finally crumpled under Mostin’s power. The Alienist teleported
away
promptly.
Mostin wanted to go back for her spellbooks. He changed his mind when Ortwin
threatened to
kill him.
**
“So is she dead, then?” Nwm asked.
“I’m pretty sure,” Mostin replied.
“But not entirely.”
“No.” Mostin said.
“And the Balor?” Asked the Druid.
“I think we managed to annoy him, but little more,” the Alienist said. “My magic barely
touched
him. The question which will be vexing him most is ‘who are we?’ I guess he will return
to the Abyss and seek direction from his master.”
“Will they discern the truth?” Nwm asked.
“I hope not,” Mostin earnestly replied. “Although with the Cambion out of the picture I
am less
worried about reprisals. Graz’zt would exhaust himself if he were to facilitate the
translation of a major demon like Ainhorr onto the Prime, and would attract all kinds of
unwelcome attention.”
“But he has other agents,” Ortwin said. “We are not safe.”
“We never were,” Despina replied.
“Can you invoke the ‘Magnificent Mansion?’” Nwm asked Mostin.
The Alienist shook his head. “I have not prepared it. My spells are exhausted.”
Nwm looked concerned. “As are mine! And I am now worried about interplanar guerilla
tactics
being deployed against me. What spells do you have left?”
“Mainly divinations,” Mostin answered. “But we should be safe for the nonce. It will take
Ainhorr a day or two to return to the Abyss.”
Ortwin groaned. “And then? If Graz’zt determines that we are responsible, then he will
surely
seek vengeance.”
“I will construct a permanent version of the ‘Mansion,’” Mostin said grandly.
“Are you capable of such a feat?” Nwm seemed sceptical.
“I believe so,” Mostin replied. “And it is high time that I thought about rendering myself
immune
to the kind of assault made against Cynric, and which we ourselves made today. I cannot
afford
to be lax any longer.”
“You seem depressed at the prospect,” Despina observed.
“My transcendence is near*,” Mostin sighed. “An investment of this magnitude – in terms
of
both time and personal energy – will delay it.”
“How long would it take to achieve?” Nwm asked.
“It is an unconventional application of the ‘Permanency’ dweomer,” Mostin said. He made
a
quick calculation. “Assuming that it’s possible, around two months,” he said.
“Argh!” Ortwin beat his forehead.
“I was thinking long-term,” Mostin sniffed.
But the more he thought about it, the more the idea seemed to have merit. A permanent
extraplanar retreat which was utterly inviolable. Perhaps he would buy some land, erect
his
comfortable manse in the woods, and open the portal to his own, private dimensional
pocket.
With the Looking-Glass of Urm-Nahat, the multiverse would become his oyster.
**
Eadric’s third appearance before the inquisitorial panel came as something of a surprise to
the
Paladin.
Firstly, both Tahl and the Bishop of Tyndur were absent. They had been replaced by two
more
Church Magnates – the Bishops of Mord and Tomur.
Secondly, the tone of the proceedings had changed. All of those present seemed
preoccupied with
other matters.
Thirdly, Melion offered to cut him a deal.
“You will admit your heresy, and atone in all earnestness. If you assume culpability for the
charges of diabolism, consorting with demons, breaches of protocol and pursuing actions
contrary to doctrine, the court is prepared to be lenient. We will not press the further
charges laid against you. You will not burn, but will enter a cloister for a period of one
year. If your confessor, the Bishop of Hethio, deems you sufficiently repentant, you may
enter the service of the Temple
after this time. Your rank will be much reduced, of course. You will no longer use the
epithet
“Protector of the Nineteen Tenets” – in time, you will be glad that you no longer bear that
title.”
“Why the sudden reversal?” Eadric asked. “And where are Tahl and Tyndur?”
“Other weighty matters detain them,” Hethio said smoothly. “Come, Eadric, this is a
chance to
cleanse yourself and regain your perspective. A year is not a long time, and I am not a bad
confessor.”
“Your grace,” Eadric said to the Bishop, “Kindly address me as ‘Baronet Deorham.’ I am
not on
first name terms with you.”
Hethio bristled for a second under the barbed insistence on correct forms, before regaining
his
characteristic appearance of calm.
“Well, Deorham,” Melion barked, “what is your decision? Will you accept a year in a
cloister, or
be condemned to the stake as an unrepentant blasphemer?”
“May I pray on this matter?” Eadric asked in all earnestness. “I must make sure that my
conscience is clear.”
“Take as long as you need,” Melion said venomously. They could hardly refuse such a
request.
**
Eadric was praying, when four knights burst into his cell. They were arrayed in full
armour and
bore the scourges and greatswords of the Templars. Their visors were closed, and the
Paladin
could not tell their faces.
He swallowed. Hard.
Tahl entered, likewise dressed.
“We are leaving,” the Deputy Inquisitor informed him.
“What is happening, Tahl?” Eadric asked.
“There is no time to explain. Do you trust me?”
Eadric sighed. “I suppose so. Where are we going?”
“Trempa,” Tahl replied. “Your Duchess has just announced her decision to secede from
the
Church. She has denounced the Curia in no uncertain terms. We must hasten.”
Eadric blinked. “And you are supporting her?”
Tahl nodded.
“Are you the leader in this, Tahl?”
The Deputy Inquisitor smiled. “No,” he said. “You are.”
**
As Tahl, Eadric and the other knights ‘Wind-Walked’ back to Trempa, the Inquisitor
explained
events to the Paladin.
“An emergency meeting of the Curia yesterday passed the motion that Cynric was remiss
in his
decisions. They stopped short of branding him a heretic, but not by much. The official
position
was that grace was withdrawn from the Archbishop. The motion was not universally
accepted.
Kaurban and Jiuhu voted against it. So did Tyndur – the old bugger finally followed his
convictions. The Marquis of Iald was not present, although had he voted against the
measure, it
still would have passed.”
“Hethio, Melion and the others are not entirely insincere,” Tahl continued. “They see the
preservation of the Law as vital. The fact that you asserted, under the scrutiny of the Eyes
of Palamabron, that Cynric confided his doubts about them to you, means that they must
consider
the Archbishop’s judgement impaired. They have a strong case. The Silence of Oronthon,
Cynric’s death by sorcery, and his allowing you to follow your own judgement all point to
his
fallibility.”
“But you do not concur,” Eadric said.
“Apparently not,” Tahl grinned. “But with both wings of the Magistratum** set firmly
against
you this will be difficult. Those who doubt the decision of the Curia will be quickly
marginalized.”
“And the King?” Eadric asked.
“He will tow the Orthodox line,” Tahl replied.
“So what am I supposed to do?” The Paladin asked. “Oronthon has revealed no plan to
me.”
“Do you still feel guilt around Cynric’s death?” Tahl asked.
“Certainly.” Eadric replied.
“Then you must atone.” Tahl said.
Eadric laughed. “And where do you suggest I find an intercessor?” He asked.
“Why, me, of course,” Tahl replied with mock gravity
The fact that Tahl was a clergyman had somehow escaped Eadric’s notice. The Paladin
nodded.
“I tend to forget that you far outrank me,” he said to the Inquisitor.
“Only for the moment,” Tahl replied. Seeing the confusion upon Eadric’s face, he
continued.
“Last night, I had a revelation. The Messenger spoke to me.”
Eadric’s jaw dropped.
Rintrah had quietly roared.
**
The next day, Morne was awash with rumours. Cynric’s reputation in grave doubt. The
public
denunciation of the Curia by the Duchess of Trempa. The defection of Tahl to the
Duchess’s
camp. The sensational escape of Eadric of Deorham prior to facing Inquisitorial justice,
abetted
by the Deputy Inquisitor himself.
“How exciting,” Mostin clapped.
Nwm did not share his enthusiasm. Blood would be shed over this.
“I suppose we should return to Trempa,” Ortwin said. “That’s where they are, now, I take
it.?”
Mostin nodded.
There was a thunderous knock at the door of the Alienist’s rented house. Mostin walked
over to
the window and looked down upon his porch. Inquisitors, Templars and various men-at-
arms
stood there.
“What do you want?” Mostin yelled down.
“We are looking for Eadric of Deorham.” A knight yelled. “Are you Mostin the
Diabolist?”
Mostin fumed. “I am NOT a diabolist,” he shouted.
Ortwin stood close to the window and sighed. A simple ‘No’ would have been better.
“But you are Mostin?”
Mostin nodded, it would be futile to deny it now. “Now piss off,” the Alienist said. “You
have no
authority here. I am not subject to ecclesiatical law.”
The knight grinned smugly. “No,” he said, “but you are under civil arrest for using magic
to aid a heretic – who HAD submitted to ecclesiatical law – to escape.”
“I did no such thing,” Mostin replied.
“You will have an opportunity to prove that at your trial,” the knight retorted.
“Piss off, or I’ll blast you all,” the Alienist shouted.
There was an intake of breath from those assembled below, a pause, and then a voice
declared:
“Come on, men! Our faith will sustain us!”
They proceeded to bash at the door.
The Alienist prepared to cast a spell, but Nwm stopped him. “Will you draw first blood in
this,
Mostin?”
“I was going to burn them, actually,” he replied.
“Mostin?”
“Oh, very well,” he said, and cast another spell.
Four imps appeared.
Mostin addressed them in Infernal. “Do nothing until I utter the word ‘execute.’ There is a
crowd
gathered at the door below us. Without killing, maiming or otherwise permanently
harming any
of them, you may use your pitchforks to encourage them to disperse. Do not harm anyone
else,
or, through your actions or lack thereof, allow anyone else to come to harm. Execute.”
The imps flew down and gleefully began prodding people.
“That should give us ample time,” Mostin sighed.
“Devils?” Ortwin asked.
“I couln’t resist,” the Alienist replied.
*Mostin was on the verge of becoming a 10th level Alienist.
** i.e. both the Temple and the Inquisition.
Originally posted by Lombard on 05-26-2002
Sepulchrave asked me to post something - he’s kind of tied up because his Mom is visiting
from
England. I didn’t know what to write, so I thought I’d share some background info.
The Church of Oronthon
This is designed as a background note to Sepulchrave’s “Lady Despina’s Virtue” thread in
the
Story Hour forum. As I don’t really have anything to contribute to the ongoing saga, I
thought I’d provide some information about the Church that my character (Eadric) belongs
to.
If you’ve been following the story, you’ll know that things are changing – a schism has
occurred
which may render all of this obsolete. This, then, is the structure of the Church in its
original
form. Sep was a doctoral student of comparative religion, so he’s well informed about the
way
religions develop historically. Surprisingly, the high fantasy element doesn’t play that
much of a role in the way things are set up.
Oronthonianism is loosely based on late medieval Catholicism, and the cosmology itself is
influenced by Dante and Milton. The names of many celestials (Palamabron, Enitharmon,
Rintrah) are borrowed from William Blake’s poems – especially “The Marriage of Heaven
and
Hell.” The Urgic Mystics, a heretical sect of Oronthon worshippers (to whom Eadric’s
brother,
Orm, belongs) hold views which most closely resemble those of Blake and Emmanuel
Swedenborg.
Some General Thoughts
The Church of Oronthon, from Eadric’s perspective, consists of two movements
(1) Orthodoxy. This is by far the largest grouping, and the one to which Eadric belongs.
(2) Heterodoxy. This consists of all of the alternative interpretations of Oronthonianism. It
is a catch-all phrase, and includes the Urgic Mystics, Reconciliatory Sophists and other
more obscure
denominations. From the Orthodox perspective, all of these groups are heretical. They do
not
concern us.
Traditionally, Orthodoxy is led by the Archbishop of Morne, who possesses the indwelling
spirit
of the deity. He is served by the Magistratum who enforce the codes, and the Pastorate
who
provide spiritual guidance to the masses. The Curia, who advise on matters of doctrine, are
drawn from both groups. The Great Conclave consists of the Curia, plus other holy men
drawn
mostly from the Pastorate.
One of the things in “Defenders of the Faith” which impressed Sepulchrave was the
Contemplative PrC. He saw it as a means to bypass the idea that church priests needed to
be
members of the Cleric class in order to demonstrate divine favor. Now the scholar and
introvert
could realistically be portrayed, and mysticism could regain a central role in the religion –
something which was otherwise hard to accomplish within the class limits of D&D.
In short, this is the way it works:
1) The vast majority of clergymen, from local village priests, through deacons, abbots and
Bishops are members of the Expert class. Their specialty is Knowledge (Religion), and
they
possess other skills such as Profession (Counselor), Sense Motive, Diplomacy etc. which
support
this. They spend time advising people on religious matters, presiding at ceremonies and
rites of
passage, and doing other humdrum and mundane duties. They comprise the Pastorate.
2) A small minority of Chuch members demonstrate certain “Gifts.” These people do not
get
involved in the day-to-day organization of the Church, but are trained to fulfill special
tasks.
These people are members of the Cleric and Paladin classes, or of PrCs which evolve from
them.
They are supported by a huge staff of Experts. They are the Magistratum.
3) Members of the Contemplative Prestige class – those who are considered most holy –
do not
tend to come from the Cleric or Paladin classes. Because the only prerequisite of the
Contemplative is ‘Knowledge (Religion): 13 Ranks,’ it actually makes sense to have the
sedentary, meditative ‘Expert’ types grow into this role. The Archbishops are always
Contemplatives.
The Magistratum
The Magistratum – the body which enforces correct behaviour and dogma – consists of
two
wings, both of which are politically active.
(1) The Temple. A member of the Temple is called a Templar – this is something of a
misnomer,
because it includes other classes as well as the Templar PrC. The Temple is both the
physical
building of the Great Fane in Morne, as well as the institution of those sworn to preserve
it.
Lawful Fighters, Paladins and Clerics form the backbone of the Temple. Often, the
members of
the highest echelons of the Temple are represented by Prestige Classes: notably the
Warpriest and
Templar PrC proper. The Templars guard relics, protect the Archbishop, and prosecute
holy wars.
The Mission, originally a separate wing, is now a subdivision of the Temple. It is
concerned with
proselytizing, but because most of its members are off converting heathens, it has little
political clout.
(2) The Inquisition is responsible for rooting out corruption and demonic and/or diabolic
influences. Paladins tend to be under represented in the Inquisition and Clerics are more
common, although most deputed Inquisitors are, in fact, members of the Expert class.
Again, the
highest tiers of this wing of the Magistratum is where the PrCs tend to be found. As well
as the
Church Inquisitor, the Sacred Exorcist and Consecrated Harrier PrCs are suitable
templates for
modelling some of these specialist characters.
Monotheism
Sepulchrave’s world is close to monotheistic, and Oronthonianism is by far the most
common
religion in the North. The ‘Old Faith,’ practiced by Nwm, still has adherants, but its
popularity
has been gradually declining for centuries. Orthodoxy uses the words ‘Pagan’ and
‘Heathen’
liberally to describe anyone who is not a follower of Oronthon.
One of the ideas touched on earlier in the thread is that Oronthon is, in fact,
‘schizophrenic.’ This may or may not be true, but with dozens of different groups all
emphasizing different aspects of
the deity, both within Orthodoxy and beyond it, it is hard to discover who the ‘real’
Oronthon is, behind all of his facets.
The deity’s possible multiple personalities become most obvious when you consider
members of
the Cleric class. The domains of Good, Healing, Law, Protection, Retribution, Sun,
Strength,
Creation, Exorcism, Glory, Inquisition and Mysticism can all be related to Oronthon. A
Cleric
who emphasizes Good and Healing is going to have a different perspective than one who
focuses
on Law and Retribution.
Although Oronthon is ostensibly Lawful Good, obviously his clerics can legitimately be
LN or
NG. Clerical domain selections reflect these different emphases. One of Eadric’s main
complaints against the system is that the Magistratum has become too doctrinaire –
emphasisng
Law above Good. Many Templars and Inquisitors are, in game terms, Lawful Neutral.
Cynric’s
distrust of certain members of the Curia also reflected this. As a Contemplative – one who
has
spent the time and energy to truly come to grips with what his god represents – Cynric was
aware
of the imbalance and the tension and difficulty that it caused.
The hierarchical nature of the church exacerbates the problem, because a respect for the
Law IS
important. Consider someone in Tahl’s position. His immediate superior is the Inquisitor
General,
Melion. Tahl is LG but Melion is LN. Tahl will follow orders to a point, but when his
“Goodness” is compromised too much, he is faced with a difficult dilemma. Does he defy
the
Law or not? If he places the Good above the Law, does he, by default, actually takes a step
towards becoming NG?
Poor Eadric is constantly bombarded with alignment paradoxes which make his head hurt.
Serves
you right for choosing a Paladin, you might say. You’re probably right. Some hard choices
lie
ahead.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 05-29-2002
This is the last post of the “Lady Despina’s Virtue” thread. Don’t panic - I’m beginning
another one soon. This just seems like an appropriate place to end it, as the title is no
longer really
relevant.
**
The leaves were turning on the trees, and a cold wind which presaged winter was blowing
from
the northeast when Mostin, Nwm, Despina, Ortwin and Eadric met again on the terrace at
Trempa.
Eadric was still digesting the news of the assassination attempt upon Feezuu. He wasn’t
entirely
sure whether he approved of Mostin’s tactics.
“She is certainly still alive,” Mostin lamented. “I have determined her location, and she
remains on Limbo. Another similar attempt on our part is unrealistic – she will be
prepared to counter it, and will doubtless have invoked powerful wards. One thing is
likely: she herself does not possess
the ‘Discern Location’ dweomer, else I’d probably be dead by now – as would you,
Ortwin.”
“What will she do now?” Eadric asked.
Mostin sighed and shrugged. “It really depends on the extent to which revenge rules her
actions,”
the Alienist said.
“As opposed to lust and greed?” Ortwin asked.
“Quite so,” Mostin agreed. “I suspect that Graz’zt is more than capable of applying
himself to find out who attacked Feezuu and where they are. The question is ‘will he
bother?’ I’m sure that
he doesn’t follow up every assault made against every fiend in his service: he has more
important
plans to consider. And Abyssal politics tend to be very momentary.”
“Er, what would YOU do in her position, Mostin?” The Bard asked worriedly.
“If I were vengeful, I’d seek out the ‘Discern Location’ dweomer, determine our
whereabouts,
and then attack us individually,” Mostin said.
“Great,” Ortwin said drily. “Something nice to look forward to.”
“If she can cast the spell at all,” Nwm remarked cannily. “She is a Necromancer.
Divination may be prohibited to her.”
Mostin was cheered by Nwm’s words. The Druid had a good point.
“But she could still engage a proxy to cast the spell for her, or even petition the Prince,”
Ortwin said gloomily.
“Like I said,” Mostin sighed, “it depends on the extent to which revenge rules her actions.
I doubt that she would wish to be so beholden to Graz’zt – assuming he wouldn’t simply
blast her for
presuming to ask a favour. But how far out of her way is she prepared to go?”
Eadric related Tahl’s revelation to the others.
“Rintrah commanded him to leave the Fane in no uncertain terms,” the Paladin said. “The
celestial also instructed Tahl to free me and lead me to safety, and in a subsequent
exchange with Urthoon, Tahl confirmed that my life was in danger. Apparently one person
at least in the Curia
feels that I would be better off dead.”
“Assassins?” Ortwin asked.
Eadric shrugged. “I have become a rather high-profile thorn in the side of the
establishment,” he sighed, “it’s possible. Rintrah spoke of a coming conflict, and indicated
that I would be pivotal in it.”
“Is the revelation reliable?” Mostin asked. “Not that I doubt Tahl’s sincerity, but is it
possible that he was deceived?”
Eadric shook his head. “He was wearing the Eye of Palamabron: no illusion or counterfeit
– not even that of the Adversary – can withstand it. He, er, has it with him now.”
“He stole the Eye?” Mostin was incredulous.
“Not at all,” Eadric replied. “Rintrah instructed him to take it. He was told that he would
need it.
Nonetheless, I agree that the Inquisition might hold a pretty dim view of it.”
“Why can’t Tahl simply appear before the Curia and relate his vision?” Nwm asked.
“Under magical scrutiny, they will know he is not lying and will be forced to acknowledge
his
legitimacy? And what is this talk of Assassins? Since when did Oronthon’s clergy sink
that low?”
“I don’t KNOW that Assassins are involved. But it wouldn’t be the first time that they’ve
been engaged by individuals within the Church. The establishment itself has been known
to condone it
in the past.”
Ortwin looked surprised. “How? It is a patently evil act.”
“Don’t be naïve, Ortwin,” Eadric said. “It is a political act. And it can be justified by
service to the greater good. I agree – it is not a tactic that I would endorse. I also refer you
to your own
assault upon Feezuu.”
Ortwin grunted. “She is a fiend. It’s different.”
Eadric sighed and shook his head. “As to Tahl appearing before the Curia, I suppose it’s
possible.
If he wasn’t immediately arrested and if they even let him speak, then perhaps he could
convince
them of the validity of his experiences. But the dogmatic, conservative element is so
entrenched
– so committed to maintaining the law at all costs – that I’m dubious that he’d be heard.
But the
same argument applies to a testament made by Tahl as it does to revelation from Oronthon
himself: why has the Bright God remained silent? Why not simply send an avatar to
address
those who doubt?”
“Damn good question,” said Ortwin, “why doesn’t he?”
“I am starting to think that it’s a faith versus proof scenario,” Eadric said.
“How tedious,” Mostin said.
Nwm shook his head. “Your god is either brutal or confused, Eadric. I foresee that rivers
of blood will be shed over this, and to what end? For a deity who embodies healing and
good, he seems
remarkably receptive to the idea of conflict and pain.”
Eadric grimaced. “It is complex,” he agreed. “Tahl has prescribed a penance for me, to
allay the lingering guilt I might feel over Cynric’s death, and to purge me of any
remaining doubts. I will
withdraw to the mountains alone.”
“Ed, this is really bad timing,” Ortwin said. “Morne is only a few days away, and now that
the Duchess has thrown her lot in with you, it’s only a matter of waiting until the banners
of the
Temple appear along the road. You would be more use here.”
“Nothing will happen before spring,” Eadric said calmly. “By the time that the Curia have
settled their differences, made a decision, freed their finances, gained Royal assent and
mobilized an
army, winter will be here. They will not initiate a campaign until the snows have melted.
**
Eadric and Despina remained alone on the terrace after the others had departed: Mostin to
his
chambers, Nwm to find his bear and owls (ugh, birds, thought the Alienist), and Ortwin to
find
some firewine and the company of someone less reputable than the Paladin.
“So the Goddess accepted your petition,” Eadric said rhetorically, evidencing some regret.
“Apparently,” Despina concurred. She smiled. “Am I now thrice-fallen?*”
Eadric shrugged. “I am beginning to realise that things are more complicated than I once
thought they were.”
“Or much simpler,” Despina said.
Eadric let the comment pass. He was in no mood for a philosophical debate.
“What will you do now?” He asked.
“I will eat, sleep and act when appropriate.” Despina replied.
“Nwm’s really gotten to you, hasn’t he?”
“Actually, that’s one of Tatterbrand’s,” she laughed.
Eadric raised an eyebrow.
“At my trial,” he said, “I learned that your name is Nehael. Do you prefer it?”
“I think I do,” said Nehael.
Eadric nodded.
“In the morning,” he began, “I will be gone – say my good-byes to the others. I need
solitude – I learned that from my time in the dungeons of the Inquisition. I will return
when I am ready.
Hopefully before Midwinter. Are you planning on staying?”
“Oh, yes,” the Demoness replied.
Eadric seemed relieved. “Goodnight Nehael,” he said.
She stopped him before he left. “You need to let go of it all, Eadric or you will fail,” she
said.
“Guilt and doubt?” He replied. “Yes, I know.”
“No,” she shook her head. “EVERYTHING, Eadric. Do you understand?”
He swallowed hard, and departed.
Nehael did not retire, but climbed the steps to the broken space atop the Tower of Owls.
Sprouting wings from her back, she flew up and perched upon the tallest battlement, her
knees
tucked beneath her arms, and waited.
Somewhat later, Rintrah appeared.
“Is he ready?” The Planetar asked.
“Let’s wait and see, shall we?” Nehael replied.
The Celestial and the Demoness sat together in silence for an hour, until a single figure,
walking quickly and purposefully in the moonlight, strode across the courtyard below. He
wore no
armour, rode no horse, and bore no weapons except for a roughly hewn staff.
“Good,” said Rintrah. “I will reveal myself to him in six weeks or so.”
Nehael sighed. Celestials were so traditional.
“If you wish, you may return with me,” Rintrah offered.
“Thanks, but no thanks,” said Nehael. “I like it here.”
Rintrah nodded. “I understand. The offer remains open – provided that you don’t stir up
the
archons.”
Nehael smiled. “Goodbye, Rintrah,” she said.
The Planetar vanished, but the Demoness sat and watched the figure walking along the
road
diminish, and finally disappear.
She sat for a long time. Demons have good eyesight.
* Demons are known theologically as “Twice-Fallen”: first, from Oronthon’s grace into
Hell; and second, after rejecting the leadership of the Adversary in their exodus to the
Abyss.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 05-30-2002
Before the next phase of the campaign got underway, a few loose ends had to be tied up.
The characters basically had six months of in-game down-time to play with, to come up
with rationales for their
munchkin ideas (just kidding, fellas).
Eadric had decided that he’d had enough of being a Paladin, and was heading for a Divine
Disciple. He already met the prerequisites, and felt that it would reflect his Messianic
status in opposition to his own church. He also figured he could wait another level for his
fourth iterative attack, and instead wanted to pick up a bunch of domain spells and the
ability to communicate telepathically with Celestials.
Mostin wanted to research some spells, and build a gadget or two. Otherwise he was
headed for a
Diviner 6 / Alienist 10. He desperately wanted to get his Intelligence up to the magic
number of 26, as that would get him an extra 8th level slot.
Ortwin, in an act of pure, unadulterated munchkinism, for which there is absolutely no
excuse, had decided to take a level of Ranger. He wanted a cool new off-hand weapon,
and had already decided to blow his 18th level feat on Improved TWF. After the encounter
with Feezuu, Ortwin decided that he
liked melee more than anything else, and henceforth was going to concentrate on
becoming a death
machine. Rob can already smell those Epic levels.
Nwm was perfectly happy to remain a Druid (Good for you, Dave. Stick with it!) He also
had oodles of XP left over, even after he’d levelled, so I agreed to let him make some
magic items. As the lowest level member of the party (now 15th), I was prepared to cut
him some slack.
Nehael took a level of Druid, and then a level of Contemplative PrC. Demons don’t
normally advance by character class, but she’s hardly typical of the crowd. Besides, as
Lombard pointed out in the
previous thread, I like Contemplatives.
With these ideas in mind, I present the first part of the continuing story.
**
Ortwin Alone
The evening after Eadric’s departure, Ortwin of Jiuhu brought a set of drawings to show
Mostin the Metagnostic in his chambers.
“I’m having this commissioned,” he informed the Alienist. “It’s a pick – similar to those
used by knights. You know, light, one-handed, good penetration and all that. Can you
enchant it for me?”
Mostin scowled. “No,” he said.
“You can’t or you won’t?” Ortwin asked.
The Alienist sighed. “I always found the construction of enchanted weapons to be a rather
vulgar art, and even the finest examples invariably end up in the hands of unappreciative
hooligans. I never
applied myself to the technique.”
“Hmph,” said Ortwin. “Do you know anyone who would do this? You’ve mentioned the
witch Mulissu.
Would she be willing?”
Mostin laughed uncontrollably for a few moments, before regaining his composure and
shaking his
head. “Even were she capable – something I doubt – Mulissu’s most precious asset is time
itself. That is the one thing she is most reluctant to sacrifice. This is true of most wizards
to some extent: there is so much to do, to discover. A mountain of gold would not
persuade Mulissu to undertake this project,
when she could instead be unearthing the secrets of flachenblitz or plasma vortices. What
enchantments did you have in mind?”
“Speed and Thunder,” Ortwin said, “And enough punch to hit a Balor.”
Mostin’s eyes goggled. “Are you fabulously rich or something? Have you any idea how
much
something like that is worth?”
“Two tons of gold, give or take,” Ortwin said calmly.
“Pah,” said Mostin. “Gold is simply a convenient measure. It has no real value when
compared to magic. Take your sword, your cloak and your armour. That is how much such
a weapon is worth.”
“I am willing to surrender my Iron Horn and my Winged Boots,” Ortwin said. “I haven’t
used them for a year at least. They would cover some of the value.”
“A third at most,” Mostin sighed. “The mage Idro, who dwells near Jiuhu, would be
capable of enchanting this pick to your specifications, but he will demand a higher price
than you are able to pay.
Anyway, why have another weapon? Your scimitar is sufficient.”
“It’s a style thing,” Ortwin said.
“Ahh,” said Mostin. He genuinely understood the Bard.
“This is important, Mostin,” Ortwin said.
After liquidating his assets, Ortwin was taken by Mostin to see Idro in his tower, deep in
the forest of Nizkur. After negotiating with several charmed servitors, the duo were shown
to the topmost room in the tower - cluttered but comfortable, with a variety of odd items
including homunculi in jars scattered around. Immediately, the Bard disliked the reclusive
wizard, but hid his distaste beneath a veneer of glib charm.
“An Iron Horn, Winged Boots and a bag of emeralds to the value of twenty-eight thousand
gold
crowns,” Ortwin said in a matter-of-fact way.
Idro swallowed in reflexive greed.
“What do you want from me?” Idro asked drily. “I have nothing to match these items in
terms of value
– and understand that the Horn, although potent, is nothing more than a curio from my
perspective. I have no use for it.”
“I wish to engage your services. Mostin informs me that you are accomplished in the art of
enchanting weapons. This project will be your magnum opus in the field. You will leave
an indelible mark on the history of the craft.” Ortwin spoke smoothly and confidently.
“These are the specifications.” The Bard handed his draft to the aging wizard.
“Hah!” Idro exclaimed after glancing at the paper. “You’ll need more than these baubles to
cover the cost of this.”
“I am open to suggestions,” Ortwin grinned.
Idro thought for a moment, and then smiled wickedly.
“I have a rival in these parts, an enchanter named Troap,” he said slowly. “He lives in a
castle on a bluff within the forest, maybe two days from here. He has certain items which
may offset the cost of this endeavour.”
“Offset, or entirely cover the cost?” Ortwin asked.
“If Troap were to meet with an accident, AND you delivered both his crystal ball and his
staff to me, together with the items that you have already shown me, I would consider the
debt paid. I would begin work on your weapon forthwith.”
Ortwin considered the offer.
“If Mostin is willing to act as arbiter in the worth of the items involved, I might be
willing,” Ortwin said. “After all, I wouldn’t like to think that you are cheating me, Idro.”
The Bard smiled innocently.
Idro grunted. Although a stickler for value, he knew that Mostin’s reputation as a haggler
was almost unparalleled. He glanced at the Alienist.
“Sounds fair to me,” Mostin said. “Of course, I too will require a fee if my services are to
be engaged in a professional capacity.”
“Which Ortwin will pay,” Idro said. “I have no need for such advice.”
“Very well,” the Bard sighed. He would rather be exploited by Mostin than Idro.
“Five percent,” Mostin said.
“Two percent, and only of the value of the staff and ball,” Ortwin countered.
“Done,” said Mostin, “provided that I get first refusal on Troap’s spellbooks. I will, of
course, provide the full market value for any new dweomers contained in them.”
Idro fumed. He had hoped for an oversight on the part of the Bard.
“Know also,” Ortwin said blithely, “that my fee for assassinating powerful wizards is
twenty-five thousand gold crowns. In the interests of mutual trust, I am willing to waive
this cost, provided that, if the values are otherwise met, you concentrate on enchanting my
weapon to the exclusion of other
projects that would otherwise detain you. I don’t want to wait ten years to acquire it, only
to find that you went senile or died of old age before completing it.”
“Agreed,” Idro said.
“I thought that you felt assassination was evil,” Mostin sniped.
“Nonsense,” said Ortwin. “It is a political act. So, Idro - tell me of Troap…”
**
Troap was a goblin. No more vicious or unpleasant that others of his kin – which is to say
very vicious and unpleasant – who dwelled even deeper in the forest than Idro. He wove
powerful enchantments and illusions from his castle and, aside from a retinue of Ogre
Magi, shunned contact with the outside world.
Mostin had flatly refused to aid Ortwin for three reasons. Firstly, the Alienist did not want
to gain a reputation as one who bullied and stole from fellow arcanists, whatever their
faults – it paid to have an open mind when dealing with most students of magic. Second,
to ‘engage his services in a professional capacity’ would have cost Ortwin a good deal of
money – and Mostin did not feel that it would be
responsible to undertake such a task for free. Finally, the Alienist really didn’t care that
much – he had far better things to do than chase after obscure goblin wizards.
Ortwin saw that Mostin could not be persuaded, and the Alienist returned to Trempa in
order to begin
research into his permanent ‘Magnificent Mansion.’ The Bard commanded his winged
boots to bear him aloft and flew westwards, into the skies above the deepest reaches of the
forest of Nizkur.
Ironically, he thought, he might also need to use his Horn as well.
Ortwin’s boots carried him at a good speed, and after two hours the Bard had made nearly
twenty miles without incident. He set down in a glade of elm trees and prepared to make
camp for the night. This was something he’d missed for several years now – roughing it
on his own with the minimum of
magical support and bolstering. With Eadric gone for an indefinite period of time –
seeking solace in the mountains - Ortwin also felt the need to reconnect with his own
roots. He had determined to seek out the Elven community of Histhin, and enter a period
of study there. A spell with the Elves – if he could find them* – would be recuperative,
and he would master the twin-weapon style they were famed for. His music would be an
adequate payment for them – in any case they cared little for material
goods.
After stalking a young deer, which the Bard slew with a single, swift throw of his scimitar,
Ortwin made a fire. He quickly but inexpertly butchered the carcass, dressed the meat, and
spit-roast a haunch.
The choicest portions of the remainder, he salted, wrapped and stowed in his pack. Unused
parts of the carcass were left at a safe distance – a mile from his camp. The evening meal
of venison, accompanied by wild cloudberries, dried cake and wine, left him feeling
bloated but happy. He drew his cloak around himself, intoned an ‘Alarm’ spell, and fell
into a deep sleep.
His reverie was disturbed several hours later by a Satyr, who had smelled the roasting
meat and waited patiently to pilfer any items that might be present. Ortwin’s simple ward
alerted him to the presence of the Fey, and the Bard swore vociferously in Elven before
chasing it off. The Satyr slipped into the woods, but Ortwin did not pursue it – he probably
would have done the same thing himself had he been in its position.
“Go and find a Nymph to frolic with or something,” he yelled after it.
Late next morning, his eyes bleary, Ortwin, flying out of the east, espied the castle of the
Wizard Troap.
It was a squat, ugly building, built of large blocks of brown stone, which grew from the
crest of a rocky knoll. It seemed to be Hermetically sealed. Confident in his own abilities,
the Bard drew his weapon and decided to set down upon the roof of one of the four
towers. Just before he reached it, however, he was beset by invisible assailants.
A whistling noise passing by his head, followed by the sudden appearance of a huge, blue-
skinned Ogre wielding an enormous sword, alerted Ortwin to the fact that he was being
attacked. No problem, the Bard thought, until three more appeared around him. One of
them drew blood with its weapon, foiling his cloak’s displacement effects.
Ortwin pirouetted gracefully in the air, closed with one of the Ogres, narrowly avoided
another swipe from its weapon, and with three swift strokes, dispatched it. It tumbled from
the sky, fell fifty feet, and landed with a heavy thud upon the roof of the tower.
“One!” Ortwin announced in his best witty voice.
One of the Ogre Magi grunted something, and the two others backed off. Suddenly Ortwin
was plunged into darkness – obviously they felt that his displacement advantage needed
countering. A fraction of a second later, the Bard was assailed by blasts of ice from two
directions. Through some miracle of
foresight, Ortwin found a gap between the two cones in the blackness, and avoided the ill
effects of both. The Bard plunged downwards back into daylight, avoiding the stroke of a
greatsword, and
arrested his descent an inch above the roof. Above him, a sphere of darkness floated. The
corpse of the felled Ogre twitched upon the flagstones, and Ortwin quickly hacked at the
neck with his scimitar. The severed head looked indignant, and tried to protest, but the
Bard flung it over the battlements.
“HEEeelp…” the yell faded away.
It was followed by the sphere of darkness – obviously whatever object that the spell had
been cast upon had been thrown aside. But the three Ogres were invisible again.
Ortwin mused for a second and steeled himself, as two of the Ogres charged down from
above. They
appeared at the same time as their greatswords did. One missed, but the other hit solidly
and painfully.
Ortwin leapt forward, ducking under wild blows, and unleashed a frenzied attack upon one
of the
creatures. His scimitar bit into bone and sinew, but the Ogre still stood. As he wondered
where the third Ogre had disappeared to, Ortwin was hit full force by another ‘Cone of
Cold’ from one of those in front of him. He reeled backwards, as the other tried to lop his
head off with its greatsword.
Ortwin regained his senses, and calmly and methodically pressed an attack against the
uninjured Ogre Mage, his scimitar flicking out rapidly and precisely. As it collapsed,
Ortwin grinned, only to watch the other, wounded creature assume the form of a gaseous
cloud and begin to move away. Ortwin hurled
Githla, which spun through the air and passed through the cloud, drawing ichor as if from
nowhere in
its flight. The Ogre rematerialized and crashed to the ground.
“Two and Three, hah!” Ortwin declared, catching his scimitar, although his enthusiasm
was somewhat diminished. He quickly doused the bodies of the three Ogres in oil and set
a flame in them, all the while looking around suspiciously for the remaining creature. It
did not reappear.
After tending to his wounds, Ortwin surveyed the roof of the keep, and looked over the
battlements down at the walls. Odd. No doors and no windows anywhere in sight.
Guessing that it was an illusion, the Bard mustered his will in an attempt to disbelieve.
Nothing changed.
Ortwin sighed, and began to systematically search the tower upon which he stood, tapping
lightly with a dagger in concentric circles from the inside outwards. With no results.
He moved to a second tower and vainly repeated the process, and then a third. After a few
minutes, the Bard located a loose flagstone, around a foot square.
Hmm, he thought.
Ortwin gingerly pried the flagstone up until it was ajar, keeping his face averted. He shot a
glance towards the gap beneath the stone: there seemed to be a shallow depression. Ortwin
grinned happily, lifted the flagstone out of the way, and looked in. Two levers, and
between them, on a tile, some graven writing.
BANG!
Sh*t, thought Ortwin, brushing soot and debris from his face. I should’ve seen that one
coming.
Each lever, he noticed, was set to the central point of three positions. That made nine
possibilities.
Obviously, this was the “off” position of whatever they determined. But jointly or singly?
Hmm.
Oh well, the Bard thought, and pulled the left-hand lever towards himself.
There was a faint ‘clunk,’ like a well oiled gear moving, but nothing else happened.
Hmm. Definitely jointly.
Ortwin looped a rope around the second lever, and flew twenty feet away beyond the
battlements
before he yanked it in the opposite direction of the first. There was a grinding noise, and a
doorway appeared at the base of the tower, revealing a dark space beyond.
That wasn’t so bad, Ortwin thought, and cast a ‘Light’ spell on his scimitar. He swallowed,
and
cautiously entered.
*Elves are itinerant forest-dwellers and make no permanent homes.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 05-31-2002
The town of Trempa, three miles from the castle-cum-palace where the Duchess lived,
was a small,
walled settlement of great age with quaint chapels and narrow cobbled streets. Its five
thousand
inhabitants were, for the most part, law-abiding and sedate. They paid their taxes,
observed their duties, attended mass, and behaved in a generally responsible fashion.
It therefore came as a surprise to most of them that their well-regarded and philanthropic
feudal
mistress, Soraine, nineteenth Duchess of Trempa, had overnight become public enemy
number two –
the top position being taken of one of her bannermen, the Baronet of Deorham. The
townsfolk – led by the influential Clockmakers’ Guild – had a succession of meetings in
order to determine the best course of action. The Duchess had made it clear that no-one
who felt that her actions had been wrong was
obligated to stay – she would recompense them for their property, and guarantee their safe
passage from Trempa.
The Duchess, in her address to the Curia, had been careful to emphasise her abiding
loyalty to the crown. Her secession, she maintained, was not a political or territorial act,
but a religious one. She was, and would remain, a loyal vassal of the King. She deeply
regretted the current situation, but could no longer identify with the label ‘Orthodox’ as
long as the current Curia remained in control.
Assuming the styles of “Post-Dogmatist” and “Transaxiomatic Oronthonian,” the first
thing that the Duchess did upon her return to her fief was to disestablish the Church and
eliminate the Temple’s tax-gathering perquisites. She would not confiscate any wealth or
property currently held by the Temple, but, henceforth, all donations were to be made on a
strictly voluntary basis. Not only were the
disproportionate levies exacted upon the Uedii worshippers – around a third of her
subjects – to be abolished, but the Oronthonians were also to be exempted if they so
chose.
Most of the Goddess devotees lived in the most marginal rural areas, and were delighted at
the turn of events.
Her richest subjects, urban Oronthonians, also found that they had ten percent more
money than
previously. Suddenly, heresy didn’t seem like such a bad idea. Besides, “Transaxiomatic”
had a good
ring to it.
The Duchess dismissed the aging chaplain Trilgar from her service, and sent him back to
Morne with a comfortable pension. Trempa was too small to boast a Bishop, but its Abbot
and his staff were politely given the opportunity to join the fledgeling sect. Most decided
to leave.
Of the twenty Templars stationed there, nine, after speaking with Tahl, elected to stay.
All were Paladins.
Tahl was enjoined to assume the leadership of the Fane at Trempa, a responsibility which
he grudgingly accepted on a temporary basis. One of his first duties, he decided, was to
ride to the Abbey of Osfrith –
where Nehael had briefly stayed – in order to speak with the Abbess. He felt that he owed
her an
explanation.
To his astonishment, Tahl discovered that both the Abbess and the nuns were almost
completely
ignorant of events in the outside world. In a private audience with the Reverend Mother,
the former Deputy Inquisitor tried to give as impartial an account as possible of what had
transpired, leaving out mention of his personal revelations.
The Abbess sighed. “I suppose that I should tell the sisters, although I try not to worry
them needlessly.
But with winter approaching, and no funds reaching us from Trempa, it will be difficult.”
“I will ensure that you receive adequate monies from the Fane’s coffers,” Tahl offered.
“That’s sweet of you dear,” the Abbess said, “but you are a heretic now – no offense
intended. It would look terribly bad.”
“But you accept private donations?” Tahl asked.
“Of course,” the Abbess replied.
Tahl removed a gold ring bearing a large ruby from his finger, and placed it on the table.
“There you go,” he said. “That should keep you going for a year or two. Don’t worry – it
doesn’t belong to the Church.”
The Abbess smiled and picked up the ring. “It does now,” she said.
On the ride back to Trempa, Tahl brooded. This was only the beginning. Things were
going to get much more complicated.
Ortwin Alone - Part 2
The corridor at the base of the tower was narrow and claustrophobic, and Ortwin gained
the impression that it hadn’t been used for some time. Whatever method of entry and
egress that Troap and his
servitors employed to and from the castle, this wasn’t it.
Ortwin’s mind raced with possibilities as he cautiously moved forwards, and he was in a
state of high alert. Were Troap’s defenses primarily magical or mechanical? It occurred to
the Bard that his
perceptions might be fooled at any time – Idro had indicated that Troap was an enchanter
and illusionist of no mean ability.
Where had the remaining Ogre Mage disappeared to? Was Troap already alerted to his
presence? It
seemed likely. Ortwin perceived no magical scrutiny, but he was aware that his own
faculties for
detecting such observation were limited.
If Mostin were here, this would be over in five minutes, he considered.
He reached the end of the corridor – a small, circular, iron-bound door which bore no
handle or lock. A meticulous inspection of the surrounding area revealed no visible
mechanism by which it could be
opened.
This is ridiculous, the Bard thought. To be foiled by so simple an obstacle.
He suddenly realized his overdependence on his friends’ magic.
After due consideration, Ortwin decided that brute force was the only way past the door,
and he slashed at it violently. His magic scimitar bit easily through the metal bars and
wood.
It also made a huge amount of noise. By the time that the door gave in, Ortwin felt like a
rank novice.
Beyond the ruined door, there was nothing but a small alcove, empty except for another
lever, set in an
‘up’ position.
Hmm, the Bard thought. He increasingly disliked this place.
Ortwin looped his rope around the lever, and followed his footsteps back along the
corridor, paying out the cord behind him. He exited the tower, stood in the sun to the side
of the entranceway, and yanked.
There was a grinding noise, and the stone doorway to the tower promptly closed.
Although thankful that he was on the right side of the door, Ortwin cursed. He flew back
up to the roof of the castle to see that the levers there had reset themselves. After repeating
the entire process, and
retrieving his rope, the Bard found himself in exactly the same dilemma that he faced an
hour before.
How exactly did one get into the castle?
Ortwin mused for a while, and decided that the obvious thing to do was to quiz one of
Troap’s servants.
He lamented the fact that he’d been so ready to kill the Ogres, and wished he’d spared one
for
questioning. He’d forgotten his most basic lessons, and become complacent and lazy.
And too dependant on magic, he thought again.
The Bard wondered how thick the walls were, and whether sound would penetrate into the
interior of the castle. Perhaps some taunts were in order.
So Ortwin flew down to the base of the wall, alighted, and began to walk around the
circumference of the castle, looking up and singing. His ditties ranged from subtle satirical
jibes at goblins, to vulgar insults directed at Troap, which suggested that the Wizard had
Elven blood, and that his pox-covered face ensured that he would never mate with the pigs
that he was so attracted to.
On his third circumambulation, whilst passing the north wall of the keep, Ortwin noticed a
purple pellet streaking towards him. He quickly ducked aside as a ball of violet fire
exploded on the ground next to him, singing his hair but causing no great discomfort.
The Bard looked up to see a small block of stone slide back into place and merge
seamlessly with one of the larger sections of the wall.
Ha! He thought, and flew towards the source of the attack at top speed. He struck it with
his scimitar as hard as he could, holding the weapon in both hands. A stone brick two feet
square cracked slightly, its outline against the larger block revealed. He slashed at it
repeatedly, and it slowly began to crumble.
There was a click, more gears moving, a grinding sound below him, and Ortwin glanced
down to see a wide section of the wall had opened up. The largest Wyvern that Ortwin had
ever seen burst out and took to the air.
Ortwin headed straight towards it. As it lumbered through the air in attempt to orient itself,
Ortwin darted past it and into the chamber from which it had issued, even as the section of
wall was closing behind it. Its sting, six feet long at least, flicked out and missed the Bard
by inches.
Ortwin tumbled in, pulled himself erect, and inspected the chamber – illuminated by his
glowing
sword. It was heaped with rotting carcasses, offal and faeces, and the Bard suppressed the
urge to
vomit. Aside from the false wall, there was also an iron door with a barred window.
Ortwin dashed over and looked through. Beyond, was a torchlit corridor.
Yes! He thought.
He reached through the bars, groped down and felt for the lock. It felt pretty standard.
The section of the outer wall was opening again, and as he pulled a pick from his belt,
Ortwin could hear the thunder of wings approaching from outside. With his right hand
frantically and blindly
working the lock, the Bard held his scimitar in his left as the huge maw of the Wyvern
appeared and lurched towards him, rank and foul. Due to his cloak, it mistook his position
and snapped around empty space.
The lock clicked, and Ortwin yanked the handle, rolling through to the opposite side of the
corridor.
The Wyvern’s tail lashed through the doorway, and struck the wall, knocking a torch from
its sconce.
The Bard quickly moved out of the way.
Regaining his composure, Ortwin grinned cockily before he was struck full force by an
empowered
‘Lightning Bolt’ which made his teeth shudder.
Fifty feet along the corridor, six goblins stood, weaving in and out of each other.
Ortwin sighed. “Not that old chestnut,” he said, leaping forwards. He struck one of the
images and it promptly disappeared.
PUT DOWN YOUR WEAPON a voice boomed in the Bard’s mind.
Ngahh! Ortwin shook off the attempted spell. “Not bloody likely,” he said.
Five ‘Magic Missiles’ appeared instantly from the interweaving illusion and pummeled
Ortwin.
Undaunted, he struck out again three times. Two more images vanished, but now the
remainder all
seemed to be bleeding from a cut on their respective left arms.
The Balor Ainhorr appeared behind Ortwin, filling the corridor with flame and darkness.
The Demon
brought its terrible Will to bear upon the Bard.
Gods, thought Ortwin, that has to be an illusion. But Ainhorr remained, and blood ran
from the Bard’s temples and he trembled, before the vision disappeared.
“GET OUT OF MY MIND!” He screamed, lashing out at the cluster of goblins in front of
him. Two more figments evaporated under his attack. Now only two remained. Each held
up a glass prism.
Motes of light appeared in the air around Ortwin, flashing in brilliant hues and patterns.
Mmm, pretty colours, the Bard thought.
They started to move back down the corridor towards the door through which he’d come.
Mmm, they’re so pretty. I must follow them.
Ortwin shambled off, and then vaguely remembered that there was a Wyvern on the other
side of the
door.
Ngahh! He shook off the spell.
As Ortwin turned back to face Troap and his illusory twin, another ‘Lightning Bolt’
crackled towards him. This time he ducked in time, and it fizzled past his head.
Ortwin hurled his scimitar and charged down the corridor in pursuit of it. It whistled ahead
of him, striking the remaining illusory goblin and causing it to vanish. As the Bard closed
on Troap – the real Troap, he thought – the Wizard waved his hand at Ortwin, grinned, and
disappeared with a ‘pop.’
Ortwin caught Githla, and seethed.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 06-02-2002
**
Mostin’s chambers at Trempa became cluttered and untidy – a situation which the
Alienist, pedantic in the extreme in his desire for cleanliness and organization – found
increasingly irritating.
At his request, the Duchess permitted Mostin to erect his portable manse in a seldom
visited corner of her pheasant forest, alerting her gamekeepers to the presence of the
Alienist and warning them to stay away from him. This situation proved to be to the liking
of both the Aristocrat and the Wizard – Mostin could work in relative seclusion, and the
Duchess did not have to tolerate his eerie and discomfiting presence at court. Several
cartloads of items – oddments accumulated by the Alienist during his stay –
were transported along a narrow track into the woods by nervous but well-paid teamsters.
Mostin had engaged the services of a number of the best craftsmen in Trempa to provide
him with
alembics, crucibles, lenses, strange clockwork devices and a host of other more mysterious
items
constructed to his specifications. He confined himself to research in his library, and, in
time, was all but forgotten by the court. The much anticipated retribution which Mostin
feared Feezuu would exact,
diminished from a threat upon which he continually brooded, into an ever-present knot in
his stomach, and finally subsided. Nonetheless, the Alienist spent much of his time within
warded areas, and always had a quickened ‘Dimension Door’ on hand in case things went
awry. Sometimes it paid to be paranoid.
Nwm returned to Eadric’s castle of Kyrtill’s Burgh at Deorham, and gently persuaded the
Inquisitorial deputy and his staff who had taken up residence there to depart – not a
difficult task, as the company were preparing to return to Morne in any case. Nwm’s
presence did, however, spare the keep from the Inquisition’s wrath – they had been
instructed to burn the castle of the Heretic prior to their departure.
The Druid reassembled the former staff, reinstated them at the keep, and recompensed
them and their families for their troubles. Nwm then ‘Awakened’ two oak trees of
enormous age and girth, and
instructed them to guard the keep.
Next, the Druid completed a number of much-needed repairs upon the place. Over six
days, and with
the judicious use of several ‘Walls of Stone,’ the Druid repaired the curtain wall and
underpinned the foundations of The Steeple. Using ‘Transmute Rock to Mud’ and its
reverse in carefully selected
places, and with the aid of his animated trees, Nwm made the keep unassailable from three
directions, and reached by only a narrow bridge of sculpted stone from the fourth.
Multiple applications of ‘Stone Shape’ and ‘Wood Shape’ finished most of the detail work
on the keep, including a new gate, wooden hoardings on the battlements and a number of
much-needed new doors.
Finally, Nwm engaged the services of a team of twenty industrious Rock Gnomes to
complete any
minor repairs that he might have overlooked. By the time that they had finished, Kyrtill’s
Burgh looked as though it had been built yesterday.
Nwm sighed. He missed the ivy. A few spells saw to that.
News from Morne still reached Trempa on a regular basis, and although some tension
existed between the more zealous and partisan adherents of Orthodoxy and the Duchess’s
nominally heretical subjects, things for the most part proceeded as normal. The movement
of people from Tempa to Morne in order
to distance themselves from association with the Duchess, was more than matched by an
influx of new people eager to enjoy the new tax breaks which life in Trempa offered.
Mobile members of the middle classes with no particular religious affiliation looked
towards the liberal regime as an enlightened
model of rulership, and within the town new faces opened new businesses and injected
fresh vigour into a flagging economy.
The Temple was not impressed.
They sent a number of envoys, demanding the reinstatement of their tax benefits, to confer
with the Duchess. She entertained them grandly, saw to their every need, and then sent
them back to Morne with the answer “No.” Veiled threats were issued, but the Duchess
was still unmoved.
After her anathematization was officially ratified, the Curia found itself in the difficult
position of having banned itself from further discourse with Trempa – consorting with
heretics was, after all, a heretical act in itself. No more envoys were dispatched –
something which the Duchess regretted. As long as the lines of communication had
remained open, the Temple was not pursuing a military solution to the problem. Now,
however, it had backed itself into a corner. Whatever liberal elements remained within the
Curia, it seemed that their voices had been lost or drowned out.
Until the Marquis of Iald seceded.
The news did not entirely surprise anyone, although its timing did. Iald, the “One Devout
Layman”
who was represented on the Curia – renowned for his holiness and piety – had voted
against the initial impeachment of Eadric. He had failed to appear at the motion which was
passed criticizing Cynric, as his carriage-driver had mysteriously disappeared on the
journey from Iald to Morne, only to be found in a roadside inn enjoying a selection of
expensive wines.
Iald’s snub to the Curia arrived during the inauguration of Lord Rede of Dramore – the
Grand Master of the Temple – as the interim protector of the Orthodox Church in the
absence of an Archbishop.
Motions had been pushed through, supported by Melion, Hethio and a number of others,
to allow Rede executive powers, allowing the Temple to act independently of Curial
sanction. There were historical precedents for this, although they had not been invoked for
several centuries.
Iald, of course, had voted against the motion but, apparently in the interests of unity, had
attended the inaugural ceremony in any case. Although a layman, as a member of the
Curia he was afforded a
conspicuous position during the inauguration, and looked splendid in his white velvet and
ermine
robes. In an act which was quickly afterwards attributed to an outburst of madness, Iald
grabbed the ceremonial greatsword from the altar and attacked Rede with it. Iald was an
old man, and was easily divested of the weapon by the Temple Guards. He was escorted
forthwith from the premises to
confinement whilst he yelled:
“Rintrah commanded me to do this.”
The Marquis never reached his cell, however, as his henchmen intercepted his escort,
rendered them unconscious, and sped the aging nobleman back to his fief. Apparently his
outburst had been better planned than was initially assumed.
Upon his return to Iald, the Marquis promptly denounced the Curia and declared his
support for the Duchess of Trempa.
**
Ortwin had been hacked at, frozen, blown up, blasted with lightning, and had ruptured
blood vessels in his scalp shaking off the ‘Phantasmal Killer’ invoked by Troap. He
patched himself up as best he could with his remaining curative magic, and proceeded into
the Goblin’s castle. The Bard considered that Troap was now, in all likelihood, depleted of
his major spells, and this cheered him somewhat. He
wondered what the staff that Idro had requested was capable of, however.
Ortwin inspected the corridor where Troap had ambushed him. It was well-illuminated by
torches, and besides the iron portal which led into the wyvern’s den, boasted several other
doors. The Bard carefully searched for other hidden mechanical devices as he progressed
systematically, from chamber to
chamber. A storeroom, an armory, a pantry in which the freezing temperature ensured the
freshness of meats, a room full of broken and disused alchemical equipment. The final
door, at the end of the
corridor upon the left, was graced by a ‘Magic Mouth’ which spoke to Ortwin as he
carefully checked it for booby-traps.
CONGRATULATIONS ON SUCCESSFULLY PENETRATING THE OUTER
DEFENSE, it intoned.
IF YOU’RE PHYSICALLY CAPABLE, IT’S RECOMMENDED THAT YOU NOW
RETREAT,
BEFORE YOU DIE PAINFULLY. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.
Quite civil, really, Ortwin thought as he picked the lock. The well-oiled door opened
noiselessly, to reveal a short corridor with seamless walls, which terminated in single,
square, doorway which was open, and led to a space beyond. Sitting on a cushion, in clear
view, was Troap. The Wizard waved in an annoying fashion.
Ortwin ducked back behind the doorway, and considered his options for a moment. This
was obviously a trap, but how best to proceed? The bard rummaged at his belt, found a
vial, opened it and drank the contents. He quickly became invisible.
Commanding his boots into flight, Ortwin charged through the door at top speed, only to
be stopped by an invisible barrier which he struck with considerable momentum. Troap
smiled, muttered something
from a scroll, and walked calmly over to where the invisible Ortwin hovered. His purple
robes and
neatly trimmed beard looked somehow out of place on a Goblin. The Bard backed off, but
found that
his exit from the short corridor had been neatly sealed by another ‘Wall of Force.’
“Before I decide how best to deal with you,” Troap said calmly, “perhaps you could
enlighten me as to your presence here. What do you want? Who told you of this place?
What, exactly, have I done to you that warrants this burglary and the murder of my
servants?”
“I have come seeking the fabulous Talisman of Sill,” Ortwin lied quickly. “I was told that
the Goblin Necromancer Troap, and his wicked giants dwelt here and perpetrated all kinds
of vile acts on the
surrounding countryside. The Cleric Godfrith, a holy man, told me to rescue the Talisman
and put an end to this tyranny – I assume you are Troap, although I have yet to witness
any of your necromancy.”
Troap considered for a while. “You are either an accomplished liar or very naïve,” he said.
“I have little time for either. For your information, I am neither vile nor a necromancer. I
possess no such talisman, as you may or may not already know. I have never heard of this
Godfrith, and, if he exists – which I am sceptical of – I am afraid you have been
misinformed. My whereabouts are unknown to most, and I
have my suspicions as to who may have sent you here. Have you, perchance, heard of the
mage called Idro?”
“The name is unfamiliar,” Ortwin lied.
“Hmm,” Troap grunted, and waddled out of sight for a moment.
He returned bearing a long staff, more than twice his height.
Sh*t, Ortwin thought. Whatever he plans to do with that, its going to be bad for me.
The Bard pulled his Iron Horn from his belt, and winded it. The Bard became visible
again. On the
other side of the wall, the outlines of two large, hairy men appeared, bearing swords.
Troap struck the end of his staff upon the ground, and spoke a single word.
Ortwin, who had been prepared to command the shadowy barbarians into battle with
Troap, suddenly
and inexplicably had a change of heart. Troap was a nice little fellow, after all. He had
such a pleasant smile, and Ortwin wondered why he had threatened his friend, old Troap,
in such a mean way.
“Be nice to Troap,” he instructed the summoned warriors. “Get him a cushion or
something.”
One of the grizzled barbarians raised an eyebrow, and complied.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 06-03-2002
Another alignment crisis looms. Ah, the poor players…
**
Eadric’s assertion that the Temple would not prosecute a military expedition into Trempa
before spring proved to be only partially correct.
The first snows already lightly dusted the ground, and the air was chill, when a group of
sixty knights and men-at-arms – led by the Templar Brey of Methelhar – entered the
bounds of the Duchy, passing
along the main road from Trempa to Morne.
They bypassed Deorham which, although guarded by only a small retinue, had been
rendered
invulnerable by Nwm to anything less than a protracted siege or magical assault. Brey’s
entourage
lacked both the numbers and expertise to initiate either – they were more of a posse than
an army – but they bore a collection of impressive seals and warrants which, they hoped,
would cow the townsfolk of Trempa and give the Duchess pause for thought.
The first indication that something was awry was not revealed by magical scrutiny, but by
frantic
guards who had comprised the border watch at the gatehouse of Hartha Keep – two small
towers which guarded a bridge over the River Nund, which marked the borders of the
Duchy of Trempa – bearing
news back to the Duchess. Brey had dismounted from his destrier and, invoking some
divine strength, had grown to a prodigious size and physically ripped the postern gate
from its hinges, causing the small border garrison to flee in terror.
Fearing that the wrath of Oronthon had been loosed upon them, the guardsmen consoled
themselves in a variety of ways. Some rode hard for Trempa, some fled to be with their
families in case they needed to evacuate their steadings, some earnestly prayed in the
closest chapels, and some headed for nearby inns in order to forget the disquieting scene
that they had just witnessed. At Brey’s command, the lightly armed outriders who
supported his knights did not pursue the levies – he preferred to have rumours circulate
which would instill a righteous fear into the seething hotbed of heretics and apostates
which, in his mind at least, comprised Trempa.
When the exhausted messengers reached the castle of the Duchess, having ridden hard all
night, they bore news of Brey’s passage into Trempa. The Aristocrat immediately
summoned her council, as well
as Nwm, Tahl, Mostin and Nehael. Mostin’s response to the crisis was not well received.
“I can do nothing,” the Alienist insisted calmly.
The Duchess was livid. “What do you mean?”
“This has passed into the realm of politics. I am forbidden.”
She looked perplexed.
“The Great Injunction applies,” Mostin explained regretfully. “I may be one of the most
potent spellcasters in the world, but I will not risk the wrath of the Council.*”
“Bah!” The Duchess exclaimed. “I suppose this means that you will not use your power at
all in the coming months?”
“Not necessarily,” Mostin replied, “but I must be able to reasonably cite self-defense. I
may also use auxiliary magics and act in an advisory capacity.”
She was flabbergasted. “No blasting?”
“Believe me,” Mostin said, sadly, “no-one regrets it more than I.”
“We must formulate a plan quickly,” Nwm mused. “Who is this Brey?”
“One of Rede’s deputies,” Tahl replied. “He is dangerous. The messengers indicate that he
is already sending the message of ‘Righteous Wrath’ across the countryside. Retribution is
his specialty.”
“We should engage him in full public view,” Nwm said. “He must not win the propaganda
war. If Eadric were here, a debate of Oratory might be possible.”
Tahl shook his head. “It is neither necessary nor desirable to debate with heretics,” he said.
“But he cannot storm the castle,” Nwm said. “What is his purpose?”
“Fear,” said Tahl.
Brey sounded his horns outside of the castle. The drawbridge had been raised and the
walls thronged with onlookers – guards, knights, courtiers, handmaidens and servants.
Nwm stood discreetly to one side of the Duchess, able to watch the proceedings but
inconspicuous.
Brey unrolled a long scroll, and his voice carried clearly and forcefully up to those upon
the
battlements. The announcement was received with horror.
“To Soraine, Duchess of Trempa; Eadric of Deorham and Tahl, formerly of the
Inquisition, and to those heretics and blasphemers who have been seduced by their lies;
from Rede, Grand Master of the
Temple, acting for the Curia of the One True Orthodox Church, a warning.
“Let it be known that in their infallible wisdom, the Curia have passed motions roundly
condemning the actions taken by the heretofore mentioned heretics, as well as their
followers, servants and subjects.
In their merciful and enlightened bounty, the Curia have decreed that they are willing to
extend their leniency to those, both great and small, who forthwith depart from Trempa
and its adjoining lands, and seek immediate confession and penance with representatives
of the True Faith in Morne. If the
ringleaders in this affair submit themselves to ecclesiastical law, they will be dealt with in
Oronthon’s justice and the misguided masses will be spared.”
Mostin made an arcane gesture, and a noise like a loud fart issued across the field. Several
people on the walls tittered. Brey fumed before continuing.
“If the Duchess Soraine, Eadric of Deorham and Tahl fail to surrender themselves, those
who remain, by their actions will have placed themselves irrevocably beyond the salvation
of the Church. As
unrepentant apostates, heretics, idolaters and blasphemers, and by the sanction of Royal
Decree…”
At this point, Brey held up an impressive sheet of vellum bearing the King’s seal before
continuing.
“…I am authorized to inform you that the entire adult population of Trempa will be
condemned to burn.** The sentence takes effect one week from today. At that point, the
borders will be closed and access to Trempa will be sealed until the righteous fury of the
Temple descends upon it, and the rule of law is reestablished.”
Even Mostin was staggered. Nwm was furious.
“What of the Uedii worshippers?” The Druid asked. “They are not part of this.”
Brey smiled. “The pagan element within Trempa has long been a source of concern to the
Temple,” he said. “Like lapsed Oronthonians, they may atone and convert. Their
catechesis into the True Faith will be warmly received.”
“Is this true across Wyre?” Nwm was incredulous.
“It soon will be,” replied Brey.
“Then f*ck you!” Shouted the Druid.
And Nwm unleashed a Fire Storm.
Those few who survived the initial fury of the Druid were consumed in further pillars of
green flame which rose from the ground to meet them. All, with the exception of Brey,
were immolated. Nwm
spared the great Templar.
“Give him a horse,” Nwm barked at Tatterbrand, who stood nearby. Brey’s own steed had
perished in the flames. Eadric’s squire quickly complied.
“You may return to Morne,” Nwm’s voice cut like a whip. “Inform the Curia that I will not
tolerate
this.”
Shaking, Brey mounted and fled. Nwm turned and left, and people moved quickly out of
his way. The
Druid felt sick. He had drawn the first blood in the war that he had longed to avoid.
*Some explanation may be required. The Great Injunction is a time-honoured convention
which is
defied by mages at their peril. Excepting acts of self-defense, a Wizard may not use his
power for political or temporal ends, particularly on the battlefield during war. This
prevents the escalation of magical warfare, and the casual employment of wizards to fling
‘fireballs’ around upon the battlefield.
The Great Injunction is a magical détente which transcends all considerations of race,
gender, power and alignment. It is inviolable. “Grey Areas” – for example, if Mostin were
to scry on behalf of the Duchess – certainly exist, but Mages must be cautious lest they
push the limits too far.
The “Council” which Mostin refers to, is nothing more (or less) than the sum total of all of
the Wizards in Wyre and its dependencies. In fact, no formal body of mages exists.
The Great Injunction is based upon “Murgen’s Edict” – a similar idea appearing in certain
novels by Jack Vance.
**Note that there is a real-world precedent for this: during the Renaissance, the entire
population of Holland was sentenced to death by the Spanish Inquisition. The Historical
Inquisition were far less lenient than the Oronthonians are.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 06-04-2002
**
The Duchess was not happy.
“What the hell did you think you were doing?” She asked Nwm. “This does NOT aid our
cause –
especially as I now suspect that those knights you just butchered will be regarded as
martyrs to the cause. A peaceable solution now seems impossible.”
Nwm spoke coldly. “When I require your advice on how best to protect my religion, I will
ask for it.
For what it’s worth, I think that the likelihood of a peaceful solution decreased sharply
when the Curia sentenced everyone in Trempa to death.”
“But a slim chance is better than no chance,” she retorted.
Unexpectedly, Tahl came to Nwm’s defense. “They will not parley with us – we are
anathema. Nwm’s actions sadden me – there were knights among that group who I knew
to be just and honourable. But
they made their choice when they closed their eyes and ears to the corruption in the
Temple. Many
more hard choices lie before us, and we must not waver.”
The Duchess groaned. “All of this religious zeal is making me feel queasy,” she said. “Did
it occur to either of you that Brey and his followers deemed themselves equally justified.
That, from their
perspective, they were acting in the greater Good?”
“Philosophical sophistry is irrelevant!” Nwm snapped. “They threaten my faith, which I
know to be un-dogmatic, peaceful and non-proselytizing. I don’t give a damn what their
reasons are for their actions.
And the same goes for you, Tahl. Frankly, right now, your whole stinking religion with its
schizoid, patriarchal God just makes me puke. The only reason that I regret my actions is
because I just killed sixty human beings – whether they are considered ‘just’ or
‘honourable’ in your f*cked-up perspective has no bearing on the matter. The fact that you
don’t see it that way only makes it clearer to me just how far off the point you are. This
conversation is over. If you need me, I’ll be in the grove at
Deorham. Nehael, are you coming?”
“Will you show me the trees?” The Demoness asked gently.
Nwm smiled sadly and nodded. Her question bought him back to the moment. Without
judging, it
simultaneously comforted him, reminded him of his duty as a teacher, grounded him in his
beliefs, and instructed him in the best way to proceed.
Ah, she was wise, this one. Skillful.
After they had departed, the Duchess turned to Mostin. “Where the hell is Ortwin?” She
asked.
The Alienist shrugged. “He was dealing with a mage called Idro. Afterwards, he said
something about visiting the Elves.”
Mostin realized that he hadn’t thought about the Bard for some time. He wondered what
Ortwin was doing.
**
After scrying Ortwin’s location, and with a broad smile on his face, Mostin made
additional inquiries regarding the wizard Troap. He conferred with a skittish and irascible
centaur who dwelt within the forest of Nizkur, and then with a group of sprites who lived
nearby. It appeared that Troap was quite well regarded by the local population of Feys, and
that Idro’s account of the Goblin was rather biased.
Mostin sighed. He should have made more of an effort to discern the truth before leaving
Ortwin to his own devices.
The Alienist stepped through the Looking Glass of Urm-Nahat and appeared in front of
Ortwin and
Troap.
“Hello, Mostin,” Ortwin said.
“You must be Mostin the Metagnostic,” Troap said brightly. “Ortwin has mentioned you.
It is an honour to meet you. Will you take tea with me?” The Goblin seemed quite
unfazed.
“Certainly,” Mostin replied.
“More tea please, Ortwin, there’s a good fellow,” Troap instructed the Bard.
“That is a potent dweomer that you have laid upon Ortwin,” Mostin observed. “He has
been missing for three weeks.”
“It is a triply extended ‘Charm Monster,’” Troap explained. “One of my staff’s higher
powers.”
Mostin nodded. “No wonder Idro desired it so much.”
“You knew of this treachery?” Troap was aghast.
“I regret that I did,” Mostin confessed. “Ortwin required services from Idro, who insisted
on the staff and a crystal ball in payment. I put them in contact with each other. But if you
have charmed Ortwin, you will have found that out already.”
Troap grinned sheepishly, and dropped his expression of faux offense.
“I am thinking of retaining Ortwin’s services indefinitely,” he said. “He killed three of my
servants, each of whom was tenured for a year. He is a useful fellow to have around, and
sings excellently.”
“I regret that is not possible,” Mostin said. ‘Ortwin is a good friend of mine, and I am
obligated to
ensure his release.”
Troap bristled. “But I have been assaulted and offended by him. I demand recompense.”
“And I agree that you are owed it,” Mostin said. “Please, Troap. It is a pleasure to meet
you, and I hope that we can do business in the future. I also notice that you have not
deprived him of his own
possessions.”
“I asked him, but he was reluctant to render them up. I didn’t press the point as I didn’t
wish to risk disrupting the spell. His scimitar is sharp.”
“I will convince him to give you adequate payment,” Mostin said. “Besides,” the Alienist
added cunningly, “I don’t think that you want Ortwin around. Have you heard of the
Necromancer Feezuu?”
Troap swallowed. “Rumours only,” he said.
“You don’t want to be near Ortwin when she finds him,” Mostin said.
The Goblin nodded.
Or me, thought Mostin.
**
“You did WHAT?” Ortwin asked Mostin in disbelief.
“Ten thousand gold crowns is a trifling consideration when weighed against indefinite
servitude,”
Mostin replied.
“The spell would have failed soon enough,” Ortwin countered. “And then I would have
had his staff and ball. Now I’m back to square one. I thought you wanted Troap’s
spellbooks. What of Idro? What of my magic pick?”
“You can stuff your pick up your a**,” said Mostin. “Troap turns out to be an intriguing
little fellow, and I’m glad I met him. Allies of any hue are hard to come by these days, and
besides Idro, I don’t know any half-decent enchanters.”
“I can’t believe how selfish you are,” Ortwin complained.
“We both are, Ortwin,” said Mostin. “That’s why we get along so well. But, having
rescued you from an embarrassing situation, I think you owe me. And we don’t want this
little story to get out, do we?
Your reputation would suffer terribly.”
Ortwin raged for a while, and then passed a handful of emeralds to Mostin. Sometimes he
really hated wizards. They were only ever interested in themselves and each other. There
was a lesson here
somewhere, but the Bard couldn’t work out what it was for the life of him.
**
“Your revised proposal is rather more modest,” Idro scoffed. “I assume that you failed in
your attempts to secure the staff and ball, and that Troap still terrorizes the forest?”
“Can you enchant it, or not?” Ortwin spat.
“Of course,” Idro said smoothly. “I will consider only fifty percent of the nominal value of
the horn, however. As I said, to me, it is little more than a curio, although it may have later
use as a trade item.”
“Eighty percent,” Ortwin haggled.
“Sixty.”
“Seventy.”
“Sixty-five, and not a copper penny more,” insisted Idro.
Ortwin handed over his horn and most of his remaining money.
“I have decided to keep the boots,” Ortwin said, sniffing the air. “I am now going to find
the Elves. I will return in three months.”
And Ortwin flew off.
**
The snows fell early that year, barely a month after the Equinox had passed. Nwm
maintained a pocket of more clement weather in the area of Deorham where, with
Nehael’s help, he pursued a project which consumed him in his grief and guilt after his
actions outside of the gates of the castle at Trempa. He had, and never had had, any
confessor or arbiter of his morality to whom he could turn, besides his own conscience
and the Green Reality which he conveniently labeled ‘Goddess.’ He decided that keeping a
low profile was probably the best course of action.
Nonetheless, news of Nwm’s defiance of the Temple, and his merciless encounter with
Brey and his
knights spread rapidly amongst the farming communities of the Duchy. Many sought him
out, asking
for apprenticeship or tutelage, pleading with him to defend them against the threat which
would, sooner or later, issue from Morne.
“Teach me to wield the Green Fire,” they begged.
“Ask the trees,” he snapped.
Midwinter came and passed, and still no sign of Eadric had been seen or heard. Neither
Ortwin nor
Nwm appeared at the court of the Duchess for the Yule feast, and the affair was lackluster
and uninspiring. Mostin contented himself with his researches and, despite his urge to scry
and spy,
refrained from locating the Paladin. Nehael had warned him in no uncertain terms to leave
Eadric
alone.
“Or celestials will visit, and remonstrate with you,” she had said.
Mostin shuddered at the thought of their feathery wings and decided that the Demoness
probably knew best.
Tahl organized the defenses of the castle, instructed his paladins, oversaw the Fane, and
made several journeys to visit the Marquis of Iald, five hundred miles distant, on the other
side of Wyre. Similar threats had been delivered to Iald, and although, as yet, no action
had been taken against either fief, tensions ran high. Both Tahl and the Duchess were
determined to keep the lines of communication
open, and the Marquis was the only declared ally that they had.
As the days lengthened after midwinter, the cold intensified and the snows piled deeper
and deeper.
Even at Deorham, a frosty rime settled on the land. Nwm incanted feverishly, day after
day, focussed solely upon a thin torc of serpentine which consumed his time and his
power. Nehael saw to his needs, and dealt with zealous Goddess worshippers who would
otherwise disturb his work.
Ortwin returned to the castle after his spell with the Elves in the forest, bearing the pick
that Idro had wrought for him.
Mostin finished one project and moved onto the next, and the next. His Blue and Scarlet
Ioun Stone, and his Circlet of Blasting, won only after hard bargaining, he traded away
without a second thought to his new friend, Troap for mundane gold and items to pursue
his research. He contrived what he felt would be the ultimate defense against the Cambion
who haunted his dreams: the permanent
‘Magnificent Mansion’ and an amulet capable of spell absorption. His final project, his
‘Headband of Intellect,’ was finished even as the thaw began. When he placed it upon his
head, his consciousness expanded dramatically, and new valences of spell energy were
revealed to him.*
Only a few days later, Nwm finally finished his own great work. He was tired beyond any
exhaustion he had previously known. Now, at last, he could relax.
After sleeping, bathing and eating, he gingerly placed the torc around his neck, and
fastened its golden
clasp. He spoke a single word of power.
The Green Embraced him. For miles around, every fold in the landscape, every great tree,
every
animal, every fey, every human heartbeat, every nuance that he desired to focus upon, was
revealed to him.
**
Two weeks passed before Eadric walked into the castle at Trempa. He was filthy, haggard
and had
grown a long beard.
“Nice beard,” said Ortwin.
“Thanks,” Eadric replied.
“You’re two months late,” said Nehael.
“Er, yes. Sorry about that.”
*Someone on these boards, long ago, proposed a quantum theory of magic in order to
address the
‘Vancian’ problem. Spell levels are analogous to the quantum shells occupied by electrons
orbiting the nucleus of an atom, in that they can only have discrete numbers (1,2, etc.).
This is a simple, elegant, wonderful idea. Whoever you are, I am indebted to you.
Note: Nwm’s Torc reproduces a ‘Commune with Nature’ spell when activated.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 06-06-2002
Unfortunately, my notes on Wyre are about as organized as the rest of my life - which is to
say not very.
I think publication is unlikely.
Honestly, its a pretty standard campaign world in a lot of ways.
Thanks for the kudos, though
**
“What did Rintrah say to you?” Nehael asked.
The Succubus sat with the Duchess, Tahl, Ortwin, Mostin and Eadric in a small reception
room near the great hall. Nwm was absent.
Eadric looked surprised.
“Have you consulted with him?” The Paladin asked.
Nehael smiled. “What did you learn?” she inquired.
“That things are very simple,” Eadric said. “I was alone in the mountains for ninety-nine
days. I found an abandoned cottage, near a small stream, and decided that it would be
sufficient to my needs. I
prayed, undertook the repair of the building and erected a small shrine. I ate fish and, for
the first few weeks, berries. Later, I gathered nuts. As the snows deepened, I became
colder and more tired. Finding dry wood for a fire was difficult, but I did not invoke the
protective aspect of the deity.”
“He required that you suffer?” Ortwin asked. Typical, he thought.
Eadric shook his head. “I was gathering my strength,” he said.
“After six weeks,” the Paladin continued, “an old man joined me. He said nothing. He
stayed with me for only one day. But during that time, he ate all of the fish that I’d frozen
in the ice, consumed all of the nuts that I’d gathered, and burned all of my wood in a large
fire. I did not complain – although I was tempted. He smiled, and left me. He had not
spoken a word. I guessed that he was a Celestial.
“I went to gather the few remaining nuts that still clung to the trees, although by this time
most were rotten. When I returned, the old man had reappeared. He was pulling the stones
from the wall of the house. He pulled the whole cottage apart, brick by brick, until there
was nothing left except a pile of rubble. Then he departed again.”
I’d have smacked him, Ortwin thought, Celestial or no.
“I took the remaining stone that I could, and built a modest shelter,” Eadric said. “The few
timbers that were left, I laid across the top of the walls. There were still some cracked clay
shingles, and I tied these with twine across the timbers to form a rude roof. I made a door
of deerskin. There was barely enough room to sit up inside.
“I went to try and catch another fish, but with no success. When I came back, the old man
was sleeping in the shelter. He looked well-fed and content. When I tried to enter, he
kicked me and rolled over to the door. He wouldn’t let me in. That night I slept in a
chimney between two rock faces. I nearly froze.
“The next morning, I returned to the hut. The old man was sitting outside. He had built a
fire, and was roasting a suckling boar. I was famished. I sat down and said nothing, but
waited patiently. After the meat was cooked, he consumed it all. I was left with skin and
bones. I sucked the marrow out, and
chewed on the burned hide. He watched me eat in silence.”
Mostin thankfully considered the fact that he was not religious.
“Finally,” Eadric went on, “the old man spoke to me.
“‘Do you know who I am?’ He asked.
“‘I believe that you are a Celestial,’ I replied.
“‘Is that significant?’ He asked.
“‘I do not understand,’ I said.
“‘Meditate upon the question,’ he instructed, and left.
“He returned a day later, and asked me again.
“‘It is not significant,’ I replied.
“‘Why not?’ He asked.
“‘Because, whoever you were, I should still have given everything to you without
complaint,’ I replied.
“‘Why?’ He asked. More questions followed. Day, after day, after day he returned. ‘Why
this?’ and
‘Why that?’ and ‘What if?’ Midwinter came and passed. The questions gave way to
instruction and
tutelage. Finally, one morning, as the days were lengthening, he said to me,
“‘Taking the life of another human being is never, under any circumstances whatever, a
justifiable act.
It is the ultimate sin. You must take the lives of many, and some of them will be wholly
innocent. Do you understand the paradox?’
“‘No,’ I cried.
“‘Nor do I,’ he smiled. ‘Not all things are revealed to me.’ His visage changed, and his
form grew tall and statuesque. His pinions unfolded, and his light almost overwhelmed
me. It was certainly Rintrah.
When he spoke again, it was from his mind to mine.
DEFEND TREMPA, he commanded. DO NOT ALLOW IT TO FALL. BUT INITIATE
YET NO WAR
BEYOND ITS BORDERS. THIS IS YOUR FIRST TASK. I WILL CONTACT YOU
AGAIN. And
then he vanished.”
Mostin twitched reflexively. Nobody spoke for a moment, until Ortwin piped up.
“That’s all very nice,” the Bard said flippantly. “If you’re religious and all. Speaking of
which, Ed, I suppose someone ought to tell you about Nwm…”
**
“Sixty?” The Paladin asked Nwm.
“Sixty,” Nwm groaned. “The poor bastards never had a chance. Only a handful survived
the first few seconds.”
The pair sat at Deorham in the newly-refurbished reception room. A gnome, covered in
stone dust,
sauntered past whistling.
“Are you nearly done?” Nwm asked the diminutive mason.
“All but,” the gnome replied.
“What’s the damage?” Nwm asked.
“To you, Nwm, a flat five thousand,” the gnome replied.
“That’s a damn good deal,” Eadric gasped.
“I did a lot of the big stuff with magic,” Nwm explained. “I also agreed to help them out if
exorcists from the Temple descended on their warren.”
“I hardly think that’s likely,” Eadric scoffed.
Nwm shrugged. “Times are changing. People are getting zealous or paranoid, or both. The
feys are
becoming jittery – they don’t like organized religion. Anything is possible.”
“I will protect the rights of the Goddess worshippers in Trempa, Nwm,” Eadric said.
“It’s those in the rest of Wyre that concern me,” Nwm sighed.
“No persecution has occurred yet, though?”
“Not unless you include another thirty percent tax-hike,” Nwm grunted.
“Increasing the incentive to convert?” Eadric asked.
Nwm nodded.
“You need to decide how you’re going to deal with this,” Eadric said.
“Yep,” the Druid replied., “I know.”
**
A vision long before imagined by Eadric came to pass.
Ortwin was drunk.
The Bard leaned heavily on the bar of the “Three Ploughs”, the largest inn in the town of
Trempa, and recounted his exploits to a rapt audience. The plan had been to have a quiet
drink with Nwm, in an attempt to bring a smile back to the Druid’s face. Ortwin had
conveniently overlooked Nwm’s tolerance of alcohol, and matched him drink for drink.*
Nwm didn’t mind. He had adopted his preferred alter ego
– that of a toothless crone – and was content in his anonymity. Besides, watching Ortwin
make a fool of himself was usually a cheering distraction.
Mostin sat stiffly next to the Druid – he wasn’t generally one for inns, much less rowdy,
semi-rustic ones. He, too was disguised – since his transcendence, his eyelids had fallen
away, leaving pupil-less, emerald orbs which unsettled those who looked at him. He
sipped daintily at a glass of wine with a sour expression upon his face.
Ortwin was delighted at his reception, and played the crowd like the professional that he
was, pausing to sip his firewine at critical moments which made the onlookers wait with
baited breath until he
resumed his account. His audience was varied and, for Trempa, cosmopolitan. Locals,
merchants,
entrepreneurs, travelers from the South who defied the ban. The initial hysteria which had
followed Brey’s appearance and proclamation had subsided, three months had passed and,
although the borders of the Duchy had been sealed, no act of war had been launched by
the Temple. Either complacently or,
perhaps, realising that the good times would soon end, the townsfolk of Trempa – swelled
by many who had entered the fief soon after the Duchess had rebelled – were determined
to enjoy themselves while they could.
Ortwin recounted the summoning and imprisonment of Rurunoth, his stirring the citizens
from their
apathy in Morne before the trial of Eadric, and the assault upon the Necromancer Feezuu
(called
‘Glissin’ by Ortwin). In all cases, he effortlessly placed himself in the central role, whilst
downplaying or altogether failing to acknowledge the ‘help’ that his companions had
given him.
Mostin sighed. At least the Bard had had the good sense to use a pseudonym for the
Cambion – not that those gathered here would have ever heard the name anyway. The old
hag – Nwm – sitting at the table cracked a toothless smile, more out of pity than
amusement, as Ortwin’s stories became more and more improbable and his voice more
and more slurred. How could anyone thrive on this, the Druid
wondered.
“Tell us another, Ortwin,” they said.
“Yes! More! More!” They yelled.
“What would you like to hear?” Ortwin asked in response. “I have a thousand stories at
least.” He bragged.
“Have you never been outsmarted, Ortwin?” Someone asked.
“Certainly not,” Ortwin lied. The crowd laughed approvingly.
“Tell us about your encounter with the wizard, Troap,” a single voice carried above the din
in the bar room. The inquiry had issued from a young woman with olive skin and clothes
which testified to her foreign origins – most likely from the Thalassine far south of Wyre,
an area of many islands surrounded by warm, shallow seas.
Ortwin shot an accusing glance towards Mostin, but the Alienist shook his head in denial.
He hadn’t told anyone.
“Alas, I know no Troap,” he lied, “although I have met many wizards. The conjurer
Ephrael, for example…”
“That’s not what I heard,” the woman persisted. “I heard that he bound you as his sex-toy,
and you had
to wear a skirt and make tea for him.”
The crowd, including Nwm, laughed uproariously. Mostin cackled despite himself: the
part about
making tea was true, at least, but how did she know?
Ortwin laughed along with the others, giving the impression of genuine amusement.
“I fear that you must have mistaken me for someone else,” the Bard said convincingly.
“Sadly, there are many ortwins in the world although, of course, only one Ortwin…”
“For that, at least, let us be thankful,” the woman smiled, holding her glass up.
“I do not know your name, madam,” Ortwin said smoothly. “You have me at a
disadvantage.”
“I fear that your knowing my name would not remedy that,” she replied with equal ease.
The crowd laughed again.
Ortwin nodded with mock gravity, and looked deeply into his own glass.
“I am afraid that firewine, in fact, renders me insensible,” he said. The audience laughed
appreciatively, but the simultaneous innuendo which accompanied the statement was:
DESIST NOW, OR I WILL
KNOCK YOU OUT.
“Firewine has little or no effect on me,” she said, “but I will gladly share some tea if you
care to make some. Lemon, but no sugar, please.”
The crowd went wild, but completely missed the counter-entendre veiled by the biting
satire: YOU
COULD NOT, IF YOU TRIED. MY BLADE IS SHARP.
Ortwin held out his palm. “Shall we?” He said.
The woman smiled, stood up, and drew her rapier.
As the less brave hearted amongst the audience hastily exited the inn, and others moved
back to the walls and placed bets, Mostin looked at Nwm.
“Did I just miss something?” the Alienist asked the Druid.
“It’s a game,” Nwm sighed. “Ortwin just upped the stakes. I should have known that he
was itching for a fight. He wants to try out his new pick”
“Should I disintegrate her?” Mostin asked.
“No. That’s against the rules.”
“Ahh,” Mostin nodded. It all seemed very esoteric to him.
Nwm, retaining his crone form, stood up, hobbled over to Ortwin and cast ‘Neutralize
Poison’ on the Bard. His drunkenness evaporated immediately, to be replaced with a mild
hangover.
The woman held up her hand. “Hey,” she said, “what do you think you’re doing? You
know the forms,
Ortwin.”
“I am eliminating the alcohol from his system,” Nwm said.
“So you claim,” she complained. “How do I know that its not a ward or magical
protection.”
“You don’t,” said Nwm. “But bear in mind that I just dissuaded that man, there,” Nwm
pointed to Mostin, “from disintegrating you.”
The young woman nodded. It seemed like a fair point.
As Nwm sat down, Mostin spoke again.
“It hardly seems reasonable,” the Alienist pointed out, “that wards are disallowed. Ortwin
bears two potent enchanted weapons – surely that alone constitutes an unfair advantage.”
“I agree,” Nwm nodded, “but the rules are the rules. Rules are seldom sensible – although
I suppose that a ‘Stoneskin’ or ‘Ironguard’ would unfairly tip the scales. These are among
the few rules that Ortwin observes.”
“Has he done this before, then?” Mostin asked.
Nwm’s expression said everything.
“Either of us can yield and forfeit the match at any time.” Ortwin said to his opponent.
“Nwm will be second to us both, as death is not a desirable outcome for either of us. If we
are rendered unconscious he will use his powers to resuscitate us. You don’t mind, do you
Nwm?”
The Druid sighed.
“Nwm?” People in the crowd whispered. “Nwm the Preceptor? Here?”
Oh Sh*t, thought Nwm.
The woman hopped onto a bar stool and, with a slight shift in her weight, effortlessly
moved it onto one leg whilst maintaining perfect balance.
Hmm, thought Ortwin.
“Are you ready?” She asked.
Ortwin nodded.
Her speed was breathtaking.
*Druids of sufficiently high level are, of course, immune to all organic toxins.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 06-11-2002
As his opponent rapidly closed with him, Ortwin felt the strange sensation of a light
breeze which seemingly issued from her. It wafted coolly over him, simultaneously
agreeable and disquieting. She had an exotic quality which he could not place.
Ortwin, who rightly considered himself one of the most accomplished swordsmen in
Wyre,
immediately found himself on the defensive against his opponent’s slender blade. She
launched into a series of maneuvers which Ortwin had only read about in the most
advanced theoretical textbooks,
penetrating his guard three times in her opening flurry and striking with deadly accuracy.
Where the point of the rapier penetrated his flesh, a numb feeling remained in his body, as
though nerve endings were deadened. The Bard’s acute instinct, honed by years of
practice, was shamed by her perfection of form and technique. From the outset, he knew
he was outclassed..
Those who observed saw only a flurry of steel, which raced faster than their own thoughts.
Mostin, who had indulged himself in learning to use the rapier from an early age – more
through whimsy than due to any natural talent – was speechless. He invoked a spell in
order to ascertain the extent of her magical armamentarium, in an effort to distinguish her
natural ability from any augmentations that she might carry: casual observation was
impossible due to the speed of the exchange.
After her initial onslaught, Ortwin recovered somewhat and adopted a defensive stance
with his
scimitar and pick flashing through the air in a complex dance of warding actions whilst he
considered his options. His sword flicked out once during the period and struck her,
drawing a long but shallow welt on her forearm, but failed to elicit even a grimace of
discomfort.
Noticing his posture, Ortwin’s opponent smiled and assumed a counter-screening position
whilst her rapier flicked out in rapid succession – tap-tap-tap-tap-tap – oh Gods, thought
Ortwin, that’s too fast she’s trying to – SH*T.
His pick dropped from his left hand and fell to the floor.
“Aaargh!” Ortwin screamed, lurching forwards.
Her weapon flashed, penetrating his shoulder. Holding his scimitar in both hands, the Bard
smashed it
into her rapier with all of his force. And again. And again. Each time she turned the
assault, and sparks flew. But now a look of horror mixed with disgust crossed her face.
“That’s a cheap trick, you bastard,” she said, “now I’m going to fill you full of holes.” But
she eyed the scimitar with a look of renewed caution. It had a reputation almost as
notorious as the Bard himself.*
Lunge-thrust-stab-stab-jab. Her rapier was everywhere, stabbing at his hand, his neck, his
shoulder, his leg, his face. And it was leeching him, somehow. Ortwin noticed that the
wound on his adversary’s
forearm had almost closed up. He looked at his own body. He WAS full of holes. Ugh. But
he could
break that cursed rapier – he knew it. Just one, solid contact – that’s all it would take.
Githla could cut through damn near anything.
But she was right. It was a cheap trick, and proved nothing.
Ortwin lowered his weapon and yielded. He bowed with a flourish.
“My gratitude for the instruction,” he said smoothly.
“You’re welcome,” she said, and walked straight past him towards Mostin.
“Mostin the Metagnostic, I presume?” She asked. Her breeze floated over him.
“Aargh!” Cried Mostin from underneath the floppy, wide-brimmed hat which covered his
face. He cast a quickened ‘Dimension Door’ and vanished.
**
“My name is Iua,” she explained after the now heavily-buffed Alienist had been located
by Nwm and a partially healed Ortwin, and brought back to the Inn. “You have met my
mother.”
“Ngarrgh!” cried Mostin, and began to cast ‘Disintegrate.’
“Mulissu…” the woman said quickly.
“Aah,” said Mostin, interrupting his spell and relaxing a little.
“My mother sends greetings, and congratulates you on your transcendence. She hopes you
are well.”
“Perfectly fine, thank-you,” Mostin said, tightly. He was still nervous.
“I also suspect that she would approve of your caution, although it is rather disturbing to
me. She wonders if you have heard of the mages Kothchori and Qiseze?”
“By reputation, although not personally,” Mostin replied. Kothchori dwelt on an island
three thousand miles to the south, and Qisesze had long since retired to her elemental
hideaway.
“Regrettably Qiseze is now deceased,” Iua informed him, “desiccated and burned with
acid. Kothchori is deranged, and suffers from the effects of a powerful enchantment. He
had been due to meet with
Mulissu, but never showed. Kothchori had a reputation for excruciating punctiliousness
and my
mother, who was suspicious after he was five minutes late, made a rare translation to the
prime to investigate. She found his stronghold infested with demons who were roasting
one of his servants.
“Mulissu drove off the fiends and rescued the servant – an unfortunate sprite by the name
of Orolde. He informed her that Feezuu – with whom I believe you are acquainted – had
stormed the castle. She stole Kothchori’s spellbooks. The mage himself was finally
located in the Western Ocean swimming with a
pod of whales – he makes little sense when spoken with. Orolde said that Feezuu first
attempted to barter with his master before laying waste to the stronghold. Apparently
Kothchori demanded that she leave in no uncertain terms, and this angered the Cambion.”
“When did this happen?” Mostin asked.
“Three days ago,” Iua replied. “My mother visited me in Fumaril and instructed me to
warn you. She procured a number of items in the city before making a translation to the
Plane of Air. I have ridden hard to reach you.”
“Very hard, apparently,” the Bard remarked drily.**
Iua ignored the comment.
“Did Kothchori possess the ‘Discern Location’ dweomer?” Mostin asked, aghast.
“I have no idea,” Iua replied. “He was a powerful Transmuter, but I don’t know the details
of his auxiliary powers. Mulissu has also speculated that Feezuu may be in pursuit of the
spell.”
Mostin considered for a while. “I must confer with your mother,” the Alienist said.
Iua grimaced. “She will not admit it, but I suspect that she is feeling nervous herself. She
has no way to ward herself from sustained magical sight and, although her location is
known to only a few, it must have crossed her mind that Feezuu may try to pinpoint her as
a candidate for possession of the spell.”
A spell which I gave her, Mostin mused. The irony was not lost on him.
“What do you mean, she cannot ward herself?” He asked.
“Neither abjurations nor illusions are within Mulissu’s capabilities,” Iua said hesitantly. “I
think she herself regrets some of the hastiness of her youth when she made choices about
the path she would
take.”
Mostin shook his head. Something didn’t add up. “When I scried your mother some time
ago, she dispelled my sensor – although I admit that I was surprised to find that she was
not already warded.
How is this possible if abjuration is proscribed to her?”
“At great personal cost,” Iua replied. “She can still alter reality to suit her whim. I suspect
that she would rather do that than admit to weakness in any area.”
A ‘Limited Wish’, probably, Mostin thought. No wonder she had been annoyed with him.
“Why was she travelling to the Elemental Plane of Air?” The Alienist asked.
“She was attempting to petition my father, in the hope that he prove less evasive and
unforthcoming than usual.”
“Er,” said Ortwin, “who is your father, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“A djinn, called Ulao,” she sighed.
Nwm stroked his beard. Mostin had some rather peculiar acquaintances.
After the Druid and Alienist departed, Ortwin purchased another flagon of firewine and
nursed his
battered ego.
“You are a most capable swordsman, Ortwin,” Iua said condescendingly.
Ortwin grinned venomously.
“I have been keeping abreast of events here in Wyre,” she continued. “Tell me, are you
committed to the Transaxiomatic cause?”
“Why?” He asked. She was digging, and he didn’t like it.
“I’m merely curious,” she said. “I find all restrictive regimes tedious, and although I have
no particular vested interest in the way things turn out here, it would be a shame to see this
opportunity for
libertarianism fail.”
The Bard sighed. She was still young, and probably idealistic.
“No,” she replied to his thoughts. “I am a thrill-seeking opportunist, like you.”
“That is very rude,” Ortwin said. “Please get out of my mind.”
“Look around, Ortwin. Trempa is normally a sedate, respectable town. Look at all of the
other thrill-seeking opportunists who are here. All of these disreputable people,
descending on the place. Have you forgotten what it’s like to be in the thick of it?”
Ortwin tried to suppress a grin. If only she knew.
“But of course, I do know,” Iua said, causing the Bard to scowl again. “How would you
like to strike a blow for the rebel movement which you half-heartedly support, and make a
fabulous amount of money
at the same time?”
Ortwin raised an eyebrow. “You’ve piqued my interest,” he admitted. Denying it would be
futile.
“We need a mage. A very powerful one, like Mostin. Can you persuade him?”
Ortwin groaned. This sounded irresistibly dangerous.
“Good,” Iua said, raising her glass. Ortwin raised his own, and, for a second wondered
why he just couldn’t help himself.
Before grinning and resigning himself to his basic nature. He looked at Iua.
“No,” she said, “you may not.”
Ortwin shrugged. It was always worth a try.
**
Mostin and Nwm sat in Mulissu’s glass refectory.
“Nice pad,” the Druid had remarked.
“She had no right to disclose that kind of information to you,” the Witch snapped at
Mostin. Minute sparks flew from her head, ionizing the air and causing the two mephits
who fluttered nearby to clap their hands gleefully.
“Ooh, she’s angry Mostin,” one said.
“Yes, Mostin,” the other chimed in. “Be careful.”
Mostin ignored them. “How could you be so short-sighted as to eschew abjuration?” He
asked her.
Mulissu shrugged. “One cannot master everything,” she sighed, her characteristic languor
quickly returning, “and I have no interest in making enemies. I just want to be left alone.”
“You daughter is intriguing,” Mostin tactfully changed the subject. “When I saw her fight,
it was the finest example of swordsmanship that I have ever witnessed. Her elemental
heritage sits well with her.”
Mulissu smiled sadly, and shook her head. “If she’d studied magic, her powers would have
surpassed mine by far. But she is too fickle and undisciplined.”
Mostin said nothing. Fickleness came in many forms.
Nwm coughed, and looked at the Alienist. Mostin winced, and gritted his teeth. “I haven’t
been entirely forthcoming with you, Mulissu,” he said.
The Witch stared at him impassively.
“When I made the translation to Limbo in an attempt to eliminate Feezuu, I encountered
her master – a demon named Ainhorr.”
Mulissu raised an eyebrow.
“I may have angered him. I should remind you that your pocket paradise is not the Prime.
It is not forbidden to him.”
“My evocations are primarily electrical, Mostin…” she said.
“Yes,” he replied. “That may prove unfortunate, under the circumstances.”
Mulissu seethed, and for a moment, Mostin thought that she was about to cast a spell on
him. He
readied himself for what might be an overwhelming magical assault, but did not flee.
Although
changeable, as a potential ally Mulissu was without peer. He must not show any sign of
weakness.
The Witch did not blast Mostin. Instead, she shouted at him.
“You have been selfish and irresponsible, Mostin,” she yelled, “and have lacked all
foresight in this matter. You capture Rurunoth, and imprison him, thus demonstrating your
potency. The point is made.
Well done. But you do not stop there. Feezuu. Ainhorr? Even I have heard of this Balor,
Mostin, and I am no demonologist. This must cease, or you will be dragged screaming to
the Abyss. My own security is now jeopardized, and you make flippant remarks. The time
for wit is long past, Mostin.”
Even the Mephits ceased their careening to watch their mistress. Mostin spoke carefully.
“I apologize, Mulissu, if my actions have precipitated this series of events. But if
circumstances had been kinder, then I would have eliminated Feezuu permanently, curbed
her fiendish influence across several worlds, and removed a painful thorn from the
collective ass of the magical community. You told me yourself that it was within my
power to accomplish this.”
“Had I known the byzantine intricacies of your own situation then I might have been more
cautious.”
She snapped.
“What’s done is done,” Nwm said softly. “I, too encouraged Mostin to assault Feezuu, and
I feel some responsibility in the matter. The question now is ‘how do we proceed?’”
“I think that there is no ‘we’ in this, Druid,” Mulissu said sardonically. “I am not being
drawn into the political mess that you are in. I certainly have no interest in demons. Or
celestials for that matter. I am surprised that you do.”
“Then why did you contact me?” Mostin hissed.
“To give you fair warning,” Mulissu said. “If Feezuu approaches me for the spell, I may
be inclined to trade with her.”
“You cannot be serious!” Mostin exclaimed. “You despise her.”
“I am wary of her also,” Mulissu said. “Ulao will not aid me. Feezuu’s acid evocations
combined with a fiendish resistance to my spells make me nervous. If she conjures
demons, or is accompanied by them, my power is effectively curtailed. And I cannot resort
to Sonics in the same way that you can. In terms of raw power, I am virtually unmatched,
but I have few wards.”
“A pre-emptive strike by the two of us…” the Alienist began.
“No!” Mulissu exclaimed. “Have you been listening to a word that I’ve been saying,
Mostin? I am NOT being drawn into this.”
The Alienist thought for a moment. “If you insist on the quiet life, Mulissu, I may be able
to help you,”
he said.
The Witch looked quizzically at Mostin.
“I have not been idle since the failed assault upon Feezuu,” he explained. “I have found a
means to render ‘Mordenkainen’s Magnificent Mansion’ permanent.”
Mulissu’s jaw dropped.
“Are you willing to trade the formula?” The Witch asked.
“I will give it to you,” Mostin replied. “I owe you that much, at least.”
The Alienist thought of Qiseze and Kothchori, mages whom he had never met, yet the loss
of whose
unique intellects he nonetheless lamented. In his abstract, cerebral way, he felt something
akin to remorse.
**
The Great Hall of the Ducal Palace thronged with armoured warriors, their retainers and
servants as the Duchess, Eadric, Tahl, Nwm, Nehael and Mostin took counsel together
with the knights, captains and bannermen of Trempa. Foremost amongst them – the
handful of Templars who had deserted with Tahl,
and the Paladins who had elected to remain when the Fane was taken over – crowded
Eadric with a look of religious awe on their faces that made him feel uneasy. Their fervour
was not shared by many of those present.
“We must resign ourselves to the inevitability of war, but we may not, ourselves, initiate
any action…”
the Duchess began. She was immediately interrupted by Ryth, the Thane of Har Kumil.
“Bullsh*t!” He exclaimed. “We should catch them while their pants are down. Tomur is
within range and I can lead a mounted sortie to storm the Bishop’s Palace.”
Several voices were raised in support.
“Shut up, Ryth,” said Nwm. The Thane, an avowed pagan, although loyal to the Duchess,
was not renowned for his subtlety. Although Nwm liked the middle-aged nobleman, he
found his bloodlust
somewhat depressing. As a Uediian, Nwm felt that he should have at least some respect
for the Druid’s opinion. Ryth was an iconoclast in all respects, however.
“If you got off of your priestly arse and did something to help us,” Ryth retorted, “then
we’d have no problem. You could burn them up for us, and we could finish them off.”
“Aargh!” Nwm yelled. “Will you SHUT UP. All possibilities will be discussed, but the
agenda of this meeting is not going to be dictated by you.”
The Duchess waited for the clamour to subside before continuing.
“We must not initiate any act of war beyond Trempa’s borders. That much has been
revealed to Eadric in his visitation.”
The statement was greeted by assenting murmurs from the Oronthonian knights,
scepticism from
amongst the more agnostic members of the nobility, and by open disdain from Ryth and
others in the Uediian party.
Eadric sighed. It was going to be a long day.
*Ortwin’s blade, Githla, was forged by the Azer smith Jodrumu at the behest of Druhmo
of Borchia, one of the precursor states of modern Wyre. Jodrumu was considered one of
the greatest smiths of his age, prior to his enslavement by the Fire Giants. When he
refused to capitulate to their demands, he was maimed before being released. Unable to
create more of his masterpieces, Jodrumu wandered for
years before finally going mad and taking his own life.
**Fumaril, also the original home of Mulissu herself, is eight hundred miles from Trempa
in the
Thalassine.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 06-13-2002
**
The debate raged all morning, and the Duchess, Soraine, called for a recess for an hour
after noon. Her head jostled with half a hundred different views, and scenarios which she
had not previously
considered made her feel ill and depressed.
“The Temple alone can field a thousand knights. If they can convince the king to fully
support them, he will muster all of Wyre against us.”
“What if they march on Iald first? Are you saying that we may not act?”
“Will Tyndur remain neutral? Will Jiuhu declare for us? Ecclesiastical influence is less
entrenched there, but their nobility are notoriously conservative.”
“Whatever you decide, as a Uediian I assert my right to protect my people by whatever
means I deem necessary. You can stick your Bright God up your arse. It is my feudal duty,
and may not be denied by you or anyone else, Soraine.”
“We need more men.”
“This is a Holy War. We will prevail.”
“We need more weapons and armour. We need Thalassine engineers, artillerymen and
light cavalry.”
“We need more money.”
“The hand of Oronthon guides our actions. We must have faith.”
“We need to restore the tax burden.”
“Nwm needs to take a lead, and unite the Uediian priesthood.”
“We should have had this meeting six months ago, but the ‘Instrument of God’ here
decided that he’d have visions in the wilderness instead.”
And so on, and so forth. The poisoning of wells, guerilla tactics, the likely powers of the
Templars on the battlefield, siege warfare, the disorganized and cellular nature of Uediian
priests, grain supplies, finances, mercenaries, levies and fyrdsmen, conscription, training
regimens. Money. Money. Money.
Eadric and the Duchess spoke privately during the two hour long recess.
“Ryth is right about Nwm,” she said. “If he took a lead, persuaded the other priests to
unite, they could make a formidable contribution to the effort.”
Eadric merely shook his head. “It’s not going to happen,” he said. “Nwm despises
organized religion with every atom in his body. And he recognizes the potential for
disaster: Uedii worshippers are less bound by political allegiance than by ties of kinship
and culture. Any movement that he started in Trempa would soon spill over into the rest of
Wyre. He must follow the dictates of his own conscience.
But he will act when he decides to act, and when he DOES act, then he will not pull his
punches.”
The Duchess nodded, and recalled the scene outside of her own gates when Brey had been
defeated –
seemingly quite casually – by the Druid. And Nwm had been largely unprepared for
violent conflict.
“Soraine,” Eadric said, “our camp is eclectic, to say the least. Not everyone is interested in
the religious agenda. You need to unite them, because I cannot – at least not yet. I am most
effective on the
battlefield, and when that time comes, Tahl tells me that they will rally to me. Until then,
this remains in the realm of politics, at which I have little skill.”
“When will the Temple act?” Soraine asked. “You must have some idea.”
“The pressure is already building,” Eadric replied. “Mostin has scried the precincts of the
Great Fane on several occasions. Their debates are now over, even as ours are only
beginning, and they are arming.
We will know soon enough when they march. And I know where the first blow will fall: it
is
symbolically apt, from their perspective, and is closer to Morne than Trempa itself.”
“Deorham,” the Duchess sighed. “I’m sorry, Ed.”
**
Mostin, who had said little during the morning’s discourse – simultaneously finding the
proceedings boring, and lamenting the fact that he was forbidden to blast people by the
Injunction – retired to his manse for luncheon.
His walk through the Duchess’ pheasant woods, agreeable at any time of day, was
unusually pleasant.
The snows had melted, croci and daffodils were beginning to peek through, and the air
was warm – at least in the sun. His reverie was not to last long. As he approached his
porch, his magical sight*
revealed an invisible quasit sitting on the step pulling the feathers from the wings of a bird
that it had captured. The quasit, sitting in plain view but confident in its magical screen,
looked at Mostin, quickly twisted the bird’s neck, and vanished.
Mostin’s heart pounded. Where was she? She must be here somewhere. He quickly
‘Dimension
Doored’ into his cellar and walked through the magical portal into his extradimensional
retreat, sealing it behind him. Removing the Looking Glass of Urm-Nahat from his
portable hole, he invoked its
power, and began to scry the interior of his own home.
Nothing had been disturbed. No evidence of any intruder. He widened his search.
The quasit was no doubt compacted**, he mused, as his magical sensor roamed. Were
there other
demons nearby? He grunted. The thought was not appealing. Several minutes passed.
There, on his porch. Feezuu. How beautiful she is, Mostin noticed for the first time. Skin
like alabaster, her hair deep indigo, and large, almond eyes. And more eyes. And more.
Her robe was covered in them.
She bore a compound bow of exquisite design across her back, and a longsword hung
from her hip.
Feezuu smiled and looked straight into the sensor.
“I know you’re watching, Mostin.” She spoke in Abyssal. “I mean you no harm. I have
come to trade with you – I have much to offer. I seek a certain spell. I am generous. Will
you speak with me?”
Mostin’s mind boggled. Was this a genuine offer, or some duplicity? She was, after all,
looking for two creatures posing as devils, and had no reason to suspect him if she did not
already possess the
dweomer. He waited.
“I must have the ‘Discern Location’ spell, Mostin. You are a powerful diviner. Do you
possess it?”
Mostin swallowed. He had no means of communicating with her, unless he left the
extradimensional
space. He made a mental note of acquiring the ‘message’ spell as soon as possible.
“I am growing impatient, Mostin,” she said. “I know little about you, but have already
discovered that you are rather timid. I have no quarrel with you.”
Mostin let the mirror go blank, and cast an empowered ‘cat’s grace,’ a ‘stoneskin’ and
‘haste,’ and wished that he’d prepared more wards. He grasped his amulet, prayed that its
absorptive abilities would work, and exited the ‘Magnificent Mansion.’ Stepping into his
cellar, he could already hear crashing sounds upstairs – demons, most likely, rifling
through his possessions. Several sets of explosive runes detonated. The Alienist smiled.
This time he had the advantage of being on his home turf.
Mostin teleported himself onto the porch. Feezuu stood in the doorway. Behind her, an
uridezu rat-demon, several dretch and a dozen quasits were running and flying around
inside causing mayhem.
But this time, the Alienist had the jump
Mostin flung an empowered sonically substituted burst of ‘Chain Lightning’ which almost
blew the
Cambion off of her feet. Inside the house, quasits dropped like flies from the secondary
arcs.
Incanting, the Alienist summoned three bearded devils.
“Kill the woman, then the demons,” he instructed. “Try not to smash the house up.”
As Feezuu turned to see the devils rushing at her, her face suddenly revealed an expression
of
understanding. She gaped.
With the merest gesture, Mostin hurled another quickened sonic bolt before she could
react. Her
resistance held, and Mostin grasped his amulet and braced himself.
Feezuu cast a quickened haste, hit Mostin and the devils with an empowered, maximized
acid
substituted ‘Fireball’ and then aimed a ‘Finger of Death’ at the Alienist. One of the devils
vanished, consumed in acid. The necromantic spell was absorbed harmlessly by the
amulet, and Mostin thanked
several random deities. He looked down to notice that his skin was dripping off of his
arms.
The two bearded devils ploughed into the Cambion in a frenzy with their glaives slashing
violently at her, causing her to stagger backwards. Mostin cast a quickened ‘magic missile’
and another sonic.
He arrested his ‘Disintegrate’ when he noticed that Feezuu was already lying on the
ground.
The uridezu dashed past one of the barbazu in an attempt to escape, but, already suffering
from the effects of ‘Explosive Runes’ and the first Sonic, was felled by the devil’s glaive.
The Alienist walked cautiously over to the Necromancer’s body as the devils chased the
one remaining quasit around inside his hallway. She was not dead, but teetered on the edge
of unconsciousness.
“You?” She laughed. The Sonics had ruptured her internally, and she coughed blood and
bile.
Mostin drew his rapier.
Feezuu smiled. “‘Cloned,’” she said.
He plunged it through her neck.
After he had dismissed the devils, the Alienist limped back down the steps into his cellar,
selected a bottle of thirty-year old firewine, took a large crystal goblet from his glassware
cabinet, and sat on his porch for a minute to gather his thoughts. He glanced inside: his
unseen servants were already tidying up the mess, neatly arranging his papers and
sweeping up broken glass and porcelain.
He looked at Feezuu’s body. Even if she had already made a simulacrum of herself, he
didn’t care. She probably wouldn’t remember any of what had happened, and would be
diminished in both personal
potency, and influence amongst the fiends of Graz’zt’s Abyssal court. And without her
magical items, it would take years for her to regain her power, if she managed it at all.
Mostin downed a glass of firewine, and hobbled over to the corpse. He stood over it like a
vulture, before bending down and pulling the longbow free and unfastening the sword
belt. A ‘Robe of Eyes.’
Mostin could barely contain his excitement. She bore a ring on each hand, and wore a belt
which
sported many pockets. He opened one, and was delighted to see that it was an
extradimensional storage space of modest size. Rifling through them systematically, he
located her books – 3 slender tomes, with neatly written spells filling them.
Mostin spent the rest of the afternoon sat on his porch, absorbed in the books, locating
dweomers
which he could add to his collection. Two volumes contained only Necromantic spells – of
no use to Mostin, but of immense trade value. The third was filled with her auxiliary
spells, including many that Mostin did not possess. He flicked to the back, where the more
potent dweomers were scribed: ‘Gate
Seal,’ ‘Hardening,’ ‘Contingency,’ ‘Acid Storm,’ ‘Eyebite,’ ‘Energy Immunity,’
‘Vipergout,’ ‘Delayed Blast Fireball.’
Mostin stroked Mogus, and the hedgehog crooned appreciatively.
When Eadric and Nehael rode up at four o’clock in the afternoon to investigate his
absence from the council, they were shocked to find Mostin with several layers of skin
burned off, sitting and drinking firewine next to a corpse. The Demoness looked at the
body.
“Feezuu?” She asked, aghast.
Mostin raised his glass. “Yes, indeed,” he said.
*Mostin has a permanent ‘See Invisibility’ cast upon his person.
**Compacting is a way of getting around the restrictions on the various ‘planar binding’
spells. The Demonist or Diabolist makes peaceful contact with the outsider prior to casting
the spell, and they strike an agreement. Payment is usually made in Larvae, the universal
currency of the Lower Planes.
When the ‘planar binding’ is cast, the conjurer purposely breaks the ‘magic circle’ and
allows the outsider to gain its freedom. The demon or devil is now secure upon the Prime
Plane and, unlike the various ‘Summon Monster’ spells, can remain for an indefinite
period.
Needless to say, compacting is very hazardous, and only very powerful spellcasters
employ compacts with the higher demons and devils. Not only does it involve an implicit
degree of trust between the fiend and the summoner (a rare thing), but also, if overused,
has the danger of attracting the attention of celestials – obviously, something which most
diabolists would rather avoid.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 06-13-2002
In which Nwm’s player, Dave, again demonstrates his ability to create new story arcs out
of thin air.
Thanks Dave.
**
Ortwin scratched his head. “So, this time, she really is dead, then. Right? I mean, Nehael
and Ed saw the body. There is no risk of her coming back?”
Mostin smiled. “She said ‘Cloned’ to me. By this, I assumed she meant that she had a
simulacrum prepared for her spirit to inhabit. ‘Discern Location’ revealed this to be the
truth.”
Ortwin banged his head. Necromancers seemed difficult to kill.
“The question most pertinent to us,” Mostin continued “is ‘when was the simulacrum
prepared?’ If it was made before we launched our first assault upon her, it will retain no
memory of our attack: she has, effectively, never met us. It may also retain no memory of
the murder of Cynric – effectively meaning that the Feezuu who now exists is not guilty of
it.”
Eadric sighed. “Is this likely?” he asked.
Mostin shrugged. “It is possible that the clone was grown during the intervening months,
but I feel it is unlikely.”
“How do we know,” Ortwin asked “that we didn’t, in fact, kill Feezuu the first time we
met her, and that you just killed another clone.”
Mostin shook his head. “That is impossible. If the Feezuu which I just killed was a clone,
it would have retained no memory of our original attack. Thus, it would have never met
us. Thus, it would not have recognized my Sonics and the devils which I summoned. Nor
would acquiring the ‘Discern Location’
dweomer have benefited it, as it can only be used with regard to things which the caster
has
encountered. We may therefore concur that we simply failed to kill her during our initial
encounter.”
The Alienist smiled at his own tortuous logic.
“In any case,” Mostin continued, “it is likely that ‘Feezuu II,’ if we can call her that, has a
duplicate set of spellbooks stashed away somewhere in her hideaway in Limbo. It is also
likely that her most potent dweomers are no longer available to her. Unfortunately, the
location of the spellbooks she stole from Qiseze and Kothchori may never be revealed –
she did not have them on her person, and ‘Feezuu II’
will have no recollection of where the original Feezuu secreted them.”
“Unless she hid them on Limbo,” Ortwin remarked, “in which case the clone has
awakened happily to a cache of spells that it could not previously cast, and wonder where
they came from.”
The Alienist nodded. He hadn’t considered that possibility.
Mostin drew the attention of the others to the items which he had pilfered from Feezuu’s
body.
“This,” he gloated, “is a ‘Robe of Eyes.’”
“Really?” Nwm remarked sarcastically. “I’d never have guessed.”
Mostin sniffed. “I’m keeping it,” he said. “It’s mine now. These other items are also
interesting, and I will discern their full abilities in due course. The sword is called
‘Melancholy.’ It is an Anarchic weapon of great potency.”
“It is a Slaadi blade,” Ortwin said, unexpectedly. “May I?”
The Bard picked up the scabbard, and closed his hand around the slender hilt of the sword.
Insane visions and scenes of entropy filled his mind.
“Ngraahhh!” Ortwin forced his hand to uncurl from around the quillons. “It is sapient. It
wants to kill you, Eadric. It quite likes me, though.”
“Oh, joy,” said the Paladin, “that’s all we need. What do you plan to do with it, Mostin?”
The Alienist lifted his hands in an expression of confusion. “I honestly don’t know. No
wizard will
want it – most can barely wave a stick in self-defense, much less a longsword. If I trade it,
I won’t get anything like its full value. I assume you don’t want it, Ortwin, even at a
bargain price?”
The Bard shook his head. “Githla is my blade.”
“In which case, I suppose I will just hang onto it until an idea springs to mind. It’s a shame
it’s not a rapier, else I could use it myself.”
Eadric thanked Oronthon that it wasn’t a rapier.
“The bow is likewise a conundrum,” Mostin said. “It possesses a Necromantic aura,
although it is not evil.”
“I can shoot a bow passably well,” Ortwin said. “Furthermore, I won’t give you anything
for it –
consider it ample payment for putting my neck on the line during that abortive Limbo
fiasco. Feezuu was our target, after all. Not to mention all of the other trouble that you’ve
gotten us all into.” He smiled charmingly.
Mostin started to bluster, but thought better of it.
“Speaking of which,” Ortwin continued, “I seem to remember Nwm casting a dozen wards
or so on us before we translated to Limbo. Don’t you think you owe him something as
well?”
“Don’t push it,” said Mostin.
“Don’t worry about it,” said Nwm.
“Don’t be so damn selfless, Nwm,” said Ortwin. “Come on, Mostin. What’s fair is fair.
What will you have, Nwm, of all the things here?”
Mostin looked aghast.
Nwm considered for a while. “The Sword,” he said, finally.
Everyone looked at him as though he were mad.
“Not for me,” the Druid explained. “But for someone who has the conviction and the
strength of will to wield it. A Champion. A Uediian. I would use it against the Temple.”
Mostin nodded. “Then let it be noted that all accounts are hereby settled.” He handed the
weapon to Nwm, and breathed a sigh of relief.
But Eadric swallowed. Hard.
**
Over the next two weeks, Nwm travelled the length and breadth of Wyre, disguised as a
crone, or a boy, or a young man, making inquiries without attracting suspicion to himself.
He ‘Wind Walked’ over three thousand miles, and ‘Tree Strode’ a hundred more.
The Druid spoke to farmers and cotters in rural Trempa, Tomur, Hethio and Iald. He talked
to
woodsmen deep within the forest of Nizkur and to mountain-men in the uplands and
foothills of the
Thrumohars, the nigh-impenetrable range which marched on Northern Wyre. He spoke to
trees, and to
rocks, and to animals. In the process, he gathered a huge amount of information about the
widespread and diverse pagan community. Goddess worshippers, but also those who
revered local gods and deities.
Animists, pantheists and heathens of every shade. He discovered their needs, their
concerns, their fears and their expectations.
His inquiries were subtle. As a crone, he would say:
“Would that we had heroes again, like in the days before the rise of the Temple. My
grandmother’s grandmother remembered the time before the taxes. When your beliefs
were not threatened.”
Or as a boy, appearing wide-eyed and naïve, he would ask:
“Are you a great warrior? Is there a great warrior in this village?”
And whilst his questions were usually met with mirth, occasionally he would be pointed in
the
direction of one who could wield a sword but, finding them, discovered that they were old,
or drunk, or that their reputation was based on hearsay rather than fact.
Until, in the foothills of the mountains, he met a shamaness. She joined him as he was
‘Wind-Walking.’
“I am Mesikämmi, the Honey-Eater,” she said in broken common.
“I am called Nwm the Preceptor,” he replied. “I am looking for a hero.”
“Good luck!” She said, and flew away.
Nwm chased after her. “Wait,” he shouted, “you must know of someone, or at least of
someone who might know someone.”
She laughed. “Over the mountains, onto the plateau,” she shouted. “Speak to the Tunthi.*”
So Nwm flew over the Thrumohars, past their vast, ice-covered crags, and passed onto the
plain of Tun Hartha.
**
Iua, Mostin and Ortwin sat closeted within the Alienist’s drawing room.
Iua had a large schematic with intricate diagrams, runes and designs written upon it. Her
own scrawled notes covered the remaining blank spaces, and sometimes overlapped with
the more meticulous writing beneath.
“The Temple vault was designed by the mage Tersimion…” she began.
*Nomadic hunter-gatherers who dwell at an altitude of over 8000 feet, the Tunthi are
widely regarded as being crazy.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 06-15-2002
**
Enitharmon, tomorrow is the meeting with Enitharmon, was the first thing that she
thought.
Before slipping back into unconsciousness.
Only a moment seemed to pass before her eyes opened. She was surrounded by a living,
viscous fluid which seemed to penetrate her mouth, and stomach and lungs. She panicked,
and struggled wildly
before sitting bolt upright, gasping for air. She coughed and vomited for what seemed like
an aeon, breathing desperately, trying to empty herself of the foul tasting lavage.
When she finally gained her equilibrium and opened her eyes, a nightmarish scene greeted
her. Gross, contorted body parts hung around her, and blood dripped incessantly from a
sagging ceiling above her head. A dull, red glow filled the place, and the walls rippled as
though they were made of liquid.
Feezuu relaxed. She was home.
As she pulled herself out of the ghoulish bath, she wondered how long she had been dead.
She stood for a moment, naked and covered in fetid slime, before walking across the
pulsing floor to a tall
cabinet, carved from the femur of some terrible beast. Upon it was engraved a rune of
death. She spoke a single word.
The door opened. The space beyond was empty.
Feezuu cursed silently. Her robe, gone. Her weapons also. And her belt. The fact that she
was not
surprised made her no less angry.
Taking a moment to reflect upon her own consciousness, she observed that her highest
valences were diminished, and her psyche was empty of magic.
She seethed insanely before finally regaining her composure.
Mustering her will, the Cambion reached down and sank her hands into the floor at the
base of the
cabinet. Blood, warm and vital, embraced her forearms. She smiled grimly and groped for
a moment
before her fist closed around a handle. Tugging hard, she pulled a small iron case up
through the liquid floor, dragging blood with it which splashed over her. The surface
ebbed strangely for a while, before resuming its pseudo-solid state.
Feezuu opened the case, and gazed inside. She pulled a neatly folded robe out, woven
from a material that was darker than black, and drew it around herself. At the bottom of
the case were several scroll tubes, vials, and a single spellbook which contained her most
useful dweomers. Also, there was a glass tube of curious design. Inside it, within tiny
cells, motes flickered about restlessly. Larvae that had been morphed for easy
transportation.
As she placed the contents within the hidden pockets of her robe, a shadow fell upon her
from behind.
She turned to see her cohort, the slaad called Khrgz standing there. His vast, bluish form
obscured the doorway. He was flanked by a group of eight of his lesser kin.
Feezuu snarled. “How dare you! Depart at once.”
Khrgz smiled, displaying a maw full of sharp teeth. “You are weak, Feezuu,” he said.
Not that weak, she thought. Her innate nature still counted for something.
A wave of Necromantic power emanated from her, desiccating three of the red slaadi, but
failing to overcome Khrgz.
Another blue slaad materialized. And then two more reds.
As they closed upon her, the Cambion swore. Even if she summoned a demon, she could
not stop them from ripping her to shreds. She quickly pulled a scroll from her robe, even
as their claws rent her and their teeth sank into her. She spoke four words and vanished.
She aimed for the city of Jashat in the Thalassine, but instead arrived four hundred miles
to the south in the deserts of Shûth. The Prime Plane was dull, but safe, she thought. She
began to walk northwards across the arid erg.
She stopped before dusk on a platform of rock, in the lee of a tall pinnacle of desert stone,
worn into strange shapes by the passage of wind and sand over countless years. She sat,
and meditated.
When she emerged from her reverie, the stars had kindled in the sky and the moon was
rising in the east. The air was windless. Taking her book from its velvet sheath, Feezuu
pored over it, and the
moonlight illuminated the dweomers on the pages. So few, so few. And even some of
these were denied to her. Word would soon spread of her ousting from her stronghold, and
no doubt a Death Slaad would seize its opportunity and take control. They resented her as
much as she despised them.
She silently cursed whoever was responsible for her current predicament, and vowed
revenge.
Feezuu cleared the area of debris, until a circle perhaps eight feet across was made on the
rock shelf, sweeping it with a sprig of gorse pulled from a desert shrub. She carefully
inscribed a diagram, and with a spell, anchored it. She began to pace around the periphery,
incanting fiercely, until her voice reached a screaming climax.
Fire erupted in the diagram as an equine shape manifested itself. Its hooves and mane
kindled, and smoke billowed from its nostrils. It thrashed wildly in an attempt to escape.
The Cambion smiled.
“I am Feezuu,” she said. “You will serve me. I will show you more death and madness
than you dreamed was possible.”
**
The next morning, riding the nightmare, she descended on a desert caravan. Before
slaying the
merchants, she learned that nearly nine months had passed. She loaded a bag full of gold,
silks and
spices, and continued northwards.
Nine months!
She wondered if Ainhorr had betrayed her after the embassy with the Celestials. Why
were they due to parley, she wondered. The Balor had told her little, but had instructed her
to prepare to translate to the Prime after the meeting.
Graz’zt had been angry. She shivered. Rurunoth had disappeared – the rumour was that he
was slain or ensnared.
Nehael. It all had something to do with Nehael. She had been commanded to seduce a
paladin.
Something had gone wrong.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 06-18-2002
Last update for a week or so - I’m off into the mountains hiking with my wife.
**
Tersimion, a mage of extraordinary genius, had been an enigma.
Unlike the vast majority of his peers, whose religious sentiments ran the gamut from
indifference to disdain, Tersimion had possessed faith in the judgement of a single deity.
What had further
distinguished him from the other members of the magical community – most of whom
regarded him as
sadly misguided – was that his conversion and catechesis arrived late in life, well after he
had
established a reputation as a spellcaster of prodigious power.
His contributions to the Oronthonian cause had been numerous and diverse, but his final
gift, the vault beneath the Temple at Morne, was the one for which he was rightly best
remembered.
The vault was, in fact, a series of miniature nested demi-planes, impervious to magical
travel of any kind and warded against scrying with the most potent of spells. It was known
to possess areas of
antimagic, it was roamed by golems and axiomatic manticores, and boasted sophisticated
mechanical traps to boot. Its single entrance was guarded by four paladins whose sole duty
was to prevent
unauthorized access – more to protect the innocent, than through any fear that those who
did somehow pass them would penetrate the vault’s mysteries. The knights took shifts –
two of them guarded the portal for twelve hours at a stretch, whilst the other pair rested
and prayed. The Temple Exchequer had maintained this tradition for two hundred years.
Mostin was reticent. “Although I have no objection to larceny,” he told Iua, “and I am also
intrigued by the intellectual challenge that this poses, I am wary that any involvement by
me – especially given Ortwin’s history with the Temple – might be construed as an overtly
political act. I do not wish the ire of the council to descend upon me for violating the
Injunction.”
“I agree,” she said cautiously, “that we must tread carefully. But the rewards are
staggering. As well as the sheer volume of coinage – over one hundred thousand gold
crowns are maintained as a floating
balance – every promissory note and record of transaction is kept there. It would send the
Temple
finances into utter chaos if …”
“Wait!” Ortwin said. “I thought that you said this was about opportunism, not striking
some political blow for an abstract cause that I’m not sure I have any time for.”
Iua shrugged. “We may as well sound the trumpet for liberty and freedom while we’re
there – it’s not as if it’ll be much extra effort. A gallon of oil and a tindertwig will do it.
Assuming that Mostin isn’t willing to cast a ‘Fireball.’”
Ortwin eyed the girl suspiciously. “I’d rather not burn the Fane down. I don’t think Ed
would be all that impressed.” He had the sneaking suspicion that Iua was a closet idealist
after all.
Mostin snorted. “If we managed that, it would be the first interplanar conflagration in
history. My main problem is that I don’t feel that the reward is ample to the risk involved
– money is merely money. Are there magical devices stored in the vault? Artifacts?” His
eyes gleamed greedily.
“Not to my knowledge,” Iua confessed. She reached into a pocket and produced an ivory
tube. “But if you are willing to forego a percentage of your cut, then another kind of
remuneration might be agreed
upon.” Iua uncorked the tube and pulled a bundle of papers out. Unrolling them, she
handed the top one to Mostin. It was a spell, which read:
‘Mulissu’s Passage of Lightning.’
The Alienist was about to say something, but Iua handed him another scroll. It read:
‘Mulissu’s Rhapsody of the Clouds.’
Mostin swallowed reflexively. She handed him another scroll:
‘Mulissu’s Quasi-Elemental Transformation.’
And another:
‘Mulissu’s Instantaneous Elemental Tempest.’
And finally:
‘Mulissu’s Ultimate Plasma Evocation.’
Mostin looked at them and hyperventilated for a few moments before he regained his
ability to speak.
“You stole these from your own mother?” Apparently the young lady was quite
unscrupulous.
“They are copies,” Iua explained. “Made by her, of course. And I am not entirely
unscrupulous.”
Mostin was still shaking. The last two dweomers were beyond even his ability to manifest,
but he
understood the principles. And the Plasma Evocation could be modified into a sonic…
But if Mulissu ever found out…
He couldn’t help himself.
“We have a deal,” the Alienist said. “And Iua…”
She looked at him.
“A mage’s mind is his private domain. If you ever try to read my thoughts again, you will
suffer the consequences. Do you understand?”
“Noted,” she said.
**
Nwm and a young Tunthi shaman sat together near a fire. As neither could speak the
language of the other, and neither possessed any spell with which they could be made
intelligible to each other, Nwm had taken the logical step of using an eagle to translate.
After all, both present COULD speak with animals. And eagles were relatively articulate
as far as avians went.
They were waiting for the older shaman, Tietäjä, to return from a dream-quest, in which
he was
speaking with his deceased ancestors and looking for guidance. The other members of the
Tuern – a
type of extended family group numbering sixty souls – had retired to their rude skin huts,
leaving the Druid alone with the initiate, Sarajoa. He was young, Nwm mused, but already
possessed more wisdom than most of the clergy in Oronthon’s church. His closeness to the
land was manifested in his speech and mannerisms, and he felt no pressing need to make
small talk, or muse on the meaning of life, or engage in pointless philosophical banter. For
most of the time, the eagle stood silent.
These people can teach me, Nwm thought.
When Tietäjä finally emerged from his hut, he looked tired but satisfied. He hobbled over
to the fire and drew his cloak around himself, before pouring mead into a cup carved from
birchwood and
drinking deeply.
“I ascended to the fires,” he said.* “I spoke with my grandfather. I asked him if my Green
was your Green, or whether they were different.”
“What did he say?” Nwm asked.
“He said that they are neither the same, nor different, nor both, nor neither,” Tietäjä smiled
ironically.
“Which is another way of telling me not to think with my head, but with my stomach.”
“What does your stomach tell you?” Nwm asked.
Tietäjä laughed loudly. “It tells me that I am getting too old to eat this much meat, and I
should change my diet. I like you Nwm, but this struggle that you speak of is a long way
from here. I cannot FEEL it, it does not move me. Only rarely do my people leave the
Linna.** But when they do, they take
something of it with them.”
Nwm said nothing, but listened.
“There is another Tuern, whose territory lies three days from here towards the sunrise,”
the Shaman said. “They are not our enemies, nor are they our friends. Five years ago,
several of their men – great warriors – left their family to travel to the warm lands. My
grandfather told me that you seek one of these men. His name is Hullu.”
Nwm nodded. “Where can I find this Hullu?” he asked.
“You must speak to the people in the other Tuern,” Tietäjä said. “They will answer your
questions. You will need to find a token that belonged to Hullu, and then use your magic
to locate him.”
Nwm stood and bowed, preparing to leave.
“Beware of their shaman. She is dangerous.”
Nwm nodded, and dissolved into mist.
**
“How many?” Eadric asked.
“Eight hundred Templars and around four thousand auxiliaries,” Mostin replied. “They
left at dawn.”
Eadric groaned.
“There’s more. Two smaller forces also marched this morning – one from Tomur and
another from Thahan. They are also heading for Trempa, although from the north.”
Eadric nodded grimly. “I’ll speak to Soraine. We’ll need to act quickly.”
*The Tunthi believe that the polar aurora is the seat of all wisdom.
** Lit., “Enclosure.” The Tunthi name for the desolate plateau on which they live, Tun
Hartha.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 06-22-2002
On a warm spring morning, a day before the Equinox, Eadric of Deorham rode from the
gates of the
Duchess’s castle with his paladins. A quarter of Trempa’s knights, thanes and bannermen,
as well as five hundred or so mounted man-at-arms, accompanied them. The cavalry was
protected by a screen of Ardanese mercenaries – horsed archers whose fierceness in battle
was matched only by their capacity for mead – and foreshadowed by hand-picked scouts
from the fiefs of thanes Ekkert and Streek. Eadric had led out the army post haste – his
main objective being to hold the crossings over the River Nund –
until Tahl arrived with Soraine and the bulk of Trempa’s armoured aristocracy.
Most of the Uediians – including the skirmishers and longbowmen – had been dispatched
northwards
under the command of Ryth of Har Kumil. The Thane, although bloodthirsty and itching
for war, was
no fool. He was to conduct a guerilla campaign of attrition against the forces advancing
from Tomur – a task for which he was amply qualified. His orders had been clear: Do
NOT cross the Nund. Do NOT
invest Tomur.
Eadric sighed. He doubted whether Ryth would remain within his remit. He also wondered
whether
Rintrah’s instructions* applied to him personally, the troops under his command, or
everyone in Trempa involved in the war.
In the rearguard, aside from Togull, the Laird of Rauth Sutting, to whom nominal
command fell, rode a motley rag-tag of soldiers-for-hire, libertarian idealists, religious
zealots of uncertain persuasion, romantics, poets, artists, and Ortwin of Jiuhu. Next to him,
sullen and uncommunicative, Iua sulked.
She sat upon a remarkable horse whose feet did not seem to touch the ground, but rather
the legs of which ended in cloudlike wisps of vapour.
Mostin the Metagnostic rode nearby, his uncanny green eyes peering out from underneath
the most
outrageous hat that he possessed, made from purple velvet and topped with a wing-feather
from a
lillend. The brim was a full three feet in diameter. The robe of eyes which he wore
dispelled any
remaining doubt in the minds of those who saw him that this was someone of arcane
power, and to be carefully avoided.
Despite her protestations, Iua had not been able to dissuade Ortwin from riding. She had
pointed out that now – with virtually every Templar absent from the Fane – was the ideal
time to raid the vault. The Bard had half surprised himself when Eadric had asked:
“We leave in the morning. Are you coming?”
And Ortwin had replied “Yes.”
No doubts, no equivocations, no procrastinations. Iua’s scheme could wait – after all, the
vault would still be there in a week. Here was a chance for songs, glorious deeds,
bloodshed, and a boost to his recently battered ego. His reputation demanded that he be in
full prominence, inspiring people with exaggerated braggadocio and tales of daring. In the
final analysis, being in the limelight was the most important thing in the world to him.
And, after all, he couldn’t let Ed down, he added as an
afterthought.
Iua had commended the Bard, but pointed out that there were other ways of striking a
blow to the
Temple – that a financial crisis would cause pandemonium quickly and effectively. She
missed the crux of the Bard’s motivation, however – the unchecked desire for self-
aggrandizement – and by the time
she had realized it, Ortwin had made up his mind and could not be deterred. Iua had
pouted, and decided that she’d continue to pester him until he acquiesced.
Mostin’s reasons for being there – in an ‘advisory capacity,’ of course – were more
straightforward.
He’d never seen a battle before. He hoped that someone would overlook the fact that he
was a wizard and assault him, thus provoking ‘reasonable self-defense.’ And he wasn’t
letting Iua and those scrolls out of his sight for one damn minute.
After a nine-hour march, the army halted on the meadows near the village of Hernath,
halfway between the town of Trempa and Deorham. As tents were pitched, guards were
posted and horses were picketed, Eadric visited Mostin. The Alienist - excited by the
prospect of battle but rejecting the inconveniences that campaigning brought – had erected
his portable manse some distance from the camp, and was
scrying for enemy movements.
“What exactly are you permitted to do, Mostin, and what does the Injunction forbid?”
“I have been musing upon the same question myself,” the Alienist replied. “As no mage
has ever violated it, it is difficult to answer.”
“Never?” Eadric was amazed that here, apparently, was a law that had never been broken.
Mostin smiled. “Despite my urge to fling magic around on the battlefield, I am in general
accord with the premise of the Injunction. Wizards have far better things to do with their
time than demean
themselves with temporal politics, and I think everyone would agree that the prospect of
mages being used as artillery is a terrifying one.”
“But you spoke of using ‘auxiliary’ magics. What do you mean by this?”
“Divinations are permitted,” Mostin replied. “And whilst auxiliary to most mages, they
are, in fact, my specialty. Which is good for you.”
“And ‘reasonable self-defense?’” The Paladin further queried him.
“That is equally vague,” Mostin sighed. “I think that placing myself in the centre of a
battle would probably constitute some kind of provocation, and I doubt that I could use it
as a defense for evoking a
‘fireball’ for example. I intend to remain on the margins of the fight, acting for the most
part as a passive observer. If anyone is foolish enough to target me with their lance or
sword, then I will
retaliate, and my role will become that of a ‘participant-observer.’ At that point, I am
treading on very thin ice as far as the Great Injunction goes but not, I think, in open
violation.”
“And exactly what would happen, if you were to flagrantly violate the Injunction?”
The Alienist shrugged. “As I say, in five hundred years, no-one has ever done it to my
knowledge. I suspect that, after news got out, then divinations would be made and I would
be revealed as the culprit.
I would, at the very least, be shunned by the magical community. If my behaviour
continued, I guess that a cadre of mages would form in order to arrest my deviancy. The
technical penalty is
‘Imprisonment.’”
Eadric gave a quizzical look. That didn’t sound too bad. But he didn’t understand that
Mostin was
referring to a spell, or what that spell involved.
“Why the sudden interest?” Mostin asked. “I hope that you aren’t trying to persuade me to
summon pseudonatural entities to aid you.”
Eadric was aghast, and held his hand up. “No! Certainly not. I’m curious, that’s all. I know
little of the world that you move in, or the rules by which it operates. Why exactly are you
here, Mostin?”
The Alienist sighed. “Intellectual curiosity? Ennui? Maybe even loyalty and camaraderie.
Who knows?
I try not to question my motivation – it tends to be unproductive, and leads to irresolvable
paradox.
Especially when one possesses a logical faculty as titanic as mine. Incandescent genius
brings its own worries, you know.”
Eadric rubbed his cheek. Mostin seemed quite serious.
**
Nwm flew south over the hilly uplands of Iald. He was exhausted, and needed to
recuperate his magic.
The contest with the shamaness Mesikämmi had proven almost beyond his abilities. Why
hadn’t she
told him, when he’d first encountered her in the foothills of the Thrumohars? Why send
him into the wastes of Tun Hartha, only to have another shaman redirect him back to her?
Her reasoning was
mysterious, and Nwm wondered whether she was somehow testing him, making time to
gather her own
strength, or merely teasing him for her own perverse entertainment. The Tunthi! Their
customs and
motivations seemed impenetrable.
“Our allies will contest with one another,” she had said. “If yours prevail, then I will
render an item of Hullu’s to you, and you may scry him. If mine are triumphant, then I will
take your torc, Nwm, and you will depart forever. Will you rise to the challenge?”
The Druid had wondered what she meant until, showing forth her power, she summoned a
fire
elemental of prodigious size. If he’d had time to prepare, Nwm knew that he could have
conjured a
larger one, and the contest would have been over before it began. As it was, he was
pressed to match the elemental in terms of power, and instead elected to summon three
salamanders. Mesikämmi had
thrown another elemental into the fray, and Nwm had invoked the powers of his staff in
order to bring yet more salamanders into being. Pillars of interweaving fire scorched the
frozen tundra, causing great plumes of steam to erupt as the magical allies fought each
other fiercely.
When Nwm finally prevailed, the shamaness had returned to her hut, and reluctantly given
the Druid a carved aurochs horn, which he gratefully accepted.
“Perhaps I should have required your staff as payment, had I won,” Mesikämmi had
ruefully remarked.
But, in the end, the contest had cost her little and she had had much to gain.
Nwm had flown on and, passing again through the mountains, had found a cold, still pool
and scried Hullu.
There. In a small cabin in the woods, in Iald. Nwm had set out immediately.
**
The Druid rematerialized next to a great boulder, deposited ages before by a glacier, and
walked towards the simple house. Smoke, issuing from the chimney, alerted Nwm to the
fact that Hullu was
home.
Swallowing, the Druid strode up to the door and rapped loudly upon it with the base of his
staff. There was no reply. Nwm knocked again. Still nothing. He gingerly pushed the door
inwards, and glanced to see a rudely furnished interior, before someone sprang at him
from the shadows and grappled him to the ground.
The face, with its narrow eyes and beardless chin, was certainly Tunthi. He was small, but
wiry, and immensely strong.
“Peace, Hullu,” Nwm said quickly.
The grip did not relax. “Who are you?” Hullu barked with a thick accent.
“I am Nwm, a Uediian. I seek your aid.”
“I am no longer for hire.” Hullu snapped, standing up. “You may leave, now.”
“I offer no money,” Nwm said, pulling himself to his feet, brushing off his cloak, and
smiling benignly.
“I merely require your aid. I want you to offer it freely and willingly, with no thought of
gain for yourself, and to risk death if necessary.”
Hullu looked incredulous. “Are you mad?”
Nwm grinned. “I have spoken to the shamans Tietäjä and Mesikämmi. Your name was
suggested to
me.”
Hullu hissed. “Why were you in the Linna? And what does the Honey-Paw have to do
with this?”
“I am tired and hungry, Hullu, and I smell something agreeable roasting inside. This
would be better discussed with a full stomach.”
“You are unbelievable! You have never met me before.”
“No,” agreed Nwm, nodding. “Do you have any mead?”
**
“It is simple,” Nwm said, relaxing in the smoky interior of the cabin and holding a full
belly. Hullu eyed him suspiciously – the Druid had proven to have a healthy appetite. “The
Uediians are scattered, disorganized, leaderless and need a figure around whom they can
rally.”
Hullu snorted. “Then do it yourself. I am not even Wyrish. And I don’t buy into this
Goddess nonsense either.”
“Nor do half or more of those who are labelled ‘pagan,’” Nwm explained. “Tell me Hullu,
you revere the spirits of lake and tree and mountain, don’t you?”
“Yes, but…”
“In fact,” Nwm continued, “you are Tunthi. You live it and breathe it. It runs through your
veins naturally and effortlessly, a memory of a world which we in Wyre have forgotten.”
“If you mean to suggest that I am more primitive, just come out and say it,” Hullu snarled.
“No,” Nwm abruptly snapped. “I have much to learn from your people. They are not
decadent. They are focussed, in tune with nature. They are in the NOW to an extent which
a settled, agrarian lifestyle crushes. Few amongst us now can evoke that momentless
moment, when Nature is gloriously unified.”
“And you are one of them?” Hullu asked archly.
“Yes,” the Druid replied honestly.
“Then lead your people,” Hullu said simply. “This is not my fight.”
“When the Inquisition arrives and demands your conversion, will you accede? Will you
bow down before their god – or, more likely, the aspect of their god which demands blind
obedience and
unthinking acceptance of dogma? Or will you flee into the forest?”
“The last is more likely,” Hullu replied.
“Then you will live like a fugitive until they find you, and then you will convert, or burn.”
“You will not cow me into any course of action,” Hullu rose to his feet. “These words are
meant for the ears of the ignorant. I have served as a mercenary from Morne to Bedesh.
This is not the way of the Temple, and as oppressive as they might be, there has never
been any forced conversion.”
“As an unrepentant subject of Iald, you are already under a death sentence for heresy,”
Nwm told him.
“That is absurd,” Hullu said. “I don’t believe you.”
“You have been alone in the woods for too long, Hullu,” the Druid said.
And Nwm told him the whole story, from beginning to end, leaving out no detail.
**
“So this is the sword?” Hullu asked, brandishing it.
“It is called ‘Melancholy,’” Nwm replied. “It was forged by the slaadi and belongs to a
half-demon called Feezuu. She will likely wish it back at some stage.”
“I don’t like the name. And what do you suggest I do with it?” Hullu asked.
“Head for Hethio, and rally the Uediians there,” Nwm replied. “It is the heart of the
Temple’s power, and the place where they least expect resistance to arise. Organize the
cells of pagans into a coherent
body. Show them a direction.”
“And why can’t you do this?”
“Because I will not subject my faith to theocratic despotism, however well-intentioned it
might be.
There needs to be a groundswell of opinion, not the mindless observance of commands
that I might
give.”
Hullu smiled ironically. “But you are willing to manipulate them using other means?
Using me?”
“That is the only choice remaining,” Nwm confessed.
“What makes you think that they will trust me? That they will follow a barbarian from the
north?”
“It is two days until the Equinox,” Nwm replied. “We will make a suitably dramatic
appearance.”
**
The dolmens at Groba had, for centuries, been a place of worship for the pagans of Hethio.
Even with the rapidly growing stigma attached to the Old Religion, the stone temple,
interspersed with oaks of enormous size, was thronging with worshippers. Because most
of the Inquisitors and Templars were in the East, mustering for the war with Trempa, many
of those who would have otherwise been reluctant to attend did, in fact, show their faces.
A number of druids led them in prayers and supplications to assorted woodland spirits,
deities of rocks and streams, and the great fertility Goddess, Uedii.
Nwm arrived at dawn, the climax of the ceremony, in the form of an eagle with a fifty-foot
wingspan, bearing Hullu between his huge talons. It was a carefully orchestrated piece of
showmanship, designed to evoke a complex reaction – the eagle was, after all, the symbol
of Oronthon. Regarding it as a
portent, some of those present tried to flee, others fell to their knees. The druids, uncertain
of the meaning, stood and waited.
Nwm’s pinions beat mightily, causing a great downrush of air which made those below
shield their
eyes and hold onto their cloaks. He deposited Hullu atop the highest of the menhirs, and
then alighted on the ground next to him. His head was level with the Tunthi warrior,
twenty feet above the earth.
Nwm screamed out a spell, and suddenly the air around was full of spirits, whispering
encouragement to those gathered there and dispelling their fears.
The Druid resumed his human form.
“I am Nwm, the Preceptor,” he announced in a clear voice. “I am not here to lead you, but
I bring someone who can and will. He is a warrior from the North. His name is Hullu. If
you won’t accept him on my recommendation, then that is all well and good: in time, he
will prove himself capable and you will follow him. His names are not our names, but he
believes as we do. He knows much that we have forgotten, and he can teach us. He can
show us how to remember. He can give us direction in the war against oppression and
persecution. I leave the choice as to how you deal with him to you.”
“I am now active in this fight,” Nwm continued. “Not as a leader of men, but as myself. I
have no desire to command, and I will reject any attempts to persuade me to do so. I will
act according to my own conscience, wherever I decide the need is greatest. I am beholden
only to the Goddess: do not
succour me for aid, lest I reject you and you resent me for it. I ask you to remember one
thing only: it is the Temple that oppresses you, not the Eagle.” The last words were in a
hope that peaceful
Oronthonians would not be targeted.
One of the druids stepped forwards. “You are arrogant beyond belief, Nwm. You are
acting outside of your remit.”
“I act according to my conscience, as should you,” Nwm replied, simply. He resumed his
aquiline form and took off, flying eastwards.
Late on the morning of the Spring Equinox, the eagle was sighted over Morne, and people
stopped in the streets to wonder what it might portend.
Nwm followed the road from Morne to Trempa, and saw that it was churned up by the
passage of
numerous horses and wagons. The army had already left.
On the evening of the same day, fifteen miles from the border with Trempa, Nwm spied
from a great height the smoldering remains of a dozen bodies by the roadside. He
descended and stood grimly,
before pulling down the corpses. He summoned a Xorn, instructed it to dig a grave, and
buried them.
It had already started, he sighed to himself.
He took to the air again and before long saw, far in the distance, a thousand tiny campfires
glowing on the meadows on the western side of the Nund. Engineers were building
pontoons by torchlight,
working to find ways of moving the troops as quickly as possible in the event that the
Templars could not win the main bridges: at Hartha Keep and Moath Gairdan. Nwm
screeched a spell as he flew, and
clouds began to gather.
When he descended again, he brought thunder and death.
**
Deorham was only half a day’s ride from the crossings of the river, and Eadric had
garrisoned Kyrtill’s Burgh with thirty knights and a hundred men-at-arms before moving
swiftly onwards. The keep, which had not seen war for a century, echoed to armoured
footsteps - something which the Paladin found
somehow disagreeable.
Reports brought back by scouts and the Ardanese outriders indicated that skirmishers had
already
crossed the river, and were setting ambushes and burning crofts along the eastern banks of
the Nund.
Eadric cursed, and dispatched contingents of light cavalry to seek out and engage them,
before splitting his remaining forces to secure the crossings. He himself rode to the
southern bridge at Hartha Keep. He instructed Togull to remain to the rear on the
Blackwater Meadow, and to use his own best judgement as to how to deploy the reserves –
“Throw them at whichever bridge looks like it will fall first,” he said ironically.
When evening came, Eadric paced to and fro restlessly in his armour, on the top of one of
the two small towers of the shell keep. Plumes of smoke rose from the enemy camp, less
than two miles away.
“It’s getting humid,” Ortwin remarked casually whilst practicing complicated maneuvers
with his scimitar. “It’s going to rain.”
*The Planetar had instructed Eadric to “initiate no war” beyond Trempa’s borders until
commanded to do so.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 06-24-2002
Quote:
Any chance of this wonderful story being made available in a single downloadable
format??
Eventually.
I will try and answer other questions that I’ve been ignoring ASAP.
**
Brey gazed skywards and observed the quickening clouds. They were moving at an
unnatural
speed and, seemingly, converging from all directions simultaneously. A huge thunderhead
was
forming directly above the camp.
The Druid, he thought, cursing. Apparently, the rumours that the Nature-Priest had no
stomach
for the fight were wrong.
The Templar ran towards Melion’s tent, barking orders as he moved. “Go to ground. Get
everyone back from the waterfront.”
Brey burst in to the command tent where Melion sat stiffly, his age apparent,
unaccustomed to
the armour that he was wearing for the first time in twenty years. The Inquisitor General
was in
conference with the Templar Lords Irian and Hembur, Rede’s deputies and ascendant stars
in the
new administration.
Melion growled. “Lord Brey, might I remind you that your probationary period is not yet
over. A little more decorum would be appreciated.”
“Nwm is here,” Brey said simply.
Melion swallowed and, anticipating a firestorm, warded himself against the possible ill
effects..
The Temple knights and soldiers looked up and saw the eagle descending upon them, and
as it
swooped, the clouds parted from the gale which issued from it. Many of the more ignorant
cowered, thinking that Oronthon’s wrath had descended upon them. Rumbles of thunder
echoed
across the field, and lightning flickered across the cloudtops.
Melion shouted across the meadows. “It is a pagan trick – do not be dismayed. We are
favoured!”
His voice, thin and reedy although it was, carried conviction and confidence.
Nwm circled at an altitude of fifteen hundred feet, his pinioned form naked against the
clouds
except for a sprig of mistletoe which hung from one huge talon. He screeched a spell, and
giant
eagles appeared around him. They plummeted downwards.
Melion cursed. The Druid fully understood the use of appropriate symbolism and
propaganda, it
appeared. And he was currently out of range. The Inquisitor summoned four celestial
griffons
and dispatched them to intercept the eagles.
Nwm resumed his human form – a speck against the grey clouds. He began to drop
rapidly, but
was unperturbed. Many of the more quick-witted amongst those on the ground drew bows,
and
scores of quarrels and arrows were shot towards him, only to be deflected harmlessly
away by
the tornado-force winds which emanated from the Druid.
There. Melion. Nwm concentrated as the air rushed around him, and evoked the effects of
a spell
already cast. The sky crackled, and a single stroke of lightning, fed by the living storm and
immensely potent, arced downwards and struck the Inquisitor, dropping him instantly.
As Templars crowded around Melion in an effort to revive him, lesser clerics began to cast
spells
at Nwm. He shook off the effects of three attempts to silence him, and no trace of concern
crossed his face as a dozen celestial hawks and eagles, two celestial pegasi and several
minor
elementals began to manifest across the field. At a height of forty fathoms, feathery wings
sprouted from the Druid’s back and he arrested his fall.
No pity, he thought to himself. I must show no pity.
Nwm began to fly upwards again, and invoked another spell. Vines sprang up, covering
over an
acre at the centre of the camp, in an area where the tents were most densely crowded.
They
wrapped around arms and legs, pinning many of those within a one-hundred yard circle,
and
impeding all of them in their efforts to move. Across the infested area, dozens of soldiers
began
to sicken and fall from the poison in the toxic vines.
The Druid looked downwards and observed that the celestial birds and elementals were
closing
on him slowly and beginning to converge. He smiled grimly – he knew that they could not
penetrate the winds around him. He spoke a potent summoning, and the sky nearby began
to
move and distort: the vague outline of something huge and nebulous appeared next to him.
It
began to move towards the ground effortlessly and with great speed.
No mercy, he reminded himself.
The Druid drew his staff from across his back and clasped it tightly in his fist. He spoke a
word
of power, and continued his ascent. The orb on the staff crackled darkly as its ultimate
power
manifested.
Below the thunderhead, an area of blackness formed, shot through by purple lightning and
moving with wisps of dark vapour. A huge shadow appeared above the camp, and peals of
thunder broke out, deafening those below. On the ground, the elemental conjured by Nwm
was
ripping a swathe through those who tried to resist it. It had begun to spin on its axis,
flinging
tents on the periphery of the camp in all directions. It moved slowly, deliberately and
systematically eliminating those who did not flee.
But the most brutal effects were yet to come. Nwm flew on, maintaining concentration
upon the
unnatural cloud, and acid began to rain down. The Druid glanced down to see Brey and
two other
Templar Lords standing impotently over the body of Melion. He didn’t know their names.
He
didn’t care. Irian perished, obliterated by three bolts of lightning which simultaneously
struck
him from above, Hembur almost died, struck by three more.
In the hail which followed, Lord Hembur did die. So did eight hundred others, many
entangled in
the poisoned vines, and unable to move.
As the minor elementals closed on him, Nwm swerved down to meet them. They, and then
the
celestial animals were blown out of the Druid’s path.
Nwm banked around and flew back towards the camp. He circled around the periphery,
looking
for those who might still be standing. Many were fleeing north and south, parallel to the
river’s
course, whilst others were routed to the west. A few brave souls dared the river itself. Still,
the huge elemental moved unchecked through the camp.
No mercy, Nwm swallowed.
The Druid, from a safe height, blocked off the egress from the north of the field, where
many
were attempting to escape, with a vast cloud of swarming insects. Over a period of half a
minute,
in a four-hundred foot arc which spread west and then south, pockets of grasses and weeds
sprang up, entangling many and causing others to flee in panic away from them, lest they
were
poisonous. Nwm began to descend, but before he could cast another spell, he was
enveloped in
silence. Swearing wordlessly, he began to climb again, reached a height of a thousand feet,
and
circled slowly, waiting for the spell to wear off. The Druid waited patiently – the clouds
were
already pregnant with energy again. Two minutes passed. Three. Four. Five.
Suddenly, the noise of the wind and storm flooded again into Nwm’s ears as the magical
silence evaporated. He concentrated on his torc, seeking mentally for powerful
spellcasters. Their
whereabouts were determined in an instant. Two of significant ability.
Leading Templars were attempting to rally their knights and auxiliaries and order the
retreat from the field. Nwm ignored them, his gaze shifting to a lone figure. A cleric in
shining plate was
performing a ritual desperately, beside of the wreck of a tent. Nwm spoke a word, and
another
streak of lightning flashed down, targeting the cleric. It dissipated harmlessly around him,
and he continued to intone.
Warded, Nwm thought, and powerfully. The Druid ignored him and began to beat his way
downwards.
Hundreds were fleeing southwards and westwards now, as all other ways were effectively
blocked. Nwm intoned yet another spell as he closed, and a curtain of green fire, three
hundred
feet long, sprang up. Intense heat blistered skin and caused people to shy away again –
most of
those few foolish enough to try and pass through were immolated.
Chaos reigned upon the ground, and had they stopped to think amid their panic, the fleeing
troops would have recognized that the Druid, with his spells, had created an immense
funnel
upon the ground, and that they were being herded into it.
Nwm flew down, and prepared to invoke a succession of flame strikes and flaming
spheres,
emptying his magical arsenal.
Abruptly, in the eye of calm air at the centre of his personal hurricane, Eadric and Mostin
materialized. Mostin floated easily, and Eadric was supported by a pair of winged boots,
borrowed from Ortwin.
The Paladin looked grim. “Please stop, Nwm. You’ve made your point.”
**
Brey, now nominally in command of the whole force, was trying to establish a modicum
of order.
He cursed the Druid, and wondered again why he himself had not been killed. He glanced
upwards, only to see three small figures flying east over the river.
**
Tramst was a devout man. A good man. As he knelt in his armour, his hands clasped to his
chest
and feverishly intoned, he knew that his prayers would be answered. Amid the wreck of
the
camp, he tightly gripped his eagle-and-sun, the symbol of his faith.
Oronthon heard his supplication, and answered. A light appeared, emanating from a deva
armed
with a flaming sword. Tramst bathed in it.
“What would you have of me?” The celestial inquired, “and I will appoint a task for you
in return.”
“That you invoke just retribution upon the Heretic and his pagan friend. That you punish
them for their misdeeds, and slay them as they deserve.”
The deva nodded. “If I do this, then here is your task in payment: you will willingly
endure the torments of the lowest hell for eternity, secure in the knowledge that your
perfect faith will
sustain you, because you have never done an impure deed or thought an impure thought.”
Tramst looked astounded.
“A different task, perhaps?” The deva asked.
DM Note:
The spells cast by Nwm that day were, in this order:
Wind Walk (in effect from previous day)
Big Sky (at the dolmens)
Summon Nature’s Ally IV (Xorn burial)
Control Weather
Greater Call Lightning
Control Winds (spherical emanation type)
Summon Nature’s Ally VI (5 giant eagles)
Master Air
Poison Vines
Summon Nature’s Ally VIII (Greater Air Elemental)
Storm of Vengeance (From the orb)
Insect Plague
Entangle (x5)
Wall of Fire
Nwm also had 3 flame strikes prepared which, unfortunately, he didn’t get a chance to use.
He
was maxed out for offensive spells.
‘How could you have let that happen?’ You might ask. Aside from story considerations (it
makes
good drama, after all), it is not that improbable: consider 5000+ people and a thousand
horses
contained in a area a quarter mile wide and half a mile long with little or no means to
defend
themselves against sustained magical attack: when the panic begins, its going to get
messy.
As you can imagine, running this was extremely difficult, and involved several arbitrary
decisions about reactions – especially wrt. Melion’s use of his Protection from Elements: a
fire
ward did, in fact, seem reasonable given Nwm’s previous attack. Note that the ‘Greater
Call
Lightning’ bolt summoned by Nwm – 15d10 – was devastating to Melion, an old man
with very
poor constitution. He failed his save and suffered around 80 points of damage. He would
have hit
Nwm with a ‘Sunburst’ had he had the opportunity, the only long-range spell available to
him.
I asked Dave what he would have done had he been blinded – he thought for a second and
said
“Wildshape to bat.”
Clerical divine magic is all but useless at long range – take a look through the PHB.
Druidic firepower is excellent at long range, however.
The total area affected by a “Storm of Vengeance” is around 10 acres – the entire camp
was only 80 acres or so. As everyone in the storm takes 6d6 damage with no save (acid
and hailstones),
and it was evoked above the centre of the camp, your average 1st-3rd level warrior or
cleric and
1st-2nd level fighter or paladin is going to die outright. 800 casualties seemed a little
conservative, if anything.
And buggered if I was going to roll that many dice.
The Temple forces consisted of
1) 4000 auxilliaries (mainly War 1-2, with some War 3+)
2) Around 300 engineers, armourers, weaponsmiths etc. (mainly exp 1-3)
3) Nearly a thousand ‘camp followers,’ including hangers-on, drovers, merchants, food
vendors,
etc. etc. etc., mainly on the periphery. Mostly low-level commoners hoping to make a few
$$ out
of the dirty business of war.
4) 800 Templars split thusly:
500 fighters, 120 paladins and 80 clerics of levels 1-3,
60 “Specials” – mainly fighters and paladins of higher level, but including some PrC
Templars and Warpriests, 4 x 5th level clerics, 1 x 11th, 1 x 9th level clerics and 1 16th
level clerical
spellcaster equivalent (Melion). I had only the higher level clerics’ spells prepared ahead
of time.
40 Priests (Experts) – mostly support staff for the Temple and/or Inquisition
But Nwm can deliver just too many spells from a distance of 1000 feet.
My arbitrarily determined death total for the whole sordid episode was around a thousand
– more than twenty percent of the army. In a pitched battle, this kind of loss would have
been deemed
utterly catastrophic.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 07-09-2002
Sometimes I hate my players.
I mean, the DAY AFTER I make the announcement on these boards that we’re taking a
break
from the game, they arrive at my house (and I’m thinking that we’re going to play the
alternative
campaign), and say that they’re all suffering from with withdrawal symptoms.
I was going to hold off this post (there is a lot of background info that they didn’t know
about), but now there is no need.
I am only 2 sessions behind now in the updates. We’re slated to play again tonight. It will
not run away with me, this time.
*****
Feezuu brooded in the shadows of the ancient necropolis of Khu, near the cursed city of
Siir
Traag. Dead things surrounded her.
Over a period of two weeks, she had been far from idle. Her raids upon the caravans,
owned
mainly by affluent silk merchants, had provided her with a considerable sum of disposable
wealth, and already given rise to stories of a demoness riding a hell-horse who plundered
and
slew without mercy in the desert.
She had seduced a Necromancer named Chorze – a mage of moderate power –– and taken
up
residence with him in a mausoleum, where she experimented with blood and entrails.
After
quickly growing bored of their ghastly couplings, the Cambion slew Chorze and inherited
his paltry collection of spellbooks, a few minor dweomered items, and a square mile of
sand-worn
buildings above vaults, crypts and sepulchers.
It was better than nothing, she’d reflected.
How to proceed, she had mused. She had considered Ainhorr and other powerful Demons
at
Graz’zt’s court with suspicion – had one of the Balors or Mariliths slain her in order to
further its own aims? Had Ainhorr or even Graz’zt himself been instrumental in her death?
Had celestials or
some other force intervened? Whoever or whatever had killed her must have been either
very
potent, or very lucky, or both.
She must locate her books and items, but how? Now that her highest valences were denied
to her,
the ‘Discern Location’ dweomer was beyond her abilities – and she would have to acquire
the
spell in any case..
A vague deja-vu had flitted through her consciousness.
She needed allies. Her thoughts had drifted idly from Limbo, through the Abyss, across
unnamed
regions to Hell, and back again. The slaadi were unreliable, and hated her. Devils would
be
disinclined to do her bidding, and were too well organized and dangerous in any case.
Yugoloths,
demodands, and other creatures for whom Feezuu knew the names but few others did.
Demons. It would have to be demons. They might be fickle, perverse and depraved, but at
least
the Cambion knew what she was dealing with. But nothing too powerful, nothing that
would
threaten her own ascendancy – at least, not yet.
She had taken out her glass tube, and looked at the one hundred and nineteen motes of
light
which danced in it. One hundred and nineteen souls. Larvae in miniaturized form.
They wouldn’t buy her much – all were of a poor quality. She had sighed wistfully. The
essence
of a single paladin or virgin would fetch her so much more.
Feezuu had buffed herself, mounted her nightmare, and ‘Plane Shifted’ to the Plain of
Infinite Portals. She had compacted with a goristro, two bar-lgura, fourteen dretch, two
quasits and a
succubus named Kalkja. None were minions of Graz’zt – at least to Feezuu’s knowledge –
and
that was the way she was going to keep things, until she gained a clearer perspective on
matters.
After, over a period of three days, she had conjured them to the Prime, the Cambion
instructed
the dretch to bring her fresh body parts from the outlying encampments of nomads, which
she
needed for her work. The quasits were detailed with gathering information, both about her
immediate vicinity and the world at large – she was woefully out of touch with recent
events.
The bar-lgura she kept close to her, and the goristro was appointed the task of guarding the
entrance to the mausoleum – not that Feezuu really expected anyone to come within ten
miles of
the place. The necropolis had an evil reputation long before she had taken up residence.
Kalkja, whom Feezuu naturally distrusted, was appointed counsellor to the Cambion.
From her,
Feezuu learned much of the current state of Abyssal politics, and in an atmosphere of
mutual
need, greed and suspicion, they plotted. As part of their compact, Kalkja was given leave
to
pursue her own devices every ninth day.
**
Eadric was still deathly pale, although his fury had abated. Nwm was exhausted from his
long
flight, the battle, and the near-total emptying of his powers. He leaned heavily on his staff.
Its orb was black, lusterless and dead.
They had been arguing for an hour. Dusk had passed into night. Outside the sparsely
furnished
chamber in the keep, a storm still raged – Nwm had thought to dismiss it, but decided to
let it run its course. It reflected his own, dark mood.
“Many of them were innocent, Nwm.”
“Innocence or guilt is YOUR construct, from YOUR religion. Do not sully mine with
those
ideas.”
“Most were merely following orders…”
“Then they should open their eyes,” Nwm snapped. “I am not responsible for the fact that
people who attack my faith do so because they are ill-informed. Ignorance is no excuse.”
“And the camp followers? The vendors and tradesmen? What of them?”
“Ah, yes,” Nwm said sarcastically. “Because making a living from war is such a noble
enterprise.”
“I would have tried to spare the innocent,” Eadric said. “And those who sought to flee.
You butchered them.”
“So others would not die in their place,” Nwm retorted. “Might I remind you that your
celestial mentor informed you that many who were ‘innocent’ would perish? Although
none of those who
died today were peace-loving farmers, were they? The persecutions have already begun,
Eadric. I
buried twelve Uediians on my journey from Morne. How many more have to die?”
“Twelve is less than a thousand,” Eadric observed.
“Twelve is the beginning. I mean to ensure that it never gets much past that.”
“You cannot make that kind of judgement,” Eadric sighed. “You cannot foresee all
eventualities.”
“I accept full responsibility for my own actions,” Nwm replied. “Which is more than you
do, Eadric. You are a pawn in the hand of a deity with a personality disorder. You
understand only
one facet of his warped sense of morality, and you are playing out one of his psychotic
episodes
in the world of men, drawing the ‘innocent’ into the fray.”
“Do you believe that?” The Paladin asked.
“No,” Nwm confessed. “But none of this makes sense to me.”
“What will you do now?”
Nwm collapsed into a hard wooden chair. “I don’t know,” he said. “Wait and see what
happens, I suppose. This should send a pretty unequivocal message to the Temple. But
then again, I thought
that my attack on Brey when he first issued the threat would do the same.”
“Mostin?” Eadric asked. The Alienist had been silent, waiting for the exchange between
the Druid and the Paladin to run its course.
“I am no tactician,” Mostin replied. “But a demonstration of magical power of the
magnitude that Nwm evinced would give me pause for thought. They cannot use arcanists
in retaliation – no
wizard would defy the Injunction, no matter what the incentive, and few are sympathetic
to
Orthodoxy in any case. Also note that by taking you to stop Nwm, I may have been
technically in
breach, so I must tread carefully from now on.
“Their most potent spellcaster was slain in the first few seconds of the combat,” he
continued,
“although he was old, he had enormous powers at his command, but no time to actualize
them.
As we left, my robe of eyes revealed another cleric who had called a celestial – a deva, I
think,
although it was hard to be sure from that distance.” Mostin shuddered.
“That would be either Tramst or Asser,” Eadric said. “Both are high in the Temple
hierarchy.
Both are also relatively young and healthy, and fit enough to bear arms. Both are good
men.” The last words were spoken sadly.
Mostin shrugged. “They cannot match a Druid of Nwm’s power in the open without
calling
supernatural allies. How many are capable of ‘Planar Callings?’”
“In the whole Temple, half a dozen at most,” Eadric replied, “but I am not perturbed. Tahl
tells me that no celestial will raise a weapon against us.”
“There are other things besides celestials whom they may call upon,” Mostin said.
Eadric shook his head. “Doing so would be an implicit admission that they had lost
Oronthon’s grace. If a celestial has been called, and it refused to act, then this will send
shockwaves through the Temple. They will be hard-pressed to explain it.”
The Druid snorted. “I’m sure there is a perfectly plausible doctrinal explanation, if you
interpret certain words a certain way. Zeal blinds people to the truth.”
In the event, both Eadric and Nwm were only partially incorrect. Mostin was closer to the
mark.
**
Lord Brey ordered that the Temple troops withdraw from the river front, and disperse into
the
countryside west of the Nund but still within its watershed. Under no circumstances were
so
many soldiers again to be concentrated in a single encampment. He formed them into
cadres of
between two and three hundred, each under the command of a seasoned knight or
Templar, and
scattered them over an area of around fifty square miles. All were well-provisioned, and
Brey
knew that they could stay in the field for at least two weeks before he needed to think
about
reprovisioning them. He pitched his own tents six miles northwest of the crossings, near
the
village of Langdair.
Brey summoned Tramst – who had become sullen and uncommunicative – and detailed
him to
act as a messenger as soon as morning came and the storm broke. Most of the minor
clerics
remained in the vicinity of the stricken camp, tending to the wounded and performing rites
on
those hundreds who were less fortunate. All through the night, as the storm raged,
engineers and
soldiers hewed trees and dragged them into a great pyre. Kegs of oil were set in it, and the
corpses – except for Melion – were drenched with it. The Inquisitor General’s body was
sent in
state back to Morne.
When the rains finally abated, an hour before dawn, the fire was lit. It burned for days,
carrying the stench of death eastwards over the river towards Eadric’s camp.
Although none were privy to the exchange between Tramst and the Deva, Mostin had not
been
the only one to witness the celestial. Rumours circulated wildly amongst the Temple
troops as to its meaning: whether it was a favourable or inauspicious omen, a promise of
victory or defeat, a
warning, a punishment or some other sign. When Brey finally heard of it, he ordered
Tramst to
appear before him.
“Why was this information withheld?” The Templar fumed.
Tramst considered carefully before answering. “It is sensitive. I will speak only to the
Curia of it.”
“I would remind you that I am now in command of this mission,” Brey replied. “You will
relate what happened.”
“I will not,” Tramst said simply. “Feel free to arrest me if you feel the need. You will need
to elect another messenger.”
Brey was livid, but had no choice but to concede. After dawn broke, Tramst wind-walked
northwards to speak with Eisarn, the commander of the smaller force advancing from
Tomur. He
was instructed to halt his march and disperse into the countryside until orders were
received to
the contrary.
Tramst then sped to Morne, and related events to the Curia. An emergency audience was
called,
and the cleric described what had transpired in great detail. Although he mourned the
death of
Melion, and the loss of so many devout Oronthonians, it was the exchange with the
celestial
which caused him greatest concern.
The Curial meeting which followed afterwards was held behind closed doors, and Tramst
was
not present to hear their counsels.
**
Within three days Tahl, Soraine, Nehael and the assembled thanes and knights of Trempa
arrived at the Crossings of the Nund. The Duchess rode in a large bier, borne by
warhorses, from which
she barked orders at her captains, and terrified her troops. Retinues of squires,
menservants,
provisioners, smiths, tailors and members of a dozen other professions accompanied the
armoured aristocracy, and gaudy pavillions jostled for space and preeminence on the
Blackwater
meadow.
Inevitable bickering followed.
Many of Soraine’s subjects – powerful landed gentry in their own right – were eager to
press
onwards across the river, and rout the pockets of Temple soldiers who were entrenched in
and
around the villages there. The Ardanese mercenaries – always happy to wage war – were
sympathetic to the demands of the secular knights. Eadric’s paladins were insistent that
divine
authorization be issued before any further steps were taken. The few Uediians amongst
those
gathered there (most were in the north of Trempa with Ryth), although anxious to engage
the
enemy, were so awestruck by Nwm’s actions that they refused to act without his consent, a
fact
which irritated the Druid to the extent that he refused to speak with any of them. His
reticence
did nothing to dispel their adoration, however, and merely added to the aura of mystery
which
surrounded him.
The exact strengths and dispositions of the Temple troops were known to Eadric and his
allies,
not through Mostin’s scrying – in fact the Alienist had kept to himself since the “Night of
the Storm,” as it soon became known – but through the medium of Nwm’s torc. All the
Druid had to
do was concentrate for a brief moment, the Green communion would absorb him, and, like
blotches on his consciousness, the enemy appeared to his inner sight. Where permanent
buildings
appeared as voids, tents and temporary shelters manifested as a localized diminishment of
the
Green. Or he could shift the focus of his perception, and apprehend spellcasters,
concentrations
of iron, or whatever else struck him as pertinent. The information gleaned was pieced into
a very
coherent picture of Temple strength and deployment.
Eadric persuaded Nwm not to travel north. The Druid’s original intent had been to succour
Ryth
and eliminate the army from Tomur. But news of their arrested advance and redeployment
of
forces spoke volumes to Eadric.
“The Curia will be in debate. Give them the chance of making a move towards ending
this,” the Paladin said.
“They will not take it,” Nwm replied.
“Probably not,” Eadric sighed, “but at least give them a chance, Nwm.”
Nwm nodded. Inwardly, he was relieved.
**
No weighty doctrinal explanation was required to explain the celestial’s reluctance to
pursue
Eadric and Nwm.
It was obvious. Oronthon, perfect in his understanding, was still served by entities who
only
partially represented his will. Although the godhead possessed a facet which was stern and
judgmental, he also embodied compassion and forgiveness.
Clearly, Tramst had erred when he had required a celestial to pursue what was, in effect,
an act of righteous vengeance against a mortal. Celestials were concerned primarily with
countering the
infernal threat, guiding mortals through revelation, and cultivating the nobler faculties of
the
human mind. For the deva, the task of just retribution was beyond its purview.
If there was any feeling within the Curia that these words, devised by the Bishop of
Hethio, were
a sophistry designed to extricate the Temple from an unjustifiable position, then none
voiced a
concern.
Eadric the Heretic. Eadric the Blasphemer. Eadric the Oathbreaker. And his chief
accomplice in
his attempt to disgrace the Temple, Nwm the Pagan. The conspiracy between the heretics
and the
heathens was all too clear and, no doubt, the hand of the Adversary manipulated
everything from
below.
A thousand brave Oronthonians dead, martyrs to the cause, selflessly sacrificing
themselves to
save the One True Faith from the corruption and seductive lies perpetrated by the Heretic.
Melion
slain by the Pagan.
The Interim Protector and Grand Master of the Temple, Lord Rede of Dramore,
immediately
petitioned the King for aid against the threat which he had, previously, grossly
underestimated.
He requested the assistance of the royal army, and advised that a motion be passed
immediately,
banning Uedii worship outright, on pain of death. It was an insidious, ungodly cult which
had no
place in a civilized Wyre. An atavism, through which the Adversary worked his evil.
Entering the vault below the great Fane, bearing their seals, and speaking the correct
passwords,
Lord Rede and the Bishops of Hethio, Gibilrazen and Mord negotiated the tortuous
passageways
patrolled by golems, and proceeded to the inner chamber. The quartet held their seals aloft
and a
door appeared in the north wall. Unbeknownst to Iua - and Amachel the Damned from
whom she
had received the stolen plans to the vault - there was an eighth demiplane nested within.
But Tahl would have known.
The Church Magnates entered a small, dusty room with shelves lined with scrolls. The
work of
centuries.
“The callings are here, powerful evocations and conjurations here, and so on,” Hethio
informed the others. He smiled grimly. “There is more than one Storm here. We should
begin distributing them. We should give particular thought to the Callings.”
“But not celestials?” Gibilrazen queried. “We have decided that it is not their place.”
Hethio shook his head.
“Inevitables,” he said.
**
Mostin scried. Carefully.
He was already treading a thin line with regards to the Great Injunction, and did not wish
to
incriminate himself further – hence he restricted his magical eavesdropping largely to
minor
functionaries within the Temple hierarchy. Many of the great magnates were too aware,
too
capable of penetrating his sensors.
Nonetheless, a fair amount of information filtered back to the Alienist. The emergency
convening
of the Curia, the descent of Rede and the three bishops into the Temple vault for an
unknown
reason, rumours of further anti-Uediian legislation in the pipelines, a general downplaying
of the incident with the Deva, brushed aside as a ‘bad judgement call’ by Tramst.
Tramst intrigued Mostin. A man who was unafraid to invoke supernatural allies of the
most
potent kind, and who had defied Nwm’s storm. In the aftermath of the battle, he had
administered
aid to stricken soldiers on the field, selflessly exhausting his reservoir of magical energy,
had
wind-walked to Morne the next day and was now, apparently, in a meditation retreat.
“Do you think he can be persuaded to join us?” He asked Eadric.
The Paladin scratched his head. “If I could speak with him, I might be able to persuade
him.” He smiled grimly. “But I somehow doubt that he would be open to discussion.”
“He is in retreat,” Mostin said. “The exchange with the Deva may have given him pause
for thought – assuming that he requested aid and was denied it.”
“I’ll mull it over,” Eadric said. “Keep a tag on him. Let me know when his meditation is
done.”
Before retiring, Mostin idly wondered about Feezuu. Almost on a whim, he invoked the
‘Discern
Location’ spell, expecting to find her in Limbo, Pandaemonium, the Abyss or some
equally
unpleasant locale.
She was here, on the Prime.
Mostin cursed his own complacency. He had been very, very sloppy.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 07-11-2002
Things are very, very nearly up to date…
**
In the morning, four days after the equinox, Mostin assumed the guise of a Thalassine
mercenary
swordsman and, using the looking-glass of Urm-Nahat, travelled with Ortwin to the city of
Siir
Traag. The Alienist selected a quiet alleyway and opened the portal ten feet above the
ground, in
order to avoid the possibility of casual passers-by suddenly finding themselves transported
fifteen hundred miles north. It was sweltering, and the wind which blew in from the erg
was hot
and brought no relief from the blazing sun.
It was the Bard’s first time in the city, and he was eager for new experience. Mostin had
visited
Siir Traag on a number of occasions in order to procure rare items for his work, but found
the
place little to his liking. Besides the heat, the people were universally reserved and
uncommunicative, and viewed anyone from further away than Bedesh with open
suspicion.
Mostin had no friends there, nor even any acquaintances who would remember him, even
had he
been travelling in his true shape. Still, a Thalassine sellsword was a plausible enough
disguise,
and would attract little or no attention – mercenaries from the city states were found in
every
corner of the world.
Feezuu, he knew, was only thirty miles distant, but the Alienist was reluctant to scry her –
she
would almost certainly detect him. He had decided that, in order to ascertain her reason for
being there, a more indirect approach was required. He had briefly considered teleporting
directly to
her location and opening fire but, recalling the previous attempt to eliminate her that way,
opted
for caution.
And, he reminded himself, diminished or not, she was still very, very dangerous.
Siir Traag, and Shûth in general, had an evil reputation in Wyre and the north. This was
partly out of envy (Shûth boasted a continuity of tradition which predated Wyre by
milennia), partly out of
ignorance about the cultural differences between the two civilizations, partly out of their
ungodliness (the name of Oronthon elicited blank expressions or raised eyebrows), and
partly out
of the regrettable practice of blood-magic that was still commonplace there.
Attempts by the Mission – the proselytizing arm of the Temple – to gain a foothold in
Shûth had
been almost universally unsuccessful. The few coastal cities where chapters had been
established
saw little traffic, and those worshippers who attended Oronthonian ceremonies did so as
an
adjunct to their older religious practices, rather then in place of them. The gods and
goddesses of Shûth were ancient, potent and subtle. Oronthon was an upstart deity with a
naïve and simplistic
philosophy, and little or no place there, thank-you very much.
Siir Traag, deep in the desert, surrounded by the ruins and graveyards of a hundred
dynasties,
was perhaps the most traditional of all the cities in Shûth. Its inhabitants displayed the
classical virtues of dourness, an obsession with pedigree and lineage, and nihilism. Legend
stated that
when the First Empire was elevated above the Earth, and received wholesale into the
Realm of
the Gods, only Siir Traag was left upon the mortal plane. Dozens of theories existed as to
why
that might be the case, but most of the inhabitants agreed that, whatever the reason, it was
a bad thing.
The duo entered a number of establishments – including a number of particularly seedy
drug
dens – in an effort to garner information that might prove relevant. Ortwin’s easy charm
succeeded in loosening the tongues of several locals who, immersed in narcotic reverie,
related a
number of rumours and stories which were current. The Bard and Alienist retired to a
quiet booth
in order to discuss how best to proceed. Mostin warned Ortwin against trying the local
kschiff,
unless he wanted to be incapable of effectively defending himself for several days.
Raids on desert caravans by an all-too familiar sounding demoness, children dragged from
tents
by bow-legged monsters, and some new foulness – the latest in a long line – taking
residence in Khu.
“Why has she left Limbo?” Ortwin asked.
“Who knows?” Mostin replied. “Maybe a political thing. Maybe she’s had some
information suggesting that her items are on the Prime, and she’s come to find them.
Perhaps we should
translate and find out.”
Ortwin looked dubious.
“In any case,” Mostin said, “the raids on the caravans began three weeks ago. Apparently
she came here shortly after I killed her.”
“And you didn’t think to look,” Ortwin chided.
“Immediately afterwards, yes. Then I kind of, um, let things slip.”
“So what now? Do we assail her, or wait until she tracks us down? I’ve grown rather fond
of her bow. I’d hate to see it ripped from my dead hands, so to speak.”
“I’d really prefer to find out if she has any allies first,” Mostin answered. “I don’t want to
‘port in and find another Balor waiting for us. I’d rather not risk that again.”
“Here, on the Prime?” Ortwin asked.
“I brought one in, didn’t I? And, let’s face it, she’s more likely to strike an appealing deal
than I am. Even my substandard morals bar me from child sacrifice. I would never
compact with
demons.”
“Devils, then?” Ortwin asked wickedly.
“They are more reliable, its true, but the answer is still ‘no.’”
“That’s good,” Ortwin said. “Devils are far worse.”
“Celestials are scarier,” the Alienist replied.
**
Whilst the less serious members of Trempa’s aristocracy held grand feasts in their
pavillions and
bards sang their praises, mounted archers from Ardan brawled with each other, and the
rapidly
growing army of camp followers touted their wares, Eadric drilled his knights tirelessly.
The Paladin sighed. He wondered how long he and Soraine could maintain the cohesion of
their
forces – armies needed to fight, or at the very least move, in order to stay focussed.
Nwm, the hero of the hour, kept himself aloof. He was still digesting the events of the
previous
few days, and pondering his next move. Periodically, he would allow the Green rapture to
overcome him, as he maintained scrutiny on the enemy camps on the far side of the Nund.
The cadres of Temple troops had already dug themselves in to prevent assault from units
of
skirmishers. There was little they could do against magical assault – or so Nwm guessed –
but, at
Eadric’s behest, held off from harassing them. Eadric had instructed Tahl to issue sendings
to the Curia and to Brey, demanding that they recognize Trempa’s religious autonomy, and
had
requested that the king reconsider his former proclamation in light of recent events.
Predictably, no-one had responded. It seemed as though they were still formulating policy.
Eadric waited for a sign. The sign that he received, however, was not the one that he
expected.
An hour after noon, sixteen knights and thirty men-at-arms rode into the camp from the
east: the
remnant of the garrison that had been assigned to protect Kyrtill’s Burh. Most were
wounded,
and all were exhausted. The armour of several knights was blackened and scorched, and
their
skin blistered. One, called Lome, who had been deputy to Sugis - the warden appointed by
Eadric - immediately presented himself to the Duchess, the Paladin and their captains.
“Deorham is fallen,” he gasped.
Eadric was dumbstruck. “How?” He asked.
“Templars. Wind-walked in. Seized the Steeple. Flame strikes. Took over the keep in a
matter of minutes.”
“How many?” Eadric asked, aghast.
“Thirty, maybe. It was difficult to tell.”
“Thirty people wind-walked? That is absurd. And only a handful in the Temple can invoke
flame strikes. Tahl?”
But the expression of the Ex-Inquisitor indicated that he guessed what had happened.
“Were they bearing scrolls, Lome?”
The knight nodded, and Tahl explained.
“Why did you say nothing of this…cache?” Eadric asked Tahl.
“I did not even consider it,” Tahl replied. “I have only seen the scroll-room once, after
Melion appointed me. It is a repository, and the resources are to be used only in great
need. The idea of them being used in this manner is abhorrent to me – most of the clerics
will be invoking powers
far beyond their ability to comfortably control.”
“That should make for some interesting accidents,” Nwm said sarcastically. “Come on,
we’d better go.”
“I have not prepared a ‘wind walk,’” Tahl said.
“I have,” Nwm replied. “Eadric?”
“Very well,” the Paladin replied. “Although I wonder if the whole episode is a deception
in order to draw us away. Tahl, can you send word to Ortwin?”
“It will take a while,” Tahl replied.
“Proceed. Nwm, what is the current disposition of the Temple army?”
“Unchanged,” the Druid replied.
“And spellcasting clerics?”
Nwm concentrated briefly. “Unchanged,” he said again.
Eadric nodded. “Tahl should remain here in any case, in the event of an assault. I will take
Iua, if she is willing. How many besides yourself can you accommodate, Nwm?”
“Five.”
**
Mostin and Ortwin hovered above the ground in the intense heat of the afternoon sun on
the
outskirts of the necropolis of Khu. They had, briefly, returned to Wyre through the portal.
Mostin had realigned the mirror, and selected a destination less than a mile from where he
knew Feezuu
to be.
Both were invisible, to protect them from casual observation – although Mostin was under
no
illusions that he was imperceptible to magical sight.
“What a dreary place,” Ortwin remarked.
“Appropriately enough,” Mostin replied. “Just a quick reconnoitre. Get the lay of the land,
and all that. See what’s out there.”
The Bard looked perplexed as a message suddenly impinged on his consciousness from a
great distance.
ORTWIN. URGENT ASSISTANCE REQUIRED. TEMPLARS IN DEORHAM.
RETURN TO
HARTHA KEEP. EADRIC AWAITS YOU. ASK MOSTIN ALSO. –TAHL.
Okay, Ortwin replied. He related the message to Mostin.
“How inopportune,” the Alienist said. “I will remain here, and sniff around a little. Can
you find the portal?”
Ortwin nodded, and after a few moments, his invisible form vanished from Mostin’s
perception.
The Alienist grumbled to himself, and became incorporeal as an added precaution.
Mostin spent only another fifteen minutes there, but his ‘Prying Eyes’ relayed a wealth of
interesting – and rather disturbing – information.
**
Nwm, Eadric, Ortwin, Tatterbrand, Iua and Nehael ‘Wind-Walked’ to Deorham. Although
the
Paladin had been reluctant for the demoness to accompany them – although he wasn’t sure
for
what reason – she would act as the relay between them, staying within telepathic
communication
and coordinating their efforts if necessary. Her ability to effortlessly teleport would also
prove useful – she could be anywhere she needed to be within a matter of seconds. It was
a ten minute
journey, during which Eadric apprised those who didn’t already know of the situation.
“How many scrolls?” Ortwin asked the Paladin.
“Hundreds, according to Tahl.”
“And you knew nothing of it?”
“I’ve never entered the vault,” Eadric replied. “Generally, only the Lord Exchequer and
his deputies go in. I’ve no idea what’s down there.”
“How do we know that there aren’t other, more powerful objects in circulation now?”
Ortwin asked worriedly. “Relics of Saints, that kind of thing.”
“Tahl said that he knows of none – he is one of only a handful who’ve entered the scroll
room. I suspect even the Exchequer don’t know about it.”
“I don’t like this one bit, Ed. It puts a whole different slant on things.”
Iua shot Ortwin a meaningful glance which nobody but the Bard saw.
“We are being scried,” Nwm said. “They know we’re coming.” He concentrated again
briefly.
“There are thirty-nine people in the keep but…no wait. There are thirty-three loci of steel
that correspond to heavy armour, and sixteen much larger loci…wait…no…wait…
automata of some
kind…wait…wait…unnatural…wait…constructs-outsiders.” Nwm’s perceptions rapidly
cascaded, as a dozen facets of the Green presented themselves to him.
“On, sh*t, not inevitables,” Ortwin said gloomily. “Unless the Temple is going in for
retrievers these days.”
“There are six people in the cells beneath the main building,” Nwm said.
Only six? Eadric thought.
As they approached, the party saw a plume of smoke rising from the keep – not from the
buildings, but from the courtyard. Nwm suspended the spell upon himself and his material
body
gradually reformed. The Druid immediately shifted into the form of a small eagle. His
eyes
looked into the courtyard, and saw the charred remains of soldiers and servants
smoldering at
stakes.
“What do you see?” Eadric yelled over the rush of wind.
Nwm screeched incomprehensibly.
“Most of your servants and the remainder of the garrison are dead,” Nehael said. “They
were burned – presumably for heresy.”
They didn’t waste much time, Eadric thought grimly. He remembered his librarian, his
stablehands, his groundskeepers, his cooks. Anger rose swiftly in him.
“We cannot afford to rematerialize in the keep – we will be too vulnerable during the
process.”
Eadric yelled.
Nwm screeched again.
“He says that he can end the spell instantly,” Nehael said “but we will not be able to
resume this form.”
“That’s fine by me,” Eadric said. “We’ll start on the Steeple and cut our way down if
necessary.
Nwm should provide covering fire – I suggest we make for that copse, rematerialize, buff,
dematerialize, wind-walk to the tower and start chopping up whatever is in there.”
“That’s not very imaginative,” Iua said sardonically.
**
As they closed on the Steeple, Templars were standing on the curtain wall and tower in
readiness.
A number of things happened in quick succession:
A cleric, standing on the Steeple suddenly spontaneously combusted as he read from a
scroll, a
backsurge of energy overwhelming him.
Eight Zelekhuts – winged, metallic, centauroid inevitables – launched themselves into the
air from the battlements.
Two Templars, bearing greatswords, ‘air-walked’ towards the party at an uncanny speed –
winds
were blowing them onwards from behind.
A celestial with a greatsword appeared on the curtain wall. When the Templar who
summoned it
pointed it towards the group in the air, it wept.*
Even as Nwm was closing to within range of casting a ‘Fire Storm,’ a globe of coruscating
colour
enveloped the top of the Steeple, and flashed brilliantly: a ‘Prismatic Sphere.’
Finally, Ortwin exclaimed, “Holy sh*t! End the Wind-Walk on Nehael and me, Nwm, we
can
both fly.”
Nwm complied.
“No, dammit, break away,” Eadric shouted. “Disperse. Rendezvous at Nwm’s glade. We
need to reconsider our tactics.” A fraction of a second after he spoke, the eladrin
materialized directly in front of him.
Nwm kept flying onwards, but changed his course towards the inevitables. He invoked a
‘Fire
Storm,’ which blazed green for a moment, dropping one from the sky, injuring two others,
but
failing to even blacken two more who were caught within the conflagration. As he banked
away,
he was struck by three rays of enervation which sprang from the walltops –
simultaneously, four
more inevitables appeared as the invisibility evaporated from them. Another black bolt
crackled
past him.**
The celestial’s sword ripped into Eadric’s semi-corporeal form before he could turn away
and
flee. It bit hard. Three times. There was nothing he could do in retaliation, except see the
look of anguish in the Eladrin’s face.
“I forgive you,” Eadric spoke wordlessly into its mind.
Ortwin, supported by his winged boots, appeared suddenly to its flank, his scimitar and
pick
whistling with magically enhanced speed. The pick was ineffectual but Githla, as Ortwin
knew,
would penetrate anything. Celestial ichor, bright and warm, sprayed over the Bard and
Paladin.
Eadric moved away.
The eladrin, despite its wounds, maneuvered effortlessly backwards in the air and Ortwin
was
struck by an intense bolt of electricity. His preternatural reflexes failed him, and secondary
bolts arced out, striking both Nwm and Nehael – now winged – and the only other two
targets still in
range. Nehael, immune to electricity, was unfazed. Nwm, already weakened, was almost
killed.
But the ‘wind-walk’ was still active upon him. As he flew, he slowly began to resume his
vaporous form.
Ortwin urged his boots to top speed and charged at the eladrin, his blade slicing through
angelic
flesh and sinew. A look of profound release crossed its face as its brief tenure on the
mortal plane ended.
He looked behind him, and saw that the winged inevitables were closing fast. Four were
doggedly pursuing Eadric, despite the fact that he was moving away from them at
incredible
speed. Three were pacing Nwm, and that worried the Bard. Both of the ‘Air-Walking’
Templars
were making for Nehael, but Ortwin guessed that she could look after herself.
But, before she could ‘Teleport,’ she was struck by a ‘Banishment’ spell.
‘No!’ she screamed. She vanished.
The Templars shifted course and rapidly began to close on Nwm.
**
Mostin had been observing events through the looking-glass of Urm-Nahat.
What a c*ck-up, he thought.
“Dammit,” the Alienist said. He cast ‘fly’ upon himself, stepped through the mirror, and
acted in contempt of the Great Injunction.
*As a summoned (rather than called) creature, the eladrin was forced to comply. Note that
any
celestials can be LG in the Wyre campaign.
**Nwm (in small, eagle form) was particularly unfortunate to be struck by three out of
four of
these. He suffered 8 negative levels
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 07-15-2002
Quote:
Any chance you can start a new thred, Sep?
Just for you, GK, to save your ailing mouse finger. This will be the last post on this thread.
***
Mostin appeared directly in front of the wounded Nwm, still in his eagle form, although
appearing increasingly insubstantial. The Druid screeched in surprise – Mostin was still in
his
guise of a Thalassine sellsword.
“It’s me you idiot, relax,” his condescension was unmistakable, but Mostin was shaking –
Nwm was in the form of… a bird.
The Alienist touched him with an expression of revulsion on his face, and Nwm was
instantly
‘teleported’ to his glade, three miles distant.*
Ortwin grinned when he saw Mostin appear and launched himself in pursuit of the four
Zelekhuts who were flying southeast, but staying out of range of their spell-like abilities:
he did not relish the prospect of being magically ‘held’ whilst flying..
One of the ‘air-walking’ Templars read from a scroll, and a puff of smoke appeared in the
air near Mostin. The Alienist raised an eyebrow.
“Very impressive,” he said, and blew both of them out of the sky with an empowered,
maximized sonic fireball. Mostin backed off and cast ‘Haste’ upon himself before the
Zelekhuts came into
range. Two of them targeted him with ‘Hold Monster’ spells, one of them with a
‘Dimensional
Anchor.’
Mostin’s amulet absorbed all three attacks, and he retaliated with three rapid sonic bursts
which
echoed across the sky, exploding two of the inevitables in a shower of components, and
causing
the third to lurch wildly in the air.
The Alienist quickly took the situation in. On top of the Steeple, a ‘Prismatic Sphere’ – he
wondered what was inside it; one inevitable flying towards him – no problem, he could
easily
outpace it; four Zelekhuts pursued by Ortwin, flying after Eadric on a ‘seek and destroy’
mission; four more – Kolyaruts – on the wall: that could be useful. Half a dozen Templars
on the curtain
wall, presumably waiting for him to come in range so they could blast him. Oh, what’s
this? His
sight revealed four more invisible Kolyaruts exiting the front gate and moving across the
bridge.
Probably assigned to terminate Eadric, he thought. They were so damned dogged. It would
be
twenty minutes before they plodded to Nwm’s glade.
Mostin outmaneuvered the Zelekhut, and moved towards the keep. Two of the Kolyaruts
had
‘altered self,’ sprouted wings from their back, and were moving to intercept him,
lumbering
inexpertly through the air.
Bring on those enervations, Mostin thought. Charge me up.
As he gazed at the curtain wall, Mostin drew on the power stored in his amulet and
invoked two
bursts of empowered, sonically substituted ‘Chain Lightning,’ targeting each of the
inevitables on the ramparts with both primary and secondary arcs. Through some perverse
twist of fate, one of
them was totally overwhelmed by the attack whilst the second was completely unaffected.
The
Templars, caught in a cacophonous volley of secondary detonations, were warded against
fire
and electricity, but, unfortunately, not against sound. Four of them died instantly. The two
remaining were obliterated a fraction of a second later by another quickened sonic.
The Alienist hovered, waiting for the Kolyaruts to come within range. Mostin did a quick
mental
tally of his remaining offensive spells: he had already used his prepared empowered sonic
‘Chain
Lightning,’ but still had a couple of other sonics and a few quickened ‘Magic Missiles’ up
his
sleeve. As well as a ‘Limited Wish,’ a ‘Disintegrate,’ a calling – if he had time to perform
it - and a big summoning.
Predictably, the Inevitables targeted the Alienist with ‘Enervation’ rays – one missed
(typical,
Mostin thought), and he soaked the second one up greedily.
What the…? Two enormous oak trees were attacking the four Kolyaruts who were on the
bridge.
Mostin laughed – apparently Nwm had left some surprises.** He banked away, and flew
down
towards the Steeple – he was considering undermining its foundations with a ‘Limited
Wish’ and
collapsing it..
A powerful ‘Flame Strike’ hit him, charring his clothes and skin and causing him to
scream in
pain.
At this range? He thought. Who the hell had written those scrolls? It must have come from
within
the Prismatic Sphere. Sh*t. He quickly backtracked, and flew out to over a hundred yards
distance. Packets of mist were shooting from the windows of the tower, and launching into
the
air from the courtyard. There were fifteen of them, speeding after his friends.
‘Wind-Walking’ Templars, the Alienist thought. Dammit.
He all but emptied his amulet of its stored power, and cast his summoning three times.
Seven
Erinyes devils and a horned Cornugon appeared.
“Do nothing until I utter the word ‘execute,’” Mostin said in Infernal. “Follow and
eliminate those ‘Wind-Walking’ Templars, using your abilities to the maximum. Use
‘Charm Monster’ to
sow discord amongst them, overwhelm them with ‘Unholy Blights.’ Be as coordinated,
inventive
and effective as you can. Do not harm the ‘Wind-Walking’ Paladin with the sunblade – he
is an
ally and is not to be assaulted. You, Cornugon, do the same, but hold off using your fire
and
lightning attacks. As soon as the Templars are slain, intercept those Zelekhuts. Attack
them with
magic. Cornugon, you may use your ‘Fireballs’ and ‘Lightning Bolts’ on the Zelekhuts.
Do not
maliciously harm, or through your inaction, allow harm to come to anything else. And you
Erinyes should change your wings to bat wings – I find your feathery forms distasteful.
Execute.”
The Devils took off in hot pursuit, making good use of their innate ‘Teleportation’
abilities.
Mostin turned around, flew back towards the portal, passed through, and reappeared in his
interdimensional study. He was banking on the Devils effectively dealing with the
Templars – in
vaporous form, they were particularly vulnerable, he grinned to himself.
The Alienist scried Tahl through the mirror, and walked through. The Ex-Inquisitor was in
conference with Soraine in his tent.
“Follow me,” Mostin said. “Bring a couple of your heavies with you.” The Alienist was
referring to the Templars who had initially defected with the Inquisitor.
A blank expression crossed Tahl’s face. He was looking at a Thalassine mercenary with a
comically blackened face and clothing.
“It’s me, Mostin. Come on. Hurry up.”
“Eadric commanded me to stay here.” Tahl said.
“Screw that. He’s in trouble. Follow.”
Tahl summoned two armour-clad ‘heavies,’ – called Jorde and Hyne - and followed the
Alienist
back through the portal.
“Er, where exactly are we Mostin?” Tahl asked, as he and his cohorts appeared in a room
full of strange and disturbing devices.
“There is a mathematical solution to that question,” Mostin mumbled, as he focussed on
the mirror again.
Nwm appeared on the surface of the looking-glass, having resumed his human form. He
had
patched himself up as best he could, but still looked rather the worse for wear.
“Walk through the mirror,” Mostin instructed. “You will appear in Nwm’s glade. Do not,
under any circumstances, ‘Wind-walk,’ or devils will attack you.”
Tahl nodded. He didn’t have a clue what Mostin was talking about, but he seemed earnest
enough.
As soon as Tahl and the Templars had passed through, Mostin rifled through his portable
hole
and produced the amulet confiscated from Nehael so many months before. He grasped it
tightly,
and bent his will in search of the demoness.
After a few moments, she appeared on the surface of the looking-glass. She was on the
Astral
Plane. Mostin wondered if she was officially ‘homeless’ in the cosmic scheme of things –
an
equally valid case could be made for Oronthon’s Heaven, the Abyss or the Prime being
her native
abode.
Mostin stepped through, grabbed her, and returned to his study again. Even cosmic
distances
were a meaningless concept to the Alienist.
By the time that Eadric, Iua and Tatterbrand reached Nwm’s glade, the Druid, Tahl,
Nehael, two
ex-Templars and Mostin were waiting for him.
The Alienist looked insufferably smug.
“I am hoping that the devils I summoned will deal effectively with the ‘Wind-walking’
Templars…” Mostin began.
“Devils?” Eadric groaned.
“Yes,” the Alienist said peremptorily. “Any surviving Zelekhuts will be here in five
minutes. The Templars may well end the effects of the ‘Wind-walk,’ in order to retaliate
against the infernal
threat: in which case survivors will arrive in 10 minutes or so. There are still seven
kolyaruts on the loose.”
“I sensed thirty-three Templars before we arrived at the keep,” Nwm said. “Wait,” he said,
and focussed on his torc. “I sense six in the keep still, five are advancing from the
northwest on the ground with the Kolyaruts – seven of them seem to be intact. Five
Zelekhuts in the air. The devils are gone.”
“But they took ten Templars out, by the sound of it.” Mostin said. “Good. I killed eight.”
“One spontaneously combusted,” Eadric offered. “That leaves three unaccounted for.”
“I cannot penetrate the ‘Prismatic Sphere,’” Nwm said. “They’re probably in there.”
“And performing callings,” Mostin grumbled. “The trees were a nice touch, Nwm, but I’m
afraid ultimately ineffective.”
“I wasn’t expecting Inevitables,” the Druid mumbled through his beard. “Most of my
spells are currently unavailable to me: although the damage I sustained from the celestial’s
lightning has
been healed, I feel feeble.”
“Then we need to recoup,” Eadric said. “I have an idea.”
The entire group passed back through Mostin’s portal. The Alienist scried Ortwin – in
careful
pursuit of the Temple forces – stepped through, and grabbed him from the sky.
“Mostin,” Eadric asked archly. “A while ago you mentioned the fact that you knew the
names of many members of the celestial host.”
Mostin looked suspicious.
**
“You will,” said Eadric.
“I won’t,” said Mostin.
“Yes.”
“No.”
“There is no danger involved, I assure you,” the Paladin assured him.
“You have no idea what you’re asking.”
“This is an irrational phobia, Mostin,” Eadric persisted.
“Of course it’s irrational. It wouldn’t be a phobia, otherwise, would it?” The Alienist
retorted.
“It’s not as if they are actually birds,” Eadric said. “You don’t even have to look. Just cast
the spell, and I’ll deal with the rest.”
“I don’t have time to inscribe a proper diagram,” Mostin complained.
“Don’t worry about it. It’s not going to be an issue. Just do a quick one.”
“I’ll have to ‘Anchor’ it.”
“Don’t bother,” the Paladin replied.
“Are you crazy? Besides, I don’t have my most powerful calling prepared,” Mostin
groaned.
“Do what you can. But hurry. I can’t stand here arguing all day with you.”
So Mostin did it.
**
Form, in the traditional sense of the word, was not a characteristic that could be
meaningfully
ascribed to him. It was not that he possessed or did not possess it, more that the quality of
‘Form-ness’ was an inadequate paradigm through which he could be understood.
His shadow, they often sang, was brighter than the Sun. It was metaphorical, of course,
because
there was no source of light brighter than him. Nothing could cause him to cast a shadow.
Amongst the millions who basked in his presence, one, called Eniin, felt an impulse akin
to a
tugging. In less than an instant, he related the information to his master who, naturally,
already knew.
GO
The Bright God commanded.
Eniin bowed and vanished.
**
Mostin, Ortwin, Nwm, Tahl, Nehael, Tatterbrand, Iua, Jorde and Hyne stood around the
thaumaturgic diagram with Eadric. As the shape began to slowly coalesce within it, the
Bard
wrily compared it to Rurunoth’s fiery entrance. Even before the form had fully
materialized,
Eadric stepped forward and scrubbed out a portion of the chalk line which marked the
border of
the circle.
Really, that’s just too much, Mostin thought. He closed his eyes three-quarters of the way,
and
covered his face with his hands. He couldn’t help himself from peeking – despite the fact
that his legs were shaking.
Eniin stepped forwards from the diagram, and towered above them all. His perfect form
radiated
peace, power, and profound certainty. He knelt in front of Eadric.
“Instruct me,” the Planetar said.
Mostin gaped at Eadric despite himself. Here was power, he thought. In this self-effacing
man
who constantly doubted his own decisions – characteristics which Mostin would not have
automatically ascribed to a Paladin. Why him? Not in what he did physically – in fact, the
Alienist mused, he had never seen Eadric actually strike anything in anger, ever since he’d
known him. How strange. Events simply revolved around him. But to command these
resources
– that was something else entirely. Maybe it was the fact that he didn’t abuse them, that
made
him so unique.
“Nwm needs healing,” Eadric said simply. “We need some help dealing with some
Inevitables. I would appreciate it if you spoke with some Templars and demonstrated the
error of their ways to
them.”
“The latter is Rintrah’s purview,” Eniin said. “I am not permitted to intervene in the course
of events that Lord Oronthon has prescribed.”
“I understand that,” Eadric said. “I do not require you to go to Morne, but to speak with
those who are in or near my castle at Deorham. I would spare them if I could.”
The Planetar ‘communed’ briefly.
“Very well,” he said. He turned to look at Mostin. “I would advise you against the further
summoning of devils,” he said. “It will eventually corrupt you.”
Mostin quaked.
*Mean DM that I am, I insisted that Mostin make a Will save in order to touch Nwm.
**Nwm had ‘Awakened’ the trees some months before.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 07-18-2002
Nice, clean thread…
**
First, Eniin ‘Restored’ Nwm.
Once the group was back in the Druid’s glade, the Planetar invoked a ‘Righteous Might’
and grew to a height of twenty feet. He beat his wings powerfully, causing a downdraft as
he took off.
Mostin almost passed out.
Nwm attuned himself to his torc, and perceived that both the remaining ground-borne
Templars and the Inevitables were still approaching the glade. He wondered why – surely
the innate location ability of the Inevitables would have revealed Eadric’s presence as ten
miles to the west, or just registered
‘absent’ during the time spent in Mostin’s extradimensional space.
The Druid caught a whiff of smoke on the air. Sh*t, he thought. He quickly changed his
perception and located his bear, Tostig, who seldom strayed far from the glade. He was
two miles away. Nwm
immediately whistled, and summoned a small sparrow, which alighted on his arm. He
twittered a few
times, and the bird flew off. He hoped that Tostig had not forgotten the routine.
Mostin looked the other way. Too many birds today, he thought. Too many.
Nwm invoked a storm through his orb, apologized to the Alienist, changed into the form
of a giant
eagle, and took to the sky. As he flew upwards, the voice of Eadric – somehow
superimposed upon that of Eniin – echoed in his mind.
PLEASE EXERCISE RESTRAINT
The Druid looked westwards. Less than a mile distant, in a semicircle half a mile wide,
fire was eating through the forest and advancing towards the glade.
Restraint was going to be difficult, he fumed.
“Can you cause me to fly?” Eadric asked Mostin.
“No,” the Alienist replied. “I’m all out of those.”
“I can do this.” Tahl said.
Two Celestial Pegasi appeared.
“Very appropriate. That will do nicely,” Eadric said. He and Tahl mounted the shimmering
winged horses.
Yet more feathers.
“They travel very fast,” Mostin warned him. “If you engage the Kolyaruts, beware of their
‘Enervations.’”
“What else do they have?” Eadric asked.
“‘Fear,’” said the Alienist. “‘Hold Monster.’”
Tahl invoked a ‘Negative Energy Protection’ upon himself, and Eadric a ‘Spell Immunity’
to
Enervations and Holding, and both took to the air.
“I want one,” said Iua, pointing to the Pegasi.
Mostin looked apologetic, and flew off, followed by Ortwin and Nehael. Iua grumbled and
drew on her elemental heritage, invoking an ‘Air Walk.’ It would have been painfully slow
progress, but she bent her mind to the airs around her, and the wind began to blow
powerfully at her back.
Within ten seconds, she overtook Mostin and Ortwin, smiling condescendingly as she
flew, and leaving a gale in her wake. Having a Djinn as a father had certain perquisites.
“So, er, we’ll just stay here then,” Tatterbrand explained to the Templars.
**
Eadric outpaced even Eniin, driving the Pegasus to its limit. As he flew, he drew Lukarn
and invoked a
‘Holy Sword.’
As they approached the enemy, the Paladin observed the Zelekhuts moving out of a rolling
cloud of
smoke to his left. The Planetar moved to intercept them. On the ground below, the
Kolyaruts were
targeting him with ‘Enervations’ and ‘Hold’ spells before they took to the air. They had
dispensed with the ‘Fear’ effects, given his paladinhood. Eadric glanced behind him, to
see that Tahl had drawn his flaming greatsword. Further back, flew Iua, and yet further,
the Demoness, Ortwin and Mostin.
Nwm had banked off towards the Templars and Eadric hoped that he didn’t do anything
too drastic.
Mostin’s voice, carried on a ‘Whispering Wind’ reached his ears.
“Oh, and ‘Suggestion,’” the Alienist said. “And ‘Vampiric Touch,’ too.”
Eadric sighed, urged his mount downwards, invoked the power of the Strength domain,
and
immediately cut the first Kolyarut from the sky.* The speed and momentum of his assault
carried him onwards – safely, he thought – until his mount was simultaneously struck by
three ‘Enervations’ and evaporated.
Tahl wheeled down after the plummeting Eadric, and Nwm invoked a mine of ‘Poison
Vines’ on the
five Templars, paralyzing one of them and entangling two others. He was exercising
restraint, but
expected some kind of retaliation. The Templars, however, made no resistance. All were
watching the celestial spectacle in the sky above them.
As the Inevitables consulted their programming – unsure if the huge form of Eniin
presented a threat or not – the Planetar spoke a ‘Holy Word,’ instantly banishing three of
the five Zelekhuts from the Mortal Plane. The two remaining gyred and targeted the
celestial with spells, which failed to overcome his resistance. Eniin struck rapidly with his
greatsword – grown to a full three-fathom length – and reduced one of the flying
Inevitables to its component parts.
Ortwin winced as he saw Eadric fall eighty feet, bounce off a conifer, and crash through
the branches of an oak tree before he struck the ground with a ‘thud.’ Tahl followed
rapidly and dismounted next to him. The Bard quickly unstoppered a bottle and consumed
a potion of ‘Haste’
Mostin cackled madly and detonated a sonic and a quickened ‘Magic Missile’, as he
approached, and
Iua realigned the winds around her into a spherical configuration. She began to tread
downwards
towards the ground. All of the remaining Kolyaruts were now descending upon Eadric and
Tahl –two of their three designated primary targets, conveniently located next to each
other. Abruptly, they winked out, invisible to all save Mostin and the Planetar. Tahl
concentrated upon the Eye of Palamabron, which hung around his neck, and a ‘Zone of
Revelation’ instantly brought the Inevitables back into sharp focus.
The six Kolyaruts crashed into Eadric and Tahl, and a brutal melee followed. Tahl evaded,
and cast a
‘Greater Magic Weapon’ upon his flaming sword, even as they were pummeling him with
vampiric
attacks. Eadric hewed at them as they tried to overwhelm him, each successive attack
draining more of his strength.
Iua leapt in from the rear and rapidly struck a Kolyarut five times with her rapier. Wholly
ineffectively.
Sh*t, she thought, and backed off. They paid her no heed, and continued their assault upon
the Paladin and Inquisitor. Eadric dropped one.
Mostin arrived and ‘Disintegrated’ another, and let yet another quickened ‘Magic Missile’
off. Ortwin flew down and made quick work of a third. Still, undeterred, the three
remaining Kolyaruts focussed their attention on Eadric and Tahl. Mostin threw another
‘Magic Missile’ – this time, not quickened. He was almost out of offensive spells, and his
last sonic would have hit too many allies.
Iua summoned a burst of ‘Chain Lightning,’ and Eadric, Ortwin and Tahl hacked and
slashed. By the
time that Nwm arrived, it was over. Strange components lay strewn around, and Mostin
eyed them with interest.
“Where is Eniin?” Eadric asked.
“I believe he is remonstrating with the Templars,” the Druid replied.
**
At the celestial’s command, the Templars presented themselves to Eadric.
“What is on the other side of the ‘Prismatic Sphere?’” The Paladin asked.
“Urqual, a warrior-priest, was performing another calling,” one replied. “He was opening
a ‘Gate’ to Oronthon’s Heaven. He planned to bring Enitharmon through, to punish you,
although Lord Rede
expressly forbade the calling of celestials.”
“Did he now?” Eadric said, half-amused. “Why do you suppose that was?”
He was answered with silence.
It began to rain – hard – as Nwm’s ‘Control Weather’ finally manifested itself. The fire in
the wood was gradually quenched as the group – except Nwm, Mostin and Eniin-
proceeded on foot to Kyrtill’s
Burgh.
Nwm returned to his glade, and spoke with Tatterbrand, Jorde and Hyne. As he stood
there, Tostig –
rather late – lumbered out of the trees, pushed him to the ground and licked his face.
Tatterbrand was used to the scene, but Tahl’s cohorts found it somewhat disturbing. Tostig
was as large as an elephant.
The Planetar went immediately to the keep, and persuaded the remaining Templars to
submit
themselves to Eadric’s justice before he departed.
Mostin remained in the vicinity of the battle, looking over the remains of the Inevitables.
He picked up a severed arm, and inspected its complex mechanisms.
Fascinating, he thought.
**
The hour which followed was grim and depressing. The charred remains of Eadric’s
servants, and the members of the garrison who had been captured, were pulled down from
their pyres, and the
smoldering logs were dowsed. Beneath the Steeple, those six who were incarcerated were
released –
apparently the Temple had stopped short of condemning the minors to death. All of the
eleven
remaining Templars were stripped of their possessions, and shown into the cells in their
place. None lifted their voices in protestation.
Three hours later, the ‘Prismatic Sphere’ finally collapsed, the power of its magic
exhausted. Eadric, Ortwin and Tahl ascended the Steeple, and stood on top of the Tower.
Three Templars – one of them Urqual, whom Eadric knew from his days in the Inquisition
– sat
motionless upon the roof. All were breathing, but none registered the presence of the
Paladin or his friends. Stricken by some form of catatonia they rocked, and drooled, and
babbled.
Their eyes were blackened pits, as if some terrible light had burned them from their heads.
**
**
The most powerful known wizards in Wyre and its dependencies at the end of the Seventh
Century
were, in no particular order of precedence, Jovol the Grey, Hlioth the Green Witch, Waide
of Hethio, Mostin the Metagnostic, Shomei the Infernal and Tozinak.
They were, compared to those great names of history such as Tersimion and Fillein, a
group of only moderate power. Nonetheless, they commanded considerable resources and,
had they so chosen, could
have exercised great influence in the temporal affairs of Wyre.
Jovol was never seen. An Ogre-Mage of enormous talent and power, he lived in a tower
built upon an inaccessible aerie high in the Thrumohar mountains where he, presumably,
performed some kind of
research. No-one knew what kind. No-one had spoken to him for twenty years, and his
only means of
communication with his peers – who at other times doubted his existence – was through
the medium of dreams.
Hlioth the Green Witch, who enjoyed appearing in the form of a wood-nymph, was the
oldest of the
group, and may have been immortal. She had abandoned the pursuit of arcanism years
before and taken up the practice of druidry – something which most of the wizards in
Wyre regarded as an insane
departure from the pursuit of truth. She maintained no permanent home, but would
occasionally be
encountered by unsuspecting travellers in the deep forests of western Wyre, where her
perverse sense of humour would manifest itself on those unfortunate enough to arouse her
interest. Once every year, at midsummer, Hlioth would hold a revel which, occasionally,
other wizards were invited to. The location and nature of the gathering was always a
closely-kept secret until the day before, and her choice of guests apparently random.
In comparison, Waide, Shomei, Tozinek and, to a lesser extent, Mostin the Metagnostic,
were more
conventional in their outlook.
Waide was a Transmuter of high credentials, although criticized for his conservatism and
lack of
inventiveness. Through diligence, organization and the systematic pursuit of his art, he
achieved
notable results. Inspiration was a faculty he did not possess in great measure, but his sheer
perseverance and bull-headedness ensured his inexorable rise to the ranks of the mighty.
Every day, without fail, Waide would rise at dawn and enter his study. His laborious and
time consuming methods of
investigation slowly, little by little, gave results. Waide would retire, sleep for two hours,
and repeat the same process day after day, year after year.
Shomei the Infernal, unsurprisingly, liked devils. She admired their organized nature, their
ability to get things done, and had romantic notions about how badly they had been treated
in the great revolt.
Shomei, although not evil – at least in the conventional understanding of the word – had
taken various diabolic lovers, produced a number of half-fiend offspring, and subsequently
abandoned them. They
were miserable creatures from whom Shomei constantly expected some kind of vengeful
attack.
Despite the protestations of the Church of Oronthon – who found her understandably
suspicious –
Shomei lived in a manse near the city of Morne. The Temple was in no way assuaged by
the fact that that the architectural style of the building was in many ways influenced by the
palace of the Adversary in Nessus. Shomei possessed a second dwelling – an abandoned
fortress on the Astral Plane – in which she spent an increasing amount of time. Devils
could visit her there without going through the tedious procedure of compacting and
calling. These included her latest infernal suitor, Titivilus, a Duke of Hell in service to the
Arch-Fiend Dispater.
Tozinak never appeared the same way twice, whether through his own fancy or perhaps
because of
some magical experiment that had gone terribly wrong, the effects of which he had never
bothered to correct. He dwelt in a modest house on an island in the still waters of Lake
Thahan, and despite his constantly changing aspect was, in fact, a very affable and
personable man. Illusion was his specialty but he did, at times, work magic for the local
fishermen who regarded him as something of a demigod.
His estranged sister, Qiseze, had been slain on the Elemental Plane of Fire by the Cambion
Feezuu –
Qiseze having retired from the Prime some ten years before. Saddened by the loss of a
sister from
whom he had grown apart, Tozinak was first gratified by the death of Feezuu at the hands
of Mostin the Metagnostic, and then depressed again when he learned of her new
incarnation. He brooded but did
nothing because, despite his genuine good-nature, Tozinak was something of a coward at
heart.
*
Mostin the Metagnostic was regarded with mixed feelings by the other great wizards of
Wyre. Jovol
paid him little or no heed – although in this regard Mostin differed little from the other
powerful mages
– and the Alienist had long since given up trying to contact the Ogre-Mage for the
exchange of useful news, spells or items. Mostin had only once been invited to one of
Hlioth’s gatherings, and had found the Green Witch to be rather difficult company.
Although her magical resources were extensive, her interest in arcana was not, and
Hlioth’s pursuit of druidry involved a definite evangelical side.
Cavorting with nymphs and dryads was all very well, Mostin had thought, and made for
an amusing distraction, but it hardly constituted a worthwhile investment of time and
energy.
Waide was a stuffy pedant, and hence closest to Mostin in disposition, although the
Alienist cared little for him. He was moved by transmutation only – nothing else was of
the remotest interest to him, and Mostin found this narrow-mindedness intolerable. After
all, there was room for a good deal of
eclecticism in magic, and a sound knowledge of other schools often informed theories in
the field of specialization.
Shomei, on the other hand, was one with whom Mostin at once possessed a natural
rapport. She shared his Goetic inclinations – although in her case, she had gone somewhat
further than the Alienist deemed advisable – and was attractive to boot. Mostin was
disturbed by her misalliances with a number of
Infernal dukes, however, and had not paid her a visit in several years. His own mentor, the
Alienist Vhorzhe, had been a frequent visitor to Shomei’s manse until his unfortunate
death**. It was from
Vhorzhe that Mostin also developed a passing interest in diablerie.
Tozinak and Mostin were on polite, if not amicable terms. They shared little in the way of
mutual
interest, and the Alienist found the Illusionist’s constant shape-shifting rather baffling.
Nonetheless, it was difficult not to like Tozinak – he was agreeable and threw fine parties,
at which wizards of varying ability and persuasion would hob-nob, boast of their
accomplishments, and attempt to humiliate their rivals. Mostin would occasionally visit
these congregations, although his eeriness and precise logic often left those with weaker
wills feeling disturbed.
Aside from those six already mentioned, a number of other mages of noteworthy, if lesser,
power
existed. The Enchanter Idro, who dwelt deep within the forest of Nizkur, was an erstwhile
acquaintance of Mostin, although the Alienist had not visited him since his attempted
manipulation of Ortwin of Jiuhu to slay his rival, Troap. Idro was mean-spirited and
grabbing, and exercised dominion over a number of creatures – mainly feys – in his locale.
To be so old, yet to have grown so little in terms of aspirations and accomplishment, spoke
of both a limited ability to master magic and a lack of diligence.
Troap, on the other hand, enjoyed a reputation for benign – if erratic – intervention in the
affairs of the great forest. The Feys considered him kindly and, despite his goblin blood,
even the Elves paid him little heed. Troap’s existence was unknown to Mostin for many
years, and the Alienist often wondered
how many other wizards pursued their art in utmost secrecy, preferring a wholly solitary
lifestyle to even the most infrequent of contact with their brethren.
Idro and Troap, and others of their ilk – including Griel (an evoker), Dauntun of
Gibilrazen (a diviner), Rimilin of the Skin and the Hag Jalael – represented the ‘second
tier’ of mages in Wyre. There were, perhaps, a dozen in all and in a few cases (notably
Rimilin and Jalael), they approached the great mages in terms of their power and
resources. They possessed a range of specialities, and their characters – as viewed by the
general populace - ran the gamut from benign and well-liked (like Dauntun) to ruthless
and despised (like Rimilin). As a group, they demonstrated little cohesion, but most were
known to each other and, barring vendettas traceable to real or imagined wrongs between
them, they co-existed in relative peace.
Mostin brooded, and wondered if they would find out that he had broken the Great
Injunction. He had been disguised – albeit in a minor way – and the captured Templars
had, along with Tahl, Hyne, Jorde and Tatterbrand, been sworn to secrecy. Would any of
them – maliciously or inadvertantly – let the news slip? Would divinations cast by other
Temple clerics reveal him as the culprit? Would news of
‘sonics and devils,’ get out? Did any of the mages possess some kind of magic which
alerted them to a violation of the Injunction? Did any of them care anyway? His paranoia,
never far absent, reasserted itself as he considered an even more frightful possibility:
Would Ortwin get drunk, and spill the beans?
*This was one of those depressingly ‘Heroic’ moments. Spirited Charge + Holy Sword +
Temporary
Strength of 40 + Critical Hit = 104 points of damage.
**The circumstances of Vhorzhe’s death are still uncertain, but are known to have
involved a
pseudonatural Yuguloth. All corporeal creatures have pseudonatural analogues, even
outsiders. I have
house-ruled that Alienists may summon either the ‘standard’ or pseudonatural version of
creatures at their discretion, and Mostin’s summonings tend to be split around 50/50.
There is generally no reason not to summon the pseudonatural version, except for
purposes of flavour - they are always at least as potent as their standard counterparts.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 07-19-2002
**
“What happened?” The Bishop of Hethio asked Lord Rede of Dramore.
“We are still unsure,” Rede confessed. “I detailed Asser with scrying the events as they
unfolded at Deorham. It appears that a powerful mage intervened and, later, a Celestial of
great potency.”
“Mostin the Diabolist?”
“That seems likely,” Rede concurred. “Devils were present. But why the Celestial? This is
a terrible omen.”
“It is conceivable that it was bound to Mostin’s service unwillingly…” Hethio began.
“It was a Planetar for Heaven’s sake,” Rede responded. “That hardly seems possible.”
“He has uncanny powers,” Hethio said, “but I agree. More likely is that the scrying was
somehow foiled. Powerful wizards can cause any image they desire to appear to an
observer. Hence, we may
never know the true course of events as they unfolded, or even if our sensor is revealing
accurate information now.”
“In which case,” Rede said, “Mostin – if it was him – would have kept his own presence
secret. This hardly seems consistent.”
“Was he positively identified?”
“No. The wizard appeared in the guise of a Thalassine swordsman.”
Hethio thought for a moment. “No matter. In any case, we should begin circulating the
rumour that Mostin the Diabolist has violated their precious Injunction. If nothing else, it
will serve to smoke the real culprit out if it is not Mostin – which I doubt.”
“There is something else,” Rede said slowly. “Tramst is gone.”
“He is on retreat,” Hethio explained.
“No, he is gone.” The knot of doubt in Rede’s stomach was quickly growing.
**
The next morning, Eadric sat in judgement at Deorham. Eleven Templars stood before
him. Three more sat upon the floor, mumbling incomprehensibly in their madness.
“It’s hard to know exactly what to do,” he said with disarming honesty. “I suppose I could
return you to Morne, to tell the others at the Temple what happened. I somehow doubt that
any of you would be
given the chance to speak, however. You would be considered ‘enchanted’ or ‘seduced’ at
best, or
maybe branded as heretics and anathematized - or worse.
“I had considered having you put to death: as feudal master of Deorham, let alone in light
of my religious authority – which, hopefully, you now acknowledge – it would be well
within my rights. You have committed murder. You illegally seized my estate. You have
willingly closed your ears and eyes because it is the most expedient, convenient and
easiest thing to do. Worst, you lack the courage to question your own convictions – which
I don’t expect you to understand.
“If I show leniency and mercy, there is a danger that it will be considered a political act,
designed to elicit popular support, and you will be regarded with suspicion. If I am stern,
you will become martyrs
to the cause.”
The Paladin sighed.
“I have decided that Urqual and the others who were rendered insensible in their efforts to
open a
‘Gate’ will be taken to the Abbey of Osfrith – with the consent of the sisters, of course.
They will be well cared for, and may, hopefully, come to peace with themselves in time.
Whatever judgement was
exacted upon them is beyond my remit, and I will not interfere.
“The rest of you are free to do exactly as you please. There are no constraints upon you.
You may return to Morne, enter monasteries, become farmers, leave Wyre, or remain in
my service. I leave the choice to you. If you choose the last, then Tahl will intercede for
you, and you may atone. How you expiate your sins is a matter for him, yourselves and
Oronthon.”
The Eleven Penants, who from that day dressed in unblazoned sable, became Eadric’s
fiercest
proponents.
**
Nwm, who had no stomach for the judgement – whichever course Eadric chose to follow
– wandered
with Nehael and Tostig in the trees near his glade. Three hundred acres were burned –
although not all irretrievably. The largest oaks near his own sanctum were untouched, but
he grieved the loss of many old friends as much or more than the Paladin’s servants.
Determining through the medium of his torc exactly which trees were beyond his help,
and would die despite any efforts he might make to save them, Nwm used ‘Plant Growth’
to cause saplings to shoot forth in their vicinity, and then enriched them with seeds of
fertility.
“Now we just have to wait for two hundred years,” he said to the Demoness.
“That’s not long,” she smiled.
“The Planetar laid its hands on me when it ‘Restored’ me,” Nwm said.
“Yes. I hope it doesn’t cause some kind of religious experience, and preempt your
conversion to Oronthonianism. That would leave me looking rather stupid.”
“That will not happen,” Nwm grinned. “Did you speak with Eniin?”
“There was no need.” Nehael said.
“What exactly is your relationship with the Celestials, Nehael?” Nwm asked archly.
“We are on amicable enough terms,” she replied. “Rintrah invited me to return to
Oronthon’s Heaven, but I declined the offer.”
“You have spoken with the messenger?” Nwm asked.
“Several times, since this began.”
“Are you a double agent?” Nwm asked, half humourously.
“I am a free agent, Nwm. I am a contemplative, remember? Mysticism is mysticism at the
end of the day. I care little for form.”
“Then why Uedii?”
“She is kind,” Nehael answered. “And gentle, and forgiving. And ruthless and violent and
uncompromising. I appreciate the paradox – it leads to realization. It is interesting to me
that you find the same dichotomy in Oronthon difficult to accept.”
“I know Uedii. I do not know Oronthon.”
“Mostin would say that ‘gnosis’ is not enough.”
“Mostin is insane,” Nwm said.
“Mostly,” Nehael agreed. “But he is beyond all religious concerns. In that respect he is
completely liberated.”
“And you?” Nwm inquired.
“I am the voice of moderation,” she replied. “I represent the ‘Middle Way.’”
“And if there is no ‘Middle Way?’”
“Then you make one,” she answered.
**
“She has conjured demons,” Mostin said. “A goristro, a succubus, dretch, quasits, maybe
others.”
“And what, exactly, do you propose we do about it Mostin?” Eadric asked. “She is nearly
two thousand miles away. If I were to hunt down every diabolist and demon summoner
within two thousand miles,
I’d have a very busy – and probably brief – life.”
“Might I remind you that this particular demonist is the one responsible for Cynric’s
dea…” Mostin began.
“We don’t know that,” Eadric interrupted. “She may have no recollection of the events. I
can hardly pass judgement on her for something that she would have done, had events
transpired differently.”
“In any case,” Mostin continued, “she is afflicting the local populace with necromancy,
child sacrifice and other unspeakable rites. Do you feel no compunction to help?”
“I cannot be everywhere, and do everything. I’m sure that there are agencies in Shûth
which can deal with her, if they choose to mobilize themselves.”
Mostin snorted. “I thought that you were supposed to fight wherever ‘evil presents itself.’
Two thousand miles is no excuse – with the mirror, distance is irrelevant.”
Eadric sighed. “Perhaps you should open a gate to the Abyss, and I should go through and
start a campaign. After all, there is plenty of evil there, and distance is irrelevant.”
“Don’t be absurd. There is a difference,” Mostin said. “We cannot conquer the Abyss, and
we can end Feezuu’s threat. It would be doing a lot of people a big favour. The local
community would appreciate it. The wider magical community would benefit from it.”
“And you would get to keep your ‘Robe of Eyes’ without fear of reprisals,” Eadric said
sardonically.
Mostin fumed. “I’ve just violated…”
“…the Great Injunction to save my sorry ass,” Eadric finished for him. “I know, Mostin,
and I really appreciate it. And I appreciate the way that you dealt with Eniin, as well. But
it doesn’t change
anything. I cannot simply drop my responsibilities here and go romping off to some
necropolis in
pursuit of someone who may or may not pose a threat at some point in the future. At least
give me time until things have quietened down a little – we are in the middle of a war, in
case you hadn’t noticed.”
Ortwin sighed. Times had certainly changed.
**
Feezuu wondered who had sent the ‘Prying Eyes’ into her abode, and fear almost
overcame her. Her
assassin? An agent of Graz’zt? One of a hundred others that she had, at some time in the
past, affronted or enraged? Or, perhaps, merely a curious local mage of some ability. Her
divinations had come too late
– whoever the culprit was, they were undetectable, or had vanished.
The Succubus Kalkja, who had spied one of the eyes, had continued to act as if she was
unaware, and for that Feezuu was grateful. Hopefully, whoever sent them didn’t know that
she knew she had been
observed.
The Cambion had waited for an hour, during which time she prepared a number of minor
divinations,
and then exited the mausoleum. She had paced around the sand-worn tombs in the blazing
heat of the afternoon sun, her magical sight inspecting the area for any lingering auras.
She soon found a melange of every conceivable variety of magic, lingering signatures in
the air which marked the passage of a number of powerful dweomered items. There were
two ‘streaks’ of residual
energy, each testifying to potent magic, both of which ended abruptly at the same point in
space.
Not a ‘Teleport,’ she thought to herself. The residual signature appeared as some kind of
conjuration, not a transmutation. A ‘Gate’ or portal? But from where?
Feezuu returned to her crypt and waited six hours, before venturing forth again. All of the
signatures had disappeared.
Whoever they were – and the dispersion of residual magic had indicated at least two of
them – they possessed powerful magical adjuncts (but of less than artifact status). Their
means of arrival and departure had utilized an unconventional kind of magic.
The Cambion considered her options. She could relocate – either to another portion of the
Prime, or to another Plane entirely. This was drastic, but might be warranted. She could
fortify her position as best she could, and use what wards she had available to her. She
could compact with a creature who could determine the source of the threat – maybe even
the identity of her assassin. She could attempt to engage more allies – although she was
rapidly running out of ways to pay them. She loathed the
prospect of moving, especially as her higher spell valences were within sight again.
In the end, she decided to take a risk. Feezuu summoned one of her Quasits.
“You will ‘Commune’ for me,” she said.
“‘Communing,’ is not covered in our compact,” the tiny Demon said slyly. “Do you wish
to renegotiate?”
“No. This is a one-time exercise. I will give you one larva.”
“I require five,” the Quasit demanded greedily. It was an outrageous sum, but Demons are
seldom slow to seize a perceived advantage.
Feezuu hissed. “You would do well to remember that your kind are easily come by. I will
give you one larva, or I will engage the services of another who is more tractable.”
“Very well,” it agreed grudgingly. “Which Lord do you wish me to contact?”
“Not a Lord or Prince,” Feezuu smiled. “Demogorgon.”
The Quasit shuddered.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 07-24-2002
Another update.
There is a significant amount of backstory in this which will prove necessary to
understanding
subsequent posts. We played twice last week, and there is a lot to relate. I will attempt to
post again tomorrow or the day after. Things are happening fast.
A nodality, as Graz’zt would say…
**
The peninsula of Ardan, which thrust eastwards into the Ocean of Iarn was, for the most
part, a wild and inhospitable country. Its central uplands – at first sight, deceptively green
and welcoming – were in fact riven with many steep-sided valleys, prone to flooding in
the spring thaw. The grass, although covering the hillsides abundantly, was of the short,
springy variety and bespoke a poor soil, unsuitable for little besides goat-farming.
Westwards, the slopes gradually became less severe, the loams more fertile, and the
woodlands more abundant until, finally, they gave way to the rolling hills of Trempa and
Tomur in eastern Wyre.
Ardan itself was one of Wyre’s ‘satellites.’ Never fully subdued, it technically owed
tribute to its larger neighbour, although its numerous kings, lairds and chieftains – even
those whose lands marched on
Wyre proper – tended to be neglectful of their feudal duties. Ardan’s inhabitants were
fierce,
independent, conservative in their customs and immensely jealous of their traditions. The
fact that they were regarded as uncouth, mead-swilling bandits did not dissuade successive
Wyrish magnates from
hiring contingents of Ardanese cavalry: they were generally regarded as producing the
best mounted archers anywhere north of the Thalassine.
Orthodoxy was, and never had been, popular in Ardan. Oronthon was worshipped,
certainly, but he was an older, less developed aspect of the divinity who had been
influenced by six hundred years of Wyrish dogma and sophistry. He presided over a small
pantheon of saints and quasi-deities, each of whom
embodied ideals germane to the Ardanese way of life. In generations past, the
Archbishops had
attempted to bring Ardanese practice more in line with that in Morne, and, in the period
when the
Mission’s influence had outweighed that of both the Temple and Inquisition, proselytes
had entered Ardan.
The fact that the Orthodox missions had accompanied punitive raids from the kings of
Wyre for
nonpayment of tribute, was viewed with natural cynicism by the Ardanese, who simply
moved further
into the hills and began protracted guerilla campaigns against their occupiers. The pattern
continued for generations until, at long last, the Orthodox church gave up. The ‘Ardanese
Question’ was left
unresolved, and was eventually forgotten.
Ardan was, therefore, a natural choice for the communally oriented Urgic Mystics. The
Urgics
maintained that they represented an alternative interpretation of Oronthonianism. They
made no truth claims, because part of their creed was that truth is subjective. Small groups
had, with the blessing of
various Ardanese chieftains (many of whom viewed them sympathetically), established
peaceful communities in the hills of central Ardan, where the land was poor and space was
plentiful. They
coexisted amicably enough with the natives, although they maintained a certain distance.
Intermarriage was rare, due to the fact that most of the Urgic Mystics were celibate. Every
once in a while, those worshippers dissatisfied with Orthodoxy in Wyre would find their
way into Ardan and join a group of cave-dwelling heretics, and retire from the troubles of
the world.
One particular cleric, having experienced some kind of revelation, made his way there. He
wasn’t
entirely sure why.
“I had not expected it to be quite as easy to speak with you,” Tramst said. He sat, dressed
in his armour, on the floor of small cave. It was sparsely furnished and resembled a
cloister in its austerity.
The cave’s occupant - a man of forty years or so - was unwashed, sported a large, matted
beard, long tangled hair and wore only a simple garment, made from a single piece of
coarse linen.
“We are a community, not a hierarchy. Why should speaking to me be difficult?” The man
asked.
Tramst grunted. “Rintrah has informed me…” he began.
“Why do you trust a celestial’s message rather than your own insight?” The man
interrupted.
“Lord Oronthon sent…” Tramst began again.
“Why do you trust a deity’s words rather than your own insight?” The man smiled.
Tramst sighed. Why had the Messenger sent him here? What could it possibly
accomplish?
“Important events are occurring in Wyre which…” Tramst tried again.
“I am well aware of the events you speak of,” the man interrupted again.
Tramst closed his mouth abruptly. This made no sense. Rintrah had sent him to seek
advice from those
who denied the ultimacy of the Celestial’s –even Oronthon’s - own words. His mind
reeled.
“Good,” Orm said. “That is the beginning. Paradox must precede understanding.”
Tramst thought briefly. “Why am I here?” He asked.
“Why must there be a ‘Why?’” Orm retorted.
“I am here,” Tramst said decisively.
Orm shook his head.
“I am.”
Orm said nothing.
“I?” Tramst ventured.
Orm slapped him.
(Silence).
Orm smiled.
**
At Tahl’s behest – on advice from the Planetar Urthoon, with whom the cleric communed -
Eadric
consented to the calling of more celestials. The same morning that the Paladin passed
judgement upon the Templars, the ex-Inquisitor performed a series of rites which brought
four Movanic Devas with
flaming swords onto the Prime plane. They were charged with remaining in the vicinity of
Kyrtill’s Burgh, to dissuade further efforts by the Temple to capture the keep. Remaining
in invisible form, they
flew silently and tirelessly in the air around the castle: a warning to all those who had eyes
to see.
“There is something else,” Tahl informed Eadric. “I have appointed an Archon to guard
you. It will remain ethereal, manifesting where required.”
“Is that entirely necessary?” Eadric asked.
“It is a precautionary measure,” Tahl said.
“Were you advised to do this also?”
“Explicitly,” Tahl admitted. “Your life must be safeguarded.”
Eadric sighed. The weight of responsibility and expectation was beginning to make itself
felt.
“The Archon is called Zhuel,” Tahl continued. “He has already revealed something rather
disturbing, and communicated it to me.”
Eadric looked quizzical.
“There are residual traces of taint in the ether nearby.”
“Demons?” Eadric asked, swallowing.
“It is likely,” Tahl said. He looked nervous. “Ed, they may have been there for some time.
I hadn’t thought to regularly scan the ethereal around you.”
The Paladin groaned. He had a good idea who might have sent them to spy on him. “We
have to tell the others – especially Mostin,” he said. “He is not going to like it.”
**
Mostin, of course perceived the Devas around Kyrtill’s Burgh. What was felt as a stirring
of the air by others present, was revealed to the Alienist as a statuesque winged form
which gyred gracefully in the nearby sky, its wingtips often coming within a few feet of
those standing on the battlements. They regarded Mostin with impassive, expressionless
faces which nonetheless seemed to convey a
judgemental quality.
“I am returning to my manse,” he informed Eadric, Nwm and Ortwin, “where there are no
birds. If you wish to…”
“We need to talk,” Eadric said grimly.
**
Mostin sat silently and said nothing. Ortwin regarded him curiously, unsure whether the
Alienist would cry, scream or explode a random object with a sonic.
“I think that it’s a safe bet that whatever it was, it was sent to spy on me,” Eadric said.
Mostin did not speak.
“Well?” The Bard finally asked.
“I’m thinking,” Mostin replied.
Ortwin waited.
“I am trying to recall the times during which you and I were present together,” Mostin said
to the Paladin, “and I can’t see that this adds any particular danger to my situation – aside
from being scrutinized by the lackey of a Demon Prince. Assuming it was dispatched by
Graz’zt, of course. If it –
or they – were in the service of Feezuu, this might prove awkward for me.”
“Zhuel said that the trace of evil was faint, and no Demons were at hand,” Eadric said
optimistically.
“Unfortunately, that means nothing,” Mostin said. He gritted his teeth. “I will need to sniff
around a little. I need to know which areas of the Prime are coterminous with the tainted
ethereal. And I need to prepare several spells.”
With the aid of Tahl and the Eye of Palamabron, who communicated with the ethereal
Zhuel using
gestures and body movements, Mostin located the residue of evil in the airs above
Kyrtill’s Burgh. Tahl gestured for Eadric – and, more importantly, the celestial who
watched over him – to retire to a safe distance. The Alienist made an Ethereal Jaunt and
invoked a Vision.
Upon his return to the Prime, Mostin looked exhausted. “The names of Chr’ri and
Chomele were
revealed to me – I am unfamiliar with either of them.”
“They are Succubi in the service of Graz’zt,” Nehael said gloomily. “They must have
Plane Shifted with the help of a spell or device. Normally demons such as they – or I –
cannot remain Ethereal for long periods of time.”
Mostin sighed. Too many possibilities, he thought. He was beginning to feel like a straw
blown about on the wind, and he didn’t like it. Feezuu. Celestials. The violation of the
Injunction. Now this.
“I am going to take counsel with Mulissu, as she is one of the few people I know who is
wholly dispassionate,” he said. “What are your plans?”
“To return to the marshalling grounds on the Blackwater Meadow,” Eadric replied. “I feel
that Deorham is secure. And Tahl needs time to inspect the scrolls confiscated from the
Templars.”
**
Tahl wind-walked back to the encampment with Ortwin, Iua and Nwm: this time the bear,
Tostig,
accompanied the Druid. Eadric led the penitent Templars and the others on horseback, and
arrived two hours later.
Mostin walked to Nwm’s glade, passed through the portal to his retreat, and scried
Mulissu’s abode
with the looking-glass of Urm-Nahat. He walked through the mirror, and was immediately
confronted with the Mephit doorward.
“You must wait,” it chirped. “The Lady Mulissu is occupied.”
Mostin grumbled. Did he have to endure this farce every time he wished to speak with
her?
Mostin sat twiddling his thumbs for three hours before he was finally admitted.
“My apologies,” Mulissu said with surprising earnestness. “I gave instructions some time
ago that, should you arrive, you should be admitted promptly. Evidently, Shrix forgot
this.”
Mostin scowled at the Mephit, who smiled smugly back.
“I have violated the Great Injunction of Wyre, have determined that a clone of the
demoness Feezuu has migrated to the Prime, and I may have been subject to scrutiny from
agents of Prince Graz’zt.”
Mostin announced theatrically.
“Really?” Mulissu asked, half-smiling. “I never understood that tedious Injunction. What
will the other wizards do? Would you like some wine?”
“I don’t know if they know yet,” Mostin said. “Or even if they’ll find out. I’ll have a glass
of that green stuff that you keep.”
“Do you have any legal arguments prepared, in the event that they pursue you?” The
Witch asked.
“I am under a death sentence from the Oronthonian Church for failing to leave Trempa – I
acted in self-defense. I can cite my haranguement by zealous Oronthonians in Morne as
testament to this.”
“And if this fails?” The Witch asked.
“I am no longer a resident of Wyre, or even the Prime Plane. I spend more than fifty
percent of my time in my extradimensional retreat, and am therefore no longer subject to
the Injunction. This is a
technicality, but it may be pertinent.”
“And if this fails?” The Witch asked.
“I am a transcended being, and no longer subject to the Injunction. I may act with
Impunity. If the council fails to recognize this, I will demand that they pursue Feezuu
forthwith or brand them all as hypocrites. The assassination of Cynric was a blatantly
political act.”
“And if this fails?” The Witch asked.
“My actions were against an overbearing, monotheistic regime which is implementing a
virtual
theocracy. Oronthonian dogma threatens the ability of mages to pursue their research
peacefully, and my actions were in the interests of Wyrish wizards everywhere! I will
encourage them to do the same, in order to protect their rights against an increasingly
oppressive church.”
“And if this fails?” The Witch asked.
“Even if found guilty, I will argue that the breach I made was a minor one, and does not
merit the technical maximum penalty. I will appear contrite, and will try to bribe some of
those who would
condemn me. Well, what do you think?”
“I have no idea,” Mulissu confessed. “I think a more relevant question might be: ‘Do I
have lots of magical gadgets that the other wizards want, and would they throw the book
at me in order to get their dirty paws on them?’”
“Hmm,” Mostin said. “You may be right. I hadn’t considered that.”
“What of Feezuu?” Mulissu asked. “Does she pose a real threat to you, or are you merely
being paranoid?”
“I don’t know that either,” Mostin admitted. “I have no way of knowing how much of her
former existence she recalls, and whether she has managed to fill the gaps in, so to speak.
Which brings me to another question: how extensive is your Necromantic repertoire?”
“Somewhat underdeveloped,” the Witch said. “One cannot pursue everything, and
Necromancy has always struck me as a rather vulgar art.”
“I concur,” Mostin said. “But I assume that you would not turn down the opportunity of
expanding it?”
“New dweomers are always pleasant,” Mulissu confessed.
Mostin reached into his portable hole, and retrieved two slim volumes that he had pilfered
from the body of the first Feezuu. The Witch inspected them carefully.
After some while, she spoke. “The value of these books is staggering,” she said. “And I
must admit that my greed outweighs any concerns that I might have about their owner
pursuing me. Especially now
that I have a permanent Magnificent Mansion – for which, incidentally, I am indebted.
What do you
wish in return?”
“Her permanent elimination. We could easily do it together, Mulissu.”
“Mostin,” she groaned, “We’ve already had this conversation. I am beginning to think that
you are more than a little obsessed with her.”
“Mulissu?”
“Oh, very well,” the Witch sighed.
**
Prince Graz’zt rested in morbid meditation, absorbed in the dark abyss of his own
thoughts.
Although aware of Feezuu’s movements, he had allowed her to act as she would, secure in
the
knowledge that eventually, inevitably, she would succour either Ainhorr or himself
directly for aid.
Ensconced on the Prime, she might yet prove of value in any plots that he had devised.
The bitch had felt that she had shaken off his yoke. He smiled coldly at the absurdity of it.
As if anyone could. Ever.
Nehael, the Prince thought, bitterly. No longer under a celestial interdict – her atonement
having taken a different route than initially expected – she was vulnerable again. She had
precipitated a crisis in the church of the Enemy, at which Graz’zt had been perversely
pleased, but now the tide was turning. His prognostications had revealed that the tide
would inexorably shift in favour of the Paladin and his allies, even before Celestials had
been brought into the equation. Oronthon was playing games with his followers, cleaning
things up for some kind of renewal or revival. He must be thwarted.
A Planetar, Graz’zt seethed. On the Prime. His Foul ‘Brightness’ had gone too far, this
time.
His own spies, lurking nearby in ethereal form as they had for months now, had retreated
at Eniin’s arrival – even as they had at Rintrah’s - waiting for the Planetar to leave. Now
they could no longer safely return: avoiding the penetrating Eye which the cleric wore
around his neck was one thing – they merely had to stay out of range, and he was not
always present in any case. But an Archon?
Graz’zt cursed. Just one ethereal jaunt from Nehael – that’s all it would have taken – and
she’d have been fair game for the other succubi who lurked nearby. Damned Trumpet-
Blower. His spies, who had
reported to him instantly upon their return, had been dismissed, and they fled and left him
in a mood of black contemplation.
But Graz’zt’s foresight had already detected a nodality, a point in time when a number of
unresolved events would begin to fall together and a pattern – which he must shape –
would emerge.
Somewhat later, he summoned Ainhorr. The Balor bowed his forehead to the ground.
“What has happened?” The Prince asked.
“Sire, moments ago, the Cambion Feezuu contacted me,” Ainhorr replied. “She banished
one of the demons that she had compacted – a Bar-Lgura – and instructed him to bring a
message to me. She
intends to call him back to the Prime. She sends greetings to her Dreadful Lord, and relays
news that
she is building a base of power for his glorification. She awaits your orders.”
“Doubtless,” Graz’zt sneered. “And Kalkja?”
“She is continuing to make reports regularly. Feezuu used one of her Quasits to commune
with the Ancient.* Kalkja extracted this information from the Quasit, under threat of
annihilation. The Cambion now knows that neither you nor I were instrumental in her
assassination.”
“Bring the Bar-Lgura,” Graz’zt commanded.
Ainhorr bowed, vanished and reappeared moments later with the hairy, ape-like Demon. It
quailed in the presence of the Balor and his master.
“When your mistress recalls you to the Prime,” the Prince instructed smoothly, “you will
relate our fondest greetings, and thank her for the efforts that she has made in our cause.
You will tell her that we have not forgotten her. We will send another message – and
messenger - shortly.”
Graz’zt waved his hand, and the minor Demon vanished. “Bring me Uzmi,**” he ordered
Ainhorr. “She has endured for a year, and I am feeling benign.”
Graz’zt stepped down from his throne and entered his sanctum – a void of unhallowed
despair where
his most potent magicks were wrought. At his merest thought, a dark pile of snow and ice
appeared.
With his own bare, six-fingered hands, the Prince began to shape it into an effigy of
himself.
*Demogorgon is not Tanar’ri, and his presence predates their occupation of the Abyss. His
name is
never spoken, even by the most potent of Demons.
**A Marilith punished for a minor slight that Graz’zt perceived. Uzmi was chained with
adamantine dimensional shackles beneath a permanent symbol of pain.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 07-25-2002
**
“Well, what do you think?” Ortwin asked Mostin.
“I must admit, it is so deliciously simple that it just might work,” the Alienist replied.
“Has Eadric agreed to it?”
“He has already signed it,” the Bard grinned. He handed over a single piece of parchment
to Mostin.
It was a lease – for the use of the Steeple at Kyrtill’s Burgh by Mostin the Metagnostic for
private research purposes - signed by Eadric of Deorham. It was backdated around six
months.
“Temple Clerics trespassed on your lawfully rented property and performed conjurations.
You were perfectly within your rights to protect it. The Injunction was not infringed.”
“Quite so,” Mostin said. The perverse twistings of Ortwin’s mind were a constant source
of amazement.
“You should be aware that Eadric will not actually lie for you,” Ortwin said. “But he
understands that this document could be misinterpreted, if you were to choose to be less
than honest about when the lease changed hands. And you owe him three hundred gold
crowns for back rent.”
Mostin raised a single eyebrow.
“How was your meeting with the Storm-Witch?” Ortwin asked. “Did she furnish you with
sound advice?”
“Mulissu seldom gives advice of any kind,” Mostin replied. “But she has agreed to help
me finish Feezuu off. Would you care to participate in a raid?”
“Naturally,” the Bard replied. “I am on her hit list as well, if you recall. Exactly when did
you have in mind?”
“In three or four days. Lacking Sonics, Mulissu has opted for Necromantic assault. She is
cramming some new spells, from Feezuu’s own books, ironically enough.”
“Her lightning?” Ortwin asked.
“Will be ineffective against demons,” Mostin said, as though instructing a child. “But she
has other tricks up her sleeve. Enchantments, Transmutations, Conjurations. We will need
death wards and acid immunities again. I was rather hoping that Nwm would join us, even
if Eadric does not. Where is he?”
Ortwin shrugged.
**
Lord Rede of Dramore sat alone on his stool, beneath the empty Archiepiscopal throne in
the Great
Fane of Oronthon in Morne. Even before the failure of the latest of the schemes devised
by himself, Hethio and the other powerful members of the Curia, the Grand Master of the
Temple had begun to feel a niggling doubt in the pit of his stomach.
His efforts to suppress it had been unsuccessful.
As he sat and mused on events of the past year or so, he regarded the corpse of Melion –
still lying in sombre state beneath the northern altar in the temple. The Inquisition was
leaderless – its Grand Master slain by a pagan, and its Deputy, an avowed heretic, defected
to the Enemy. The Curia was in tatters, with the Marquis of Iald gone – a target for future
Temple reprisals, if things continued the way that
they were going. The Bishop of Tyndur continually voted against any measures which he
tried to pass, irrespective of their nature, simply in an attempt to sow as much discord as
possible.
The old bastard had finally shown some teeth, Rede thought ironically.
And, latest in a catalogue of annoyances, raids by Uediian bandits in Hethio – the most
dependable and Orthodox of all of the Wyrish provinces. Yesterday, a Temple caravan
ambushed, the guards slain and its goods seized. This morning, a chapel burned – after its
valuables had been ransacked, of course.
Rede had dispatched a dozen Templars and twenty men-at-arms to deal with the threat, but
was finding that he had fewer and fewer resources to draw upon. The Temple Precinct was
all but empty, most of its fighting members either entrenched near Trempa or guarding
access to Iald.
The Grand Master of the Temple did not notice the magical sensor which observed him.
Abruptly, disturbing his reverie, Rede saw a shadow enter the Fane through the Orangery
door. Odd, he thought, no-one used that door at night.
Nwm the Preceptor walked calmly along the aisle.
“You!” Rede yelled, and with a speed which belied the weight of his armour, launched
himself forward and drew the greatsword from his back in a single, fluid motion.
“Peace, Rede,” the Druid said, holding his palm outwards. “This is hallowed ground. I will
commit no act of violence here. Will you?”
“Guards!” The Templar roared – unnecessarily as, already alerted by his first yell, they
were entering through the cloister doors.
Nwm cast a spell and both he and Rede were surrounded by a wall of thorns of great
height and
thickness.
“Deceiver!” Rede yelled, and charged towards the Druid. Before he reached him,
however, creepers
had shot forth from the briar wall and pinned the Templar.
Nehael suddenly materialized.
“The Demoness! The Demoness is in the Fane!” Rede was yelling madly.
“Listen!” Nwm shouted.
But Rede, drawing on the immense Strength granted to him, burst through the entangling
vines and
clawed his way forwards.
Oh, for the Goddess’ sake, Nwm thought. But he was prepared for this. Rede groped
wildly for a vine to hold onto, failed, and flew upwards under the effects of a reverse
gravity. He landed on the arched ceiling of the nave eighty feet above with a ‘thud.’
“Now shut up, and listen,” Nwm said.
**
Feezuu considered her position.
Her Bar-Lgura, called again back to the Prime, had delivered its short message from
Graz’zt.
We have not forgotten you. We will send another message – and messenger – shortly.
The Cambion pondered on the meaning of the words. A thinly veiled threat, to be sure,
and henceforth she should watch her step carefully. Of course, Graz’zt did not trust her,
any more than she did him.
Both of them knew it. This was the nature of Abyssal politics, and was hardly unusual. It
was the
messenger that concerned her.
Feezuu summoned Kalkja, and asked for counsel from the demoness.
“The Prince is attempting to exercise dominion over you, Lady. Will you allow this
outrage?”
Feezuu did not reply, unsure of the Succubus’ motives.
“What of your Assassin?” Kalkja asked, smoothly turning the attention away from the
unanswered question. “Have you made further progress?” In fact, the Succubus already
knew the answer to this, although she had heard no such admission from the Cambion’s
own lips.
“A mortal wizard,” Feezuu answered bitterly.
“How did you determine this, Lady?” Kalkja asked slyly. But she was playing a dangerous
game –
Feezuu was no fool.
“Both of the Quasits communed for me. Some questions I directed them to ask
Demogorgon
concerning my assailant, some regarding Graz’zt and his plots, others about the loyalty of
my
compactee demons.” Feezuu’s face was expressionless, her eyes penetrating.
“Contacting the Ancient is a perilous enterprise,” Kalkja effortlessly replied.
“I intend to have the Quasits commune on a regular basis,” Feezuu lied. “Over time, a
coherent picture will doubtless begin to emerge.”
“They will demand high recompense,” the Succubus reminded Feezuu.
“I will renegotiate their contracts with them,” the Cambion said. “I find that I am no
longer in the mood for counsel, Kalkja. You may depart.”
The demoness bowed, and left. Feezuu watched her carefully.
Somewhat later, a Quasit appeared directly in front of Feezuu. It bore a seal made from the
horn of some Abyssal creature in its hand.
Feezuu relaxed a little. Evidently, the Prince had not wished to send anything of great
status through –
it would have overtaxed him.
The tiny Demon grinned wickedly. “I have been instructed to inform you that you will call
the Marilith Lady Uzmi to this location within one hour. You will not attempt to constrain
her with magic. She bears important information which concerns you, regarding your
assailants, an Oronthonian plot, and the
whereabouts of at least some of your missing items. She is currently being briefed.”
Feezuu’s inwardly heaved. Was there nothing that she had kept secret, or was not already
known to
Graz’zt? She suspected a mole in her midst, and there was one obvious suspect. And the
Prince had
carefully placed the burden of expending magical power on her: he could have shunted
Uzmi to the
Prime by himself, although the diminishment in his strength might be of an unacceptable
level.
Uzmi better not try anything funny, or the Cambion would blast her to pieces. Or die
trying.
**
Nwm had rather more than a minute to get his argument across: not before the Templars
had hacked
their way through the wall of thorns – that would take them far longer. But until Rede fell
back to the floor again.
“How is it possible that a demoness stands on hallowed ground?” he said calmly to Rede.
“Tainter! Corrupter!” Rede screamed back at him.
“Examine her for taint yourself,” Nwm said.
Rede struggled with his sword.
“You are a coward,” Nwm said scornfully. “Look at her. LOOK AT HER!”
“Why have you come here?” Rede shouted down.
“Unlike Eadric of Deorham, I am not bound by the dictates of your God. I may intercede
where I wish, and need no celestial fiat to act. I have come to show you the Truth, Lord
Rede. Look at the Succubus.”
Rede closed his eyes and prayed fervently for Oronthon’s intervention.
Nwm sighed, and Nehael flew upwards towards where the Templar was suspended –
taking care not to
fall within the gravity well. She smiled benignly at him.
“Temptress! Begone!”
“Your faith is weak, if you will not examine me for taint,” Nehael said reasonably.
Rede continued to mumble prayers through his lips.
“Please look at me Rede,” she spoke softly.
“Bah!” Nwm shouted. “This is useless. He is blind and arrogant beyond belief. We should
go.” He touched a wooden pew, and it transformed immediately into a wooden ladder
which grew up towards
the ceiling.
The Druid began to dissolve into mist. “I will not warn you again, Dramore,” he said.
“You will desist from your persecutions, or I will level this building to the ground, and it
will become a hallowed pile of rubble. We are currently in a state of enforced peace. You
would be wise not to jeopardize it. If any more anti-Uediian legislation is passed, and you
fail to repeal that enacted already, I promise that you will answer for it in Hell.”
Nwm drifted away like smoke.
Nehael remained somewhat longer, and tried once again, even as the Templar was
clambering down the wooden ladder to the floor of the Fane.
“You have lost His grace,” she said sadly to him, and vanished.
By the time that the other Templars had cut through the wall, they found Rede in a somber
and
introspective mood.
“Remove the pews,” Rede commanded dourly. “Flush everything in holy water. Fetch
Asser – the Fane must be resanctified. The taint must be washed away.” But his words
sounded hollow even to himself.
It helped little, when a young Paladin said brightly:
“There is no taint here, Lord Rede.”
The Grand Master of the Temple and Interim Protector of the Church of Oronthon turned
away, and
vomited.
**
The Bishop of Hethio brushed it off. “Don’t let it concern you. It was probably the
Diabolist – or one of his mortal allies - in disguise. That would explain the lack of
significant residual evil.”
Rede ignored him. “I am resigning from the Curia,” he said. “I have already sent out an
order that it should convene tomorrow, where I will announce it. I am also leaving the
Temple.”
“You cannot be serious!” Hethio was aghast. “The Temple needs strong leadership now
more than ever.
You cannot let the Heretic intimidate you with his wiles.”
“I have decided. Good night Hethio.”
“Rede…”
“YOU ARE DISMISSED!” Lord Rede thundered.
The Bishop nodded and left. His mind raced with possibilities and, had he had time to
consider
carefully, he may have chosen a course of action other than that which he did. But panic
drove him, and desperation guided his deeds.
He must act quickly! He passed through the doors of the exchequer, descended a flight of
stone steps, and entered an arched chamber lit with sconces.
Two paladins stood guard there.
“Greetings, Lord Bishop,” one said. “This is a late hour to be visiting the vault.”
Hethio nodded, and held up his seal in a perfunctory manner. He passed into the guarded
maze,
negotiated its hazards, entered the treasure room, and stuffed his purse full of fire opals.
He grabbed a random piece of parchment and, exiting the vault, waved the scroll and
raised his eyebrows at the two guards as though he had absent-mindedly forgotten it. They
smiled sympathetically.
Returning to his chambers, the Bishop drew a hooded cloak about himself and pressed a
panel in the wall. A doorway appeared. Lighting the lantern inside the opening, he closed
the door behind him, and proceeded down a seldom-used tunnel which exited the Temple
grounds to the west, within a quiet
cemetery reserved for the city nobility.
He knew where to go, who to speak to, and what to say. He hoped that they had some
people good
enough to do the job quickly and effectively.
For the sake of the Church, he lied to himself.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 07-30-2002
**
Feezuu reflected upon the news brought to her by Uzmi.
Mostin the Metagnostic, responsible for her death? It hardly seemed possible. He was,
from reputation at least, a prudish book-worm. Apparently, he was somehow embroiled in
the Rurunoth affair as well –
he may have imprisoned the Demon, or perhaps slain him.
Even Graz’zt’s divinations had been unable to locate the Balor.*
Mostin, by Uzmi’s account, was an associate of the Paladin toward whom Graz’zt bore a
particular
vendetta. The one responsible for the death of Cerothumulos. The one who had turned
Nehael. Eadric was now the leader of a revivalist faction within the Church of Oronthon,
and had acquired some kind of Messianic status.
She had heard rumour of the troubles in Wyre, of course, but they hardly seemed relevant
to her
situation.
“Why now?” The Cambion had demanded of the Marilith.
“It is not your place to ask such questions, half-demon,” Uzmi had hissed venomously.
Feezuu had almost lost her temper, and blasted the demoness.
Uzmi had sensed the antagonism, and smiled. “You would be well advised to keep your
loathing for me under control. I am the Prince’s ambassador, and if you assail me you will
have more than me to deal with. You will not engage Mostin until Graz’zt’s appointed
time. Your opportunity for revenge will come soon, however.”
“We seem to have a problem of authority,” Feezuu spat. “I will not yield to yours.”
“Nor I to yours,” Uzmi replied. “It is not an issue. Graz’zt will shortly be sending another
who will assume command.”
Feezuu goggled. It would have to be a Balor, but which one?
“He risks celestial retaliation,” the Cambion said. “And why shunt a Demon through,
when he could have me call one?”
Uzmi sneered. “He is a brinksman. He will push it to the limit, and beyond. What does he
care if a thousand of his generals perish in a war with heaven? But he has not revealed all
of his plans to me.
Perhaps the one he plans to send is beyond your ability to conjure, little witch.”
He would not dare send Ainhorr, Feezuu thought to herself. But she had to concede the
Marilith’s point.
There were always more demons, as they said in the Abyss. She suddenly felt very
expendable.
**
Mostin had an unexpected visitor.
She was a young woman, probably no more than thirty, although her exact age was rather
difficult to gauge. She wore a hooded cloak of an indigo so deep than it was almost black.
Her dark hair, cropped at the shoulder, framed a face with pointed features which bespoke
a fey or elven heritage. In her hand she carried a rod of black iron that hid an unknown
potency. She waited patiently on the doorstep of the Alienist’s manse, until Mostin had
exited his extradimensional retreat.
He scried her, and wondered what she was doing there. Thoughts about the Injunction
raced through his mind. He buffed, straightened his collar, and opened the door.
“Shomei. This is an unexpected pleasure,” he said.
The woman strode in. “Firewine,” she said. Mostin was unsure whether she addressed
him, or one of the numerous unseen servants who waited in attendance. She walked into
his drawing room and sat in his favourite leather armchair, resting her chin upon her
hands, her rod upright beneath them. She was, as usual, intense and preoccupied.
“Well. Did you or didn’t you?” She asked. Shomei always spoke a little too quickly for
comfort.
Mostin tried to look blank and uncomprehending.
“There are rumours abroad in Morne that you stand in contempt of the Great Injunction,”
she said, peering at him.
“I would argue that I did not,” Mostin replied smoothly, opening a cabinet and retrieving a
dusty bottle and two glasses.
“Your continued association with this Oronthonian faction does little to enhance your
reputation,”
Shomei observed. “I hope that you haven’t been drawn into the world of mundane politics,
Mostin. It would be most unbecoming.”
“Eadric is my landlord,” Mostin answered. “And Soraine has been, also. One has to live
somewhere, when one is on the Prime.”
“Do not put too much store in your Transcendence, Mostin,” Shomei said archly. “There
are wizards who covet your mirror.”
Mostin swallowed. “What is the purpose of your visit?” He asked.
“A routine inquiry,” Shomei replied. “Your actions have aroused interest in certain
quarters.”
Mmm, Mostin thought, unsure what Shomei was referring to.
“Where is the Balor, Rurunoth?” She asked abruptly.
“Is he missing?” Mostin asked. “Perhaps he got lost.”
“Mostin,” Shomei said more slowly, “you are a loose cannon. Your actions are
unpredictable and, in the extreme, perverse. As such, you are a worry to wizards and may
cause concern in other quarters.” The last words were spoken with exaggerated emphasis.
“Powerful extraplanar entities take an interest
when one casually disposes of a Demon of Rurunoth’s status. When one summons
Barbazu on a regular basis. When one calls Planetars to the Prime. Are you following my
drift, Mostin?”
“I am unaligned,” Mostin said carefully. Ahh, those quarters, he thought.
“That is the problem that I am referring to,” Shomei replied. “If you continue in this vein,
sooner or later you will require patronage, Mostin. If you try to do it alone, without
reliable help, you will come unstuck. I have acquaintances…”
“I am well aware of your ‘acquaintances,’ Shomei,” Mostin said.
“But you understand that my dealing with them is in full consciousness – I am not easily
duped or mislead. I have a certain sympathy with the diabolic, it’s true, but I’m hardly
green or naïve. We – and they – simply have an understanding with one another. Their
access to information is staggering,
beyond even your conception.”
“I doubt that,” Mostin said.
“Perhaps I could demonstrate. A token of goodwill, shall we say?”
“Go on,” the Alienist said suspiciously.
“Your defeat of Feezuu is well known in the higher echelons of the magical community in
Wyre. It has gained you a certain degree of respect – which is no bad thing. But how long
do you think will pass before the Cambion herself finds out that you were the one
responsible. Her network is expanding.”
“I have already given this much thought,” Mostin said.
“She knows already, Mostin,” Shomei said earnestly.
“How do you know?” Mostin asked, aghast.
“Not all of the Yugoloths in Graz’zt’s employ are effectively monitored by his own loyal
vassals,”
Shomei explained. “Information passes quickly between the Abyss and the Hells.”
“How long has she known?”
Shomei drew a pocket watch from her jerkin. “As we speak, around an hour. I knew that
she would find out before the message was sent to her. Have you heard of Uzmi?”
Mostin wracked his brains. “A Marilith?”
“A Marilith,” Shomei confirmed. “Formerly in the retinue of Lord Baphomet, but now
engaged by Graz’zt. She is currently on probation. She is on the Prime with Feezuu.”
Mostin raised his eyebrows. “And a wayward Daemon discerned this?”
“Yes, an Arcanaloth, named Xerulko. He leads sixteen companies of Yagnoloths in a
mercenary
agreement with Graz’zt. But the Prince does not trust him, so he has him watched.
Xerulko is a potent sorcerer, however, and Graz’zt’s grip is not as strong as he likes to
think. Demons are, ultimately, disorganized.” Shomei spoke with unconcealed disdain.
“And Xerulko informed one of your ‘acquaintances?’” Mostin asked.
“He sold the news to Titivilus.”
“And Titivilus is your lover?”
Shomei laughed openly. Mostin was surprised – it was a genuine, heartfelt mirth that was
difficult to associate with one who had such dangerous connections. “I don’t really think
‘love’ entered the equation, Mostin.”
The Alienist frowned “What do you mean, entered? Why past tense?”
“I don’t expect you to keep abreast of my Infernal dalliances, Mostin. Sometimes I hardly
can myself. I allowed him to become bored with me.”
Mostin looked quizzical.
Shomei smiled. “One does not ‘dump’ a Duke of Hell, Mostin. It is impolitic. The
initiative could hardly have come from me, could it?”
“I suppose not,” Mostin agreed. “Then how did you find out?”
“One of his messengers informed me. The Duke and I are still on amicable terms, and he
owes me a few favours – his compact is not yet expired.”
“You compacted a Duke of Hell?” Mostin was incredulous.
“Yes,” she said, nodding. “It is not as hard as you might think.”
“I won’t ask you what his price was,” the Alienist said.
“No, it’s probably better if you don’t know,” Shomei agreed. “The point is this, Mostin.
Feezuu has powerful allies. You do not. You are vulnerable. I know that you find diablerie
seductive and exciting –
I certainly do. You have the strength of will and the wherewithal to tread that path, Mostin.
Devils are poweful tools.”
“A plough is a tool, Shomei. A Devil is an evil extraplanar monster.”
“In any case,” Shomei said. “Graz’zt has less interest in you than he does in the Paladin
and the Succubus called Nehael.”
The Alienist thought for a moment. “Hmm. I don’t suppose that you could be a little more
specific about his plans?”
“Not really,” she said. “But Graz’zt is not well-liked in the Hells – he is considered
something of an upstart with ambitions far beyond his station. His actions are too
wayward. He is not methodical. He is not efficient.”
“He is a Demon, Shomei. What do you expect? And he is effective for all of his quirks. He
has consolidated power quickly since his release.”
She shrugged and stood up. “Consider this an offer,” she said. “If you wish for patronage,
the Lord of the Fourth extends his hand in friendship.”
“Belial?” Mostin asked, confused. “I thought that Dispater was your patron.”
“I am merely a message-bearer, Mostin. I said nothing about my patronage, and my own
inclinations are not open for discussion.”
“Before you leave, Shomei. Your rod – what is its function?”
“You have your mirror, Mostin. I have my rod.” She smiled, and abruptly vanished.
Sh*t, thought Mostin. That was a quickened teleport.
**
“We must strike now!” Mostin said to Eadric, Ortwin, Nwm and Tahl. They were standing
on the field beneath Hartha Keep. “We cannot allow her to seize the initiative. You must
see the need for this, Eadric. She has called a demoness of great power – greater than
Cerothumulos. Than Rurunoth, maybe.
And they are holding back until they are fully prepared.”
“Mostin, I…”
“NOW dammit. If they ‘port in and catch us singly, then we’re all dead.”
“Is this Shomei reliable?” Ortwin said. “She is an Infernalist.”
“I believe so,” Mostin replied, exasperated. “I don’t doubt that she has other motives. But
we go back a
long way.”
“What was her price, Mostin?” Eadric asked.
“None,” Mostin replied flatly. “Although she suggested that I might benefit from a
diabolic patron.”
“Mostin!” Eadric gasped.
“Don’t worry. I’m not about to take her up on it. But one must grab allies when they
present
themselves. I suggest that all of us retire to my Magnificent Mansion and make the
necessary
preparations. Nehael should remain within it – she is particularly vulnerable. Feezuu has
met her, and she may be scried.”
Eadric sighed. “Mostin, this is extremely bad timing. I have just received news that Lord
Rede of Dramore was murdered in his bed last night. Naturally, I am the prime suspect.
The fact that Nwm paid a visit to the Temple yesterday evening hardly helps matters.”
Eadric stared stonily at the Druid, who smiled apologetically back.
“Ngaaaaarh!” Mostin screamed. “I don’t give a sh*t. I’m going anyway. Eadric, if I have
to compact Pit Fiends to do this, then I will. Do you read me?”
“You won’t,” Eadric groaned. “I never said that I wasn’t coming. Just that it’s bad timing.”
Mostin shook, and tried to calm himself. “Let’s just get things ready shall we?”
“And Mostin,” Eadric said remonstratively, “No Devils. Do you understand?”
“Eadric, be assured that if I summon them, they will be of the strictly Pseudonatural
variety.”
“Is that good or bad?” Ortwin asked.
**
“I thought it was supposed to be the day after tomorrow,” Mulissu complained. “I am not
ready.”
She stood in Mostin’s study, resplendent in a gown of blue samite interwoven with
hundreds of
precious stones. Around her neck, she wore a collar which bore a single sapphire of
enormous
proportions, which Mostin recognized as that which had once belonged to the Xorn
Krygnasz. The
mirror of Urm-Nahat showed the scene of the courtyard in her own castle.
“Who are these people, Mostin?” She asked.
“Nwm, you have met,” Mostin said. “This is Ortwin of Jiuhu, who considers himself to be
the greatest liar in the world. This is the Succubus, Nehael, of whom I informed you. This
is Tahl the Incorruptible, lately of the Oronthonian Inquisition. This is Eadric of Deorham,
who is the anointed proxy of the aforementioned deity. This is your own daughter, Iua,
whom I trust you remember.”
“Aah, yes,” Mulissu smiled vaguely. She stepped forwards and arranged Iua’s hair,
causing the girl to pout. “You should be careful of the company you keep, Iua,” Mulissu
said laconically.
“Well?” The Witch asked.
“The schedule has been moved forwards a little. I hope you don’t mind too much.”
“If we could get this over with, then I can return to my work,” Mulissu sighed. “What is
the plan?”
“We have a Marilith to contend with, in addition to those foes that I had previously
determined.”
“Mostin…”
“We are more than adequately equipped to deal with any threat which presents itself,”
Mostin said. “We have more firepower than I have seen gathered together since…well, for
a long time, anyway. What can you prepare, Mulissu?”
“I was thinking along the lines of Reality Maelstrom, Finger of Death, Great Shout, Horrid
Wilting and
Disintegrate - obviously. I also have the spell of Skeletal Deliquescence which is rather
amusing. And the excellent, if unpredictable, Prismatic Spray.”
“What about the ‘Big Ones?**’” Mostin asked tentatively.
“Power Word, Kill, Dominate Monster and Gate,” she replied nonchalantly.
Great Goddess, thought Nwm. Who is this woman?
“Before I do anything, Mostin, I absolutely insist on being rendered invulnerable to Acid,
to be warded against Death effects and to be Mind Blanked. There’s no point in saying
that you don’t have the last spell – I’ve seen your books, remember?”
Mostin grumbled. That was one less big sonic that he’d have.
“Where would you open a Gate?” Ortwin asked Mulissu.
“Obviously, Heaven,” Eadric replied.
“Hell,” Mostin said. “Oops. Did I just say that?” He smiled innocently at the Paladin, who
shook his head and sighed. Mostin grinned. Sometimes, Eadric was an easy mark.
The discussion on exactly how they deployed their combined spell potential took two
hours.
All of them rested.
**
“The Marilith may be able to summon more Demons,” Mostin cautioned them. “The Bar-
Lgura also may be able to bring in others of their kind. There is an outside chance that the
Succubus may be able to drag a Balor into the fray - it is unlikely, but we should be
prepared for the contingency. Even the Dretch can pull others of their ilk in – en masse,
they can be annoying. Furthermore, it is possible that
Feezuu herself has Bound more demons – she will not have had time to compact with
them, however, so she may be unwilling to meet their demands for service.”
Eadric groaned. He knew that this had to be done, but took no joy in it.
Tahl was stoical. He had agreed to act primarily in an auxiliary capacity – at least as far as
his own spells were concerned. But he was a capable combatant, and his scourge would be
deployed against the creatures it was designed to destroy. He already knew everything that
Mostin was saying – for twelve years he had served in the Inquisition.
Iua sat methodically absorbing the information.
Ortwin shifted restlessly – eager to be underway and unconcerned with the details.
Whatever happened, happened.
Nwm was prepared, and would be the mainstay in terms of support. He had several
powerful
summonings prepared in addition.
Mulissu sat and worried about her untended experiments.
“As soon as I scry her with the mirror,” Mostin said, “she will become aware of the
observation. We must act instantly, at that point. Each of us knows what to do. We have
primary and secondary targets.
We should begin the buffing procedures now.”
Ortwin shook his head in desperation. Mostin was in militaristic mode – the Bard
envisioned the
Alienist with a map and a pointer, explaining tactics in detail.
**
Feezuu sat, aware of the sensor which had kept her under observation for several hours.
Uzmi had
warned her not to attempt to dispel it. The Prince had said that he would be observing her,
for his own,
inscrutable reasons.
Feezuu did not like it.
Suddenly, another sensor appeared to her inner sight. Within a second or two, all hell
seemed to break loose.
Graz’zt smiled. The proffered bait had been accepted, and now the trap could be sprung.
Xerulko
would be well-rewarded – he had enjoyed the challenge of posing as a Cornugon.
But Graz’zt had not counted on Mulissu.
*I ruled that Rurunoth’s essence, imprisoned in a gem, was not subject to the discern
location spell when the Balor himself was its target. This may seem arbitrary, but the
tendency for discern location to be a game-breaker is well-known.
If discern location was directed toward “the pearl containing the essence of Rurunoth,”
that would be a different matter. Of course, only those who had actually seen the gem
would be capable of such a spell.
**i.e. 9th level spells.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 07-31-2002
It was a gambit, but moving everybody through the portal opened by Mostin’s mirror
would have taken too long, and would have left them vulnerable during the period that it
remained open. Instead, they appeared in three teams, organized for mutual support,
triangulated around the crypt in which Feezuu and her allies were located.
Mulissu teleported into the northwest of the chamber with her own daughter, whilst
Mostin appeared in
the northeast with Ortwin and Tahl. Eadric and Nwm charged through the portal from the
south.
They appeared simultaneously. All were acting with uncanny speed.
Iua immediately leapt forwards and began an earnest assault upon Uzmi, caught off-guard
by the
duelist’s awesome precision and reflexes. Ortwin and Eadric, from opposite directions,
both sprang at Feezuu. Nwm, in the form of an enormous bear, leapt at the ape-like Bar-
Lgura.
The first thing that Mostin did, after Eadric and Nwm were clear, was to erect a wall of
force around the extradimensional opening. The idea of Feezuu – or any other fiend
present – escaping back through it (and into his study) without effort would have been too
much. He looked around quickly: neither the Succubus nor the Goristro appeared to be
present. All of the others were..
Mulissu, desiring to return to her work as quickly as possible, decided that the easiest
thing to do would be to Gate in a Solar. A Prismatic Spray issued from her hand, striking
several Dretch down quickly. To target anything else with the spell would risk affecting
allies.
Light flooded into the sepulchre as the Celestial manifested.
“Holy sh*t,” said Ortwin, hewing at Feezuu.
Eadric smiled. “Good choice,” he shouted, and hewed at Feezuu. White light erupted from
his blade.
Oh, no, thought Mostin.
“Eliminate nearby fiends,” Mulissu commanded the Solar. “Big ones first.”
The Solar nodded, and suddenly vanished, which was, initially, somewhat confusing.
Tahl invoked a Righteous Might and grew to a height of twelve feet. He drew upon the
power of the
Eye of Palamabron and invoked a Zone of Revelation – his intention being to reveal any
invisible
fiends which were present. The sight that it unveiled was terrifying: the ether around them
was alive with demons, their misty shapes hewing at the Archon, Zhuel, who had
Teleported to the area of the
Ethereal Plane coterminous with Eadric. The Solar was suddenly revealed engaging with
them.
Iua had adopted a screening position, and was thrusting repeatedly at the Marilith, her
enhanced blade easily penetrating the demoness’s natural defenses. Uzmi had still not
reacted.
Feezuu herself, however, had mastered her confusion quickly. Reeling from the initial
assault by Eadric and Ortwin, and perceiving that her death was imminent unless she acted
quickly, she cast a Dimension Door and vanished.
“Naaaargh!” Mostin screamed.
Ortwin span around, brandishing Githla and his pick, leapt forwards, and ripped with
devastating
power into Uzmi’s flank. His scimitar whirled and an enormous BOOM echoed through
the crypt as his pick plunged deep into the torso of the Demoness. She collapsed.
Eadric turned and, with three great strokes, cut one of the Bar-Lgura down. Nwm, his jaws
and claws enhanced, shredded the other ape-demon and ripped its head off with his teeth.
A voice whispered in Mostin’s ear. “Protect me, Alienist. Save me from the Paladin.” The
succubus, Kalkja, had appeared behind him.
“Not bloody likely,” Mostin said, shaking off the enchantment. He struck her with the
primary Sonic from his enhanced chain lightning, with secondary arcs crashing down and
eliminating all of the
remaining Dretch. Kalkja was badly mangled, but Mostin ignored her. He cast a Discern
Location
followed by a quickened Dimension Door and vanished.
“What the…?” Ortwin grumbled. “Nice one Mostin! Just piss off and leave us, why don’t
you?” But there was nothing left standing in the crypt except the Succubus and two quasits
– at least on the Prime Plane.
Within the Zone of Revelation, Nalfeshnee demons bore down upon the Solar, and the
shape of a Balor of enormous size appeared, its phantom outline as terrifying as its real
presence, as Ortwin remembered it from their brief encounter on Limbo.
“Ainhorr,” he whispered, and recalled the visions that Troap had evoked in his mind.
Without warning, another Gate opened. A statuesque demon, perhaps nine feet tall, with
eyes that
glowed an even brighter green than Mostin’s, stepped through. His skin was as black as
midnight, and in his hand he held a huge, wavy-bladed bastard sword. He, also, was acting
with great speed.
Looks of amazement crossed the faces of those present. Each of them, including Kalkja,
thinking: That is not possible. It is against the rules. He cannot be here.
He smiled viciously, but did not attack. Instead, he spoke a spell. Mass Manifest.
Ainhorr, and four Nalfeshnees appeared on the Prime Plane. The immense presence of the
ancient
Balor filled the chamber. Terrible heat radiated from him.
Mulissu’s eyes almost popped out of her head. Mostin hadn’t mentioned Demon Princes
and huge
Balors. She targeted Ainhorr with two Disintegrations and a cluster of Magic Missiles. He
grunted.
The Solar and Zhuel reappeared upon the Prime, even as Ainhorr’s whip lashed out and
wrapped itself around Tahl, dragging him against his body. His immense flaming sword
crashed down upon Eadric,
biting into him with Unholy power. Fire issued from the Balor’s nostrils.
The voice of the great celestial echoed through the minds of those present: That is not
Graz’zt.
Could’ve fooled me, Ortwin thought.
The Nalfeshnee sprang into action. A nimbus of rainbow light began to kindle around one
of them, and an Unholy Aura erupted from another, bathing the fiends in protective
blackness. More fiends
materialized, as the remaining Nalfeshnees invoked summonings. Three Vrocks appeared,
and
immediately leapt at Eadric, attempting to rend him with their claws.
The two Quasits were flapping around Mulissu, trying to sting her and break her
concentration.
Tahl called on the power of the Strength domain and, with difficulty, broke free of the
Balor’s whip.
His own scourge cracked in his hand, and bit into Ainhorr. Iua threw herself into the fray,
reeled from a passing strike from the Balor, and began fencing with the black-skinned
demon who, apparently, was not Graz’zt. Ortwin joined her.
Seeing his chance, and drawing on the power of his God, Eadric yelled, hefted Lukarn,
and brought it full force down upon Ainhorr’s flaming sword. The Balor turned it with
contemptuous ease. Eadric
struck again, and a splintering sound was heard, sparks flying as the blades crashed
together. He struck again, and Ainhorr’s ten-foot greatsword shattered, hewn at the hilt.*
Shards flew across the chamber.
Eadric smote the demon, and he screamed.
Nwm spoke two summonings in fast order. A large salamander with a longspear
materialized, and a
huge Earth Elemental grew from the floor. He threw them both immediately against the
Nalfeshnee
with the nimbus around it.
Kalkja unsuccessfully attempted to persuade Mulissu to disintegrate Eadric.
The demon who was not Graz’zt slashed at Iua, the force and speed of its strokes too great
for her to avoid or parry. Gaping wounds appeared all over her, and she staggered
backwards and collapsed.
Mulissu screamed, targeted the monster with two Disintegrations and the Simulacrum’s
diminished
resistance failed it. It vanished. One of the Quasits who was buzzing her succumbed to a
burst of Magic Missiles.The Solar dramatically decapitated one of the Nalfeshnees with its
greatsword, and cut another one down with three swift strokes, in an attempt to close with
Ainhorr. Zhuel engaged the third.
The Great Demon spoke a single word of power, and another Balor appeared.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Ortwin moaned, before he imploded.
Unable to physically engage with Eadric – Ainhorr and the Vrocks now fully surrounding
the Paladin –
both Nalfeshnees targeted the Paladin with Feebleminds. Simultaneously, the rainbow
coloured nimbus around one of them erupted in a burst of energy, causing Nwm to reel.
Eadric’s mind collapsed under
the pressure, and he sat down and began to drool.
**
Feezuu had not gone far – into a chamber only a hundred yards or so away. When Mostin
appeared
nearby, she was already mounting her Nightmare.
“I don’t think so,” the Alienist said, and launched two doubly empowered sonically
substituted lightning bolts and another quickened sonic at her.
“Almost,” she said. And died.
But Mostin had exhausted his transportation spells. Rather unconventionally – for him at
least – he had to actually run back to the chamber where the others were gathered. He
crashed through a door, straight into the Goristro.
“Oops,” he said. Fortunately, the Demon was even more surprised than he was. Mostin
quickly summoned a trio of Pseudonatural Dire Bears.
“Kill,” he pointed, and waited for a chance to sneak past.
**
Tahl, clawed and buffeted by attacks from the Vrocks, pushed through and interposed
himself between Eadric and the Balor. Ainhorr slammed him with an immense, fiery fist,
but Tahl’s spirit did not waver.
He spoke to Eadric’s sword, which sat limply in the Paladin’s grip, and closed his hand
tightly around it.
“Lukarn. Heal him.” The Cleric commanded.
Nearby, on the ground, Nwm – still in the shape of a huge bear – hallucinated wildly. The
Salamander was stabbing at one of the Nalfeshnees, whilst the Earth elemental pummeled
it.
Kalkja grabbed at Tahl, and he lashed out at her. She pulled his head back, and kissed him.
His knees became weak.
Mulissu darted over to Iua and, touching her neck, determined that her daughter was still
alive. She was still livid. She opened another Gate, and a second Solar stepped through.
“What is you command?” It asked.
“I have none. Do as you wish.” She cradled Iua’s head in her lap.
The Solar smiled, and opened yet another Gate. A cascade of white light began.
The Demons fled, as the Celestial host descended upon the ancient Necropolis of Khu, and
hallowed it.
**
As the power coursed into him from Lukarn, Eadric looked around himself to see dozens
of perfect
winged forms standing in silent vigil. He wondered if he was dead, until he glanced across
to see the crumpled form of Ortwin lying nearby. Tahl was tending to Iua, and Nwm stood
pensively stroking his beard.
Mostin burst in, ready to fling sonics. He looked around, and fainted.
Eadric stood, walked up to a Planetar, and pointed at Ortwin.
“I don’t suppose that you’d…”
“Not even were he one of the faithful,” the Celestial replied.
“He died fighting demons,” Eadric pointed out.
“As have many others,” the Celestial replied sympathetically. “Except in unusual
circumstances, death tends to be final.”
Bugger that, thought Nwm.
**
“Mmm,” Ortwin looked in the mirror. He was a satyr.
“It could have been a lot worse,” Nwm said. “A badger, or an owl, for example. Mulissu is
willing to return you to your original form – for a hefty price, no doubt. I think you look
quite dashing, and you must admit – it has a certain appropriateness.”
“Yes, yes,” Ortwin agreed enthusiastically. Mmm. Nymphs, he thought.
*Crit.
In answer to the ‘buffs’ question: all were hasted and death warded, and had protection
from acid on them. Ortwin, Eadric, Iua and Tahl were also under protection from sonics in
the event that Mosin
needed to drop area spells on the melee fighters. Ortwin and Tahl were both under an
enhanced bull’s strength, Iua under an enhanced fox’s cunning - useful for a duelist.
Mulissu was Mind Blanked.
Greater Magic Weapon was on Iua’s rapier, both of Ortwin’s weapons and Tahl’s whip.
Eadric had a
holy sword cast upon his own sunblade, and was also warded with a stoneskin.
Nwm had Greater Magic Fang upon both sets of claws, and his teeth.
There may have been others.
It’s worth pointing out that as soon as the second Solar appeared (actually, maybe even the
first), that it was a foregone conclusion.
My wife was running Mulissu during the session. She does, from time to time.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 08-07-2002
**
“I think that some kind of disguise might be in order,” Ortwin said, scratching one of his
hairy haunches with his left hoof. “Don’t get me wrong – I like it and everything – it’s
just, well, conspicuous isn’t it? Being a Half-Elf was bad enough if I want to be – er –
incognito, if you catch my drift, but this is rather harder to hide.”
“I could make you a Hat of Disguise,” Mostin offered. Since the death of the Cambion, he
had visibly relaxed.
“Mmm, yes,” Ortwin said. “Of course, it wouldn’t look like one of your hats, would it
Mostin?”
The Alienist sniffed. “Obviously, you lack the panache to carry off something as
distinguished as one of my hats. But such a hat would appear however you wished it to, as
would you – within generally
bipedal constraints, of course.”
“That sounds splendid,” Ortwin said. “How long would it take you to enchant such a hat?
How much would you charge me for it?”
“Well, Change Self…” Mostin began.
“Alter Self would be nicer,” Ortwin smiled disarmingly.
“So would Shapechange,” Mostin said sarcastically. “I had planned to give it to you, as a
favour, but because you’ve been so rude…”
“Change Self will be just fine, Mostin,” Ortwin interrupted. “And thank-you, that’s very
decent of you.”
“Yes, it is,” the Alienist agreed haughtily.
**
Unfortunately for Ortwin, none of Feezuu’s considerable wealth found its way into his
purse. Upon
discovering her cache of gold and silk, Eadric had asked a squad of devas to distribute it
equitably amongst the outlying encampments nearest Khu, prior to the Celestials’
departure.
Paladins, the Bard had sighed.
Groups of nomads were surprised – and, after their initial terror, delighted – to find
winged messengers depositing bags of precious goods outside of their skin tents. Most had
suffered losses from Feezuu.
Mostin had inspected the glass tube he had taken from Feezuu’s corpse. It still contained
fifteen motes
– soul currency with which transactions on the Lower Planes were made. He had slipped it
into his
pocket, but a look of stern reproof from a Planetar, whose true seeing had immediately
recognized the morphed larvae for what they were, had persuaded him to render it to the
Celestial.
“Er, here are some souls,” Mostin had said, looking away and holding out his hand.
The cells beneath the vaulted chambers of the mausoleum and crypt had contained a
grizzly collection
of body parts, live subjects being drained of blood, and an uncompleted flesh golem.
When subjected to the Eye of Palamabron, other secrets had been revealed. The lowest
chamber, warded against the most powerful of divinations, revealed an incomplete
phylactery which Feezuu had been attempting to
construct.
Mostin swallowed. As a lich, there was no doubting who would have finally prevailed in
their feud.
After the prisoners had been tended and released, Nwm used his power to open the roof of
the
mausoleum, and light flooded in. Celestials descended into the lowest catacombs, and
purified them.
The Ancient Gods of Shûth dreamed more easily.
**
In the days which followed the assassination of Lord Rede of Dramore, the Grand Master
of the
Temple and Interim Lord Protector of Orthodoxy, the remnant of the Curia met to discuss
the ongoing situation. A variety of proposals were made, although rulings upon their truth
were postponed until the current hubbub subsided. Neither the Bishops of Kaurban or
Jiuhu attended, leaving the five
episcopacies to mull over policy. Unexpectedly, Hethio did not attend either, apparently
succumbing to a bout of sickness. Delighted at the absence of one who had become his
arch-nemesis, the Bishop of Tyndur – who had ‘found his teeth,’ as Rede had put it –
sowed as much discord as possible amongst the remaining Bishops. The consensus was
still against him, but the zeal which had characterized
earlier meetings was absent.
Rede cannot have fallen from grace, else the Curia would have been incorrect in its initial
backing of him – which was patently absurd, because the Curia determined what the truth
was. Rede must,
therefore, have been a martyr to the truth and, like Melion, deserved beatification.
The Temple and the Inquisition – both arms of the Church Magistratum – were now
leaderless. Brey
was the logical successor to the Temple, although arguments were made that the
Magistratum should
now be consolidated into a single body, and Brey was not the man for the job.
The presence of the pagan, Nwm, and the demoness, were generally agreed to be
connected with Rede’s murder, although in what capacity none could guess. The Templars
who had been present
related events as they remembered them, although no full picture had emerged – the wall
of thorns had blocked many details of the exchange between the Druid and Rede. But no
Taint had been detected by the three Paladins amongst them.
Should the Curia authorize the further use of the scroll cache amongst the warrior-clerics
again? They were rapidly running out of casters of sufficient power to even attempt their
safe use.
Since the disappearance of Tramst, no clergy of adequate ability existed to use appropriate
divinations with regard to the murder of Rede.* And with Oronthon’s continued silence,
communion with the Deity was impossible.
How long would that last? Many wondered.
More mundane issues were discussed. The deployment and provisioning of the Temple
troops in
Tomur, those in the Nund valley near Trempa, and the continued blockade of Iald.
Finances were not inexhaustible, and the king was still delaying in committing royal
resources. Wars and sieges were expensive.
Meanwhile, whilst the four Bishops spoke candidly about the dilemmas which beset them,
Hethio was
dealing with his own remorse. His sickness was feigned, and he spent a good deal of time
in acts of self-mortification in order to expunge his guilt at the murder of Rede.
Because, when the Bishop of Hethio had attempted to approach the hallowed altar of the
Fane in
Morne, he found that he could not. Centuries earlier, Tersimion had placed potent wards
upon the dais, and, suddenly, Hethio found himself subject to them.**
Hethio knew what it meant, and should the gaze of even the lowliest Paladin be directed
towards him, he knew what it would reveal.
Still, he rationalized whilst striking himself across the back with his scourge, the Taint was
surely of a
temporary variety. He had, after all, acted in the best interests of the Temple.
**
Mostin made the hat for Ortwin in two days, became bored, vacillated, and decided to visit
Shomei.
He thought that, rather than simply arriving on her doorstep and waiting, issuing a sending
would be politic. He had not had a chance to use the spell since his acquisition of it from
Feezuu’s books.
Greetings Shomei. Your information useful, if flawed. I suspect you were duped. I would
like to confer.
I will scry, then teleport to your location.
Within seconds, the return message arrived.
No. Resolving other matters. Meet me at my manse in one hour.
Hmm, Mostin thought. He wondered what the ‘other matters’ were. Still, it behooved him
not to pry to much. He waited impatiently for an hour, and stepped through the mirror of
Urm-Nahat.
He appeared outside of the huge, wrought iron gates of her estate, three miles from Morne.
Moments later, they swung open noisily, and Mostin began to trudge down the gravel
driveway, flanked by
enormous, brooding trees of a species not native to Wyre. Or the Prime, for that matter, he
thought. A whispering wind reached his ears.
Do not leave the pathway
Not likely, he thought.
Shomei’s mansion was vast, of a size comparable to the ducal castle at Trempa. It boasted
six hundred rooms, and was squarely situated within a thousand acres of land, at the centre
of a great bowl in the hills. Devils had, purportedly, been employed in its construction, and
the great, sweeping balustrades
and buttresses, of an infinitely complex design which seemed to defy gravity, lent
credence to the theory. The doors, fashioned from black iron and carved in intricate relief,
opened noiselessly as the Alienist approached.
A spined devil waited for him, its wings flapping as it hovered in the air. It gestured, and
Mostin followed it through a winding maze of corridors, hallways and antechambers, into
a large but
comfortable drawing room. A purple fire burned in the hearth. Mostin sat and poured
himself a large glass of brandywine from a crystal decanter, threw his boots off, sank into
a couch made from fiendish leather, and waited.
Shomei appeared only a minute later, through a door that Mostin had not noticed in the
east wall. She moved, even here, as though she was in a hurry.
“My apologies,” she said immediately. “I discovered that I had been subjected to a ruse
only yesterday.
The devil who brought me tidings turned out not to be a devil after all, but, in fact, the
duplicitous Xerulko.”
“Graz’zt is cunning, as I said,” Mostin reminded her. “And bolder since his freedom.”***
“Thank-you for the lesson,” she said ironically. “But the daemon will be causing no more
trouble.
Impersonating a diabolic herald is a risky enterprise.”
“Devils have punished him?” Mostin asked, amazed.
“Not exactly,” Shomei explained. “I have trapped him within a thaumaturgic diagram.
Perhaps you would like to come and inspect him?”
Mostin raised his eyebrows. “Shomei, I appreciate the gesture, but the business with
Feezuu is resolved permanently. I have no need of your ‘help.’”
She scowled. “I have not entrapped Xerulko for your benefit, but for mine. Such a
deception cannot go unpunished, or I would lose all respect. He has slighted me, and I
must exact revenge.
“Mostin, listen very carefully to me. There comes a point in a mage’s career when, willing
or no, he or she begins to attract the attention of those who may perceive in him or her a
prospective ally, or a potential threat. This is doubly true of those who specialize in
summonings, and bindings and callings.
You are at that point. You are on the verge of mastering the most potent of dweomers. You
need
dependable allies. If not devils, have you considered celestials?”
Mostin laughed uneasily.
“Exactly,” Shomei said. “Mostin, you are a natural Goetic Magician. You do not need an
external locus of morality to tell you which acts are ‘Good’ and which are ‘Evil.’ Devils
are wicked, but very, very efficient. If you bind them to your Will, you can achieve a great
deal. They are tools. They can aid you in your quest for apotheosis. Vhorzhe understood
as much.”
Mostin shook his head. “But Vhorzhe did not rely solely upon any one kind of outsider.
And I have surpassed him now. You are right: I do not need to be told the difference
between good and evil. But I will not be subject to any other’s agenda – including yours,
Shomei. You are shackled, whether you admit it or not, and you cannot move without
considering the reaction it will evince in the court of Dispater, or Belial, or whoever else is
granting you favours. Your independence is compromised. I
could not abide that. I must determine my own fate.”
“Perhaps you underestimate my resourcefulness,” Shomei said slyly. But she seemed
troubled. Mostin felt that he had touched a raw nerve.
“Perhaps I do,” Mostin admitted. “But I would no sooner be indebted to a Devil than a
Celestial.
Although I freely admit that Celestials are scarier.”
“On that much we agree, at least,” she nodded. “Who will you look to for help, Mostin?”
“The Pseudonaturals,” the Alienist replied. “As always. Shomei, I am only just beginning
to apprehend them. Beyond those that I have dealt with already, there are those of truly
awesome power.”
“They are monstrous, Mostin. And those others that you speak of cannot be summoned.”
“No,” he replied. “But they can be called. And bound.”
“Vhorzhe tried, and failed,” the Infernalist said.
“I am not Vhorzhe,” the Alienist replied. “I am Mostin, the Metagnostic.”
**
Whilst Mostin spent a week with Shomei, discussing esoteric matters and renewing a
friendship that had been allowed to drift apart, Eadric drilled his troops and prepared for
the message from Rintrah that he knew must soon come.
Tahl and those who had defected with the Inquisitor from Morne, as well as the penitent
Templars and the Paladins who had remained in Trempa, now formed the steel core of his
supporters. At every
available opportunity, Eadric spoke with the more agnostic members of Trempa’s
aristocracy,
impressing upon them the need for unity, and the holiness of his mission. He
diplomatically addressed their frippery, and their laxity, and enjoined them to commit
themselves fully to purging the Temple of the corruption which beset it.
His persuasive arguments, combined with his force of personality, slowly began to bear
fruit amongst the nobility. Still, Tahl reminded him that until he was tested upon the
battlefield, the overarching unity of purpose that the Paladin sought would not be realized.
Ryth had ridden in haste from the north, where his archers were engaged in what seemed
like would
turn into a dirty, protracted guerilla conflict with Temple troops in Tomur. The enemy
were sending raiding parties across the Nund and continually testing the resolve of the
Uediian militias there. Eadric
– in Soraine’s name - immediately summoned the aristocracy for conference. In fact, the
Duchess was gradually and subtly relinquishing her nominal command of the effort to the
Paladin.
Ryth, who had spent three weeks in the field and had shed quantities of enemy blood, was
less
belligerent than previously.
The meeting was still fraught, however. The western side of the Nund, beyond a narrow
swathe owned by the Duke of Kaurban, was a royal demesne. Whilst it seemed possible
that the King would not
intervene in a strictly internal Temple affair, as soon as it spilled over onto lands owned by
the crown, some form of retribution could be expected. Once the cells of Temple troops
had been ousted from their encampments – assuming they could be – any pursuit would
draw Trempa’s forces across land owned
by the King. And it was already well-known that the Temple was petitioning for royal aid
– the King himself was, after all, supposed to be an exemplar of Orthodoxy.
And then there was Morne itself to consider.
Any attempt to invest the city would be met with overwhelming force, and Eadric held no
illusions
about what would happen if he met the royal army in the field.
“We are interested in the Temple, not Morne itself,” Tahl remarked.
“I doubt the King will see it that way,” Eadric observed laconically.
“We should go and chat with him,” Ortwin said casually. “It’s long overdue. I’ve met him
once or twice before. He seems nice enough, if a little petulant.”
Ryth spat. “He is a spineless boy.”
And therein lay the problem. The reason that no royal intervention had occurred. The
reason that the powerful magnates of Wyre were roaming around with private armies in
the true fashion of
‘overmighty subjects.’ The reason that no cohesive policy had emerged in the temporal
governance of Wyre for more than a decade. The reason why Temple power had gone
unchecked for so long. And
probably the reason that, heretofore, he has been mentioned in this story only in passing.
Because the King of Wyre, Tiuhan IV, was a spoiled boy of twelve years, manipulated by
relatives who comprised the bulk of Wyre’s greatest aristocracy.
Eadric sighed. Unfortunately, Ortwin was right.
*Tramst (Cleric 9 / Divine Oracle 2), who had stood on the very spot where Feezuu had
slain Cynric, had interacted with her Taint and used a legend lore to determine her identity.
Note that Divine Oracles within the church of Oronthon aren’t necessarily as ‘wayward’ as
the PrC in Defenders of the Faith would appear. Historically, oracular vision has been a
vital adjunct to the Inquisition’s work.
**The High Altar in the Great Fane is protected by a Permanent Antipathy towards
creatures of all evil alignments.
***The Binding of Graz’zt – an act accomplished by the Wizard Fillein and his cabal -
over three
hundred years previously, and a seminal example of cooperative magic. The Great Mage
had drawn on
the abilities of six other spellcasters of significant power.
Graz’zt was chained for fifty-five years. When he finally gained his freedom, he was irked
to find that all but one of his former captors had already died.
Fillein himself had disappeared, and was never found.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 08-08-2002
Naming Conventions in the Wyre Campaign
This is in answer to a question that someone asked a long, long time ago, but which I
hadn’t gotten around to answering. It’s kind of complicated, so bear with me (if you’re
even vaguely interested).
Firstly, the PCs.
Eadric is an Old English name, which was useful from my perspective – in terms of
consistency. I’ll
explain in a while.
Ortwin is the name of a character appearing in the Niebelungenlied (Ortwin of Metz), so I
guess its Middle High German.
Nwm is “Quasi-Brythonic” or “Quasi-Celtic.” It rhymes with the Welsh word Cwm, which
transliterates as “Coombe” in English. A Cwm is a glacial valley, if I remember my
highschool geography. If “Nwm”
has any meaning, then I don’t know what it is.
Mostin, I think, is a proper name anyway. I’d guess that its roots were Middle English or
Norman French, but I might be wrong. This is also very convenient for me.
In Wyre itself, there are three different linguistic complexes.
The oldest, consists of a group of languages which are represented by a variety of Celtic or
Quasi-Celtic roots. Nwm is one such name, Cambos du’la (the hill where Nehael atoned)
is another. Such names are relatively uncommon, and tend to be found amongst Uediians
or at sites venerated by them.
Bagaudas – the name assumed by Hullu’s guerillas – is an ancient Gaulish word meaning,
unsurprisingly, “Guerilla Fighters.” Uedii itself is also Gaulish, and has connotations of
“Prayer, veneration.”
More recent, although still of great age, are names represented by a variety of Germanic
roots. Eadric, Cynric, Brord, Asser etc. are all Anglo-Saxon in form. Tahl, Thrumohar,
Ekkert, Streek are all adaptations of Old Norse names. A larger number of names – Tramst,
Tiuhan, Hethio, Thahan, Tomur, Gibilrazn derive from ancient Gothic. I like Gothic.
Deorham is Anglo-Saxon in form, and means “Village Where the Deer Live.” There is a
village in Somerset in England called Dyrham, and its older form in the Anglo-Saxon
Chronicle was Deorham. A Burh (as in Kyrtill’s Burh) is a burgh/burg/castle.
The most recent, in terms of Wyrish history, are names represented by “Pseudo Norman
French” or
“Pseudo Middle-English” words. These include Wyre, Morne, Soraine, Melion, Brey,
Trempa. etc. In
the older language, ‘Wyre’ would probably be Weorh, but that’s beside the point.
The names of Wizards are, for the most part, utterly fantastic. Shomei, Tersimion, Jovol,
Tozinak, Kothchori, Qiseze etc. There are a few exceptions: Hlioth is Old Norse in form,
Waide is passably Middle English (ish). Mulissu is ancient Assyrian, and does not fit the
mould – but she is from the Thalassine. Mulissu is a complicated figure in Mesopotamian
belief, a kind of sky-goddess, but also a name given to the transcendent aspect of Ishtar, or
the feminine spiritual principle in general.
As mentioned in another post (by Lombard), the names of the celestial host are influenced
by Blake’s poetical names: Enitharmon, Rintrah, Palamabron, Oothoon (=Urthoon),
Enion (=Eniin). . The name Zhuel is quasi-Blake. Rurunoth, Ainhorr, Uzmi are also
passably quasi-Blake, although the intention with the last names was to evoke a ‘darker’
feel. Feezuu, Xerulko are invented. Nehael has the root “-
el” which means “God” in various Aramaic languages, and appears in the names Gabriel,
Michael, Raphael, Sammael etc.
Oronthon is utterly imitative of Blake’s names.
Completely inconsistently, the name Kalkja – the succubus compacted by Feezuu – is
actually Gothic in form. But I couldn’t resist. In Gothic, Kalkja means “whore.”
Tun Hartha - the plateau north of Wyre - is a compound Old Norse + Gothic name, which
means ‘sweet hardship.’ It’s inhabitants call it Linna, however, which in their language
means ‘enclosed space.’ The language of the Tunthi is based on Finnish. Mesikammi, the
shamaness encountered by Nwm, is a poetic word found in the Kalevala meaning ‘Bear,
honey-paw.’ Tietaja means ‘sorcerer, shaman.’
Thalassine is from Attic Greek, and means “Blue-Green,” as in the coulour of the sea.
Many Thalassine names are derived from Middle-Eastern or Greek roots.
Shuth is a Sanskrit word. Sanskrit was originally intended to form the basis of the
Language of Shuth, but I never followed through with the idea.
Graz’zt is canonical, of course.
Originallly posted by Sepulchrave II on 08-08-2002
**
Nwm sped westwards in vaporous form.
After his return from Khu, the Druid had felt depressed at sinking back into the routine on
the
Blackwater meadow – the pavillions, and tents, and feasts and objectionable behaviour of
many of
Trempa’s nobility. The tedious wait for Rintrah to manifest himself to Eadric, and instruct
the Paladin on his next course of action. Nwm had scried Hullu, and determined to find
out what the Tunthi warrior
– and unlikely star in the Uediian resistance in Hethio – was doing.
He arrived, after a three-hour flight, in an isolated glade deep within an area of forest
dominated by elm trees of large size. Around a hundred people of both sexes had formed
an encampment. Nwm was
surprised at its organization, until he remembered that Hullu’s experience extended
beyond the lonely plateau of Tun Hartha – he had served as a mercenary as far afield as
the southern Thalassine.
A trench had been dug, and a dike raised, encircling an area of around three acres. A
wooden rampart had been built and a catwalk ran along its length, and the outer wall of
both the trench and dike had been faced with stone gathered with labour from nearby
streams. As the Druid descended, he moved
through plumes of smoke issuing from a large smithy, and the sound of hammers ringing
reached his
ears. There were stables, a granary, latrines and a dozen other buildings, constructed
hastily but efficiently from timber.
Nwm materialized in front of Hullu, who was teaching a girl of around eight years how to
shoot a
longbow.
“She’s a bit young, don’t you think?” The Druid asked.
“No,” Hullu replied. His unmistakable accent reminded Nwm immediately of his strange
experiences upon the plateau.
“You’ve been busy.” Nwm said. “I’m surprised that you’ve had time to conduct raids as
well.”
“Half of the camp is currently out on a mission,” Hullu said, stretching. “They are dealing
with a punitive exercise mounted by the Temple. My informants told me about it three
days ago – the night that you visited the Temple.”
Nwm arched an eyebrow. “News travels fast,” he said.
“Did you kill him?” Hullu asked.
“No,” the Druid replied.
“Pity,” said Hullu. “I can’t offer you anything to drink, I’m afraid. The beer won’t be
ready for another two months.”
“You are making beer?”
“Certainly,” Hullu grinned. “The brewery went up before the stockade was even finished.
Priorities are priorities, after all.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” Nwm agreed.
**
“We have over a hundred bagaudas who are battle-worthy here,” Hullu said. He sat, cross-
legged upon the floor of a modest hut with sparse furnishings. “Maybe fifty more who are
untested, but enthusiastic.
The rest are children.”
“Victims of persecution?” The Druid asked.
“Indirectly, for the most part,” Hullu replied. “Many were forced from their homes when
the tax burden became too high – they fled rather than face indentureship. A few were
targeted by Oronthonian
zealots, and had their homes burned. Ironically, these were the wealthier ones.”
“I wonder why you yourself are not on the raid that you mentioned,” Nwm said.
Hullu laughed. “Perhaps I am a coward at heart. Or perhaps I recognize the need to depute
responsibility, and foster a sense of autonomy in those who follow me,” he said acidly.
“Sorry,” Nwm apologized. “I don’t mean to question your leadership skills. Who is
leading the raid?”
“A woman named Tarva. She is being advised by one of yours, a Druid called Bodb. Do
you know
him?”
“I can’t say that I do,” Nwm replied. “Is there anything that you need? Anything that I can
provide?
Resources that you lack?”
“Mail shirts. Leather goods. Harnesses for horses. Blankets. Another three or four
fletchers. Saws and axes. Rope. Oil. Around half a ton of cast iron. Bows. Knives, daggers
and swords. Pikes. Shields and helmets. Livestock.”
“Hmm,” Nwm said. “I’ll give it some thought.”
“We’ve raided several chapels and ambushed a few caravans,” Hullu pointed out. “So
we’ve got silver and gold to pay for it. Transportation is awkward, though, and it takes a
long time to make these things from scratch. I’ve tried to discourage my bagaudas from
stealing from the Oronthonian farmers, however. I see them as largely blameless in this
affair.”
“I understand,” Nwm replied. “I’ll do my best. But please, Hullu, the others here must not
find out that I am provisioning you.”
“As if they could possibly think that,” Hullu remarked drily.
When Nwm exited the cabin, a hundred people stood in awed silence and gazed at him:
something which seemed to justify Hullu’s cynicism.
**
“Greetings,” Mostin said. “I’ve never met an Arcanaloth before.”
Xerulko, cloaked and jackal-headed, stood within the thaumaturgic diagram devised by
Shomei. His
hauteur, combined with a vicious sneer, bespoke one used to command, at ease with his
own power.
The Alienist’s curiosity had compelled him to meet the daemon.
Hmm, he looks tricky, Mostin thought.
“Aah, the little Alienist. The Xenomagulus.” Xerulko mocked. “Have you come to tempt
me with sweet offers?”
“Hardly,” Mostin said, sitting in a comfortable chair. “I just came to gloat. Shomei is the
one you should be worried about.”
“She and I will strike a bargain before long. I know her sort. You, however, Mostin the
Subgnostic, are now officially on Prince Graz’zt’s wish list for ‘items required delivered.’
I think you rank around fifth or sixth, after the Paladin, the Succubus, your elementalist
friend and, probably, one or two others who were present. After all, you aren’t that
important.”
Mostin shifted uneasily. He hadn’t intended to draw Mulissu into the equation.
“If Graz’zt continues in this vein, he will quickly find himself running out of powerful
vassals,” Mostin said. “He has already lost a Succubus, a Marilith, two Nalfeshnees, his
favourite Cambion and a Balor to this enterprise. And poor Ainhorr has a broken sword.
Perhaps Prince Big Ears can let him borrow his, for a while. I do trust they made it back
alright? Being chased by Celestials can be quite
harrowing.”
Xerulko said nothing, but gave a condescending smile.
“As for you,” Mostin continued, “I believe that you are due to be collected in a few hours.
Titivilus will be arriving through a Gate opened by Shomei, with a group of Pit Fiends to
escort you back to Dis. I’m sure that a suitable punishment will be devised for you.”
Xerulko hissed, and then laughed. But Mostin had already anticipated his next words.
“If you do somehow convince your captors of your new loyalty,” the Alienist said,
“remember this: you are easily called, bound and obliterated. I do not fear you. Remember
Rurunoth.”
The Arcanaloth peered at Mostin through narrow eyes.
Mostin turned away, and grinned to himself. But before he left Shomei’s manse, he spoke
with the
witch again.
“Some of what you have said has merit, Shomei. You could impress upon the infernal
embassy that I have no quarrel with Hell, and my work will henceforth concentrate on the
Far Realms. Give my
respects to Duke Titivilus.”
“Will you not stay, and meet him?” Shomei asked, disappointed.
“I think not,” Mostin replied.
**
“I will need to borrow your Portable Hole,” Nwm said to Mostin. “And your mirror, if
you please.”
Mostin scowled. “The hole. You will be putting armour, and weapons, and provisions in
it?”
“Yes,” the Druid replied. “I have made arrangements with a number of merchants in
Fumaril. I Wind Walked there yesterday. With your mirror, I can make the quick transports
that I need. I chose the Thalassine, so as not to attract any attention. And the quality of
goods is high.”
“Oh very well,” Mostin said. “But make it quick.”
“I will be done in an hour or so,” Nwm said. “Oh, and I’ll be transporting pigs as well.
And chickens.
And a cow. Or three.”
Mostin gaped.
“Fresh milk is important in a healthy diet, Mostin.”
Mostin gaped again.
“I’ll clean it out afterwards,” the Druid assured him.
“Damn right you will.”
Nwm’s transports turned out to occupy most of rest of the day, and half of the next.
Around twenty thousand Wyrish crowns – much of it in the form of hard currency, but a
considerable portion of it in church icons – found its way from Hullu’s encampment into
the pockets and chests of several
Thalassine merchants of dubious repute. The Druid assumed the guise of a Wyrish agent
employed by a mercenary cadre working out of Jashat – an utterly plausible ruse, given
the ubiquitousness of such organizations in the Thalassine itself.
After consulting with Hullu, Nwm purchased forty heavy crossbows in addition to the
longbows which the Tunthi tribesman had initially requested. As Hullu pointed out, any
idiot could shoot one of those, and even the untrained members of his group could dish it
out to mounted soldiers if they ambushed them with crossbows.
Hullu’s bagaudas were suddenly better armed than most Temple auxiliaries.
**
Eadric sat within the tower room of Hartha Keep with Mostin, Nehael, Ortwin and Nwm.
Diplomacy was the topic of conversation.
“I should speak to the King as a concerned Fey,” Ortwin suggested. “Fear of Temple
persecution, fear of woodlands being ruthlessly burned – those near Deorham being a
good example. That sort of thing.”
Eadric looked sceptical. “It’s rather duplicitous, don’t you think.”
“Why?” Ortwin asked. “I am concerned, and I am a Fey. It makes perfect sense to me.
Don’t the Feys make occasional trips to Morne?”
“I’ve never heard of it happening,” Nwm said. “Fairs near small market towns at
Midsummer, yes –
and even then, usually in disguise. Morne, no.”
“Well, perhaps it’s about time they did,” Ortwin grumbled.
“Feys are connected with the Old Religion,” Nwm said. “They are part of Wyre’s ‘Pagan
Past.’ I’m not sure that they’d be very well received at the Royal Palace, especially given
the current feelings toward Uediians. You might just as well ask a Demon to make a
representation – no offense intended, Nehael.”
“None taken,” the Succubus replied.
“In any case, getting an audience will be difficult,” Eadric pointed out. “Usually, as a
landed Aristocrat, the king would be obliged to grant me a hearing. Given our heretical
status, however, I’m not sure that would apply. Besides which, he is under no obligation to
grant me an audience soon. Some members of the nobility – notably those who have fallen
out of favour, or those with minor titles and estates – wait months for a five-minute
hearing. I’m afraid that I fall into both categories.”
“You could always marry Soraine,” Ortwin said. “As Duke of Trempa, you’d have some
clout.”
“Ortwin, Marriage is a sacrament, blessed by…”
“Or perhaps you’re just afraid to carry out your matrimonial duties,” the Bard continued
unashamedly.
“After all, she is, what, seventy now? But you’ll have to start thinking about this kind of
thing soon, Ed. Marriage is a powerful political tool. If you want to stay in the arena,
you’ll end up wedded. Its inevitable.”
“Shut up, Ortwin,” Eadric said. “What would you do, Mostin?”
“If I were a political animal – which, of course, I am not, because that would violate the
Great Injunction,” he coughed, and stroked Mogus. “If I were, however, I would marry the
Duchess, storm and secure the palace, assassinate the king, usurp the crown, and
retroengineer all of my bloodlines to validate my claim to the throne. I would then begin
to ruthlessly suppress any resistance to my rule, and have all of my chief rivals murdered.
That’s the way it’s usually done, isn’t it? Except, in your case, you could claim divine
right as well. I would declare myself Eadric I, Holy Emperor of Wyre and the Voice of
Oronthon on Earth. I would unite Church and State into a single, seamless body. I would
also issue commands to the effect that all avians must be shot on sight. A golden, birdless
era of peace and prosperity would dawn across Wyre.”
Eadric sighed.
“However,” Mostin continued, “I realize that you may not have the stomach for such an
enterprise. I would therefore speak to whoever holds the reins of power. The King is
largely an irrelevance.”
“That’s true to a point,” Eadric conceded, “but his approval is still required for any course
of action that is proposed.”
“Who are the movers and shakers, behind the scenes?” Nwm asked.
Eadric thought for a while. “Besides the Temple influence at court, which is considerable,
there is Tagur, both the Prince of Einir and Tiuhan’s cousin; Sihu, the Duchess of Tomur;
his Chamberlain,
Lord Foide of Lang Herath; Jholion, the Marquis of Methelhar – Brey’s Uncle,
incidentally; Shiel, the

Duke of Jiuhu – who is much more conservative than that town’s Bishop; Attar, the
Warden of the
Northen March; Skilla, the…”
“I get the picture,” Ortwin interrupted. “Who can we apply leverage to?”
Eadric shrugged. “It’s a shame that both Soraine and the Marquis of Iald are now personae
non gratae.
Both were once held in high esteem in the court.”
“Is Soraine related to the king?” Nwm asked.
“They all are,” Ortwin groaned. “It’s just one, big, in-bred family party with generations
of feuding thrown in for good measure. They’re a bunch of back-stabbing, worthless scum
who leech off of
everyone else. Except Ed, here, obviously.” The Bard grinned charmingly.
“If I were to pick one to ‘apply leverage’ to, as you put it, it would be the Prince of Einir,”
Eadric said.
“Then we should go to Gibilrazen and speak with him.”
“He has a summer palace outside of Morne, as well,” Eadric said.
“I’m sure he does,” Ortwin said sarcastically.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 08-13-2002
Which is, to say, Eadric’s modifier to the skill.
Sorry for the extended absence - making time to both play and write and mindlessly
browse this site is difficult. Also had a long conversation with Dan about Mostin.
Oh, and RL stuff too. Almost forgot that
I’ll post again in the next couple of days, and also post Mulissu to the Rogues’ Gallery, as
requested.
I’ve bumped her up a level since the ELH came out, but its in-game plausible.
Ahh, retrofitting. Don’t you just love it? (Sarcasm)
**
Mostin felt a sensation akin to a twitching in his mind. He swallowed.
He stood up quickly and unsteadily. “I have to go,” he said to the others, and rushed out of
the door.
After he had left, Eadric gave a quizzical look and was met by shrugs and blank stares.
Descending from the tower, the Alienist pressed through the campsite below, heedless of
the drunken Ardanese mercenaries who swayed around, pushing mugs of mead into his
face, and hustled the
quarter-mile to where he had erected his manse.
He walked through the entrance, staggered inside, and closed the door, leaning heavily on
it and
breathing quickly. He entered into his Magnificent Mansion, and sealed the portal behind
him.
Mostin lurched into his study, pulled a cushion from a couch, and curled up on the floor.
He vomited.
Fire burned in his mind. Mogus gave an empathic croon.
It lasted for three hours.
*
Somewhat later, having regained his composure with some dry toast and a stiff drink,
Mostin sat cross-legged on the floor of his study.
His mind swam with potency.
He reached into the Belt of Many Pockets which he had looted from Feezuu - the first time
he had killed her, he noted ironically - and produced a number of scrolls. Shomei had
traded them for the spellbook that he had looted from Feezuu the second time that he had
killed her,* along with a number of other minor items.
Mostin opened the first. It had been scribed quickly but elegantly in Shomei’s own hand.
Gate, it read.
Mostin took a pen, and his own books from his Portable Hole. They smelled faintly like a
farmyard.
Mogus gave a worried squeak. Things could only get more dangerous from here.
**
Prince Tagur, who administered Einir - nearly ten thousand square miles of land centered
around the city of Gibilrazen – was the son of Theiwho, the paternal uncle of Tiuhan, King
of Wyre.
Tagur was a man of immense power. An aristocrat with a pedigree the equal of the King
himself, a
noted swordsman, an able administrator and one with an uncanny ability to penetrate
others’ motives and drives. The Prince considered himself something of a philosopher,
albeit one with a pronounced stoical bent. He was generally inclined to wear simple,
unpretentious clothes, indicative of his no-nonsense, puritanical approach to life. He
despised frippery in all of its forms, and loathed the
spendthrift habits of much of Wyre’s aristocracy. Tagur was a profoundly practical man.
In his own fief, Tagur had implemented a curious regime. Whilst mercantile enterprise
was encouraged, overt displays of wealth were not. The Prince had a penchant for
simplicity, and tried to foster the same sentiments amongst his subjects. He regarded Einir
as his own, private kingdom and, although a
steadfast supporter of the official regime in Morne, was irritated by any dictates which
issued from the capital which conflicted with his own personal view of what was right.
Fortunately, from Tagur’s perspective, this seldom occurred: his own hand was often
found behind policy which issued from the Royal Palace. Unfortunately, any vision which
the Prince possessed had to be ratified by the Royal Council, and by the King himself. By
the time it had been amended, and endorsed to the mutual
satisfaction of all of Wyre’s great magnates, it was often nothing more than a statement of
intent.
Tagur was not a spiritual man, and found religion in all of its forms a rather pointless
exercise.
Nonetheless, he attended the chapel, and was conscientious in his efforts to at least give
the right impression where religious matters were concerned. His relationships with the
Bishop of Gibilrazen, the Curia and the Temple were cool but not antagonistic.
The Prince had observed the events in Trempa in the manner of a disinterested scholar.
When Rede had petitioned for royal aid, Tagur had felt ambivalent – perceiving that it was
an internal affair which the Church should deal with on its own. Acutely aware of the way
things worked at the Royal Court, Tagur had allowed the other great aristocrats to infer
that he supported royal intervention. Suspicious of his motives, the Lord Chamberlain and
the Duke of Jiuhu had moved to block the measure, thus resulting in the impasse which
Tagur had, in fact, desired.
He was therefore surprised one sunny morning in his study, several weeks after the Spring
Equinox, when his nuncio – a spry and quick-eyed man called Mallaus – informed him
that the Baronet of
Deorham, chief instigator of the current Temple crisis, sought an audience with him. Tagur
placed his pen – a plain and unremarkable quill – upon his plain and unremarkable desk,
next to a large pile of papers through which he was diligently working.
Prince Tagur screwed up his face. “What for?”
“He would not say, Your Highness.” Mallaus drawled. His manner of speech – which
irritated many of Tagur’s cohorts – was something that the Prince himself was so
intimately familiar with, that he no longer noticed it.
“You mean he’s here?” The Prince was incredulous. “Tell him to make an appointment,
like anybody else. In fact, no. Just tell him to go away.”
“He respectfully requests that he speak with you concerning the current state of affairs at
the Temple.
He has two others with him: a pagan priest and – er – a Fey. He is most insistent and – er –
persuasive.”
“A Fey?” Tagur vociferated. “What is this, some kind of practical joke? And why did you
even speak to this man, Mallaus? You are not the door-ward.”
“He was admitted by the door-wards into one of the antechambers, and I encountered him
– or them, I should say – on my rounds.”
“Who was on duty at the time, Mallaus? Suspend their benefits immediately. This is
intolerable.”
“Please, not on my account,” Eadric said stepping into the room.
“Get out, or I’ll have you hanged,” Tagur yelled. “How dare you. Guards!”
“Please, Your Highness, I need only a few minutes of your time. Will you hear me out?”
His manner was calm, confident and, apparently, completely self-assured.
For some reason, Tagur desperately wanted to say yes.
“Make an appointment,” the Prince muttered, waving his hand at Eadric.
“This afternoon?” Eadric asked openly.
“No!” Tagur replied. He grunted. “Speak to the secretary, down the corridor, on the right.”
Eadric bowed and left.
Prince Tagur returned to his paperwork, but found that he could not concentrate. He had
been fazed by the exchange. An hour later, his scribe brought his book of appointments for
the day into the Prince’s study. He looked through it, until his eyes fell on a single line.
Eadric of Deorham……3 pm
“What is this?” The Prince asked, exasperated.
“I switched him with the Thane of Storbine, who you were due to speak with this
afternoon. The Baronet said it was very important, so I said we could squeeze him in. You
don’t mind do you,
Highness?”
**
“Alright, Deorham. You’ve got five minutes. What do you want?”
The Paladin smiled. “Thank you for speaking with me, Your Highness. I want you to help
me convince the King to allow my troops passage across royal land,” Eadric said with
disarming candour. “I would also like you to lend your weight to discourage the Royal
Council from intervening in the current
Temple crisis: it may be necessary for me to lead over a thousand troops into Morne to
secure the
Temple compound.”
Tagur raised his eyebrows. “Are you quite insane? ‘It may be necessary?’ What do you
expect us to do
– open the gates and just allow you to walk in?”
“Yes,” Eadric replied.
“Deorham,” Tagur explained drily, “I appreciate your honesty. I’m sure that you feel that
you have been selected for a special task. But I will say this once: at present, you are
under an interdict which issues from the King, as well as the Church. It was he who signed
your warrant. Were they here, Temple
troops would be arresting you, and I would not prevent that arrest – they do, after all, have
Royal approval.”
“Then technically, you should exercise your responsibility, and have me held,” Eadric said
unexpectedly.
“This is an ecclesiastical matter,” Tagur shook his head. “The King merely sanctioned the
Curia to act.
And I’ll be damned if I’m getting involved unless I have to. As far as I know, you’ve
broken no civil law.”
“And if I had?” Eadric asked. An idea was beginning to form in his mind.
Tagur immediately read his intention. “You cannot use a charge of treason as an excuse to
speak with the King, Deorham.” Who was this lunatic, he asked himself.
“Would you agree that the current legal framework in Wyre is a complete farce?” Eadric
asked Tagur.
The Prince frowned. The Paladin’s directness was uncanny. “I agree that it is not perfect.
No legal system is. However, it serves its purpose, to protect most of the people most of
the time.”
“In Trempa, the Temple has been disestablished. It has no legal jurisdiction whatever,”
Eadric said. “All law is decided by civil courts. There is no Temple tax.”
“I am well aware of Soraine’s actions – which are, in fact, legally questionable in and of
themselves with regard to civil law in Wyre. She is not empowered to disestablish the
Church.”
“But she has, nonetheless,” Eadric said. “I would see the same arrangement made
throughout Wyre.”
Tagur was baffled. This was hardly the tack that he had expected Deorham to take: he was
a fanatic, some Messianic type or other. Why did he wish to diminish his own power? And
he had assumed that
Trempa’s curtailing of the Temple’s power had been made on political, rather than
ideological grounds.
He grunted.
“Do you trust me, Prince Tagur?” Eadric asked openly.
The Prince laughed despite himself – an uncommon occurrence, as those who knew him
well could
have testified. “I distrust everyone with equal vigour, Deorham.”
“I do not lie, Your Highness. I work for the renewal of the Church, the abandoning of
outdated dogma, the restoration of the Prelacy and the spreading of my faith. However, I
also support the removal of the Temple’s legislative powers and the institution of a
voluntary system of contributions.”
“In which, I can and will do nothing to help you, Deorham,” Tagur replied.
“You already have, by listening to me,” Eadric smiled. “And I think you believe me.”
“Enough!” Tagur snapped. “You should remember your station. This audience is now
over.” He gestured for Eadric to leave.
“Your Highness,” Eadric bowed.
Tagur waved him back. “Before you go, Deorham, two questions. The murder of Lord
Rede of
Dramore. No charges have yet been brought against you, but they may be. Were you
instrumental in his death?” The Prince fixed Eadric with a penetrating gaze.
“No, Your Highness,” The Paladin said without wavering.
“Do you know who was?” Tagur asked.
“The Bishop of Hethio,” Eadric replied simply.
“How is this known to you?”
“Tahl the Incorruptible is in communion with Lord Oronthon,” Eadric answered in a
matter-of-fact way.
The Prince sighed. Revelation held little weight in his scheme of understanding. “Also,”
he went on,
“the Archiepiscopacy. Do you have designs on it?”
“I will do as decreed by Oronthon,” Eadric replied. “I have ruled it neither out nor in. I am
a servant of His will, and nothing more. And not all things are revealed to me.”
He bowed again, and departed.
*The items rescued from Feezuu’s crypt included her replica spellbook (which Mostin
took, and traded.
He’d already learned the ones he’d wanted from her original set), several potions (which
Eadric took), a Robe of the Void (Allows wearer to see in any darkness, sustains without
air. Taken by Iua), and scrolls taken by Mulissu of spells that she and Mostin already
possessed, but still had trade value, as well as several minor items that had once belonged
to Chorze. As usual, Nwm didn’t want anything,
and Ortwin was, at that point, dead. He complained afterwards, naturally, until Nwm
pointed out that he was ‘no longer dead, and should shut up.’
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 08-15-2002
Time for another update.
Ahh, my poor players.
**
“So?” Ortwin asked Eadric. He and Nwm had been waiting for Eadric to finish his hearing
with the Prince.
“He may be an ally,” the Paladin said. “Or at least a voice in the King’s ear which urges
moderation in the Temple’s action. He didn’t seem too keen about the idea of my leading
troops into Morne.”
“That isn’t entirely surprising,” the Bard said wrily. “Will you speak with him again?”
“I will try,” Eadric said. “Perhaps in a week or so. He should have a chance to breathe, or
I’ll rapidly become an annoyance.”
“And if you lead troops across the Nund without royal sanction?”
The Paladin considered. “Initially, nothing,” Eadric replied. “The western part of the
valley is owned by the Duke of Kaurban, and it’s a pretty marginal tract. He is unlikely to
object with force, although he may petition the King – and that would cause problems. But
as soon as an army sets foot on the royal estates – and they are massive – then I commit
High Treason.”
“We can bypass them if we go through Thahan,” Nwm suggested.
“It only delays the problem,” Ortwin countered. “All of the land adjacent to Morne is
owned by the crown. Right, Ed?”
“Except that owned by the Temple itself,” Eadric nodded.
“I assume magical transportation is not a possibility?” Ortwin suggested.
“I think Mostin is unlikely to help us in this endeavour,” Nwm said. “However, if I
expended my entire spell capacity, I could transform a sizeable number into birds. We
could fly in.”
Ortwin raised an eyebrow. “How many?”
The Druid made a quick calculation. “Around two hundred or so.”
But Eadric shook his head. “Even if we secured the Temple compound, we could not hold
it. We need support – both from the crown and the people. Mounting a clandestine
operation to seize the Temple will irritate a lot of people. Furthermore, I have yet to
receive celestial approval – I will not act until that happens.”
“Then perhaps its time that I stirred things up again,” Ortwin grinned. “I had half of
Morne in my pocket before your trial. It would be a simple matter to rouse the rabble
again.”
“Hmm,” Eadric said. “As I remember you were arrested as a dissident.”
“My tack would be more indirect this time,” Ortwin explained sardonically. “After all, you
aren’t in imminent danger of being turned into a human candle this time.”
“No,” Eadric said. “But you might be.”
“I will go incognito, and appear in a variety of guises. My new hat will be invaluable.”
“Do try not to cause any riots,” Eadric beseeched him. “And I’m sure that Nwm would be
upset if you fuelled the Uediians with crazy ideas again.”
“Bah! Nwm’s perspective has changed,” the Druid said. “He thinks that the Uediians
could do with a good kick up the backside. Fire them up, Ortwin.”
The Bard smiled broadly.
“As for me,” Eadric said, “I think its time that Brey and I had a little talk: he’s had nearly
a month to stew in the field, and his troops are probably almost as depressed as mine. I
will lead an embassy to speak with him.”
“Across the river?” Nwm asked. “I thought you were waiting for the divine say-so.”
Eadric sighed. “Rintrah’s instructions were ‘initiate no act of war’ not ‘make no
diplomatic efforts.’
Otherwise I wouldn’t be here, would I?”
“Fair point,” the Druid conceded. “I might tag along.”
**
The trio wind-walked back to the mustering grounds on Blackwater Mead, only to find
that Mostin had disappeared, along with his portable manse. A patch of brown grass was
all that had indicated the
Alienist’s presence.
“He has moved around six miles to the east, my lord” Tatterbrand explained to Eadric.
“He said that things were becoming too noisy, and that the camp was upsetting his
equilibrium, or somesuch. He
found a nice meadow by a stream in the woods, and has - er – assembled – his mansion
there.”
“Did he rent it from the owner, or is he just squatting?” Eadric asked.
“Actually, it technically belongs to you, sir” Tatterbrand said. “It is in your game forest,
southwest of Deorham.”
“Hmph.”
“I know the meadow,” Nwm said, concentrating on his torc. “I hope the Sprites go easy on
him.”
“I don’t,” Ortwin said.
“He also left these,” Tatterbrand said, producing three envelopes, addressed to each of
them in Mostin’s flamboyant script. Ortwin opened his, and read it.
To Ortwin the Satyr, formally of Jiuhu, from Mostin the Metagnostic, Greetings.
You are cordially invited to attend a grand triple celebration, to be held in honour of my
forty-second birthday (which is imminent), my realization of the higher valences (which
has just transpired), and my transcendence of the limited form which blights so many
others, such as yourself (which occurred some time ago, but has yet to be fully rejoiced
in).
As I am one seldom wont to hold parties, you should, of course, realize that you are
greatly honoured by receiving such an invitation. Many great dignitaries in the field of
Wizardry will doubtless attend, so you must ensure your correct behaviour at all times.
They must not be affronted!
I will expect you at 7 o’clock sharp, two nights after the New Moon. Feel free to bring a
guest.
Mostin
“Cheeky bastard,” Ortwin said. “When is the New Moon?”
“Last night,” Nwm replied. “Did he say anything to you about this?”
“No,” the Bard replied. “But I have a feeling that he may be facing down the Mages of
Wyre. Defying them, maybe. Showing them that he is unafraid, or has done nothing to
merit their concern or
intervention over the Injunction. It’s a bold move. I rather approve.”
Nwm grunted. “I hope it passes without a hitch. If they show up, there will be enough
firepower concentrated in his house to blow half the country away.”
“The question is, why did he invite us?” Ortwin asked.
“Unlikely as it might seem,” Eadric replied, “I think that this is Mostin’s method of asking
for some emotional support.”
**
The Sprites had proven to be no trouble. Mostin had spied several Grigs and Pixies with
his magical sight, and had stepped forward and announced in a loud voice:
“I am Mostin, the Metagnostic. I am glad to share this wood with you, and I am gratified
that you feel
the same way. If you hear loud noises issuing from my abode, do not be alarmed! The
screaming, the rattling of chains, the uncanny moans: these are not Feys that I am binding
to my powerful will. You need have no fear on that count! The Demons and Elementals
that I bind here are subject to my
command, and are quite safe as long as I do not lapse in my diligence. Regrettably, I am a
poor dancer, and I fear that were I invited to join you, the strain of concentrating on my
footwork would inevitably cause some of my captives to escape, a state of affairs that we
should all deplore.”
The Sprites took his point, and decided to leave him alone.
Mostin fretted about his invitations, and wondered who would attend. He had issued
sendings to Tozinak, Troap, Hlioth, Waide, Idro, and Griel. He had conjured a Succubus
and sent it with tidings to Rimilin – whom he despised but knew he should invite – and a
Horned Devil was dispatched with an
invitation to Shomei: both were of the Pseudonatural variety, as Mostin was treading
carefully. He even sent a Dream to Jovol, although he doubted that the great Ogre would
make an appearance. Half a dozen others were also enjoined to attend.
He gave some thought to providing fare for his guests. Although a Magnificent Mansion
would have been a simple solution, it was rather too easy and might imply that he had
made no effort.
The Alienist summoned three djinns to make the preparations for the gathering. Whilst
impressed with the copious quantities of wine produced by the genies, the food was rather
uninspiring and had to be modified by several cantrips before it passed Mostin’s strict
approval. The judicious application of the fabricate spell – new to Mostin’s repertoire –
produce an immense oak table in the meadow from a nearby tree to support the viands, as
well as wooden chairs, bowls, goblets, ewers and plates. A large canopy was raised above
the area and lit with several torches that issued a continual flame. The Alienist grumbled
as he sprinkled expensive ruby dust upon the flambeaux in order to invoke the magic.
Mostin considered entertainment, entered his cellar, and used a Planar Binding to call a
Lillend. Her beautiful blue and green feathered wings almost caused the Alienist to throw
up, as he spoke to her in an unsteady voice. The outsider was subdued, expecting an
onerous task to be demanded of her.
“I am having a party,” Mostin said. “I should like to engage your services for twelve hours
or so. You
need only sing, recite poetry, play your lyre, relax and impress my guests with your…” he
swallowed,
“…beauty. If you agree to this modest proposal, I will give you some emeralds which
complement your…feathers.” He shuddered.
The Lillend, taken aback by the ease of the proposed task, agreed forthwith. Mostin
lamented the
sacrifices that one had to make on the treacherous path of social climbing.
**
Less than an hour before things were due to begin, Eadric arrived on Contundor.
“I don’t remember leasing this meadow to you, Mostin,” he said, dismounting.
The Alienist smiled uneasily, unsure whether the Paladin was joking.
“Who exactly is attending this gathering,” Eadric asked. “That is, to say, am I likely to be
in violation of my oaths if I make an appearance?”
Mostin coughed. “Well, perhaps, if you strictly interpret your personal code.”
Eadric raised an eyebrow.
“Shomei the Infernalist will be here,” Mostin replied, “although she is not evil, per se,” he
quickly added. “Umm, yes”.
“And?” The Paladin asked.
Mostin sighed. “I have also invited Rimilin. He may or may not come, but I could hardly
snub him. He is a thoroughly unpleasant character. For what it’s worth, I don’t like him
either.”
“What does he do?” Eadric inquired archly.
“He is a demonist,” the Alienist muttered, “an Acolyte of the Skin.”
“Mostin…”
“Eadric, you need to understand that we – wizards, that is – do not use the same criteria as
you to decide friendship and acquaintance. We are no less judgmental, but we operate
using a different
paradigm. Those of us who profess a certain philosophical stance – morally and ethically
speaking, that is – must coexist in relative peace with one another. We are forgiving of
each others’ idiosyncrasies.”
“And Feezuu?”
“Feezuu went too far,” Mostin said. “She was a disruptive influence, who threatened the
‘Body Magical’ – if you understand my meaning. She slew several other mages in her bid
for power and
revenge. That is unacceptable behaviour. Besides, she was a Cambion from another Plane
– that puts an entirely different slant on things.”
“I’m sorry Mostin. I’m afraid it would compromise me too much. I cannot freely associate
with evil creatures.”
Mostin sighed. “And Nwm and Ortwin?”
“Are you kidding? Ortwin wouldn’t miss a party. And Nwm is both more curious and
tolerant than I.
You should get Ortwin to perform.”
“He needs no encouragement from me. Besides, I have temporarily contracted with a
Lillend for the purpose.” Mostin replied.
“A Lillend? I have never met one. Perhaps before I go…”
“And Rimilin may not come at all,” Mostin said brightly. “You can always depart
immediately if he does.”
So Eadric remained, ready to leave as soon as Rimilin – or anyone else upon whom he
detected Taint -
arrived. Several wizards of modest ability were flying in from various directions, and a
cacophonous roar accompanied by a blinding flash of lightning announced the dramatic
appearance of Mulissu. She floated effortlessly fifteen feet above the ground, and her skin
crackled and crawled with electricity for a moment before dissipating.
“Why was I not invited?” She snapped.
Oops, thought Mostin. “I had assumed…” he began.
” Presumed, I think you mean.”
“Yes,” Mostin said apologetically. “If I might inquire, what method did you use to arrive?”
“I am surprised that my daughter has not shown you the scrolls that she ‘borrowed’ from
me.*”
“Oh?” Mostin said. “Would you like a drink?” He tactlessly changed the subject.
**
All in all, things went rather well for Mostin. Nwm, Ortwin, Nehael and Iua all attended.
Despite their feud, Idro and Troap – who had flown in on his enormous Wyvern –
managed to remain civil with one
another. Hlioth arrived in the form of an elfin maiden, and promptly disappeared into the
woods nearby to cavort with the Feys – pursued by a certain lusty Satyr. The Lillend was
well-received, and the gathering was praised for its ‘rustic charm.’
No mention was made of the Injunction, and no dire threats were issued – although a
phrase from the humourless Waide made the Alienist pause for thought:
“Good party, Mostin. Glad to see nothing controversial here.”
Tozinak arrived late, and only his cloak gave away his identity to those who knew him. He
entertained people with a number of lewd but amusing illusions until Mostin asked him to
stop.
Predictably, Jovol was absent. Neither Griel, nor the Hag Jalael made an appearance, and
neither did Rimilin - for which Mostin was grateful. At least Eadric could relax.
But, just as the Paladin was leaving, Shomei appeared with her guest – rather later than
Mostin had anticipated. Both arrived in a blaze of fire.
Mostin was right - the trace of evil around the witch was so faint as to be almost
undetectable. Her guest, however, was another matter entirely. He was a handsome man
who possessed a poise, elegance and natural ease which thinly veiled what seemed to be a
core of raw power and evil. The reek of taint was so profound, so deep, so primal, that
Eadric was almost overwhelmed by it. One of the Fallen, without any doubt. He drew
Lukarn and light surrounded him.
Zhuel immediately manifested from the Ethereal Plane and interposed himself between
Eadric and the newcomer.
Mostin looked horrified at the prospect of some dreadful scene occurring.
The man held up his hand, palm outwards. “Peace, Archon,” he said to the Celestial. “I am
here by calling, have committed no evil act, and violate no laws. This is legitimate
business, and there is no coercion involved. I am within my rights as determined by the
Accord.”
Zhuel hissed.
The man bowed low, more a gesture of mockery than respect. “Greetings, Eadric of
Deorham, Blessed of Oronthon – your circumstances are well- known to me. Greetings,
Nehael – it has been a long, long time. And greetings, Mostin the Metagnostic – this is a
pleasant soirée. Perhaps we could make time to speak later?”
Mostin glowered at Shomei, and then turned to Eadric. “I think you’d better go,” he said.
“You’re unlikely to ever feel much more compromised than this.”
*A reference to the spells which Iua had attempted to bribe Mostin with. Mulissu’s
Passage of Lightning is an 8th level Transmutation [Teleportation] which allows
instantaneous interplanar travel to a specific location. A kind of refined Plane Shift.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 09-12-2002
So: I’ve decided to start a new thread, as the old one is getting a bit cumbersome.
It goes without saying that a huge amount has passed since I last posted, so there is a lot to
catch up with. Please note that posts will probably be more infrequent than previously, so
as to avoid burnout in actually recounting stuff. Its been nice to actually have time to plan,
and play.
As I mentioned previously, there is a kind of natural lacuna in the story after those events
at Khu involving Feezuu, Ainhorr and the Celestial descent. If you can suspend your
disbelief, and attribute events that happened after that to the third book - this one - then I
think that it flows together more naturally.
Of course, I didn’t know what to call it then, because the events which characterize it
hadn’t occurred.
They have now - at least to a point.
Lots of bad things happen, and loyalties are shaken and upset. The first post, relatively
light in content, is not at all typical of the sessions that we have since played.
And the point is made that whatever story arcs I devise, my players (and occasionally die
rolls) tend to force things into better ones.
**
Mostin Gets Philosophical, and Ortwin Goes a-Courtin’
It was the morning after Mostin’s party, and the Alienist joined Eadric and Nwm in the
hall at Kyrtill’s Burgh. He pointedly avoided the invisible Devas, who looked even more
stern and judgmental than
usual.
“Before you start,” the Alienist held his palms up towards Eadric, “I had no idea that
Shomei would be bringing an infernal guest. I would have discouraged her from attending
if I had.”
“Who was it?” Eadric asked. “And what ‘legitimate business’ was he referring to?”
“Duke Titivilus, and temptation,” Mostin replied. “Specifically, of me.”
“And you accepted?” Eadric inquired. “If so, I think our friendship is at an end, Mostin.”
“I did not.” the Alienist snapped. “Although, I must admit, I was tempted. But I know
from experience that such arrangements tend to come at a higher price than is immediately
apparent.”
“What did he offer?” Nwm inquired. “Something suitably seductive, I hope?”
“Yes,” said Mostin, cryptically.
“And Shomei?” Eadric asked. “What was her part in this? I assume that your association
with her is at an end?”
“Certainly not,” Mostin replied indignantly. “Shomei is a good friend, and by hearing
Titivilus out, I may have helped her extricate herself from a tight spot.”
Eadric looked confused.
“She has almost discharged her compact with him, Eadric. He has furnished her with
certain…
perquisites…and she has been instrumental in facilitating his sojourns on the Prime. By
agreeing to act
as mediator between Titivilus and myself – a facilitator in the Temptation process, if you
will – Shomei is close to ending their misalliance.”
The Paladin was aghast. “And you don’t resent her for that? I am constantly confused by
your motives, Mostin.”
“Initially, I was offended,” Mostin confessed, “but Shomei explained her circumstances
after Titivilus departed. She feels that it is hazardous to be involved with two Devils at
once.”
“Two?”
“Her loyalties are currently split between Belial and Dispater. She has overreached herself.
She is attempting to sever her connection with Dis and Titivilus as diplomatically as
possible.”
Eadric groaned. “This woman sounds like a barrel of trouble, Mostin. She will drag you
on the path to perdition if you are not cautious.”
“No,” the Alienist said. “She will not. You do not understand her. I’m sorry to pull rank on
you Eadric, but there are some things that you will simply never comprehend, because
your faith dictates that reality is a certain way, and no other. Her reality is not yours. Her
guidelines are not yours.
Nonetheless, she is highly principled. A left-hand path adept, if you will. Do not make the
mistake of judging her by your morality.”
“I cannot understand this,” Eadric said.
“I know,” Mostin smiled sympathetically. “For what it’s worth, I think that compacting
with Devils is unwise, but for different reasons than you. Shomei regards them as tools – I
would argue that there are more efficient and less hazardous ones.”
“Tools for what? Power? Dominion?”
“Only in the hands of the weak,” Mostin replied. “That’s not to say that I haven’t had my
fair share of power fantasies, because I have. But they are aberrant. Incomplete. It is an
extension of the same ethos
which informs the Great Injunction: the quest for power is ultimately futile, and is a
misapplication of personal resources and energy.”
“Knowledge, then?” The Paladin asked.
“Partly. But beyond gnosis, there are states so profound that there are no words to describe
them. Why do gods, devils, demons - or whatever -meddle in human affairs?”
“I’m sure you’re going to tell me,” Eadric said drily.
“They are afraid of us. They seek to limit and control us, Eadric. We threaten them,
because we possess something which they do not: infinite potential.”
“To become like them?”
Mostin shook his head. “To utterly transcend them.”
“And magic is your vehicle in this process?”
“Magick. Yes.”
“And what is this ‘final state’ which you aspire towards, Mostin? What is ‘Metagnosis?’”
Eadric was intrigued. He had never heard Mostin speak as openly and as coherently about
his own philosophy
before.
“You misunderstand,” Mostin replied. “There is no ‘final state.’ There is only becoming.
Infinite becoming.”
“That is a somehow disquieting prospect,” Eadric said.
“Yes,” Mostin concurred. “It should be.”
“I’m just glad that I don’t agree with a word that you’ve just said,” Eadric smiled.
Mostin shrugged.
“But what did the Devil offer?” Nwm asked. “I am curious.”
“A Demiplane called ‘Cha’at.’ Not very large – around sixty miles across, or a hundred
thousand cubic miles. But very nice: perfect elemental balance, one access point only,
benign flora and fauna. It is comprised of an island surrounded by warm, shallow seas.
There are olive groves, wild vines and
sandstone hills – at present. All morphics are, in fact, alterable. And its temporal morphic
is alterable, also.”
“Immortality?” Nwm was incredulous. “Frankly, I’m surprised you didn’t take it. I’d have
been sorely tempted.”
“And his price?” Eadric asked.
“My loyalty. I am even more suspicious of open-ended deals with Devils than I am of
those which contain ten pages of impenetrable small-print.”
“You spoke of Shomei’s involvement with him being ‘almost at an end.’ What else is there
to come?”
“She must facilitate a final translation for him,” Mostin explained. “He will attempt
another Temptation.”
“Of you?” Nwm asked.
“No,” Mostin replied. “The rules of the Accord are very strict. He may only attempt to
seduce a single mortal once.”
“‘Accord?’” Eadric asked. “That is the second time I have heard that word in the past day.
What Accord?”
Mostin screwed up his face. “Do you not know? Has Zhuel not told you?”
“Zhuel is not empowered to tell him,” Nehael said, entering the chamber unexpectedly,
“and despite his holiness has an incomplete understanding of the truth. Temptation is the
lawfully deputed province of Devils, Eadric. It is an enterprise blessed by Oronthon
himself.”
“That is rather a Heretical viewpoint,” the Paladin said, “although not entirely a surprise to
me, given the number of other revelations that I have had to accept. I need ‘official’
verification, of course.”
Nehael raised an eyebrow. She had expected more resistance to the idea. His passivity to
Oronthon’s Will seemed complete. She would inform Rintrah.
“It goes beyond a tacit understanding, Eadric. There are formal rules, which Devils never
break –
although they constantly attempt to reinterpret them. They play by the book. Demons are
less observant of the rules, and while the Bright God tolerates their machinations, he does
not sanction them. The difference is vitally important.” She smiled.
Eadric grimaced. “I assume that this Duke’s final Temptation will be directed towards
me?”
“That would be my guess, also,” Mostin nodded.
“When should I expect it?” The Paladin asked.
“When it is hardest to decline,” Nehael replied.
**
Ortwin reclined against the bole of a tree in the afternoon sun after a particularly
passionate bout of cavorting with Hlioth, the Green Witch. She had organized the weather
to their mutual satisfaction, replacing dreary grey clouds with a warm, balmy sunshine.
Despite his physical satiation, Ortwin was frustrated.
“I’m bored,” the Bard said. “With life,” he added quickly afterwards, so as to not offend
her. “Ennui.
Dissatisfaction. That kind of thing. Little seems to grab my attention these days.”
“Of course you’re bored,” she said unhelpfully. “You’re a Fey. Ennui and melancholy are
the perpetual bane of Feys.”
“I mean I was bored before,” he said. “I have no sense of purpose or direction. No
inspiration. No goals to pursue. No great plan towards which I work. I feel listless.”
“You are a selfish cynic. What do you expect?”
“Hmph,” Ortwin sighed. She was being less than sympathetic. “You seem content enough
to have no ambition. What’s your secret?”
“Simple,” Hlioth replied. “I just have no ambition. It’s not something that I cultivate, or
try to maintain.
It’s just the way I am. There is nothing missing from me.”
“And there is from me?” Ortwin asked, somewhat offended.
“Your words, not mine,” she countered. “Is there no cause to which you can attach
yourself? No movement for you to champion? Have you considered religion?”
“Certainly not,” the Bard replied.
“Politics? The military?”
“Gods, no. The thought is abhorrent.”
“Then I am afraid that your existence is doomed to be shallow and unfulfilled, unless you
can come to realize that ambition itself is futile. If you can accept this, then you will begin
to appreciate a simple, uncomplicated life.”
“You sound disturbingly like Nwm,” Ortwin said.
“Nwm is wise,” Hlioth laughed easily.
“He regards you as – eccentric,” Ortwin replied. “Neither a witch nor a druidess.”
She shrugged. “I have no great desire to fit in.”
“How old are you, Hlioth?” Ortwin asked.
“Why? How old are you?” She replied.
“Forty-four,” he replied, “or at least I was forty-four before my, uh…”
“Transmigration?” She suggested.
“Yes, quite,” said the Bard.
“Then I am older than you,” Hlioth said vaguely.
“There is a rumour that you are immortal,” Ortwin said. “Is it true?”
“How should I know? I’m not dead yet. You, however should certainly have a long life –
providing that you are careful, of course.”
“What do you mean?” The Bard asked suspiciously.
“Put it this way, dear: have you ever heard of a Fey dying of old age?”
“No, I suppose not,” he conceded. “Then what kills them?”
“Melancholy. Ennui. The lack of will to go on.” And Hlioth looked profoundly sad.
“Great,” Ortwin said sarcastically. “Thanks for the optimistic words.”
“Oh, snap out of it Ortwin! Stop being so self-indulgent. You have a perspective that no
other Fey I know has – in that you are not entirely a Fey at all. Play to your strengths. Be
less self-centered.” She sighed. “What excites you most?”
“Women. Sword-play. Witty banter. That’s the problem. I’m eminently shallow.”
“Are you satisfied with your fencing style?” Hlioth asked.
“I had been, until my encounter with Iua,” Ortwin replied. “She is a genius. I am merely
exceptional.”
“But you are less…” Hlioth considered…“overspecialized. Do you resent the fact that she
is a woman?”
“No,” the Bard replied honestly. “I resent her because she is far better than me at
something which I have always felt I am very good at.”
“Do you find her attractive?” Hlioth asked unexpectedly.
Ortwin peered quizzically at her. What was she up to? “I am suspicious of your motivation
in asking that question,” he said.
“That is because you don’t understand me, Ortwin of Jiuhu. I do not care for rivalry. I am
Hlioth – and I am utterly free.”
“In that case, yes. I find her attractive.”
“Have you made advances towards her?” The Green Witch probed.
“Not exactly,” Ortwin said. “I have had lustful thoughts, and, unfortunately, she perceived
them. Look, Hlioth, I don’t know where this line of inquiry is going. Would you please
enlighten me?”
“Think about it Ortwin: she is your ideal match. She is a beautiful woman. She is bold,
restless, and
confident. She is your equal, if not your superior, in wit and badinage. She is a performer
whose abilities compare favourably to your own. She is also perhaps one of the greatest
living practitioners of the Thalassine rapier style and, like you, needs a focus. Unlike you,
however, she is not cynical and has not forgotten her idealism. Her mother is an Evoker of
singular power, her father is a Djinn prince…”
“A prince?” Ortwin asked. “Since when?”
“Several hundred years at least, I’d guess,” Hlioth said drily. “Did you never think to
inquire about Ulao?”
“She is reluctant to discuss her parentage. I didn’t want to press her. Is he rich?”
“Fabulously, I’d imagine,” Hlioth sighed, “if such things are important to you.”
“Money is never a bad thing,” the Bard remarked.
“Hmm,” Hlioth grunted. “The opposite is true in my experience. Has she evinced any
romantic interest?”
“Not in me,” Ortwin said, smiling. “Which is, in my humble view, a sign of madness or
aberration in itself.”
“An interest in anyone else?”
“Not to my knowledge,” Ortwin said. “Perhaps she is very discreet.”
“Or perhaps she is waiting for you to show a sign of your interest. Why else would she be
still here?
Why do you think that she crossed swords with you, if it were not to test your suitability
as a potential mate?”
“Do you have to make it sound quite so functional? I have delicate sensibilities, and am
easily upset. In any case, she seemed quite comfortable humiliating me in our duel – I
suspect that that was her main motivation.”
“Goddess, you are a cynic, Ortwin!” Hlioth said. “Maybe she needed to assert herself and
her independence. It must have been difficult for her to confront you. She may be
somewhat in awe of you.
I think that you underestimate your reputation.”
“I never underestimate my reputation.” Ortwin grinned. “But the point is well-made.
However, my hirsuteness and hooves may be an obstacle to any romantic entanglement
now. Besides, she can be a
spoiled brat. I think she has been indulged too much, and is too used to getting her own
way.”
Hlioth shrugged. “Think on it. In any case, I am returning to Nizkur later today, but fear
not! We still have time for dalliance. I’ve ordered a lightning storm. I thought it might be
stimulating.”
Ortwin gazed upwards. The clear blue sky had vanished during their conversation, to be
replaced again with an impenetrable grey veil. A huge thunderhead was forming above
them.
**
Ortwin never thought about anything for too long.
“I want a rematch,” the Bard said to Iua. She was performing improbable acts of balance,
in the meadow next to Mostin’s manse.
Nwm, standing nearby with Eadric, grimaced. He knew what was coming next.
“If he is willing,” the Bard continued, “Nwm will…”
“Yes, yes,” the Druid said. “Patch up the holes. I know. You must be insane, Ortwin.”
“Not entirely. There are new rules. No magic is to be employed. No spells, potions, buffs.
No thought-reading devices. No magic armour or protection devices. And no magic
weapons. A test of skill, pure and simple. Scimitar against rapier. Conventional armour is
permissible to both parties, of course. Do
you accept?”
“I find armour rather cumbersome,” Iua replied. “Had you intended to wear field plate as
an added precaution?”
Eadric guffawed.
Ortwin looked somewhat affronted. “I think a leather vest and buckler will suffice. Well? I
hope you aren’t entirely dependent upon your Vampiric rapier, Iua. Because we both
know, nobody is really that fast, are they?”
She bit her lip. “No,” she confessed, “but you will still lose. Allow me an hour to prepare.
I need to locate a suitable weapon.”
“As do I,” Ortwin said. “And there aren’t many Elves in these parts.*”
“What’s this about, Ortwin?” Nwm asked the Bard, after she had left to enter the house.
“You know that she is better than you.”
“Yes,” Ortwin admitted. “But I need to know how much better she really is. How old
would you say Iua is, Nwm?”
The Druid shrugged. “Seventeen? Eighteen? Not more than twenty, in any case.”
“What do you think of her?”
“She is remarkable, in every regard,” Nwm replied. “Why?”
“I am considering courting her,” Ortwin said.
” Courting? ” Eadric asked, astounded. “That term seems somehow incongruous when it
comes from your lips, Ortwin.”
“Chivalry is a farce which any idiot can hide behind,” the Bard said acidly, “but that is not
what I am referring to. I simply intend to be thoughtful and reserved.”
Eadric scratched his head. The whole world had suddenly gone mad. “Is this some
springtime thing, Ortwin? Do Satyrs suffer from an imbalance in the humours when the
blossom is on the trees?”
Nwm laughed heartily at the Bard, who looked mildly offended. “Besides,” the Druid said,
recovering,
“I thought you had some arrangement with Hlioth.”
Ortwin scowled.
“Hey,” Nwm said defensively, “If you mess with the weather on my turf, don’t expect it to
go unnoticed. I check that kind of thing out.”
“You spied on us?”
“No, indeed. I was merely aware of your presence.” The Druid tapped his torc.
“Actually, it was Hlioth who suggested that I could do worse than pursue Iua.”
“Hlioth is a crazy old witch,” Nwm said. “Be careful of her.”
“She is sensitive and caring, although a little strange, I’ll admit,” Ortwin said.
“In that she suggested that the best way to pursue Iua would be to try and lop her head off
in a duel?”
Eadric asked ironically.
“No. That was my idea, actually.” Ortwin replied.
“Ahh,” Eadric nodded knowingly.
“Don’t be so sarcastic, Ed. It doesn’t become you. This is about the independence of the
spirit –
something which I really don’t expect you to understand.”
“Peace,” Nwm said quickly, holding up his hand. “Time is moving on, and we have to find
Ortwin a weapon. Eadric, do you have a scimitar in the armory at the Burgh?”
“Several. Tatterbrand knows where to look.”
“And get me a buckler and a leather jerkin,” Ortwin said.
Nwm nodded, stepped into a tree, and vanished.
**
Tatterbrand rode hard from Kyrtill’s Burgh to bring the scimitar to Ortwin, despite the fact
that Nwm had offered to return with it. The squire was traditional that way.
“Anyone care to wager?” Mostin asked. “My money is on Iua.”
Eadric coughed, and Nwm looked at the ground.
“Thanks for the support,” Ortwin sniped.
Iua appeared bearing a small buckler and a rapier of fine quality, forged from good
Thalassine steel.
“Where did you get that?” The Bard asked disconsolately.
“Er, it’s mine,” Mostin said apologetically. “I lent it to her. Don’t worry – it isn’t
dweomered.”
“Hmph,” Ortwin grunted. “Shall we start at, say, twenty feet apart?”
Iua looked pointedly at Ortwin’s hooves. “If you are trying to maximize your tactical
advantage, you have just miscalculated,” she said sarcastically. “Perhaps you would like to
reconsider?”
“Twenty feet,” Ortwin said through gritted teeth. Gods, she could be annoying. He drew
the scimitar, and briefly inspected it. Good choice, Tatterbrand, he thought. It was of
superior workmanship and, like other weapons kept in Eadric’s armoury, well-honed and
well-oiled.
Iua saluted him in a most condescending manner.
“I will give the sign for the fight to commence,” Mostin announced grandly. “You will not
fail to recognize it. If anyone would care to wager, now is your last chance.”
“Oh very well,” Nwm said. “Fifty crowns says that Ortwin lasts at least twenty-five
seconds.”
“Done!” Mostin said, delighted.
Ortwin squinted at the Druid, who looked back apologetically. Mostin gestured briefly and
an
enormous boom echoed across the meadow, causing the ground to tremble and chest
cavities to vibrate.
Iua moved like a liquid. In a heartbeat, she dashed forwards two paces, launched herself
into the air, curled into a ball, span the remaining distance and landed squarely in front of
the Bard.
His mouth opened in disbelief as her rapier instantly found a gap in the leather vest that he
wore, and cold steel bit into him. As he reeled, Ortwin expected her momentum to carry
her onwards, but
somehow she had arrested it. Her weapon was everywhere. Again.
“Remarkable,” Mostin said in wonder. “And to consider that she is unaugmented. Do you
think she might be the best living practitioner?”
“It’s hard to say,” Tatterbrand replied. “The rapier is not my forté, and there are many
different styles.
Although for sheer speed, I’ve yet to see her match. But rapier and buckler is actually
considered a rather old-fashioned technique these days in Fumaril.”
Mostin looked quizzical.
“You know. Main gauche, rapier and cloak, rapier and scabbard. It’s all the rage.”
“Oh,” Mostin said.
“Look at Ortwin, though,” Tatterbrand pointed. “He’s actually very good.”
The Bard had adopted a considered pose, with a thoughtful expression upon his face. He
wondered
whether he could wear Iua down: in terms of physical stamina, and the sheer ability to
withstand the blows, he suspected that he outmatched her. He was also beginning to
realize that having a hairy hide had certain benefits: her last blow, although penetrating
both his guard and his armour, had failed to break his skin.
Abruptly, his scimitar lashed out furiously, causing the girl to move to block it. She
misread it, the Bard dove and twisted, and the blade bit into the girl’s arm in a single, well-
placed strike. He grinned.
“It’s also worth considering that Ortwin is a far better bullsh*tter than she is,” Tatterbrand
remarked.
“She will now adopt a different tactic. Observe.”
Iua assumed the impenetrable screening position which had vexed Ortwin during their
first exchange, causing the Bard to grimace in recognition. He held his scimitar tightly as
he anticipated her next maneuver.
Tap-oh no you don’t- tap-no- tap-no- tap-no. Hah! Ortwin was amazed to see that he still
held onto his weapon. Iua pouted and then looked more determined.
Deciding that a different strategy might be in order, and aware that her screen was near
invulnerable to attack, Ortwin suddenly turned, erupted into a burst of speed, and galloped
away from Iua, his hooves taking him out to a distance of eighty feet. He threw down his
buckler and gripped his scimitar in both hands.
As Ortwin turned, his weapon held in front of him, the pose made Mostin feel distinctly
uncomfortable, reminding him of a certain Duke of Hell.**
“Sound tactics, Ortwin,” Nwm called from the sidelines. “Hang onto your sword.”
“Yes, run away Ortwin,” Iua goaded him as she walked calmly towards him. “Trot off into
the woods.”
She smiled wickedly, and then gestured provocatively for him to charge her.
Ortwin charged, covering over sixty feet of open ground with remarkable speed, his
scimitar flailing wildly above his head. He thundered into Iua but despite his blow, she
held her ground.
Tap-not this time, I’ve got two hands on it – tap – slide – twist – flick. Dammit. The
scimitar dropped to the ground, and Iua stabbed him twice in the thigh for good measure.
Ortwin winced.
“Alright, that’s it,” he snarled. “I’ve had enough of this.”
Iua expected a headbutt, and was surprised to find Ortwin groping at her rapier. She
stabbed him in the arm.
“Ow!” He said as his hands closed around the hilt of her sword.
“That’s cheap,” Mostin said to Eadric.
“But effective,” Eadric observed, as Ortwin wrested the slender blade from her grasp and
poked at her with it.
“Do you give up?” Ortwin asked, gripping the rapier in both hands.
“Are you nuts?” Iua replied. “I could beat you blindfolded. Besides, look at you.”
Ortwin noticed that he was bleeding from half a dozen different wounds. He suddenly felt
very weak.
Iua crouched, drew a slender poignard, and grinned. “You were better off with your
scimitar,” she said.
“I’ll tell you what, I’ll let you retrieve it, and I’ll use this. Won’t make a scrap of
difference to the final outcome, but you might save some face.”
“Don’t be so damned patronizing,” Ortwin complained. “A little modesty would sit well
on you.”
Iua goggled at the irony of the comment. “Coming from anyone but you, Ortwin, I might
heed that remark.”
The Bard gave his best charming smile. “I concede the bout. Again. Mostin, pay up.
Eadric, thank-you for the loan of the sword. Is there any firewine nearby?”
Iua walked up to the Bard. “What, exactly, is this about Ortwin?”
“I thought I might court you, with your consent.”
“You have an odd way of suggesting it,” she countered.
“I recognize that your fragile ego needs to be nurtured and supported,” the Bard remarked
drily.
“I have no objection,” she said in a matter-of-fact way. “But of course, you will need my
father’s permission. He is rather traditional in that regard. Besides, what happened to the
Green Witch?”
Ortwin groaned.
Later that same evening, when everyone else had retired, Eadric sat by the fire with his
hounds in the hall at Kyrtill’s Burgh.
When Rintrah appeared, and told him what had to be done, his stomach sank.
“Do you doubt?” The Planetar asked him.
“Yes,” Eadric replied. “My ability, not Oronthon’s judgement.”
“That is acceptable,” Rintrah replied.
“And I fear the machinations of fiends,” the Paladin said.
The Celestial laughed openly and warmly. “I’m afraid that will never change,” he smiled.
**
It was a wet, grey morning in late spring when Eadric ordered that the horns be sounded,
and he rode with his captains and paladins across the bridge at Hartha Keep to parley with
Brey. He did not bear the message that he had originally intended.
He took thirty men with him, including Nwm, Tramst, the Penitents who had sworn
loyalty to him in
the aftermath of the battle at Deorham, Thanes Streek and Togull, and the Uediian Ryth of
Har Kumil.
Jorde, formally of the Temple, bore Eadric’s banner – a three headed silver phoenix on an
azure
field.*** Tatterbrand rode close behind the Paladin.
The bridge – Aaki’s Bridge, as it was named – was ancient. A vestige of Old Borchia, the
state which predated Wyre, it was a weathered, moss-covered affair which had improbably
stood the test of both time and the numerous inundations of the river. A long causeway led
up to it from both the eastern and western sides, elevating the road above an uninviting
bog, before the track narrowed and traversed the dilapidated cantilevers of the span itself.
At exactly the midpoint, alerted by the horns which had rung from Hartha Keep, a
contingent of
Templars waited patiently for Eadric to arrive with his knights. The river, still swollen by
the thaw and the spring rains, coursed rapidly below, only a few feet beneath the peak of
its arches. It carried driftwood with it, and foamed and gurgled around the stone pilons.
Eadric evinced some surprise at the group waiting for him, the more so when they
sounded their horns indicating that they were an embassy. He had expected a more
belligerent reception, and wondered
whether new orders had issued from Morne regarding the means by which Brey should
deal with him.
As they closed, Nwm spoke with him.
“Brey is there. Should I leave? I think he holds little love for me.”
“He probably wonders why he is still alive,” Eadric said ironically. “Please refrain from
killing everybody except him – this is an embassy, after all.”
“You don’t understand why I did what I did, do you Ed?” Nwm asked.
“I am beginning to,” the Paladin replied unexpectedly. “I understand that you did what
you thought was necessary.”
“But was it?”
“It is easy to make judgements with hindsight,” Eadric replied. “Would you do it again, if
events repeated themselves?”
“That question is meaningless,” Nwm answered.
“Precisely,” the Paladin agreed.
“I could win this war alone,” Nwm pointed out. “Break the Temple. Obliterate it. I have
only recently come to understand that.”
“And gain what?”
“Nothing that would endure after me,” Nwm said sadly. “How are you going to deal with
this idiot, anyway?”
“Not how he - or even you - expects,” Eadric replied.
**
“That’s quite far enough, Heretic,” Brey shouted at a distance of around thirty yards. “You
can bring Tahl the Corrupted with you, but the other pagans and blasphemers can stay
where they are.”
Several of the Penitents were almost overcome with zeal, and prepared to spur their
destriers into a charge. Eadric restrained them, before riding on alone with Tahl.
Nwm carefully considered the sky, and felt reassured that he had already primed it, just in
case he needed to blast anyone.
“Greetings, Lord Brey,” Eadric said politely, and without rancour. “I trust you are well?”
“What is the purpose of this parley?” The Templar asked haughtily.
“I’ve come to see if you’re amenable to negotiations,” Eadric replied. “I’m surprised that
you’re even talking to me. Has the policy in Morne towards Trempa changed?”
“The Temple staunchly defends Orthodoxy in all of Wyre,” Brey answered.
“Yes, quite,” Eadric sighed.
“Unless you are prepared to atone for your sins, and accompany me to Morne for
judgement, I doubt that there is little common ground here. Is that your purpose?”
“No.” Eadric said. “But there are words that I would have you convey to your superiors in
the Curia.
First, I hereby assume the titles of Grand Master of the Temple and Inquisitor General, as
both posts are currently vacant. Second, I demand that all Temple troops and resources be
surrendered to me until the new Prelate is invested and ascends the throne. Third, I will
enter Morne in one month. Please make the necessary preparations.”
Brey laughed uproariously. “This is no embassy, it’s a farce.” He turned his horse and
began to ride away.
“This is your final opportunity, Brey,” Eadric called after him sadly. “I doubt death will
spare you a
third time.”
The Templar ignored him.
“So be it,” Tahl said grimly.
*In the Wyre game, the scimitar replaces the longsword as the quintessential Elven
weapon.
**Dan pointed out the picture of Titivilus in the 1e Monster Manual II.
***This device was adopted by Eadric after his return from the wilderness and his
meeting with
Rintrah. Symbolically, the phoenix of course represents rebirth, but it is also the ‘higher
octave’ of the Eagle – the traditional symbol of Oronthon. One head looks left towards
Law, one right towards Good, and the third straight ahead, representing the synthesis of
the two principles through the dialectic of insight.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 09-19-2002
**
Soraine mused.
“I thought that you had decided upon a ‘softly, softly’ approach,” she said to Eadric. “This
hardly seems consistent with it.”
“That had been the initial plan,” Eadric agreed, “but Rintrah commanded a more direct
tact.”
“In which case,” Soraine replied, “I should relinquish control to you formally – if you
think you can handle the nobility of Trempa.”
“Fewer of them have doubts now, and the ones that do are less distrusting and intractable.
Although it will prove difficult. I have already required Ryth to bring his skirmishers south
to join the main force.”
“It will leave the northern flank vulnerable to assault from Thahan. I am reluctant to…”
“I will ask Nwm to deal with it,” Eadric said simply. “Besides – we cannot have him
present and active in the main force. It would be too controversial, and would give an
unwelcome slant to what is
essentially an internal Temple affair.”
Soraine was staggered. “You need him with you. Even if you displace the Temple troops
across the river – which is by no means certain – if the royal army is deployed against you,
he is your best
assurance against defeat. And any attempt that you make to woo Tagur’s sympathies now
is likely to be met with hostility: you may have lost a potential ally, there.”
“It can’t be helped,” Eadric shrugged. “I have been instructed to march on Morne as soon
as is feasible.
The Bishop of Kaurban is interceding on our behalf with the Duke – Tahl has spoken with
him. He has always been sympathetic to our cause.”
But Soraine shook her head. “The Bishop has been neutered by this whole affair. He has
little temporal power left. I can’t believe that you told Brey of your intentions – a surprise
assault would have been much more effective. Now they have time to prepare.”
Eadric raised an eyebrow.
“Alright, forget I said that,” the Duchess smiled. “But I find this whole enterprise to be
very worrying.
Even if you get as far as Morne, you still have to get into Morne.”
“I am hoping for popular support,” Eadric admitted ruefully. “If I only had the opportunity
to speak with people…”
“I fear the common man will view you as simply another potential oppressor.”
“I was thinking of speaking more to the Temple troops, actually,” Eadric explained. “I
may be able to turn large numbers of them towards our cause. Brey is misliked. Melion,
Rede, Irian and Hembur are all dead. Rumours are abroad of the encounter with Eniin at
Deorham, and the Templars who have
rallied to me are well-respected…”
“I suspect that the view amongst many is that you have seduced them. There is also the
matter of Rede’s assassination – Nwm is implicated, and thus, you.”
“That is another reason why he may not accompany me in this,” Eadric sighed. “Tahl is
investing me as Grand Master of the Temple tomorrow morning.”
“That may be a hollow title,” the Duchess remarked drily. “I don’t imagine it will carry
too much weight – he could anoint you as Oronthon incarnate, for all that it’s worth. A
name is worth little without the resources to back it.”
Eadric shrugged. “I have been restrained for long enough. It is time to assert my spiritual
authority. It will not be easy – I still have doubts about my abilities.”
“That, at least, is reassuring,” Soraine laughed. “I will summon the nobility. It’s time that
we met in conference again – and all should be present for the ceremony. When did you
plan to lead the assault?”
“In four or five days,” Eadric answered. “I will attempt to speak to Tagur again in the
interim.”
Soraine raised an eyebrow. “Good luck,” she said.
*
As a clear dawn broke the next morning, before the assembled aristocracy of Trempa,
Eadric took oaths and was blessed by Tahl. He assumed the titular command both the
Temple and the Inquisition, and
chose the unassuming title of ‘First Magistrate’ for the unprecedented dual leadership. He
also reclaimed the title of ‘Protector of the Nineteen Tenets,’ which had been stripped
from him at his trial.
In a second ceremony, which followed shortly afterwards, Soraine conferred the estates of
Hernath and Droming upon the Paladin, appointed him the chief of her comitati – those
knights, thanes and bannermen sworn to her service – and raised him to the rank of Earl.
He was ceded absolute command of Trempa’s forces. This was a formality as far as Eadric
was concerned, although Soraine’s legitimacy was unquestioned in the eyes of those
present – unlike Tahl’s.
But before the day was out, in a development which left Eadric feeling extremely
uncomfortable, all such titles were forgotten. The Paladin did not determine the source -
although he (wrongly) suspected one of the Penitents to have started it - but a new
appellation was given to him: Ahma*. It spread quickly amongst the zealots, and was
picked up by the more secular aristocrats and even the Uediians.
Eadric attempted to have the name forbidden, but it was too late. To him, it verged on
blasphemy. He spoke to Tahl, and the Inquisitor shrugged as if it were an inevitability. He
related his concerns to Nehael.
“Actually, I began it,” the demoness smiled.
“But why? It is a profanity.”
“Applied to anyone else, perhaps. But you are an emissary. A vehicle. Your ego is of no
concern. You are simply the agent of Oronthon’s will: nothing more, nothing less. Soraine
said that you needed to exert your spiritual authority. You cannot do that in half measure,
Ahma.”
“Do not call me that,” he snapped.
She slapped him. He winced. “See?” She said. “Don’t worry – you’re still a man.”
**
“This is a development I could have done without,” Eadric said to Nwm regarding his new
name.
“Your modesty is becoming, Ed,” Nwm said, “but this is a religious war. You’re bound to
get some weird title or other foisted upon you, if you play the role of Oronthon’s chosen
representative. Don’t worry about it.”
“But I don’t feel I deserve it. It makes me uncomfortable.”
“Good,” Nwm said unsympathetically. “The moment that you feel happy about it, is the
moment that you become crazy.”
“I hope that you will continue to offer a critical perspective regarding all of this, Nwm. It’s
good to look from the outside in. Let me know if things are going too far. I can’t believe
that Nehael started it.”
“She has an expanded perspective,” Nwm grinned. “Trust her. And you may count on my
brutal objectivity.”
“She talks of surrender. Of forgetting my ego. Of agency.” Eadric sighed.
“What do you expect?” Nwm laughed. “She is a mystic. She is also, of course, correct.
Relax, Ed. Let go of your concerns. Let it – whatever it is - flow through you. Forget your
own judgements and preconceptions. Zhuel can be your guide in this. It is actually
ridiculously simple.”
Eadric sighed. “I’ve recalled Ryth’s longbowmen. I need you to sort out the Temple troops
in northern Trempa. Can you deal with it?”
“Yes, but…”
“I cannot have you with me, Nwm. It compromises my position too much.”
“I understand that,” the Druid said. “It’s hard, though.”
“I will take Nehael, if she is willing – assuming that’s alright with you.”
“She is a free agent,” Nwm laughed. “I have no authority over her. It is a good choice: she
is an able counsellor.”
“It seems appropriate that she should be present in whatever transpires,” Eadric explained.
“After all, this whole mess started with her. Did you know that she is in contact with
Rintrah?”
“She mentioned as much to me,” the Druid admitted. “I trust her implicitly, but her
motives are quite unfathomable. She seems equally comfortable dealing with the Goddess,
and most of the Uediians are willing to defer to her authority in matters religious. I think
she works to preserve openness and communication – in all of its forms – more than
anything else. She spoke to me of a ‘Middle Way.’”
“With regard to what?” The Paladin asked.
“Everything?” Nwm suggested. “Who knows? She is eight billion years old, and has a lot
of experience to draw upon. She foresees ends which we cannot. Are you still, you
know…?” The Druid waved his hands vaguely.
“I don’t know,” Eadric mused. “I haven’t really thought about that for quite some time.
And at the moment, it seems like a bit of an unnecessary distraction. Before you head
north, I need you to take me to Gibilrazen – I’m going to try talking with Prince Tagur
again.”
“Tact or honesty?” Nwm asked.
“The latter, unfortunately,” Eadric said.
“Be careful. I doubt he’ll appreciate any threats.”
“No more equivocating. It’s time to act decisively.”
“There you are,” Nwm jibed. “Being the Breath of God is easy. You don’t mind if we drop
in on a friend of mine on the way, do you?”
Eadric looked puzzled.
“Yes, Ahma, even I have friends,” Nwm said sarcastically. “Hullu. I need to keep abreast
of his progress. And you should meet him – he may be a potential ally.”
**
“You can use this,” Iua said to Mostin, giving him a plain silver ring. “It used to belong to
him.”
The Alienist grunted. “Very well. Normally, of course, I would demand a fee…”
“Oh just hurry up and do it, Mostin,” Ortwin interrupted. “I thought we’d got beyond all
of the ‘fees for this’ and ‘fees for that’ business.”
“We have,” Mostin agreed, “but it doesn’t hurt to remind people once in a while of my
generosity and magnanimity.”
The Alienist clasped the ring in his hand, and stood before the looking-glass of Urm-
Nahat, invoking its powerful magic yet again. The mist upon its surface – eerie and
supernatural – gradually gave way to clouds which appeared more natural in origin. Wisps
broke in them, to reveal a sky of such bright, perfect azure that Mostin had to squint.
There was no sun, but the air seemed to glow with an inner light.
Ortwin gasped in wonder. The scene before him was utterly fabulous: a vast island of
rock, suspended in mid air, supporting a city constructed entirely of white marble. Towers
and pinnacles stretched high into the sky, and domed roofs glistened with silver and gold.
Gardens and orchards of fruit trees grew in profusion: each, apparently, meticulously
nurtured and tended. Water ran freely through pristine aqueducts, and accumulated in
pools and open cisterns.
“What is this place?” Ortwin marvelled. He felt that he had been missing something for
both of his lives.
“It is called Magathei,” Iua replied. “It is Ulao’s capitol. Around ten thousand Djinn live
there – but it is not the largest of their cities on the Plane of Air by some way.”
“I have visited Kalkinassus,” Mostin bragged. “This is a backwater compared to that
place. I first met Mulissu there.”
“And attempted to seduce her?” Iua asked archly.
“Mostin!” Ortwin said with mock gravity. “I didn’t know that you were capable. And she
rejected your advances? Inconceivable!”
“Yes. Quite.” Mostin agreed, perfectly seriously. “I will accompany you, if that is
acceptable – a day or two here will make for a pleasant outing. And there are a variety of
interesting inhabitants. It may be worth my while.”
“What can the Djinn offer you?” Ortwin asked.
“Not just Djinn,” Iua explained. “Elementals, Mephits, Sylphs, Aerial Servants, Stalkers,
Vortices, Arrowhawks and Wind-Walkers. Wizards and sorcerers from who-knows-where.
Not to mention Auran
analogues of every creature that you can conceive of – and more. And creatures from
other Elemental Planes. It is a very cosmopolitan city.”
“I always thought the Djinn were rather parochial,” Ortwin mused. “That is good news: I
assume your father’s progressiveness extends to his daughter’s potential suitors?”
“Hmm,” Iua sighed sceptically. “In any case, do not attempt flight with your boots whilst
there – you will be ridiculed. A gift of some kind would be appropriate – overt displays of
generosity are well received. Be tolerant of unusual customs. And you should be aware of
my name.”
Iua pronounced a long string of sibilants and aspirated syllables.
“Iua is easier,” Ortwin remarked.
“Ulao will simply call me one-eight-six. He has many children.”
“But you are the only non-Djinn?”
“Gods, no,” Iua replied. “I’ve got elemental, half-elemental, half-celestial, half-fiendish
and every other conceivable kind of bastard sibling. Ulao is quite undiscriminating in his
lust.”
Ortwin nodded. At least they had that in common.
“Wait,” Mostin remembered. “I must get my hat.”
**
“Damn, Nwm, how many does he have here,” Eadric was astounded.
“More than when I last visited,” Nwm said, equally surprised. “And that was only a
fortnight ago.”
Within seconds of their materialization from a vaporous state, the Paladin and the Druid
were
surrounded by dozens of men and women of all ages, mostly – Eadric noted – of the same
racial group to which Nwm belonged.** They bore spears, bows and swords. Several were
wearing chainmail shirts
of Thalassine construction, others were clad in studded armour or hauberks looted from
Temple troops and men-at-arms.
Nwm quickly held up a hand. “Peace. I am Nwm, the Preceptor. This is Eadric of
Deorham. I seek Hullu.” The Druid quickly realized that he recognized only one or two
faces from his previous visit.
Their reaction made Nwm nervous. Some were suspicious, whilst others were confused –
their awe of
the Druid offset by what they considered to be the enemy in their midst: Eadric. Whatever
the Paladin’s own leanings he was, in the final analysis, a Templar from their viewpoint.
And many of them lacked
the broader political perspective which may have made them more understanding. Trempa
was two hundred miles away, and the troubles there had had little direct bearing on the
situation of those present.
A woman in her early thirties, with a face worn with concern stepped forwards. She wore
a byrnie of blackened mail, and in her hand she carried a powerful horn bow. She was girt
with a bastard sword with aristocratic motifs on its scabbard – no doubt plundered from an
unsuspecting Temple knight.
“I am Tarva,” she said assertively. “Hullu is not present. He has mentioned you, Nwm.
How may I help?” Her manner was cold.
“I wished to discuss strategy and progress with him,” Nwm said easily.
“That will not be possible,” Tarva replied. “He is briefing a mission. Is there anything
else?”
Nwm was mildly irked by her attitude, but hid it. “Then I should like to speak with you,
Tarva,” he said.
“Not while the Templar is present,” she said, turning away.
This has to be resolved immediately, Nwm thought. “That was not a request, Tarva,” he
said icily.
She turned back to face him. “By what authority do you command me – or any of us here
– Nwm?” She said bitterly. “I have yet to see you suffer at the hands of the Temple. I have
yet to see your support for us, beyond striking the enemy when and where your whim
dictates. You cannot be depended upon.”
“No, I will not be depended upon,” Nwm snapped. “Do you think I should raze Morne for
you, Tarva?
Obliterate the Temple? Replace it with a grove of trees? I have more to consider than your
immediate needs. My responsibility is to future generations. Do you not think that I have
considered all of this?”
His tone was one of exasperation.
“Then why did you begin all of this?” She gestured around at the stockade, the smithy, the
dozens who were flocking to hear the exchange.
“To empower you,” he smiled ruefully. “A little too effectively, it would seem. This is
Eadric of Deorham, as I said. Have you heard of him?”
Tarva nodded. “The Heretic Templar with the Demon concubine.”
Eadric coughed.
“He may be our best hope for a solution to this situation.” Nwm explained “He plans to
disestablish the Church, and remove taxation. All taxation – not just of Uediians.”
“A reformer?” Tarva said sarcastically. “Big deal! Five hundred years of oppression aren’t
going to be removed by a few tax breaks. Uediians farm the most marginal land. They
form the majority of
indentured workers. There are five times as many Uediian tenant farmers as there are
Oronthonians, but they only comprise a third of the population. Work it out!”
“I agree,” Eadric said unexpectedly. “I will take an oath, here and now, that every Uediian
household in Wyre will be compensated. I will empty the Temple coffers to achieve this.”
Hmm, he thought. I hadn’t planned to make that commitment.
“Promises are easily made,” Tarva growled.
“I do not lie,” Eadric said.
“I do not trust you,” Tarva groaned. “I am tempted to have you captured and bound. You
would fetch a fine ransom.”
“You would fail,” Eadric said in a matter-of fact way, shaking his head. “There is no man
in Wyre who can withstand me in arms.”
“I could,” Hullu grinned, walking into the middle of the group. “Although, obviously, I’d
prefer to avoid the demonstration. Greetings, Nwm – it’s good to see you again. I regret
that the ale is still not
ready, although we have mead, now. I am honoured, Eadric. Nwm seems to trust you -
which is a rare thing in this dirty world – and therefore I am inclined to too.”
Eadric glanced down, and his stomach turned. He had all but forgotten the sword, but
there it was, hanging from the hip of the Tunthi tribesman.
“Don’t worry,” Hullu said, following his eyes. “She is firmly under control. I had thought
about renaming her ‘Merriment’ or ‘Exuberance’ – after all, Melancholy is such a
depressing name.”
She? Nwm thought.
**
“You have achieved a great deal here, Hullu,” Eadric said. “And in a very short period of
time.”
The Tribesman nodded. “Resistance is relatively easy to organize amongst the hopelessly
disenfranchised,” he pointed out drily. “But I am regarded as a kind of cingetomaru in
their speech– a war leader, only. My customs mean that I suspect I will never be fully
accepted.”
“But you are mastering the old tongue quickly,” Nwm said. “Your inflexion is close to
perfect.”
“I have a knack for languages,” Hullu smiled. He grunted. “Don’t be discouraged by
Tarva, Nwm. She is a radical – even amongst these people. Most still regard you
favourably.”
“I admit that I am surprised that you have bestowed so much power on one so
controversial.”
“I’d rather have her close to me, than undermining me,” Hullu explained. “Besides, she
has remarkable energy and natural leadership skills – it is better to channel that ability
than repress it. And she possesses political savvy.”
Eadric nodded. This man was intriguing. Much more than a simple warrior. “How much
strength can
you field?” He asked.
“From this camp, three hundred who are at least reasonably competent,” he said. “But
there are other cells establishing themselves – I admit that we reached capacity here more
quickly than I had
anticipated.”
“And altogether?” Nwm asked.
“Close to a thousand, perhaps,” Hullu replied carefully. “Even I am not sure of exact
numbers. You have sown the wind, Nwm. It didn’t take much.”
The Druid shifted uneasily, and wondered whether he should assume a more active role
before things ran away from him. “How do you feed them, Hullu?”
“I finally acquiesced to Tarva’s desire to raid Oronthonian farmsteads,” he admitted, but
added quickly,
“but only the largest and wealthiest ones. And not to the point of destituting the owners. I
am merely skimming some of the fat off.”
“That tendency may get out of hand,” Eadric pointed out. “If you set a precedent for it, it
will become stretched by need and spurious logic.”
“They are more disciplined than you give them credit for,” Hullu replied. “But the forest
alone cannot support them – unless they spend all day hunting, of course. And boar are
getting scarce in these parts.”
He grimaced. “We’ve messed up the balance of nature already, Nwm. It is an inevitable
compromise, but it doesn’t mean that I hate it any less.”
The Druid nodded sympathetically. “Then you should move, before things get worse.
Although your defenses here…”
Hullu laughed. “I can erect a stockade in two days, Nwm. That is no concern. It is the beer
that worries me. I have already considered it: I will leave a skeleton garrison here, a store
of provisions, and move the bulk of the bagaudas to a new site. It should also give the
forest time to recover here.”
“Where will you go?” Eadric asked.
“Eastwards. Maybe four or five days. The land beyond the forest is richer there, although
more populous.”
“Towards Morne?”
“Towards Morne,” Hullu replied.
*Without getting too heavily into Oronthonian theology, the name can be roughly
translated as “Breath of God.” It also has metaphysical associations which are similar to
Sophia or Logos or Shabda in RL
religion. The first syllable is pronounced as in German ‘acht,’ ‘machen’ etc.
**These people are the descendants of the Crixi, one of the first racial groups to inhabit
Wyre, before Old Borchia was founded. Although great individual variety exists, and
bloodlines are much confused with later migrating groups, typical Uediians possess
sufficient different features to distinguish them from Oronthonians in Wyre. Descendants
of later migrants are taller, have fairer complexions and tend to be rather more slender.
Nwm and Eadric conform quite closely to their respective racial stereotypes.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 09-24-2002
*****
By the time that Nwm and Eadric reached Gibilrazen – a mere two hours after leaving
Hullu - events
had already moved quickly.
They were not to the Paladin’s liking. Knights and soldiers were mustering both inside and
outside of the gates.
Eadric remained airborne and vaporous above the Prince’s palace, whilst the Druid
descended into the courtyards in the form of a crow in order to glean what information he
could. When he returned, an hour later, he related his findings to the Paladin.
“News of your claim of the Temple leadership is already current amongst the aristocracy,”
Nwm explained. “There are several Wizards present – one is called Dauntun. He has been
engaged by Tagur to act as a messenger between here and Morne. I suspect that he is
acting in the same ‘auxiliary
capacity’ as Mostin is. Apparently, he is a Diviner of high credentials.”
“Where is Tagur?” Eadric asked.
“He is already en route to Morne,” the Druid replied. “But even at his best speed, he can
hardly come there in less than a week.”
“I’m an idiot,” Eadric groaned. “I should have suspected that the nobility had access to
Divination magic – what’s good for the goose, and all that. Aristocrats – especially the
more secular ones like Tagur – certainly aren’t going to balk at using Wizards in the same
way that the Temple itself might.
Every nobleman in Wyre is probably apprised of the situation by now.”
“What next?” Nwm asked.
“We locate Tagur,” Eadric replied. “When did he leave?”
“Yesterday morning,” Nwm answered. “He shouldn’t be too hard to find.”
So the duo sped eastwards again, although this time they stayed above the road, their eyes
alert for signs of the Prince’s passage. Another hour passed, before they finally caught up
with him. Only twenty knights rode with Tagur – all were lightly armed and riding
coursers of great stamina in order to make the best time possible to Morne. The Prince’s
device – a Golden Boar – floated in the wind above the troupe.
Eadric descended to the road ahead of them, rematerialized, and stood squarely in their
path as they thundered towards him. He held up his hands in a gesture designed to make
them arrest their gallop.
Tagur barked an order, and horses were spurred to greater speed. Swords sprang from
scabbards, and lances were levelled: it was likely that at this distance that they hadn’t, in
fact, recognized the Paladin.
And they were taking no chances.
Oh, sh*t, Eadric thought. Still, he didn’t move. He made another gesture in the air with his
hands, communicating with his ethereal guardian.
Abruptly, fifty yards ahead of him on the road, Zhuel manifested. The knights
immediately became
disordered: some veered away, some reigned in their horses, others - including Tagur –
continued
onwards.
The Archon sounded his trumpet. A single note of piercing clarity rang out.
Horses collapsed and men fell from their steeds – many struck with paralyzing awe. Tagur
dropped to the ground, his bay courser overwhelmed by the sound. He landed
unceremoniously in a puddle of
mud.
Eadric walked forwards slowly, his armour bright in the afternoon sun. He spoke in a clear
voice.
“I apologize for the demonstration, Prince Tagur. I hope neither you nor your men are too
badly bruised. I need you to hear me out.”
Nwm, perched nearby in the form of a hawk, shifted on his branch. Apparently, Ed wasn’t
pulling any punches this time.
Tagur staggered to his feet. Over half of his men and around two thirds of the horses were
immobilized, and of those six riders who remained in control of their faculties and their
steeds, none were pressing forwards towards where Zhuel hovered in front of the Paladin.
Several had expressions of either
disbelief or religious terror upon their faces – it was difficult to determine which. Tagur
himself,
however, evinced no such awe.
“Deorham!” he thundered. “I am not impressed by your attempts to intimidate me. I don’t
give a damn whether you invoke the entire celestial host in this matter. You are not
marching into Morne without a fight.”
Eadric remembered Tagur’s secular perspective, and wondered how best to proceed. The
Prince was
not an atheist – he simply did not recognize the overwhelming imperative of Oronthon’s
will. It was not relevant to his political viewpoint.
“What can I say, your Highness? I wish to minimize or avoid unnecessary bloodshed in
this matter. I would have you return to Gibilrazen and demobilize your troops.”
“How dare you?” Tagur asked, walking forwards. “You have no authority over me in this.
You will not dictate to me how I should best determine the defense of Wyre. There is more
at stake here than an internecine squabble in the Temple. Listen well: I will not allow
thousands of armed men to enter
Morne unopposed. Your religious agenda does not move me. That is not negotiable.”
“I don’t want to kill you, Prince Tagur,” Eadric sighed. “And I don’t want to see innocents
needlessly suffer.”
“Then back off,” the Prince retorted. “Return to Trempa. Do not prosecute this aggression.
Sue for peace – perhaps the King will be lenient.”
Eadric read Tagur’s expression, and although he did not say as much, the Prince was
offering to
intercede; to speak on Trempa’s behalf on the royal council. Eadric felt that he had not
misread Tagur’s attitude towards him in their initial encounter: the Prince actually liked
him. The Paladin almost wept.
“I cannot,” Eadric groaned. “This is not my choice.”
“It is absolutely your choice,” Tagur said grimly. “Deorham, I am going to mount my
horse again. Then I am going to Morne. I will advise the king to call a general muster
unless you indicate to me now that you will not pursue this folly.”
The Paladin inwardly heaved. Another concession from the Prince, because implicit in his
statement, Tagur had just said: I trust your word, Deorham.
The hawk, who had been sitting on a nearby bough, and watching the exchange with
interest, flew over and shifted into the shape of the Druid.
“I am Nwm, the Preceptor,” he said.
“I know who you are,” the Prince replied, walking away.
“Listen to me, Tagur. Change is coming. Upheaval. Maybe death and misery. But hope for
something better. It is inevitable. You have to decide what your role in it will be, and
why.”
“I also know my role. I need no counsel from you.”
“You knew your role. It is time to reappraise.”
Prince Tagur returned to his mount, and attempted to revive her. Several of the other
stricken knights and horses were now beginning to regain their senses. The bay staggered
up, shaking, and Tagur
calmed her. He retrieved his own banner, handed it to his herald, and climbed into the
saddle.
“Unless you purpose to kill me now, or at least attempt to, I suggest you move aside.”
Reluctantly, Eadric backed off of the greensward. As the riders made ready to move on, he
spoke once again.
“Listen to me, Tagur. I am the Ahma. I am the Breath of Oronthon made manifest in the
world. You must understand that, whatever logic dictates, you cannot withstand that. It is
an irresistible force.” His tone was imploring rather than assertive, but carried more
conviction than any present had ever heard before.
Prince Tagur swallowed, turned, spurred his mount, and rode on towards Morne.
Dammit, Eadric thought.
**
Magathei had utterly beguiled Ortwin. Its intricate, carved marble reliefs. Its archways,
buttresses, courtyards, winding streets, alleyways and markets. Its orchards of apricots,
dates, pomegranates, oranges, figs and almonds. The music of water everywhere, carried
to gardens, gathering in still pools, or welling up from fountains in the bedrock.
The inn chosen by Mostin, the Bard, and his prospective (lover? mate? fiancée?
concubine? wife?) –
well, whatever Iua was – was in the most fashionable and expensive district of the city. A
city which was, by its very nature, fashionable and expensive.
Ortwin goggled at the price quoted to him by a languorous djinn smoking a hookah. It
translated to around two hundred crowns per night. The suite included a bedchamber, a
lounge, a steam bath, a
private terraced garden, and two mephit servants, named Thispin and Goil. Mostin had
elected to take more modest chambers.
The Bard inquired regarding the hookah which the djinn seemed to be enjoying
immensely, wondering
whether it contained a substance similar to kschiff, used in the country of Shûth.
The genie laughed, and muttered an unintelligible string of syllables in Auran.
“What did he say?” He asked Iua.
“He regrets that the sublime airy vapours of which he is partaking would prove far too
volatile for your gross physical body, and would likely result in some kind of seizure,
followed by death.”
Ortwin grunted, and retired to his chambers, where he began working on an ode for the
glorification of Ulao. According to Iua, the only thing larger than her father’s treasury was
the size of his ego. Deciding
that this might be the place to start, the Bard dispatched Thispin to procure a lyre of the
finest quality.
“Cost is no consideration,” he grandly (and stupidly) announced.
The Mephit clapped her hands gleefully, curtsied, and returned fifteen minutes later.
“On second thoughts,” Ortwin said, “overt gaudiness is not entirely necessary. You may
limit your transaction to five hundred gold pieces.”
She sniffed, and disappeared again. Ortwin wasn’t sure whether he heard her mutter the
word
‘cheapskate’ as she flew off. The Bard groaned. This was likely to be an expensive outing.
He hoped that Mostin had some spare cash, and was feeling more generous than usual.
He shrugged, and grinned. It didn’t matter. He had no doubts that he would wow the
locals. He was, after all, Ortwin.
*
“Er, how much have you got, Mostin?” Ortwin asked. “Just curious, that’s all.”
“Why?” The Alienist asked suspiciously. “How much have you got?”
“Around two thousand left,” he confessed.
Mostin laughed.
“What?” Ortwin asked.
“You have yet to find a suitable gift for Ulao. It needs to be something unique.”
“I am composing an ode in his honour,” Ortwin reminded him.
“I suspect that he would prefer something more tangible.”
“Is it true that magic can be openly purchased here?” Ortwin asked.
“Certainly,” Mostin replied. “Although it is still hard to find, and the prices are rather
inflated.”
“Will you accompany me to find such a gift? I would appreciate your discerning eye.”
“You mean you don’t want to be ripped off?”
“Yes,” Ortwin said. “Precisely.”
“Two thousand isn’t going to buy you much,” Mostin sniped.
“No,” Ortwin agreed. “But this will.” He held his pick up.
Mostin shook his head. After all of the time, effort and trouble – not to mention the
compensation paid to Troap – that the Bard had gone through to acquire the pick, he
seemed remarkably keen to part with it.
“I thought that it was a style thing,” Mostin said, pointing at the weapon.
“Honestly, Mostin. Fashion does change, you know. How much gold did you say that you
had with you again?”
“I didn’t,” the Alienist replied.
**
Three days after the ceremony in which Tahl had sworn Eadric in as First Magnate, and he
had
assumed control of Trempa’s forces, Ryth’s guerilla fighters arrived upon the Blackwater
Meadow,
exhausted after a forced march from the northern marches of the Duchy.
Six hundred battle-hardened, dirty and confident Uediians suddenly jostled for space
along with Trempa’s aristocracy, men-at-arms, Ardanese mercenaries and levies from
across the fief. After nearly three hard months in the field, Ryth’s men – consisting
primarily of archers – naturally considered themselves somewhat superior to those who
had been drilling in the pastures which abutted the Nund.
Eadric knew that he must move. Maintaining the cohesion of the forces thus far had been
an act of supreme diplomacy on the part of himself, Tahl and Soraine: the more
remarkable, because the Paladin had engendered a sense of camaraderie amongst the
disparate troops which he would have considered
impossible only twelve weeks before. But if they stayed where they were now, then the
impetus would be lost, and the sectarian tendencies amongst those present would begin to
reassert themselves again.
After he had finalized the plans for provisioning the army – something which was already
beginning to heavily afflict the economy of Trempa itself – he called a meeting of his
captains and lieutenants.
Soraine, Tahl, Ekkert, Streek, Ryth, Togull and Banding of Gamall were present. Breama,
the Countess of Thokastrond in the far East of Trempa, who, despite her age, still lusted
for battle. Olann, the de facto leader of the Ardanese contingent, whose preeminence
amongst the mercenaries was maintained more by his brawling ability than by his strategic
competence. Jorde, his bannerbearer. And Nehael, whose mysterious presence still
unnerved many of those there. Details for the effective deployment of troops were
thrashed out into the early hours of the morning.
The main thrust would take place at Moath Gairdan – the span of the bridge was shorter
than at Hartha Keep, and its girth would allow three knights to ride abreast upon it. Eadric
himself would lead the main assault at this point – although it was still unclear whether
Brey would attempt to hold the bridge, or allow passage and defend his bulwarks upon the
far side of the river as necessitated by assault.
Trenches and dikes protected over a dozen Temple enclaves, spread over an area of fifty
square miles.
A smaller group would attempt to win Aaki’s bridge – although the length of the crossing,
combined with its narrowness and the causeways which led up to it, made this a much
more difficult prospect.
They would be supported by many of Ryth’s archers, who would use small rafts and air-
bladders to
cross the Nund and harry Temple outriders south of the bridge, before attempting to secure
its western end. It was a tactic which the Thane had used on several occasions in the north,
but near Hartha Keep the river was both wider and deeper, swollen by tributaries which
flowed down from the hills – the
largest and the closest of which was the Blackwater itself. Most of the Uediians were
capable swimmers, but Ryth was worried about wet bows and ammunition. Oilskins were
not entirely reliable.
Togull, Laird of Rauth Sutting and a man advanced in years, was astonished by Eadric’s
proposed
course of action at the northern bridge.
“You plan to simply cut your way across?” he asked.
“Yes,” the Paladin replied.
“You will be at the forefront?”
“Yes. I will not lead from the rear.”
“Are you really that confident? That good? This is no tourney.”
“I am aware of that,” Eadric responded.
“But if you fell one, then another will appear, and another. The crossing will become
jammed with corpses of men and horses in no time. Passage will be close to impossible, in
either direction.”
“We will bring ropes, to drag them off the bridge into the river.”
“But the momentum…”
“Will be sustained,” Eadric finished for him.
“And in the event that you should perish?”
“Then Tahl will lead,” Eadric said. “And if he dies, then Jorde will lead. And so on, until
we make the crossing.”
Togull scratched his head. “You admit the possibility of death – how can this be, if you are
the Ahma?”
“I am merely a conduit,” the Paladin replied simply. “If I die, then Oronthon will choose
another.”
“Do you not fear death? The man who doesn’t is a fool.”
“Then I am a fool,” Eadric smiled.
“A holy fool, but a fool nonetheless,” Togull sighed.
**
“Are they real?” Ortwin asked.
Mostin nodded. “At least, the vendor is not thinking about lying, and the dweomer checks
out as being of the right variety.”
The duo stood at a market stall, where a djinn of immense proportions touted his wares,
flanked by two jann of dour aspect. Ortwin had been surprised to note that the elemental
trader possessed feet, but decided it might be impolite to mention the fact – he had always
assumed that genies were somehow
nebulous below the waist. He had even pondered on the mechanics of Iua’s conception,
given that false premise.
Having found a suitable broker for his magical pick – an item which he found, in the
event, he was loathe to part with – the Bard had sold the weapon for a good deal of money.
Its thundering electrical dweomer was, after all, an attractive selling point given their
location. He had immediately invested in silk pantaloons and shirts, several velvet
waistcoats of varying colours, sashes, earrings and bracelets of gold, and a new scabbard
of inlayed cherrywood for his scimitar. His purse bulged with precious gems.
He looked, and felt, extremely wealthy.
In his hands, he held a pair of Golden Lions – figurines of power. He was tempted to
purchase them –
despite the prohibitive cost – until he considered his situation.
The djinn grunted unappreciatively as Ortwin handed back the figurines and shook his
head.
“I need something unique,” he muttered to Mostin as they walked away. “And buying
something from someone here is not going to fit the bill – I mean, think about it: even if
Ulao is ignorant of many of those who pass through his city – which he may or may not be
– it’s likely that he is aware of things sold by members of his own people in his own city.”
“Other extraplanar entities frequent Magathei,” the Alienist reminded him. “It is merely a
question of locating a vendor and a gift. It will take time, patience and diligent inquiry.”
**
Eadric mounted Contundor. The dawn glow was muted by mists which clung to the
ground in the wide
Nund valley, muffling the sounds of armour and harness. The fog was a parting gift from
Nwm, before he had flown northwards to displace the skirmishers who had crossed into
northern Trempa from
Thahan.
The core of those who would lead the assault with him were, to a man, religious fanatics
who had no doubts about the divine nature of the Paladin’s mission. Their zeal was a
tangible force, and no notion of failure was entertained by any of them. Horses – both
celestial and mundane – champed restlessly, eager to be underway.
At six o’clock, Earic’s outriders returned with the news that both bridges were held: Brey,
aware of the arrival of Ryth’s troops the previous day, had immediately taken precautions.
Temple engineers had set emplacements of stakes across the western ends of both spans,
and Ryth’s scouts had already shot
dozens of men who had been undermining the pylons on the bridges, in the event that they
would need to be collapsed. On the far bank, teams of draft horses stood ready to draw
great chains which had been looped around the stone butresses and supports.
Eadric quickly redeployed his troops, and called a hundred of Trempa’s most able knights
to himself.
He assumed a position on the eastern bank, halfway between the two bridges, and waited
for Tahl to
arrive: the Inquisitor was presently closeted in intense prayer.
The Paladin smiled grimly. He had hated to do it – to dissemble to his own captains
regarding his plans
– but it had been entirely necessary. He had no doubt that Temple spies were present in his
ranks, and neither the time nor the inclination to weed them out: the fear and mistrust
engendered would have been too high a price to pay. And the possibility of magical
eavesdropping had also made him cautious.
It was easier this way.
Tahl presented himself, and drew a scroll – one of those confiscated from the Penitents at
Deorham –
from his belt. He incanted briefly, and gestured.
Rapidly, a broad swathe of water began to drain away into the bedrock. A section of the
river forty yards wide, stretching from bank to bank, vanished.
Trumpets brayed, and Eadric led the charge across the dry bed of the Nund. In the van
were Tahl, and Jorde with the standard, renegade Templars, Paladins and Penitents. They
screamed, and the cry was taken up by the host which rode hard on their tails.
Ahma!
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 10-02-2002
Three Instances of Grace
I’m generally against the idea of “Limit Breaks,” or “Wild Cards” which characters can
play, but at the same time, there are a lot of things which happen in this game which the
rules can’t really begin to address.
An arrangement that I made with Lombard (Eadric’s Player), was that he could invoke
Grace at three key points during the course of the campaign - after the divine nature of his
mission had been revealed to him.
Even though, technically, the Celestial Descent at Khu was precipitated by the acts of an
NPC, Mulissu (actually my wife, Susan was playing her at the time so I guess she was a
PC at that point), I ruled that it was such an extraordinary occurrence, that it counted
against Eadric’s “credit.” He had two instances of Grace left.
The metagaming conundrum which knowing this caused was easily overcome: if Eadric
was in a
pivotal situation, and Lombard demonstrated exceptional roleplaying, only then would I
allow Grace to intervene. If he invoked it. The other thing was that Lombard did not know
how it would manifest. I, of course, did. It was therefore up to him to decide how best to
act upon it, when it happened.
In the event, the Battle of the Crossings of the Nund proved to be the second descent of
Grace: it manifested quite differently from the first, but it was in reaction to a very
unexpected sequence of actions from Eadric, where he demonstrated the quality of mercy,
but managed to contextualize it within the story and the whole, ongoing religious paradox
thing.
Hats off, Marc.
For twenty rounds, the Paragon Template from the ELH was applied to Eadric. He
became, briefly, the perfect human being, and the perfect paladin. I’ve added “Paragon
Eadric” to the Rogues Gallery thread, just for the sake of completeness.
Btw, a kanista is a wedge-shaped formation of mounted Templars. This will also prove
relevant in a later post.
**
Update
As Eadric gained the western shore of the river with his knights, lightly armoured
mounted auxiliaries scattered north and south along the riverbank. Unable to withstand the
heavy cavalry, they instead fled to join with the main Templar companies who were
positioned at the ends of the bridges. Mist limited visibility to around a hundred yards, and
the Paladin knew that he needed to act swiftly to take
advantage of the surprise that it offered.
Half of the Ardanese mercenaries were immediately dispatched to the south under Olann’s
command.
They were supported by several squads of armoured knights, together with their squires
and retainers, led by Breama the Bitch and Laird Togull. Olann was detailed with
disrupting the Temple
emplacements, and drawing attention away from the amphibious assault launched by Ryth
and his
Uediians south of Aaki’s bridge – Eadric hoped that even if news of this plan had reached
Brey and his commanders, then it would be discounted in the light of news of their
passage across the river.
The remainder of the mounted archers were to form a screen north and west of the main
force of heavy horse, and hopefully intercept any Temple squadrons who were riding for
the northern crossing. The zealots, along with the bulk of the armoured aristocracy, headed
straight towards the north, their front increasing in aspect as they rode. It took them only
two minutes to reach the outworks: lines of stakes, hastily set the previous night, barring
passage. Companies of mixed pikemen and crossbowmen already stood in loose formation
behind the barriers, and waves of quarrels slammed into the vanguard. Behind, half-
visible, the Templar knights were ordering their lines.
Dammit, Eadric thought, reining in. They deployed too fast. And Pikemen. .
He turned to speak to Tahl, but the Inquisitor had already pulled another scroll out and was
incanting fiercely. He pushed his hand forward as power rushed through him, and the
ground ahead rippled
ferociously, flattening the defenses and knocking dozens of Temple men-at-arms to the
ground. The
unluckiest amongst them were drawn into cracks and fissures that had opened briefly in
the ground, before slamming shut with a terrific boom.
Eadric motioned to Hyne, and yelled. “Sound the charge!”
A horn rang out, and they surged forwards. As they thundered towards the Temple lines,
Eadric’s eyes tried to penetrate the mist to discern the location of Brey’s standard, but
unsuccessfully. More horns sounded – this time from the enemy - and, terrified, the
remaining infantry who intervened either fled or fell back to the ground, in an attempt to
escape the inevitable. Although disordered and incompletely prepared, the Temple
countercharge was devastating. Lances shivered as they struck shields and
armour, and penetrated flesh.
The wedge of zealots, led by Eadric, punched a hole in the Temple front, but the enemy
knights swelled around, their discipline and training all too apparent as they broke upon
Trempa’s aristocracy and discomfited them. The melee which ensued was confused, brutal
and merciless.
**
Ortwin tapped his fingers nervously.
“Well?” Mostin asked.
“Talk about lousy timing, Mostin.” He had returned, briefly, with the Alienist into his
extradimensional retreat. The scene on the Mirror of Urm-Nahat showed Eadric on the
meadow, preparing to cross the
Nund.
“If you’d rather not know…” Mostin began.
“Don’t be facetious,” Ortwin said. “Where the hell is Nwm, anyway?”
“Eadric specifically asked him to stay out of it,” Mostin replied.
“Do you think I should go?” The Bard asked.
“One Satyr can do little,” Mostin replied.
“Unless that one Satyr is me,” he countered. “But should I go?”
Mostin shrugged. “Perhaps,” he answered.
“Will you buff me?”
Mostin sighed. “Ortwin, you know how much grief violating the Injunction cost me last
time. Do you have to put me in the position of choosing?”
“Please?” Ortwin gave his most imploring smile. “It’s not like you’re throwing lightning
around.”
“Oh, very well,” Mostin groaned.
**
In his initial charge, Eadric had struck down Terquen – a knight of no mean ability whom
he had
immediately recognized from his days in the Temple. Terquen’s lance splintered on
Eadric’s shield as the momentum of his mount carried on, and two other Templars targeted
Eadric rather than those
directly ahead of themselves – one lance glanced off of his shield, another off of his helm.
Bile rose in the Paladin’s throat – Terquen was a good man.
He dropped his lance and Lukarn sprang from its scabbard. Before he had prepared
himself, a
longsword struck him soundly but almost harmlessly from another Templar. He lashed
out, grunting, but then abruptly twisted his blade in the air as he struck.
A young paladin, with an open-faced helmet, perhaps eighteen years old.
Dammit, Eadric thought, and buffeted him on the head with the flat of his blade. The force
of the blow was still immense, and his opponent toppled off of his horse, insensible. In a
series of rapid exchanges which lasted less than half a minute, four more knights
succumbed to his skill: in each case, the Paladin struck them with the flat or the pommel
of Lukarn. By the end of it, he, Tahl, and half a dozen others had passed clean through the
Temple line. Eadric was almost entirely unscathed.
Tahl looked at him quizzically. “Do you intend to subdue them all?” He half-yelled
ironically. The clamour of the battle was terrific.
Eadric thought sadly of Terquen. “I will draw no more Templar blood,” he replied.
“You will have blood on your hands no matter what,” Tahl pointed out. “You are going to
be the only person here who isn’t striking to kill – recall that the Penitents and Trempans
are following your orders to do so. Should I instruct them otherwise?”
“No,” Eadric replied.
Tahl looked dubious. Was Eadric somehow attempting to relinquish responsibility for the
deaths that would occur there? The Paladin read his mood.
“You do not need to doubt, Tahl. Before the day is out, I will have the death of hundreds
weighing on my conscience.”
“I do not understand. What do you hope to achieve, Ahma?”
“To stimulate insight,” he replied.
Tahl immediately understood the paradox. Mercy and judgement. Compassion and
retribution.
Forgiveness and damnation. Oronthon and, vicariously, his emissary, was all of those
things.
“Now may not be the best time to act as a teacher: you understand that this is likely to be
misapprehended,” the Inquisitor said. “That others might accuse you of shirking your
responsibility, of shying away from the deeds that need to be done. One could attribute
your acts to cowardice.”
Eadric smiled. “Then the paradox is complete. Only a coward would shy away from the
possibility of being branded a coward.”
The Paladin snapped his visor shut, and rode back into the fray. He was present in the Now
more than he had ever before been. Scenes, impressions and thoughts flowed through his
mind like liquid, and he let them pass. He opened himself totally, and all thoughts of self
were vanquished. Spontaneous,
instinctive, unassailable, irresistible. He dismounted, cast off his helm, threw down his
shield, and gripped Lukarn in both hands.
Grace had descended upon him.
*
In the southern encounter, Olann’s horsed archers discharged volley after volley into the
Temple ranks: their recurved horn bows sang and the air was thick with darts. The phalanx
of Trempan knights,
together with supporting mounted men-at-arms waited for an opportunity to engage, but to
no avail.
The Temple foot soldiers – chainmail clad and secure behind a wall of shields and stakes –
merely
bided their time and sent a slow but steady stream of quarrels into the Ardanese outriders,
gradually wearing them down.
Bugger, thought Breama. Somehow she had to draw out their cavalry, or Ryth would be
discovered
before he could effectively deploy his longbowmen, and they would make mincemeat of
him. She sent
messengers to Olann, and others to Streek – who waited on the eastern bank of the river
with the heavy infantry – and immediately ordered her knights to follow her westwards,
parallel to the line of Temple emplacements. She enjoined the Ardanese to ignore their
losses and continue their assault, and ordered Streek to launch an assault upon the bridge
itself from the opposite shore. As she and Togull
redeployed, mounted Temple auxiliaries appeared from out of the mist and harried their
right flank.
After a series of brief skirmishes, the Countess gained the western end of the Temple
defenses.
She heard them long before she saw them: the rumour of many horses bearing down upon
her from the
southwest. Or was it the west?
“Sound the charge!” She ordered her herald.
“Which way?” Togull asked ironically.
“Er, that way,” she said, pointing into the fog. “I think.”
*
The messenger who brought news to Streek – a young esquire by the name of Tambur –
rode at
breakneck speed over the dry river bed. His haste, caused as much by fear of the waters
around him suddenly collapsing in on him as by desire to deliver his message swiftly, soon
brought him to the presence of the Laird.
“The bridge itself?” Streek complained.
“Immediately, my Lord,” Tambur confirmed.
Streek grumbled and put his helmet on.
**
“There,” Ortwin said, pointing at a cluster of high-ranking Templars in the reserve force.
“Are you quite insane?” Mostin asked. “You will be totally cut off.”
Ortwin laughed. “You underestimate me, Mostin.”
“I think perhaps you overestimate yourself,” the Alienist countered. “Might I remind you
of Iua?”
“That isn’t necessary,” the Bard remarked drily. “I am unlikely to forget. Note, however,
that I wasn’t hasted, and I wasn’t wearing this.”
Ortwin pulled his cloak around himself, and immediately appeared to shift several feet to
the right.
“I wonder if they’ll mistake you for a Devil,” Mostin mused. “Your behaviour will be
rather atypical of a Satyr.”
Ortwin shrugged. “Where is this group in relation to Ed?” He asked.
The scene changed rapidly as the mirror scanned back through the mist around three
hundred feet, and Eadric appeared on its face. Mostin raised an eyebrow.
Ortwin’s jaw dropped.
**
Eadric broke upon the Temple ranks, and began toppling knights from their horses at
incredible speed.
Lukarn slammed into torsos, battered helmets or crashed against shields and staggered
their bearers.
Wherever he struck, they fell. He seemed to anticipate every move, to possess such
complete awareness of his environment that he avoided almost every blow directed at him.
And even where lances or
swords should have pierced or slashed him, they seemed to recoil, or to glance harmlessly
off of him.
“What the f*ck?” Ortwin exclaimed.
Within the space of a minute, a swathe of armoured forms – buffeted and pummelled - lay
groaning
around Eadric in a circle. In his immediate vicinity, the battle had ceased entirely, as
Templars sat unsurely on their steeds or backed away from him.
From the north, through the mist, the reserve force of Templars led by Brey appeared. If
Eadric had still been Eadric, he would have inwardly groaned.
A column of violet fire engulfed him, but did nothing beyond warming his armour slightly.
Lances
were levelled at him, but the hands which held them shook. He spoke.
“I am the Emissary of the God whom you claim to understand,” he called out in a clear
voice. “An act of violence against me is an affront to him. You are instructed to lay down
your weapons, and sound a general surrender. You will follow me into Morne.”
Brey wavered, nodded, and hung his head. Fate – or Eadric – had, in fact, spared him for a
third time.
Zhuel manifested, and if any doubts remained, they were layed to rest. Brey wept.
But the surrender came too late for Breama and Togull, who were both slain as the kanista
of Temple knights overwhelmed their squadrons, for many of Olann’s archers, and for
scores within the southern Temple emplacements when the rain from Ryth’s longbows
finally fell upon them. Many had perished
in both engagements.
Much bitterness resulted.
When Ortwin appeared, the inner fire had not yet left Eadric. The Paladin smiled benignly.
The Bard swallowed, and fought against the urge of prostrating himself before his oldest
and closest friend.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 10-09-2002
**
Daunton the Diviner Teleported to Prince Tagur’s position after scrying the Prince,
appearing at dusk in his campsite.
Several of Tagur’s hearthguards drew their swords.
“Your retainers are a little jumpy,” the Wizard smiled. The humour immediately left his
face. “Brey of Methelhar has just capitulated with Deorham.”
Tagur sat silently for several moments. His mind raced.
“There is more,” Daunton continued. “It would appear that the clandestine raids mounted
in Hethio are more organized than we previously suspected. It is some kind of popular
Uediian movement. It seems to be growing exponentially.”
Tagur cocked his head. “Are they allied with the Trempans?”
“I think allied is probably too strong a word. But I suspect that some contact exists
between them.
Nwm the Preceptor is the most likely suspect. He is an associate of Deorham.”
The Prince grimaced. He knew that much already. “And the Curia?”
“Are irrelevant,” Daunton said.
“Do we have numbers?” Tagur asked.
“Assuming that most of the Templars follow Brey’s lead – and that seems likely – around
twelve hundred knights, twice as many auxiliary cavalry and six or seven thousand
infantry. That includes the Trempan aristocracy and militias, and around eight hundred
Ardanese mercenaries.”
“The Temple has been ineffective to date,” The Prince said. “There is no reason to suspect
otherwise from now on.”
Daunton shook his head emphatically. “That is absolutely not the case. The reason that
Templars were not deployed en masse was because of their vulnerability to magical
assault from Nwm. That is no
longer an issue. I would also remind you that a substantial number of Deorham’s
footsoldiers are not levies and militiamen any more. They are Temple infantry. Finally, if
Nwm chooses to actively
participate in this, then there is nothing that you can do. He commands enormous power.”
Tagur’s stomach tightened when he considered the rumours of the Druid’s assault upon the
Temple
camp, three months before. A thousand dead in five minutes, they said.
“Is there no way that any Wizard can be persuaded to intervene?”
Daunton shook his head.
“If you contacted one from outside of Wyre? An extraplanar? A Blood Magician from
Shûth? It
troubles me, but if forced into the arena of magical warfare…”
“Then, I regret, our association would be at an end,” Daunton said sternly. “My securing
magical help for you would be no different to binding a demon or throwing lightning
myself. I will not risk violating the Injunction. I may impart only information. I will
neither act as mediator, nor as a procurer of supernatural aid.”
“You would rather see order overthrown and thousands needlessly die?”
“Yes,” Daunton replied simply. Because the alternative was too terrible to contemplate.
“And Mostin’s acts?” Tagur asked.
“Were questionable, but sufficiently minor and ambiguous to warrant oversight: there is
also the fact that many rumours concerning him issued from the Temple itself. Mages have
little inclination to trust priests. Believe me, your Highness, when I tell you that you do
not want Wizards actively participating
in temporal wars.”
“Or Druids,” Tagur said laconically. “Daunton, I would ask that this news is relayed to the
small council in full. Now is not the time for withholding information based on petty past
disagreements.
Inform the Lord Chamberlain that I will be in Morne in three days. I just hope that we can
come to some kind of consensus before it’s too late. Sihu* will be pivotal – her troops are
involved in Temple activities in the north of Trempa.”
” Were involved,” Daunton corrected him.
“She has also capitulated?” Tagur was aghast.
“No indeed,” Daunton replied. “But the Templars there are likely to be of unsure loyalty
given Brey’s reversal. Eisarn is their commander. Furthermore, they have been forced
back into Thahan.”
“A second assault? Already?”
“Nwm.” Daunton replied.
The Prince groaned. It appeared that the Druid was already active, although his agenda
was unclear.
“And Iald?” He asked wearily.
“Iald is still invested by Temple troops – for the moment. News of the events on the
borders of Trempa may have already reached them, however. I will maintain scrutiny on
them. You may wish to consider allowing Deorham into Morne.”
“And consign Wyre to even more Theocratic bullsh*t than it has already suffered? I think
not.”
“He advocates disestablishment,” Daunton replied.
“For the moment,” Tagur said bitterly. “But does his deity? And who’s to say that some
other
‘revelation’ won’t descend upon him in the near future commanding him to seize the
throne? Religion is so tiresome, Daunton. It stops people thinking clearly and behaving
rationally.”
The Wizard nodded sympathetically.
**
Eadric dreamed of death. The Temple in flames. The butchery of children upon the streets
of Morne.
Misery. Suffering. Anguish. Faces moved through his mind, each mutating into the next:
Tahl, Nwm,
Hethio, Tagur, Cynric, Nehael, Hullu, Melion, Feezuu, Soraine, Tramst. Others whom he
did not
recognize, too numerous to count.
Tramst, again, and his own brother, Orm.
The Paladin ripped himself out of sleep, and stood up in his tent. His knees were weak.
The canvas flapped in the night wind.
Strange, he thought, the door should be over there. Ah, he realized, I’m still dreaming.
Another face appeared: huge, gnarled, with tattoos on its cheeks. The fearsome aspect of a
giant or an ogre, but somehow benign. Its ancient eyes spoke of enormous wisdom and
power.
Who are you? , Eadric asked.
But he received no answer, and woke up abruptly.
He lay motionless on his pallet for a few moments, gradually accepting the fact that he
was, in fact, conscious. He became aware of another presence in his tent.
Nehael sat nearby upon a stool, regarding him seriously.
“What time is it?” Eadric asked.
“An hour before dawn,” the Demoness replied. “The camp is beginning to stir.”
“How long have you been sitting there? Do you never sleep?”
“Around two hours. And no.”
Eadric thought for a moment. “What is your relationship with Rintrah, Nehael?”
“We are on amicable enough terms,’ she replied.
“Have you been in regular contact with him?”
“I wouldn’t say regular,” she said, standing, and drawing her cloak closer around her.
Eadric was curious at the affectation – he knew that the Succubus was impervious to the
cold.
“You aren’t being terribly forthcoming,” he remarked wrily. “I thought you were acting as
my counsellor.”
“Perhaps you are asking the wrong questions,” Nehael replied.
“Are you an agent of Oronthon?” Eadric queried.
“No,” she answered flatly.
“Of Uedii?”
“No,” she replied again. “Although if I had to choose a particular interpretation of
religious truth, then I would favour Uedii for aesthetic reasons.”
The Paladin grunted. Nehael was being characteristically vague about her own loyalties.
He wondered if Nwm’s conversations with her had been any more revealing.
“I dreamed that Morne was sacked. The Fane and the Temple compound put to the torch.
The murder
and rape of innocents. Incredible cruelty.”
“War brings atrocity,” she replied impassively.
“I cannot be responsible for that,” Eadric said. “I will not have it on my conscience.”
Nehael said nothing.
“There were many faces – too many to count,” he continued. “They flashed through my
mind in rapid succession.”
“Numerous people and strings of events have led to the current crisis,” Nehael explained.
“The drawing together of many disparate threads into a single, overarching Now. You have
sensed a nodality. Another occurred at Khu: Graz’zt attempted to direct it, but Mulissu’s
presence thwarted his purpose. If you had been killed there, then the Church of Oronthon
in this reality would have been greatly diminished. The coming nodality is likely of much
wider scope.”
“The last face I saw was of a giant – or an ogre. He was aware of me, but did not answer
my inquiry to his identity. His face was tattooed. He radiated enormous power, but also
compassion.”
“I do not know,” Nehael said, “but I suspect that was Jovol. He is a Wizard who lives
much of his life in the realm of Dream. It is likely that he is aware of the impending crisis.
Dreamers are sensitive to such vibrations.”
“But why would he make his presence known to me – if not his identity? He is barred
from acting in the current crisis, anyway. The Injunction prevents him.”
Nehael was conspicuously silent.
“Nehael?” Eadric asked nervously.
“Old certainties are failing, Ahma. You yourself are testament to that fact.”
“Mostin insists that the Injunction is inviolable. That it is contrary to the whole ethos of
magic for a Wizard to embroil himself or herself in politics.”
“Mostin himself has already violated the Injunction,” Nehael reminded him. “He acted out
of concern for his friends. He decided that the risk of doing so was acceptable, given the
stakes.”
“Jovol, I suspect, is motivated by compassion,” Eadric said. “At least that is some
reassurance.”
“Perhaps,” the Demoness said sceptically. “But others will be aware of the confluence of
events.
Bending their wills, and mobilizing their servants into action. Uedii, the Green Reality.
Oronthon –
who may not have revealed all of his purposes to you. Demons, maybe.”
“And Devils?”
“There are always Devils, Ahma. Somewhere in the background. Waiting.”
“And others?”
“Whose purposes and motivations are unknown to us, and maybe even to themselves.
Random
elements.” She answered.
**
Mesikämmi. Honey-Paw. A wisp of vapour hurtling through the sky.
Hullu! Hullu! Hullu! She thought to herself as she flew south across Iald. Where have you
gone, my pretty boy? What troubles are you finding your way into now, I wonder?
The land below, thick with forests, so different to the wild tundras of her homeland. Then
settlements of stone buildings, bridges, keeps and towers, ploughed fields, rolling hills and
a thousand streams, bringing waters down from the tall mountains beyond which lay the
Linna.
She sighed. It was warm here, in the sun. And how much warmer it would get, as she flew
yet further south! Further afield than she had ever ventured before.
At least in this small, sad world, she thought ironically.
Mesikämmi considered the spirit who had appeared to her in her revelry. An unfamiliar
creature, whom she did not trust. No doubt some entity involved with the strange God
worshipped in Wyre, although whether opposed to him or allied with him she did not
know.
Or care.
She had conjured one of its servants: a being bright with effulgent light, winged like a bird
and
radiating warmth and peace.
Not that that meant anything, she thought. But now she bore its token – a talisman of
unknown power and function, and travelled to heal a man she had never heard of in a land
that she never knew existed.
Hullu, she thought again, and yearned for his sweet embrace. Not coerced this time, but
freely given.
As she raced over eastern Hethio, she scanned the ground below. He was here somewhere,
she had
scried him only hours before. But where? As she passed through a cloud, suddenly it was
revealed.
She inhaled sharply. A sea of wagons and tents stretched before her, and plumes of smoke
rose into the air. People crawling like ants on the ground below her – thousands it seemed.
More than she had ever seen before.
Resisting the urge to descend, the Shamaness continued on southwards. Wyre fell behind
her. She flew out over the Thalassine, and cities passed beneath her. She flew over
Pandicule with its hundreds of rocky islands, over Bedesh, and across the Western Ocean.
There, below her, two hundred miles from anywhere: a surf-wracked island perhaps three
miles long. It boasted a single stone building - a castle of unusual design.
Remember, she thought. The slippery spirit knows where his books are. That is enough.
Mesikämmi sighed, and wondered why such things were so important. But it would assure
her Hullu of victory, and that was sufficient. And then, perhaps, he would return with her
at last. This time, she would be coy, and restrained, and yielding.
“For there is nothing which I cannot teach you in the arts of love,” the bright servant had
informed her.
**
“A Fey? ” Ulao roared. “One-Eight-Six said nothing to me about you being a Fey. And a
Satyr to boot!
A licentious, unprincipled erotomaniacal Satyr. It doesn’t surprise me that she was evasive
about you when questioned: no doubt you have already plucked her frail maidenhood with
your goatish lusts! I should have you flogged for your insolence.”
Ortwin bowed theatrically. The enormous Djinn – whose girth suggested an
overindulgence in
whatever airy sustenance such creatures partook of – was clad wholly in crimson silk, and
bore a tulwar almost as tall as Ortwin himself. He sat upon a throne of ivory in a hall of
dizzying height, its domed roof supported by immense marble pillars of intricate design.
Tendrils of purplish smoke, issuing from numerous braziers, clung to the columns before
wafting out of great shafts hewn into the roof.
Numerous creatures attended him: Djinn of lesser rank, Mephits, Elementals and Sylphs.
To his right stood his chief advisor, whom Iua had already warned Ortwin of – a Marid
named Shasheen – and
nearby, standing in a tight group, a squad of dour Azer mercenaries from the Elemental
Plane of Fire, prospective allies in the age-long hostility against the oppressive Efreet
regime. Iua herself stood demurely to her father’s left – Ortwin noted that she played the
role with considered ease. On a couch, a Sidhe of singular beauty reclined. His face
remained impassive at Ulao’s disparaging comments regarding Feys in general.
Iua had informed the Bard that the politics of Ulao’s court – like the Inner Planes in
general - were extremely complex and transient.
“Great Ulao,” Ortwin said dramatically, “I bring you gifts as a token of my esteem.”
From the back of the hallway, in a stately fashion, a train of Pixies flew forwards with
serious looks upon their faces. They bore cushions of white velvet, upon which rested a
number of fabulous items procured by Ortwin from a passing Sorcerer from an unknown
world.
“First,” Ortwin gloated, “the Fuliginous Grand Rill: a rose of such exquisite scent that
those who experience its aroma are enraptured to the point of insensibility. It is unique, in
that it requires no water or soil to sustain it, deriving its nutrition from the ecstasy evoked
in those who inhale its fragrance. Be sure to smell it at least once per day, or it will perish
from lack of due love and attention.
“Next,” the Bard continued, “a bottled whirlwind. An amusing toy in which, I hope, the
Great Ulao will discover some small pleasure. But a word of caution to the owner: the
whirlwind is utterly fickle and unpredictable, and does not heed any command. If you
loose the stopper, be sure to have an efficient method of escape: although such warnings
are hardly necessary for one with sublime mastery of the
airy realms.” Ortwin thought that he ought to cover his back, nonetheless.
“Finally,” he said, “obtained with great difficulty and sacrifice,” although not be me, he
thought, “a Pipe of Prescience: inhaling smoke through this pipe, and concentrating upon
the desired subject will reveal intimations regarding future events. The hints are vague, of
course, but divination is an inexact science at best.” Ortwin bowed again with a flourish.
Ulao raised an eyebrow. Whoever this Ortwin fellow was, he seemed generous and had
excellent taste.
And the train of Feys who attended him looked suitably loyal.** His eye fell upon Mostin,
who stood silently behind Ortwin, his lidless green eyes peering out from beneath his
wide-brimmed hat.
“And this fellow,” Ulao gestured at the Alienist, “is your attendant and advisor, I assume?”
“In a manner of speaking, your Magnificence,” the Bard said smoothly. “He is a Wizard of
excellent repute, called Mostin the Metagnostic. He seldom speaks, but has proven a
faithful aide.”
Mostin twitched reflexively, but said nothing. The situation, although amusing, would
rapidly lose its charm if Ortwin persisted too far in that direction.
“Tell me, Ortwin,” Ulao questioned, waving at the Pixies who fluttered around him, “do
you have many such servants in your own realm? I am surprised! I had always been led to
believe that sprites were intractable and unreliable. You must command great respect
amongst your own kind.”
Ortwin bowed graciously, and gave an expression of embarrassed modesty. False
understatement was
one of his specialties in the field of mendacity.
The Sidhe, hitherto silent, shifted lazily on his couch. When he spoke, his voice was like
honey. “I regret that some Feys have acquired far too much… Earthiness…due to
prolonged exposure to mortal soils,” he mused absently. “It does not surprise me that
servitude comes easily to them – they are far removed from their roots.”
Ortwin looked mildly offended, noting the expressions of indignance which crossed the
face of several of the Pixies. His response was inspired.
“Such rudeness! I will, however, pardon your abuse. I am a magnanimous fellow –
although great Ulao may take affront at such profanity. Reference to that basest of
elements will not pass my lips. I would refrain from sullying Prince Ulao’s consciousness
with such vulgar thoughts: I only hope he can
forgive you.”
“Yes, quite,” Ulao said, half-bemused. “Your concern for my sensibilities does you credit,
Ortwin, although I am less easily offended than you might think.” He clapped his hands,
and a dozen Mephits darted off to bring large, comfortable cushions. Ulao gestured for
Ortwin to sit.
Yes, he thought to himself. I’m in.
The Sidhe smiled coldly.
*The Duchess of Tomur
**Mostin used a Planar Binding to bring sixteen Pixies onto the Plane of Air from the
Prime to attend Ortwin. They were paid with a vial of Nolzur’s Marvellous Pigments and
several potions, which had been transferred into tiny barrels for ease of transport.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 10-15-2002
**
Stuff Going On
The sprite, who had proven skittish and elusive, finally showed himself to the Shamaness
after she had entered a trance and invoked some strange power. Orolde – paranoid beyond
reason, and constantly
looking over his shoulder for Demons – had felt a strange compulsion.
She was there, in his mind. Probing.
“Who are you?” He later asked nervously from behind the castle door. “And what do you
want?”
Mesikämmi did not understand his words until she had spoken an appropriate string of
powerful
syllables.
“I am Mesikämmi. I am seeking a Wizard called Kothchori. I understand that he requires
healing. Is he here?”
“Kothchori is beyond help,” Orolde replied unsurely. “I tend to his needs as best I can. He
is harmless now, and there is nothing of value left in this place. You are wasting your time.
Please, leave us in peace.”
“You do not understand. I am Mesikämmi. I have yet to find one who is beyond my help,
dead or living.
I wish to heal him.”
So, reluctantly and suspiciously, Orolde opened the door.
A strange but delightful spirit, Mesikämmi thought as he revealed himself to her. Half the
height of a man, with greenish skin and webbed feet like a duck. He had welts on his arms,
and covered them self-consciously when the Shamaness saw them.
“Did Kothchori do this to you?” She asked.
“He is not in command of his faculties,” Orolde replied defensively, “and becomes easily
confused.”
“Show me to your Master,” she said.
Orolde took her through an untidy clutter of broken furniture, boxes and shattered glass
devices, into a small room. An unkempt man with a ragged beard, dressed in filthy robes
sat at a chair. His eyes had been burned from his head. He said nothing.
“Other than his blindness, what is his malady?” Mesikämmi asked.
“He is deranged,” Orolde replied. “He has moments of lucidity, but soon slips into ranting
again. Most often, he just sits. Occasionally, he beats me – usually when I try and feed
him.”
“Your loyalty is admirable, if inexplicable. Has he no friends who could have revived
him?”
“None who cared enough,” Orolde said bitterly. “Or who are willing to invest any of their
own precious energy in him. And his works are gone – stolen, like everything else of
value. He would awaken to find himself deprived of his most vital sense: his magic would
be denied to him. It may be better for him in this way. The only thing worse than being
crazy and confined to this forsaken island, is being sane.
Believe me.”
I know where his books are, the slippery spirit had said to her. That is enough.
The Shamaness took a bear’s claw which hung around her neck, and pressed it firmly
against each of Kothchori’s eyes in turn. She chanted in a language which contained many
vowels, and paced around
the Wizard. She sprinkled diamond dust over him, and spoke yet more words. The air
around her was
alive with spirits.
Somehow, remarkably, his eyes began to grow back. The madness which possessed him
evaporated. He
looked at her.
“Who are you?” He asked. “Why have you come to me?”
Orolde, excited beyond words, skipped and clapped his hands.
“I am called Mesikämmi,” the Shamaness replied. She took the talisman which the bright
servant had given her, and showed it to Kothchori. “Do you know what this is?” She
asked.
The Wizard seemed to shiver. “Yes,” he replied.
“A spirit gave it to me, and said I was to deliver it to you. That you would know what it
meant. He says I know where his books are. What is this talisman?”
“It is a seal,” Kothchori replied. “A mark of identification.”
“It belongs to a spirit?” Mesikämmi asked. “A powerful one?”
“Yes,” he answered, “a very powerful spirit.”
“What is his name?” Mesikämmi asked.
“His name is Graz’zt,” Kothchori replied.
**
Over sixty Templars stood before Eadric. A third of them were composed of veterans:
Penitents who had sworn themselves to him in the aftermath of Deorham, or those who
had stayed in Trempa after
Tahl had assumed control of the Temple there.
The others, including Brey, were new. All were captains and lieutenants in the ranks of the
Magistratum. Many had observed the Second Descent of Grace at the Battle of the
Crossings of the Nund, where doubt, and the realization that they were wrong had finally
overcome them. Eadric spoke openly to them.
“The Curia must be dissolved, and ambiguities settled. This must be resolved quickly, and
as peaceably as possible. A new Prelate must be allowed to ascend the throne. The
temporal power of the Temple
will be greatly diminished in the aftermath: this is a necessary thing.”
“It is likely that much suffering will accompany this transition. Many do not trust me,
others do not trust the Temple in any form, others do not trust Oronthon himself. The
secular authorities will not allow unhindered access to Morne – despite my assurances that
this is an internal matter. This is
regrettable.”
“I have experienced visions of Morne in chaos. The Temple destroyed. Murder in its
cloisters. I have no desire to initiate such terror, but I cannot say that ‘it will not come to
pass’ or that I can prevent it happening. I command you to instruct your troops that,
whatever happens, even if we have to take
Morne by force, that the normal ‘spoils of war’ – perquisites such as rape, murder and
looting, which soldiers generally enjoy – are utterly denied them. This applies as equally
to the auxiliaries and mercenaries as it does to you yourselves. If it happens, I will myself
execute the offenders, and their officers for dereliction. Take note: I hold you responsible
for the actions of your subordinates. Absolute discipline will be maintained at all times.”
“Morne is five days away, although I suspect we will meet resistance long before we reach
it. I will brook no petty rivalries, either amongst knights of the Temple, or between
Templars and any of
Trempa’s aristocracy, or with any other group. You will not arrogantly assume that you are
the elite in this matter, or that others should defer to your experience or piety. You will
treat all with equal courtesy
and respect, be it myself or a Uediian peasant. You will offer such leadership as you can,
neither grudgingly nor haughtily, but freely and with an attitude of service, not command.
If acts of pride and conceit come to my notice regarding Templar officers, they will be
summarily disciplined. Reoffenders will be flogged, and stripped of their rank: they will
act as exemplars in one way or another.”
“If any have an issue with these instructions, now is the time to make themselves heard.
Likewise, if any doubt me, I will furnish them with a horse and they may ride where they
will.”
(Silence).
“Finally, you should note that amongst my closest confidants, I count a Demoness, a
Wizard, a Pagan and a Fey. Whilst, initially, you may find these presences difficult to
accept, in time you will become more open to them. And you will remain open to the
inevitability of change, or you will break, and fail.”
Eadric turned away.
” Ahma has spoken,” Tahl said.
The Templars nodded and murmured.
**
Nwm returned to the meadows near the Nund Crossings to find that Eadric’s camp had
shifted onto the western bank, and had assimilated a large Temple contingent. He sought
the Paladin out, and relayed news of events on the northern borders of Trempa.
Using his torc to pinpoint the enclaves of Temple troops – also supported by cadres from
Tomur and Thahan – the Druid had simply appeared before their leaders in vaporous form,
and issued dire
warnings if they did not withdraw back across the river and disband. A few, aware of
Nwm’s
reputation, fled there and then. Others, who did not heed his advice, were later subjected
to entangling
plants, insect plagues, inclement weather, and pilfering by summoned Feys. Their swords
and armour turned into wooden replicas, irascible horses refused their commands, and odd
gravitational effects and magical booby traps afflicted them. Summoned Earth Elementals
wreaked havoc in the camps,
smashing gear and snapping the weapons of those who tried to strike them. None noticed
the sparrow who sat on a nearby branch, chirping happily to itself, watching these events
with unconcealed glee.
After three days of harassment, Eisarn, the Temple commander, decided that it would be
wise to retreat his eight hundred or so troops before the Druid’s apparent good humour left
him and he began
employing Fire Storms instead. Eadric had, in fact, specifically asked Nwm to ‘go easy’
on the enemy troops.
The inevitable meeting between Nwm and Brey was tense and difficult, despite Eadric’s
best efforts to smooth things over between them. The Templar’s character – which
demanded a rigid adherance to
dogma - had not changed, although the focus of his zeal had shifted. After stiff words and
obvious discomfort between the two, Eadric dismissed Brey and conferred in private with
the Druid.
“He will never forgive me,” Nwm sighed. “I can’t really blame him. I constantly remind
him of his humiliation. I think the same can be said for most of his captains.”
“Good,” Eadric replied unsympathetically. “It will give them something to work on. I’d
hate to think that this was easy for any of them.”
“Tomorrow, the Tagamuos begins,” Nwm said. “It is three days until the Solstice. I have
yet to decide what to do – whether to go to Hethio and attend Hullu, or to stay here with
Trempa’s Uediians. In either event, I will probably be called to lead the celebrations.”
The Paladin groaned. “I’d completely forgotten about the Solstice. This is inconvenient
timing. Is there any way that the festival could be, er, toned-down a little? Discipline is
paramount at the moment.”
“Good luck in trying,” Nwm said unhelpfully.
“If you choose to go to Hethio, any information regarding Hullu’s progress would be
appreciated,”
Eadric pointed out.
“Ed!” Nwm said with mock horror. “I hope you’re not suggesting that I go and spy on
those of my own faith? I am a High Priest. Seriously, though, the same had occurred to me
– but I’m not sure whether I should leave here.”
Eadric looked quizzical.
“For the next three days, your camp will be filled with drunken Uediians fornicating and
celebrating heathen rites, Eadric. This might prove somewhat inflammatory. My presence
might stop things getting out of hand.”
“Hmm.” The Paladin answered.
“I think a short period of segregation might be appropriate,” Nwm suggested.
“Normally, I’d disagree,” Eadric said. “But perhaps an exception might be in order. The
river may prove a useful barrier. Who will lead the celebrations here if you decide to go to
Hethio?”
“Nehael is the obvious choice,” Nwm answered.
Eadric looked distinctly uncomfortable.
Nwm smiled sympathetically.
**
The Dreamer drifted within a sea of colours which had no name in any mortal tongue. The
Celestial, exalted even amongst his own kind, floated before him. Hundreds of motes of
light hovered in front of the Dreamer, and he scrutinized them carefully.
“There is a sixty-two percent chance that the main arc becomes asymptotic in seventeen
days,” he said.
“That is why you must act,” the Celestial replied, “or there will be multiple Gates.”
“More than at Khu?” The Dreamer asked sarcastically.
“Khu was exceptional,” the Celestial replied, smiling. “Enitharmon authorized a cascade.
It was a necessary lesson for Graz’zt.”
“Graz’zt does not frighten me,” the Dreamer said. “His flux is dwindling – I suspect he
has too many other concerns to deal with.”
“Not so,” the Celestial replied. “The reason that you discern a diminishment is that he has
just facilitated the translation of four Succubi. He will force agency on this one here.” He
pointed to a dim mote, which appeared relatively innocuous.
“It is the Wizard Kothchori. There is a tight resonance with this one, and this one, and this
one,” the Dreamer said, pointing at several other motes.
“I will take your word for it,” the Celestial said ruefully. “Such subtleties elude me. What
is the power of this Kothchori?”
“I’m surprised that you don’t know. He is a Transmuter of significant ability.”
“Wizards tend to escape my notice,” the Celestial confessed. “Unless they are
Summoners.”
“Or Dreamers,” the Dreamer remarked wrily.
“Or Dreamers,” the Celestial agreed.
“Is he aligned?”
“Not to my knowledge,” the Dreamer answered. “I recall him being pragmatic rather than
philosophical. He was one of Feezuu’s targets in her search for Mostin. He was originally
from Shûth,
if I recall.”
“In which case he is outside my purview in any case. The Sleeping Gods take care of their
own.
Interference would be undiplomatic.”
“As at Khu?” The Dreamer jibed.
“Must we always return to Khu?” The Celestial asked, exasperated. “It was a finely
balanced nodality.
Oronthon’s action was not unilateral.”
“Still, it risked offending those whose power still resides there,” The Dreamer pointed out.
“They have slept long,” the Celestial said.
“Sleep is no obstacle to action,” the Dreamer observed. He pointed to other motes in
succession. “This one is the Shamaness Mesikämmi, this one is the sword Melancholy.
They are connected vicariously
through Hullu, Nwm the Preceptor and Eadric before they touch Tramst.”
“And this one here?”
“Is another Wizard, called Rimilin. He is despicable.”
The Celestial nodded knowingly.
“This connotes resonance between Graz’zt, Rimilin and Mesikämmi. But I still cannot see
the strand between Kothchori and Graz’zt.”
“Perhaps not all tendrils are visible to you?” The Celestial suggested. “Oronthon sees such
things.”
“I am not omniscient,” the Dreamer admitted. “But neither is he – no, please, Rintrah, let’s
not start that argument again.”
“What will you do?” The Celestial asked.
“At the moment, nothing,” the Dreamer replied. “I will not act preemptively, based upon
this probability.”
“A second cascade is not out of the question if fiends are invoked – but it would still
require a catalyst.
I doubt that Mulissu would act in that capacity again. Would you?”
“I will reserve judgement on that request,” the Dreamer said. “Although my instinct is to
say no. I have issues about opening Gates in order to solve problems caused by opening
Gates, let alone because of some Binding. The possible escalatory nature of this is exactly
what I am trying to avoid, not to compound.”
“But you have already admitted the possibility of action.” Rintrah said. “At what point?”
“If the main arc becomes asymptotic, not before.” The Dreamer answered.
” After Morne is sacked?”
“My first duty, as far as possible, will always be to the Injunction. I will not violate it
lightly. You must understand that.”
“I do Jovol. And so does Oronthon.”
**
Mostin, having left Ortwin to ingratiate himself with the dignitaries in Ulao’s court,
returned once more to his lodging in the city of Magathei, passed through the mirror-portal
to his extradimensional retreat, and pondered.
Since his exchanges with Shomei, the Alienist had spent much time reflecting upon the
nature of
compacts. Her success with Devils – which was undeniable – came at a price which
Mostin found
wholly unacceptable. This, compounded by the fact that she had overextended herself, had
led to her current predicament. Nonetheless, as with all ideas with which the Alienist came
into contact, he
wondered which parts he could improve upon, and exploit.
He considered Vhorzhe, his former mentor. What exactly had happened? , he wondered.
The Alienist suspected that it had been an Entity of the higher order which had dragged
Vhorzhe – body and spirit –
off to some unknown reality. One of those from beyond Beyond, as it were.
They can be called, and bound, he had told Shomei. But he was unsure whether he
believed it himself.
And were there other things, beyond even them? A third order of Pseudonaturals? A
fourth? The
metaphor of a series of mathematical constructs, possessing an increasing number of
dimensions, was hard to avoid.
There were no limits. To anything. Mostin knew this. Not as an article of faith, but
revealed to him through his hypercognitive faculties. The Metagnostic Reality.
He fidgeted, paced, brooded, and sighed. He spent an hour consulting his books.
Outside – ‘Uzzhin,’ or the ‘Far Realm.’ How did one get there? Cryptic references led him
to believe that Plane Shift was an ineffectual method of transportation. It was beyond the
power of the spell.
Is a Gate possible? He wondered. Or is it too dangerous to attempt? Is it really a place at
all, or simply a state of being – although that argument was unsustainable. After all, what
were any of the Planes, if they were not ‘states of being?’
The atemporal nature of the place caused conundrums to appear in the Alienist’s mind. If,
by some means, he could come there, he could spend an infinity there, and, upon returning
to the Prime, would still arrive at exactly the same time that he departed.
And would the aggressive, insanity-provoking nature of the place affect him? He was,
after all, an Alienist. He had transcended his physical form, and was privy to secrets which
few had ever gained.
Secrets which could not be apprehended by a mind limited by conventional rational
thought. Would the
place embrace him, or extinguish his consciousness?
He needed answers.
Nervously, he opened a Gate.
**
Aside from Iald and Thahan, where concentrations of troops still existed, the Temple
forces were thinly spread and ineffective. The Temple compound in Morne was almost
empty of warriors, and only a few
hundred others were scattered across Wyre, attached to the various Episcopal sees. Brey’s
defection –
along with sixty percent of the Magistratum – was a sore blow.
In Morne, the Curia – or part of the Curia – convened. Daunton’s assertion to Prince Tagur
that the body was ‘irrelevant’ was only partially true. The Bishops of Mord, Tomur,
Thahan and Gibilrazen –
who, together with Hethio had formed the core dedicated to Eadric’s impeachment almost
a year before
– could, despite a diminishment in military clout, still bring a considerable degree of
diplomatic pressure to bear. As a group, they lacked the cohesion and direction that they
enjoyed under the Prelacy
– or even under Rede’s brief protectorship. The spritual solidarity which so many people
expected of the Curia, real or apparent, was also absent. As individuals, however –
individuals who still
commanded significant resources, and the threat of anathematization – they were not
entirely toothless.
They lobbied the King and the Royal Council for action. Again. Shiel, the Duke of Jiuhu,
and Sihu of Tomur, who, together with Foide the Lord Chamberlain and the boy Tiuhan
IV, received all four of the Bishops, were sympathetic.
But Eadric was not their immediate concern.
“Our diviners have informed us that the threat which needs to be countered lies in
Hethio,” Foide said in a cracked voice. “The Uediian uprising presents more of an
immediate danger.”
“Eadric is an instrument of the Adversary,” Gibilrazen countered. “What could be more
pressing than
his defeat? He has taken the blasphemous title of ‘Breath of God,’ and has corrupted yet
more of the devout. He is an insidious snake, and must be stamped on. The survival of
Orthodoxy depends upon it.”
Sihu, devout in the extreme, shifted uneasily. “No decision regarding how to deal with
Eadric can be made without Tagur,” she said. “His consent will be crucial to whatever
course of action we decide. His men are already on the move.”
The Bishop snorted. “My see is three weeks away. The Adversary is five days from here.
Morne will be lost before the Prince can come here.”
“If so, then not to Deorham,” Shiel remarked drily. “The Uediian movement must be
crushed immediately and totally, before it gains any more momentum. And, respectfully
your Majesty,” he turned to the boy, “screw Tagur. We cannot wait for his men, or his
prevarications. The Prince himself should be in Morne before nightfall tomorrow – he has
ridden hard from Gibilrazen. He can make his case then. I myself have already ordered a
thousand of Jiuhu’s finest to rout the Uediians and execute any rebels who surrender. An
example must be made.”
“Troops which could have been better deployed along the road to Trempa!” The Bishop
objected.
Shiel gave a peremptory gesture. “They still will be. Just a day or two later. Kaurban’s
forces may still intercept and delay the Heretic – he is already in the field. And Sihu’s
troops will soon be hastening to join him. Deorham is unlikely to attempt to invest Morne
with an army at his back, is he? And he lacks siege engines – Morne is safe for now.”
“From the Pagan, Nwm?”
“He may be with the Uediians. Which is why we must eradicate that threat. If he is there,
we will deal with him also.”
The Bishop of Gibilrazen laughed harshly. “You would send a thousand men to deal with
the Pagan?
Do I need to remind you of the fiasco on the Nund? They will all be dead within an hour.”
“No,” Shiel replied. “A thousand men will be deployed to disband the Uediian rebellion.
One man will
deal with Nwm.”
The Bishop looked blank.
“Rimilin has sworn to defend Wyre against the chaos. He has shown his true colours in
this time of crisis – those of a loyal patriot.”
“Are you insane?” The Bishop asked in disbelief. “Rimilin is an accursed demonist. And
you would risk loosing this canker on Wyre with royal sanction? Your Majesty, I beg you
to reconsider.”
“Rimilin will not violate the Injunction,” Sihu said shakily. “He will not be deployed in
the field. He will merely contain the threat of Nwm, if the Pagan is present.”
“That is a violation,” the Bishop said, exasperated. “It is a political act. If he gets away
with it, who is to say what else he will attempt?”
“Fear of retribution will dissuade him from any such attempt.”
“And what have you promised Rimilin for the aid that he lends you?” The Bishop asked
bitterly.
“Nothing,” Shiel replied. “That is precisely the point. I believe that he acts out of genuine
concern – so much, that he is willing to risk even his own reputation.”
“Bah!” The Bishop of Gibilrazen didn’t buy a word of it and, despite a universal suspicion
directed at all things arcane, in this case he was right. Because Rimilin acted under
direction from Prince Graz’zt, and with the promise of protection and great reward.
Of those four Succubi whom Graz’zt had dispatched onto the Prime, the first, Chr’ri, was
directed to Mesikämmi - to incite her to seek Kothchori, to heal him, to bring him the seal,
and then to receive aid in her quest to win back Hullu. Afterwards, the Demoness repaired
to the Uediian camp to gauge the mood and to await the arrival of the Shamaness herself.
The triangle between Mesikämmi, Hullu and
the sword Melancholy had great potential to wreak havoc.
The second Demoness, sent to Rimilin, bore news of the imminent collapse of the Great
Injunction.
The fact that Rimilin himself would be instrumental in effecting it, encouraged rather than
dissuaded the Acolyte. Invoking a new era of madness and death was certainly appealing,
especially if there were no fears of repercussions. The name of the Succubus was Kalkja,
and she bore a hatred for Oronthon exceptional even amongst demons. Henceforth, she
would act as the Rimilin’s concubine, and Graz’zt would shower favours upon him.
The third, Chomele, was ordered to approach Kothchori himself. She manifested shortly
after
Mesikämmi departed, bearing a page ripped from one of his own books. Reluctantly, he
agreed to
compact with her. The price of exchange – the return of his spells to him – was more than
he could refuse. And to him, Wyre, and its Injunction, held no special meaning.
The fourth Succubus, Aelial, appeared before Shomei with the promise of rewards beyond
anything she had theretofore imagined. Shomei raised her rod, obliterated the messenger,
and immediately contacted Belial for advice.
In the Abyss, Graz’zt, exhausted from the efforts of opening access to the Prime for his
Demons, retired to his sanctum and brooded. War always brought ample opportunity for
chaos, deceit, horror and death.
He smiled.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 10-23-2002
**
Here and There; and This, That and the Other: Part 1
Hullu shifted his weight upon the branch, and waited. He was finding it hard to focus on
the moment, to be fully aware of his surroundings. His mind was distracted by events that
had come to his notice: the mustering of Morne’s city defenses; the riding of a force from
Jiuhu, intent on crushing his
rebellion; and the arrival of two witches in his camp, seemingly in his time of greatest
need.
He had ordered Tarva to watch them, distrusting his desire to trust them.
He patted Melancholy affectionately, glad to have her cold steel – or whatever metal from
which she was constructed – to hand.
Along the road, from the northwest, the sound of horses galloping came to his ear. He
motioned down to where the Druid, Bodb, rested behind a bush in the form of a boar.
Hullu then gave a low whistle, alerting those others in nearby trees to action.
A score of riders, moving at great speed, suddenly came into view. Their standard – a
Golden Boar –
fluttered above them. An ironic device, Hullu smiled, as he looked towards the Druid.
As the horsemen passed beneath him, vines suddenly sprang up from the track, and lashed
out from the undergrowth on both sides of the road, wrapping themselves around the legs
of the mounts. Several
tripped, depositing their riders hard upon the ground. They whinnied, and riders yelled.
Abruptly, dozens of yard-long shafts began tearing into the confused group. Men toppled
from their steeds, others drew swords, a handful – including the bannerbearer – broke free
and fled eastwards.
Hullu’s Bagaudas slew all of the remainder, except one, who broke off and ran north on
foot through the trees.
The Tribesman cursed, leapt down a bone-jarring two fathoms onto the ground, and raced
after him. He spotted him his quarry immediately, and began to close.
After a two-hundred yard pursuit, Hullu found that his prey – a slim man in his early
forties, who wore an unassuming black robe of modest design – had turned, and was
prepared to face him. He had drawn a rapier.
“Wait,” the man said. “I am a simple mercenary – nothing more. I am only doing my job.
Consider this, before you attack me.”
Hullu drew Melancholy, and walked forwards. “I apologize,” he grinned, “but you have
chosen the wrong side. Such are the risks of a mercenary’s life.” Hullu knew it well, as for
years, he had been one himself. “Now you will suggest that perhaps you can join me, in
order to save your own life.”
“Yes,” the man replied. “That is precisely what I had planned. I have no particular loyalty,
other than to myself.”
“Your honesty is admirable,” Hullu grimaced, “but your sword is fine, and we need such
weapons as we can acquire. And, doubtless, your purse is also fat.”
“My purse you can have,” the man answered, flinging it onto the ground. “But my blade is
my livelihood. I am loathe to part with it.”
“Then I should take it from you,” Hullu replied, and leapt forwards. His power and
ferocity – combined with a natural speed and a precision honed by years of practice –
landed the Tribesman a solid blow.
His opponent’s face whitened visibly as the blade struck him, as if something cold had just
brushed against his soul. Hullu paused briefly, and wondered why Melancholy seemed so
eager to slay this
man.
A brief but rapid exchange followed, in which Hullu’s opponent demonstrated
considerable skill and finesse with his blade.
“Your weapon is a monstrosity,” the black-clad man observed. “But, nonetheless, I will
take service with you. My fee is fifty crowns a week. I have tactical expertise which may
benefit you. I am also a capable cook.”
Hullu laughed despite himself. The man had mettle, there was no denying it. “Lower your
blade, and I will consider it.”
Half to his surprise, the man complied. Both stood still, until two dozen Bagaudas had
arrived, arrows nocked in their bows. With an effort of will, Hullu forced his weapon back
into its scabbard.
“Bind and blindfold this one,” Hullu instructed. “He may prove useful. Did you find the
Prince among the slain?”
“He must have been one of those few who escaped,” Tarva replied. “It is unfortunate.
Bodb has taken the form of an owl, and is pursuing them.”
Tagur breathed a sigh of relief, blessed his understated taste in clothes together with his
diplomatic guile, and quietly acquiesced as his hands were tied and a cloth secured over
his eyes.
Had whatever intelligence inhabited the sword Melancholy possessed lips, it would have
smiled quietly to itself as it considered possible routes to unfettered chaos. Allowing Hullu
to gain the impression that he had the blade under control served its purposes for the
present. When the real personality conflict arose, the sword would be a little more
assertive.
Still, it had been difficult not to force him to kill the Prince.
**
Mostin swam in a sea that was not a sea, in a place that was not a place, for a time that
was not a time.
An infinity of dimensions stretched before him, each overlapping and melding with the
others, joining, merging, parting. Monstrous things that were neither plants nor animals
drifted, or moved under their own strange methods, past his vision. In many cases, it was
hard to determine whether they were on the same plane as the Alienist, or one of a
multitude of coterminous ones. The pressure on his
consciousness was immense, threatening to force his mind into new modes of perception.
It was tempting to acquiesce.
Mostin stepped backwards through the Gate and reappeared in his study. Panting, he
closed the portal, and walked to the Mirror of Urm-Nahat. Fresh in his mind was the
image of a Pseudonatural behemoth of unknown type.
The Alienist attempted to scry it, but to no avail.
He sighed. It looked as though Gate worked, but nothing else would. How tiresome.
He pondered upon how to contact Them. Those from the far Beyond. Did they have
names? If so, it may be possible to bring them.
He spent four hours skimming through books, trying to find something that might be of
use to him.
One name, that was all he needed.
His search was fruitless. Nothing which spoke of a name. Nothing that even mentioned
Them, beyond vague rumours and warnings. He procrastinated for a while, and finally
decided to pay Shomei a visit.
Mostin’s library consisted of some twelve hundred books, many of which were rare and
obscure. It was an impressive collection.
He knew for a fact that Shomei possessed over fifty thousand volumes.
*
“I must depart on an urgent errand,” the Infernalist said hurriedly. “Feel free to peruse the
library at your leisure, Mostin. Half of me hopes you find what you are looking for, the
other half desperately prays that you don’t. The Spined Devils will attend to your
mundane needs.”
“How long will you be absent?” Mostin asked. “And why do you trust me alone in your
home?”
Shomei laughed. “Mostin, I know you would never be foolish enough to steal from me.
Besides,
everything of value is beyond your reach. Remember: do not enter the woods near the
Mansion, as
infernal spirits inhabit them. If you venture into the cellar, take care in the summoning
room: there is a Hag in one of the pentacles. I will return as soon as maybe.”
“Where are you going?” Mostin asked.
“Hell,” Shomei smiled. She grasped her rod, invoked a ward, and opened a Gate. “You
can come, if you wish. You are under my protection, and I will ensure that no harm befalls
you.” She passed through the portal. Mostin looked at the scene beyond, agog.
A hall so vast that its ceiling was on the edge of sight. A dull red glow. Devils. Rank upon
rank upon rank of them, standing in silent vigil. Thousands of them.
He ducked out of sight of the Gate’ s opening, closed his eyes and waited for it to go
away.
After several stiff drinks, he went to the library.
Twenty-nine hours later, exhausted, and wondering why no-one had ever seen fit to devise
a spell
which searched libraries, Mostin held a slender volume in his hand.
As he opened its soft, calfskin covers, his stomach twisted in recognition of the symbols
amid the letters. A journal. Kept by an Alienist of unknown identity. How had it ended
here? This was more than he could have hoped for.
Shaking, the Alienist began to read. So much of it seemed simplistic, almost naïve. But the
final entries were of colossal importance.
11.45: The entity prefers to assume the guise of a denizen of one of the outer planes – an
Ultrodaemon in this case. I can only assume that its essential nature resembles this
creature, and this is a projection of such essence into the bounded cosmos. (Complex
symbols and equations followed)
12.30: It does not speak, or attempt to communicate with me in any way. The circle is
secure, which surprised me at first, but I must act quickly – I have no doubt that I cannot
contain it for longer than a day.
20.00 Still unresponsive to my offers.
22.45 Still unresponsive. I have no doubt that it is a higher order entity.
09.30 Still no response. I will attempt to remove it with a Banishment in an hour or so.
There were no more entries, but a set of symbols indicated a name, syllables which would
sound
unnatural when spoken by a human voice. Mostin committed them to memory.
How maddening! Who had written the book? Was this the same entity that Vhorzhe had
attempted to
call? – It seemed likely. Had he gleaned the information from this tome? He had certainly
not written it, as his style and script were unmistakable.
Was it the name of this creature which he had read? A Pseudonatural Ultroloth of the
higher order?
Would Vhorzhe have been that foolish?
Mostin considered his options.
**
Although resolved to oversee the climax of the Tagamuos rite with the Uediians who
formed part of Eadric’s army, Nwm nonetheless visited Hullu’s camp two days
beforehand.
It had grown into a vast sprawl of tents and wagons. There were thousands of men,
women, children
and animals. Nwm was staggered.
Five minutes after his arrival, having sought out Hullu, Nwm was even more shocked to
observe Prince Tagur standing nearby, spit-roasting a boar. The Prince looked at him
impassively, but the Druid saw his eyes flick from side to side, as if considering a possible
route of escape.
“Well,” Nwm said to Hullu, his eyes still upon Tagur, “things have certainly grown larger
– and apparently more complex - than I had anticipated. But I somehow expected the revel
to be underway by
now.”
“There will be no revel,” Hullu said dourly.
Nwm raised an eyebrow.
“Several couriers have been intercepted – it appears that the Duke of Jiuhu is planning a
surprise visit, timed to coincide with the main ceremony. He is sending a thousand or so of
his friends to join us in the celebrations.”
“An attack on the Solstice? That’s pretty underhanded.”
“But a logical choice,” Hullu replied wrily. “I suspect, however, that he deems us less
organized than we in fact are.”
Nwm nodded, still looking at Tagur. “What will you do?” He asked.
“I have only a handful of horses, and even fewer who can ride them,” Hullu explained.
“And his force is entirely mounted. I will, of course, use pikes and longbows – as many of
them as I have, at least.
What idiot wouldn’t? Are you hungry, Nwm? You have been looking at that boar since
you arrived
here.”
“Yes,” the Druid replied, vaguely.
“The cook is a mercenary who we captured in a raid earlier today,” Hullu said easily. “I
think his claims to culinary expertise were merely a way to avoid death.”
“Doubtless,” Nwm agreed. “Do you make a habit of picking up unknown mercenaries and
inviting them into your ranks?”
Hullu laughed. “No, but the fellow certainly has a way with himself. But after I’d had him
blindfolded and led here, it occurred to me that any attempts at secrecy have been a waste
of time for some while.
It’s just a habit that’s hard to shake.”
“How so?”
“Nwm, there are twenty thousand men, women and children here. This movement is
bound to be
riddled with leaks. We are four days from Morne, and occupying some of the fattest
farmland in Wyre.
It’s not like we can be inconspicuous anymore.”
“And what is your purpose now, Hullu?” Nwm asked carefully.
“Negotiation,” Hullu replied in a low voice. Seeing the Druid’s expression, Hullu
continued. “For autonomy and independence. The outlawing of indentureship.”
Nwm swallowed nervously. “And if you fail to achieve it?” He asked.
Hullu pulled a chunk of bread off of a loaf, stuffed it into his mouth, and pointed
eastwards.
“Morne is that way,” he said casually.
“I think you may be overestimating your reach,” Nwm said. “You have yet to deal with
Jiuhu’s troops.”
Hullu shook his head. “I understand how it works. Think about it Nwm: this movement is
already growing at a phenomenal rate. Once we’ve beaten a Wyrish aristocrat in a pitched
battle, people will see that it can be done.”
“And you think you can force Wyre’s nobility to the negotiating table after one defeat?”
“Probably not,” Hullu concurred. “In which case Morne is doomed.”
“And how in the name of the Goddess do you propose to take Morne?” Nwm asked.
“Even Eadric is cautious on that count – he has yet to make siege engines. He will be
relying heavily on magic if it comes to that point.”
Hullu grinned. “To be honest, Nwm, I was hoping that you’d help us on that one. But, if
not, others
may lend a hand. A pair of hedge-witches – sisters, maybe - have thrown in their lot with
us. They seem capable.”
Nwm screwed up his face. This was a new development.
“And there is always this,” Hullu tapped the hilt of Melancholy.
“In a siege? I don’t think that it’ll prove much use.”
“You’d be surprised,” Hullu replied.
**
During the festival celebrations at the Nund crossing, Eadric took counsel with his knights
and
captains. Ryth, the only avowed Uediian amongst Trempa’s aristocrats (although others
had
sympathies), felt obligated to attend in order to make sure his people were not
underrepresented. The atmosphere was tense and difficult. Neither Tahl nor Brey were
present, having been detailed with
approaching Eisarn – the Temple commander in Thahan – in an attempt to win his
support.
Nwm arrived late, after his visit to the Uediian encampment. The news that he brought
caused several of the Templars to draw breath tightly. To them, the Druid represented the
worst face of radical
Paganism, and only their vows to Eadric prevented an assault there and then.
The Paladin sighed, and wondered whether he could hold his alliance together. Too many
factions. Too many different needs. Too much bitterness. He prayed silently.
“In less than thirty-six hours, Hullu will face four hundred trained knights, plus their
retainers and men-at-arms,” Nwm said. “It will be the first time that he has been tested in
pitched battle. He has a minimal number of horsemen, and will be forced to fight with
infantry: most of whom are enthusiastic, but
incompletely disciplined. Nonetheless, he seems confident. After his victory – which he
feels is assured
– he will attempt to force negotiation with the Royal Council. If this fails, he believes that
he can rally
enough support to take Morne.”
” Ahma,” Sercion, a Warpriest, and leader of four Temple squadrons said, “if I might
speak openly?”
Eadric nodded, with a resigned expression.
“I feel that this Hullu is no ally of ours. His goals are not our goals. The Uediians hate the
Temple, that is well-known. How can you tolerate this man’s activities?”
“Because I would avoid a conflict which polarizes along purely religious lines,” Eadric
answered. “And because the Uediians have many valid complaints.”
“There is more,” Nwm said, grimly anticipating the response that it would evoke. “Aside
from a number of Druids who have rallied to his movement, he has recently been joined
by two witches –
Sorceresses maybe. Neither seemed enthusiastic to meet with me, and I didn’t want to
press the point.
Both registered as major foci of magical power when I communed with the Green in that
locale.”
Various groans were heard from around the table.
“Also,” Nwm said, half-amused, “it would appear that Prince Tagur is being held captive
in the camp.”
Eadric looked flabbergasted, and the revelation elicited sounds of wonder from the others
present.
“Hullu is unaware of the identity of his prisoner, whom he assumes is merely a mercenary
soldier. I didn’t have the heart to turn him in – and I thought that the information might
prove useful. Tagur suspects – no, in fact I’m sure that he knows that I recognized him –
and now he is unsure. I will keep him under surveillance. If he attempts to flee the camp, I
would suggest that we intercept him before he either gets to Morne or is tracked and
caught by Hullu’s men. In the meantime, I think that his
experiences in the camp can do him no harm, and may even open his eyes to a fresh
perspective.”
“Ngaarh!” Sercion groaned. “I do not understand you or your purposes, Pagan. Why do
you share this information with us? It is contrary to your interests.”
“No,” Nwm smiled. “It is contrary to how you would prefer to perceive my interests, to
maintain your sense of simplicity in this affair. I recognize that there are some things that I
cannot address alone, and I trust Eadric’s judgement in this.”
“Because he is the Ahma,” Sercion nodded.
“No, despite it,” Nwm replied, exasperated. “Finally,” he added, “I should mention the
fact that I was scried on my journey here. I don’t know by whom, or for what reason, but I
broke the sensor. There are dozens of possibilities.”
Eadric nodded. “You are not the first to complain of tacit observation. Several of the high-
ranking Templars have mentioned as much. Asser is one possibility, Daunton is another,
and there may be other Diviners retained by the Royal Council – either collectively, or
individually. Now we may have two Sorceresses to add to the equation.”
“We would probably benefit from Mostin’s presence,” Nwm suggested, to the horror of
several of those present.
“I will ask Nehael to find him and bring him here,” Eadric said. “We will adjourn, and
meet again in two hours.”
This is not an Diabolic conspiracy, Sercion repeated to himself several times.
**
“He is currently at the mansion of Shomei the Infernal,” Nehael said to the reassembled
council. “I Teleported into the grounds, but did not enter the building itself. I left hastily
before a number of Devils descended on me, but managed to convey a message to him. He
will be here presently. There is other information, but it can wait.”
Sercion bit his tongue.
Lome, the erstwhile deputy steward of Deorham, and a knight who, although loyal to
Trempa, had no particular religious agenda, produced a long scroll and unraveled it.
Eadric gestured for him to continue. He was eager to hear the report – much of it was
news to him.
“This is the information that we’ve gathered so far regarding the disposition of already
mobilized forces in Wyre. It’s long and tedious, but I’ll skip to the most salient points.
Most of it was gathered by either Tahl or the Lady Nehael’s efforts, and is the most up-to-
date reconnaissance that we have.”
“Eisarn – who may or may not be an ally, depending on the success of Tahl and Brey’s
embassy – has two hundred Templar knights and around six hundred crossbowmen in
southern Thahan. Until this
point, he had been cooperating closely with a large cadre of troops led by Durhm of
Lossan, the chief Bannerman of Sihu of Tomur.”
“Durhm is a wily opponent,” Ryth said with surprising admiration. “My guerillas were
hard pressed to contain his assaults.”
“However,” Lome continued, “it appears that Sihu has recalled him to rejoin her main
force, which is currently approaching Lang Herath in Thahan. With Foide’s men, this will
mean an army some six-thousand strong, on our northern flank. Command will likely fall
to either Skadding, Foide’s son, or Durhm. Skadding has precedence, but Durhm is
undoubtedly the more seasoned warrior.”
“Shiel, as we have just heard, has deployed a thousand of his men to deal with the Uediian
uprising.
There is no reason to assume, therefore, that he is not already in the process of mobilizing
the others –
another fifteen hundred or so. If Nwm’s report is correct, then the Duke has committed
almost his
entire cavalry to this operation – note that the remainder of his troops consist mostly of
levies, and are poorly trained and equipped.”
“And a third of them are Uediians,” Ryth said. “Of uncertain loyalty,” he added smugly.
“I can testify to the accuracy of Nwm’s information,” Nehael interjected. “I have myself
just observed the army moving south from Jiuhu.”
“Skilla of Mord has undoubtedly received a Royal Summons,” Lome eyed Ryth,
suggesting that further interruption was unwelcome, “but as yet we have no news of troop
movements. Hethio’s forces are in disarray with the removal of Temple leadership.* The
Duke of Kaurban, however, is already within
striking distance. His force is small – less than a thousand – but highly mobile. He is three
days northwest of here.”
“Finally,” Lome continued, “Prince Tagur’s main force has already left Gibilrazen – ten
thousand, trained, disciplined and highly motivated. It will be at least a fortnight before
they reach Morne, probably more. Aside from these, no other magnate presents any kind
of threat. At present.”
“As to Morne itself, and the King,” Lome added, almost as an afterthought, “the city guard
number around twelve hundred – many of them are part-time militiamen, with little or no
experience of
organized war. A number of Thanes and Baronets who count the King as their feudal
master, as well as Captains of the Royal Demesnes, are being recalled to Morne. Tiuhan’s
estates are scattered across Wyre, however: we can probably count on no more than two or
three thousand being available to him
within the next three weeks.”
Mostin entered and sat down silently. Mogus emerged from inside of his Robe of Eyes,
eliciting expressions of fear and disgust amongst several of the knights closest to him. The
Alienist stroked the deformed hedgehog affectionately.
“This leaves us in a quandary,” Eadric sighed. “Will the Duke of Kaurban’s force attempt
to harry us and slow our progress, or will it wait until it joins with Sihu’s men? I would
prefer to march on Morne immediately, but I am suspicious of investing the city while
leaving an unfought army less than a week away. Further, can any of these nobles be
wooed and turned?”
Sercion grunted. “Not Kaurban. Ahma, if I may? Give me three hundred Templars, and
half your Ardanese riders, and I will ensure that his men are removed as a potential
problem.”
“Olann?” Eadric asked the de facto leader of the mercenaries.
“I don’t see why not,” the wiry Ardanese Captain replied. “Provided that due respect is
afforded us.”
“Precisely,” Eadric replied. “Sercion, your request is granted on two conditions. Firstly,
you cooperate with Thane Streek of Jorbu – I would have a third of your heavy cavalry
comprised of Trempans.
Second, that you do not attempt to undermine Olann’s command.”
Sercion stuttered. ” Ahma, I must…”
“Olann will lead the brigade, Sercion.”
“As you wish, Ahma.”
“And take care that pride does not subtly inform your choices, Sercion,” Eadric warned.
The Templar nodded dumbly.
“Nehael,” Eadric sighed, “there was something else that you wished to share?”
The Succubus nodded. “Rimilin of the Skin is riding with Shiel of Jiuhu’s men,” she said.
Mogus squeaked.
**
In Magathei, Ortwin relaxed amid the splendour of Ulao’s court, and the affairs of Wyre
seemed remote and long ago. His ode, which the Bard personally felt was long and
tedious, was received with
rapturous applause by the Prince’s followers, and with a satisfied grin by Ulao himself.
Ortwin had certainly done his homework in researching the Djinn’s past, and the
performance captured Ulao’s
triumphs and conquests – both of the romantic and military nature – admirably.
The Bard’s ability to ingratiate himself without seeming at all ingratiating, had held him in
good stead, and his easy manner had endeared him to many of those who attended the
Prince.
Except the Sidhe, Nunimmin.
Whether it was a perceived rivalry, or perhaps a realization on some level that they were
too similar, their initial mutual dislike blossomed into a thinly-veiled hatred, and
exchanges between the two were characterized by innuendos which, at times, bordered on
direct insults.
Nunimmin – ancient, beautiful, cool and aloof – was a sophisticated aesthete, and a bard
of exceptional talent. As a true native of Faerie, he regarded Ortwin and his ilk from the
Prime Plane as being wholly inferior: wanderers in a world long overwhelmed by mortal
griefs and concerns. His spite towards the Satyr was confounded yet further when his
partner of several millennia – a half-elemental Nymph
named Yoriel – evinced an interest in the ‘rustic charm’ that Ortwin brought to Ulao’s
court.
Ortwin was smitten despite himself, and found that he shook whenever in the Nymph’s
presence. He
tried his best to avoid Yoriel and focus on the matter in hand which, as far as he could
remember, had something to do with courtship and marriage. Iua’s attitude of amusement
at his discomfort helped
little. At other times, she played the role of dutiful daughter so well that the Bard
wondered what he had embroiled himself in.
Under the watchful eye of Orop, a large but simple Djinn who had been entrusted with
chaperoning
Iua, Ortwin and the duelist met in one of the numerous small orchards in Ulao’s palace
grounds
“There will be a dowry, of course,” Iua said.
“Oh?” The Bard replied with poorly feigned surprise.
“Don’t play the innocent with me, Ortwin,” Iua sighed. “You knew damn well there would
be one.”
“This may come as a revelation, Iua,” Ortwin said, genuinely offended, “but I’m not doing
this for the money. I actually quite like you.”
“You quite like me. Well, that’s decent. We don’t want to get too carried away, do we?”
“Iua, I fall in love – or lust – on a regular basis. It’s no real gauge of my affection for
someone, and doesn’t inform my decisions particularly helpfully. I was bad enough
before, but since my…er…”
“Satyriasis?” She suggested.
“Yes,” the Bard agreed. “Well, my hormonal urges are even more pronounced than before.
It’s my basic nature.”
“I know,” she sighed. “Ortwin, understand that I was raised in the court of a Djinn who is
considered a philanderer amongst even his own kind. I am half-Auran. I lack the moral
baggage of mortals as much as you do.”
“Hmm,” Ortwin replied.
“Although I am less of an erotomaniac,” she added.
“Hmm,” Ortwin said again, somehow reassured. “How big a dowry are we talking,
anyway?”
“Well, you must consider that I am his one-hundred and eighty-sixth child. I am favoured,
however, and Ulao still holds a soft spot for Mulissu despite what he might say.”
Ortwin nodded and gestured for her to continue.
“And,” she continued in a low voice, so that Orop could not overhear, “he seems to think
highly of you for some bizarre reason. He has the impression that you are some kind of
bigwig.”
“I am the best liar in the world,” he admitted. “That is a title of some distinction. But how
much?” He added, impatiently.
“Two hundred thousand gold pieces,” she said.
Ortwin shook, and giggled inanely.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 10-23-2002
Here and There; and This, That and the Other: Part 2
**
At Eadric’s request, Mostin erected his looking-glass in order to best observe the events
that transpired outside of a village called Hrim Eorth, three days southwest of Morne, on
the morning of the Summer Solstice. The Alienist had scried the main antagonists in the
impending conflict: Hullu, and Fustil - the Baron of Utlund, and Captain of Jiuhu’s forces.
The Tunthi tribesman had elected to intercept the cavalry on a meadow formed by a broad
meander in the river Nenning, next to which the main road to Morne passed. It was on
open ground that, on first inspection, conferred no particular tactical advantage to his
Bagaudas, and invited a mounted charge.
“I wonder what he’s playing at,” Eadric mused.
Mostin concentrated yet further, and scenes too rapid to understand flashed across the
surface of the mirror. Another figure appeared.
A handsome man, with an oily sheen to his skin, riding a Phantom Steed. Mostin grimaced
in anticipation of his sensor being detected, but fortunately the subject did not seem to
notice – or perhaps to care. There again, he thought, we’re probably not the only people
watching this.
“Rimilin,” the Alienist said. “A worrying development, to say the least.”
“Acting in an ‘auxiliary capacity,’ I assume,” Nwm suggested.
“Yes,” Mostin said dubiously. “Although to my knowledge, Rimilin’s divination skills are
rather lackluster.”
“What does he want?” Nwm asked. “I mean, what’s his angle?”
“Power,” Mostin sighed. “There is no other reason for submitting oneself to symbiosis
with a demon. It arrests and distorts the native ability of bonded wizards, forcing bizarre
changes upon them.”
“In Wyre, that seems rather short-sighted,” Nwm said. “The Injunction being what it is.”
Eadric shifted uneasily, and recalled the appearance of Jovol – if it had been Jovol – in his
dream, and Nehael’s words afterwards. He had yet to share his suspicions regarding the
Ogre-Mage with either
Mostin or Nwm.
“Other lands,” Mostin said. “Other worlds and planes. If dominion is your goal, why not
start out somewhere quiet, where you can build your resources carefully?”
“I would hardly call Wyre ‘quiet’ at present,” Eadric remarked wrily.
Rimilin smiled, and doffed his cap several times at empty spaces in the sky. Mostin
laughed despite himself.
“He is acknowledging that he is being scrutinized – I suspect that Daunton is also
observing with interest, and probably others. I wonder why he hasn’t warded himself. At
least he’ll play by the book.
Rimilin is not popular, and is unlikely to do anything which is questionable.”
A flash of insight erupted into Eadric’s mind. Patterns shifted, coalesced, and bifurcated
on new levels.
“He is about to violate the Injunction,” the Paladin said.
“That is unlikely,” Mostin answered.
Expressions of confusion crossed the faces of those present as they looked into the mirror.
From inside of his coat, the Acolyte of the Skin produced an eagle chick, not yet even a
fledgling. Its short wings were bound to its sides. With one deft movement, Rimilin
twisted its neck and cast it to the ground.
“A sacrifice?” Nwm asked.
“Or a message,” Eadric replied.
“Observe the legs of the horses nearby,” Mostin said. “They are moving to attack.”
Rimilin himself, however, slowed his steed and cast a spell. An image appeared in the air
next to him, seeming to float above his outstretched hand. It was of a town consumed by
fire and was replaced by the ghostly face of a rather familiar Wizard.
Mostin’s jaw dropped, as he gazed at an apparition of himself. “Which town was that?” He
asked.
“It looked like Jiuhu to me,” Eadric replied.
The mirror went blank.
“But the battle…” Nwm protested.
“Shut up,” Mostin said. He refocused and, from a great height, Jiuhu – Ortwin’s home in
his prior life –
appeared upon the surface of the looking-glass. A dozen or more scattered patches, each
fifty or sixty feet wide, were burning amid the closely built timber homes in the town’s old
quarter. Flames leapt easily from one wooden building to the next, as crowds rushed
through the streets and people jostled to escape the fire.
“Sh*t,” the Alienist said. “That wasn’t me.”
Immediately, Nwm acted. Sprouting wings from his back, he turned to Mostin. “Keep the
portal open,”
he said, and stepped through.
He appeared briefly in the skies above the town: it was windy, and gusts were fuelling the
eager flames below. Nwm invoked the power in the Orb of Storms atop his staff.
Dead calm, torrential rain, he commanded, before stepping back through the portal.
“That should do it,” the Druid said, “although it’ll take a while for the weather to
reorganize itself.”
By the time that Mostin had reoriented the mirror, and was looking again to the battle near
Hrim Eorth, the scene was one of utter carnage.
*
Hullu ordered his archers – comprised in equal parts of longbowmen and crossbowmen –
to begin
shooting as soon as the front of horsemen came within range. Dozens of lightly armoured
outriders on coursers fell, and horses toppled.
Behind, the ranks of plate-clad aristocrats thundered on.
Not enough archers, Hullu remarked wrily to himself.
The witches – whose names the Tunthi warrior still didn’t know – stood nearby. Hullu
scratched his head dubiously, and wondered whether they possessed as much power as
they claimed.
Ah, well, he sighed, too late to worry about it now. He hefted his shield, drew Melancholy
from its black scabbard, and invoked the protection of his clan’s Totemic guardian.
One of the witches, who had been muttering quietly to herself for ten minutes or more,
suddenly fell to the ground and began to screech and writhe, strings of bizarre syllables
issuing from her mouth. The pikemen nearby looked shaken and disturbed, but Hullu’s
heart leapt.
FROMTHELINNASHEISFROMTHELINNA.
OHGODSANDPROTECTORSHOWCANITHANKYOU.
YOUCAMETOMEINMYHOUROFNEED.
He almost wept with joy.
The river, slow and ponderous, asleep for millennia beyond count, awoke.
*
Rimilin, warded from the rain of arrows and bolts, gazed at the ranks of Uediian guerillas
and farmers ahead of him, and wondered if Nwm was present. He considered his
assurances to the Royal Council –
not to deploy his magical armamentarium in a tactical capacity – and grinned wickedly as
he
remembered his agreement with Graz’zt. The Aristocrats were lowering their lances.
Let’s smoke out the Druid, he whistled merrily to himself, as he launched a Fireball at the
front rank of pikemen, instantly immolating forty of them. Oops, there goes the Injunction
Fustil, the commander of Jiuhu’s forces, looked at him in disbelief.
Rimilin’s smile vanished. Agony overwhelmed him as water evaporated from his body.
What the Hell?
A Necromancer? Where? . All around him, knights and horses collapsed screaming.
Fustil’s steed tumbled, flinging the unconscious Baron to the ground, where he was
trampled by the hooves of a
dozen others. Ahead, the Acolyte of the Skin detected a distortion in the air in front of the
disordered Uediian front line.
Some trick of the Druid’s? He urged his mount to full speed, and it shot forward like a
thunderbolt.
Rimilin launched another Fireball at the distortion, which seemed to quiver under the
force of the blast.
A gust of frigid air wafted over him from behind, and glancing back, Rimilin saw that a
huge curtain of ice – fifty yards long – had appeared between himself and the bulk of the
cavalry. Knights swelled around the ends of the wall, but many of those in whose path it
lay crashed into the barrier, or arrested their charge, resulting in chaos.
A wizard. It had to be a wizard, Rimilin thought desperately, but which one? . He cursed,
banked his Phantom Steed away and flung another Fireball.
*
“I stand corrected,” Mostin said to Eadric, as they observed the Acolyte launch another
magical attack.
“What is going on there?” Nwm groaned. “Where did the Wall of Ice come from? And
what is that?”
He pointed to the distortion.
As if in response to his question, it shifted, and grew, and suddenly manifested. The
Paladin coughed.
“Er, Ed,” Nwm said, “That’s a Dragon. A big black one.”
“Apparently,” Mostin agreed.
*
At the appearance of the colossal winged reptile, a hundred feet or more from its snout to
the tip of its tail, Rimilin veered his steed away and Teleported. He didn’t care if it was a
Dragon, or a Shapechanged Wizard. Either way, he was out of his league, and was going.
Not before loosing another Fireball, however.
**
Mesikämmi leaned on her staff and smiled. Ah, the River here was ancient. He knew all
kinds of tricks.
Nearby, the Succubus, Chr’ri, stood impassively. Anarchy and death – yes. Not entirely
what she had anticipated, but anarchy and death nonetheless. That was good enough.
*Traditionally, Hethio, the richest province in Wyre (not counting Einir, technically a
Principality), has always looked to the Temple for direction in times of crisis. Many of the
Templars themselves are
natives of Hethio – sons and brothers of its numerous minor nobility. With the realignment
of so many Templars in favour of Eadric, the removal of a Bishop very active in temporal
politics, and repeated harassment by Hullu’s Bagaudas, the ineffectual and aging Duke,
Falaere, was unable to actualize his considerable resources. Furthermore, many of his
bannermen were reluctant or unwilling to meet their own kin in battle.
End Note: Mesikämmi used a Spirit Ally spell to call a Greater Nature Spirit.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 10-26-2002
Quote:
I’m curious now. Where do the ‘loths fit into your cosmology, Sepulchrave?
According to Eadric, and Orthodoxy, there are various entities dwelling in the ‘Unnamed
Regions’ between the Abyss and Hell. They are also considered to be ‘Fallen,’ in the same
manner
as demons and devils. Presumably, they didn’t make it all the way to the Abyss, when the
refugees rejected the Adversary’s ‘alternative society.’
On a connected note, one poster mentioned the idea of ‘Paradigm’ and wrote about the
importance in the game of Mage: The Ascension. I’ve never played Mage, but I think I
understand the similarity. I’ll present five different cosmologies below - as held by the
PCs, and one NPC (in this case Shomei). They are markedly different, but not necessarily
mutually
exclusive. They just represent different perspectives.
Eadric’s Perspective in brief:
1. The Highest Reality is the Heaven of Oronthon.
2. The World of Men is the testing ground which has the potential to purify the Human
soul for
entrance into Heaven.
3. The Hells are the Abode of Devils, the Abyss of Demons, who were expelled from
Heaven for
rebelling. ‘Unnamed Regions’ stretch between them, where other fell entities lurk.
4. There are an infinity of Limbos in which other intelligences dwell – some good, some
bad.
Ultimately, however, they are all irrelevant. Phantoms to beguile the unfaithful, the resting
places of Pagans and the unbaptized.
Nwm’s Perspective
The Hahio, the ‘Interwoven Green’ is everything that matters. It is Here and Now. It is the
world around you. You and it are the same. Everything else is a promise of something
which is not
Here and Now, – why dwell on that? Look at that tree. Look at the sky. It is enough!
Other realities? Maybe, but who cares? They are not Here and Now
Uedii is a convenient term, a device through which we relate to the Green. Is she real?
Look at that tree – if you need to ask, Then You are Not Looking!
Mostin’s Perspective
All Reality is a function of the consciousness which perceives it. Consciousness directs,
shapes
and informs the appearance of physicality. Consciousness may be directed by Will.
Will is cultivated through the practice of Magick.
There are billions of realities, all equally valid, all subject to Magickal Will.
Consciousness has
no limit. It is always moving, becoming something other than it is.
Will directs becoming, beyond good or evil, being or nonbeing, ignorance or gnosis.
I am an unlimited, transcendent, effulgent star. The Gods quake before me. So are you.
The
difference between us? – I realize it!
Shomei’s Perspective
In large part, Shomei would agree with Mostin. Note that her particular slant is oriented
towards
the Oronthon-Adversary duality, however.
Shomei’s Becoming, to use Mostin’s terminology, is based in antinomianism – i.e. a
rejection of Oronthon’s ‘Law,’ and the adoption of the Adversarial ‘Law’ – to challenge,
overcome, to strive
against impossible odds, to be forced to fight again and again and again. To fight against
Oronthon, and against one’s own ‘moral’ nature: for Shomei, mores are a societal
impediment to
becoming, or to self-transcendence, and must be destroyed. This requires enormous self-
discipline.
Only when morality is obliterated, can the true nature of the individual be realized. Free of
all
conditioning, it soars. Not moral, not immoral, not even amoral. More like ‘Trans-moral’
or
‘Meta-moral.’
Such an individual acts from instinct, and is always correct in his or her actions.
Note that, in her youth, Shomei was baptized into the Orthodox church. Her rejection of
that
experience may be responsible in large part for her philosophy.
Ortwin’s Perspective
(Shrugs). Gods? Magic? I suppose they can be useful. But isn’t it really just a lot more
trouble than it’s worth?
Now, her – that woman there – well…
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 10-31-2002
**
“You are in violation of our compact,” Kothchori spat at the Succubus, Chomele. “You
promised the return of all of my books after Jiuhu.”
“And you undertook the obliteration of the town, not a few paltry fireworks,” she smiled
easily.
“That was not specified in the agreement – merely that I assault the place,” he retaliated.
“Your master is in breach. I demand their return immediately, or he will suffer at my
hands.”
Chomele laughed. “What will you do, Kothchori? You have a handful of spells at your
disposal: will you Teleport to the Abyss and slay Graz’zt with a Fireball?”
“Return the books,” the Mage demanded again.
“Or what?”
“I am not entirely toothless, Chomele.”
Instantly, without word or gesture, Kothchori vanished.
Oh, sh*t, the Demoness thought. She immediately made an Ethereal Jaunt to where her
contact, the Glabrezu Thurukos waited.
“You incompetent whore,” he screamed.
The Demoness sneered. “Relay the news to his Highness. I have not lost the Wizard,
merely
misplaced him. I will need a larger incentive to woo him, however. And watch your
mouth, Pig-
face. I am favoured.”
Thurukos smiled a wicked smile. “Not for long, pretty-pretty. There are a billion other
sluts in the Abyss who are just the same as you.”
“Perhaps,” she agreed. “But I am not the messenger bearing bad news.” And, with that,
she rematerialized upon the Prime.
The Succubus waited for an hour, and made a second Ethereal Jaunt. Thurukos, who was
waiting, smote her with a Power Word and grabbed her with an enormous pincer around
the
neck. It bit into her, and ichor dribbled down the Glabrezu’s claw.
“The Prince has divined Kothchori’s location. He is in Fumaril.”
“Why?” She choked.
“He is looking for the Elementalist’s daughter, you imbecile.”
“Is she capable of reaching her mother?” The Succubus was aghast.
“Who knows? Anyway, she’s not there, so it doesn’t matter. Kothchori is here.”(Mental
image).
“I don’t need to tell you of the price of failure.”
“No, indeed,” she replied. She smiled to herself. The sprite, Orolde, would give her the
leverage she needed. Kothchori seemed to care about his servant more than anyone else in
the world.
Quite touching, really.
**
Eadric observed events at Hrim Eorth in the wake of the massacre which had occurred
there.
Hullu’s Bagaudas moved amongst the fallen, looting their bodies, and dispatching those
who still breathed with dagger thrusts to the throat.
The Dragon – or whatever it had been – had vanished, but not before wreaking havoc
amongst
the armoured nobility of Jiuhu and their mounted retainers. As if to press the point home,
the
witches – whom Mostin had located around halfway into the battle – had dragged a quartet
of
fire elementals into the fray, panicking the horses and decimating the front ranks of an
already
disordered charge. Under Hullu’s direction, the rain of quarrels and arrows continued to
descend
upon his enemies. He had reordered his troops – resisting numerous requests from his
underlings
to surge forwards – and the brave and foolish few who had reached the Uediian lines
found the
pikemen waiting for them.
Eadric sighed. Aristocrats could be such arrogant, ignorant bastards. Although he regretted
the
loss of life, he had little sympathy for the group of brightly-clad knights who had
continued
despite all odds. At least those who fled were still alive.
A year ago, he would have felt differently, but a lot had happened in that time. The
tourneys at
Trempa were a lifetime away.
“What will you do?” He asked Mostin.
“Do?” The Alienist questioned.
“You have just witnessed the violation of the Injunction,” Eadric said. “Aren’t you
honour-bound to follow up on it?”
” Honour? No. Pragmatism and concern that this does not escalate further – I suppose so.
Others who were observing will have seen the image evoked by Rimilin, however. I am
implicated in
the assault upon Jiuhu. If an assembly forms, they will probably have questions for me as
well.”
“And that concerns you?”
“Ultimately, no,” Mostin replied. “Rimilin’s suggestion that I was the first to act in
contempt is hardly plausible. Mud sticks, however, no matter who throws it. I will wait
until someone
contacts me – it might look rather suspicious if I immediately embark upon a crusade to
bring
Rimilin to justice, whilst being under scrutiny myself. Especially this recently after
Deorham. I’ll just go about my business normally.”
“How long before one of the other mages approaches you?” Nwm asked.
“Not too long, I’d imagine,” Mostin smiled.
Fifteen minutes passed, and a sensor appeared nearby. Seconds later, Shomei appeared.
Eadric
immediately became uneasy.
“I thought you were in Hell,” Mostin remarked wrily.
“News travels fast,” she replied. “Did you do Jiuhu?”
“Certainly not,” the Alienist said. “Ask the Paladin, here. Besides, I’d have used Sonics.”
Mostin raised an eyebrow. “This is the second time that you’ve called me on the
Injunction, Shomei.
What are you, the legal enforcer in Wyre?”
“Hardly,” she laughed. “But think about it, Mostin. If things are about to go haywire – and
I have information that would suggest that this is the case – perhaps now is a good time to
assert
oneself.”
“Maybe,” Mostin agreed dubiously. “What do you mean, haywire?”
“Ask him,” she said, pointing at Eadric.
Mostin turned to look at Eadric quizzically.
“I’ve had the odd dream or two,” Eadric admitted.
“Go on,” Mostin said slowly.
“I believe that Jovol might intervene in the current crisis.”
“Jovol has communicated to you through dreams? That is a rare honour. What did he
say?”
“Well, nothing, actually,” The Paladin replied. “He just appeared. Made his presence
known. I believe that he is benign.”
“Jovol’s motivations are obscure at best,” Mostin said.
“How powerful is he?” Eadric asked.
“No-one really knows,” Mostin admitted. “Perhaps very. I’ve never met him. I think
Hlioth used to know him, before she went crazy.”
Nwm sighed.
“I think he may be an ally,” Eadric carefully said. “Although I don’t know for sure.”
“Jovol is active,” Shomei confirmed. “My sources inform me of as much.”
Eadric’s head reeled. Her sources? What sources? Devils, but which ones? This woman
was
beyond him. She had personal contact with entities whose names, for him, embodied the
ultimate
evil in the Universe. Names which appeared in lists of the Fallen. But she bore no taint. It
made
no sense – she was an impossible paradox. Had she encountered even Him? . The
nameless
Adversary? And she would facilitate the translation of a Duke of Hell who would, at some
point,
tempt him. Somehow, however, he could not see her as an enemy. Was that a device of the
Enemy? Ngaarh! Don’t go there, you’ll go crazy.
“All things are necessary,” Nehael said, stepping into the tent and sitting.
The knot of logical impasse within the Paladin’s mind instantly evaporated, and he
experienced a
feeling of relief.
He remembered Nwm’s words regarding Nehael: She spoke to me of a Middle Way.
**
“Is that it?” Ortwin asked. He had expected something somewhat more formal. “There is
no ceremony? No celebration? No congratulations? No Gifts?”
“Why should there be?” Iua asked. “Ulao is the law here. He just says: ‘let it be so,’ and it
is.”
“So what now?” The Bard asked.
“I am no longer his responsibility. Also, note, from now on he owes me no guidance or
aid. That is now your duty. You also, of course, owe him your fealty, if and when he
requests it.”
” Fealty?” Ortwin asked, horrified. “Now hang on. If this is some feudal bullsh*t thing,
then he can forget it.”
“The exchange is made,” Iua said, shrugging. “I assumed that you knew the implications
of marriage to an Elemental noble, however minor. If it’s any consolation, I think that its
unlikely
that he’ll call upon your services any time soon.”
“Great,” Ortwin said sarcastically.
“We should find a Janni, and make our way back to the Prime,” Iua said, holding up a
small bag
and grinning.
“For the journey?” Ortwin asked.
Iua opened the bag, which was full of flawless corundum stones. “Our dowry,” she said.
“Of course, Djinn law requires that the bride alone determines how it is spent.”
Ortwin looked at her askance.
“I’m joking, Ortwin,” she smiled. “What do you want to do with it? We could buy a
castle.”
“Ed’s got one already,” Ortwin said. “Assuming he’s not King of Wyre by now. No – let’s
just squander it.”
**
Eadric’s decision to march immediately upon Morne was not undertaken lightly. He sent
fast
riders to bring instructions to Olann, Sercion and Streek – who had already been
dispatched with
a sizeable cavalry – to contain the army of the Duke of Kaurban as well as the combined
troops
of Tomur and Thahan, should they attempt to intercept Eadric’s main force. He reinforced
them
with another fifty Templars and three hundred mounted auxiliaries, but issued dire
warnings
against meeting the numerically superior forces of Foide and Sihu in open battle.
The news that Tahl brought, that Eisarn would support him, lifted his mood somewhat.
But
Eisarn’s units were four days away, and had no hope of joining with him before the
Paladin
moved out. They were also in Thahan – now, to all intents, hostile territory.
Hullu. Hullu was a concern. What would he do?
The Uediians had not pulled back after the battle at Hrim Eorth, but their Cingetomaru –
their war leader – had ordered the entire camp to uproot and move northeast. He was also
heading
straight for Morne, and support for the movement would undoubtedly grow even more
rapidly.
His negotiating position would become very strong very quickly – already, indentured
farmers
whose families had, for years, served the Oronthonian nobility of northern Hethio, were
deserting
their masters and flocking to join the popular movement.
And – unknown to Eadric - Mesikämmi was not remiss in disseminating knowledge of the
events
that had transpired near the Nenning. But, despite her own desires, and following the
advice
offered by the Succubus Chr’ri, she maintained a discreet distance from Hullu himself.
“Maintaining a certain mystery is never a bad thing,” Chr’ri had said with a wicked smile.
Nwm undertook the responsibility of speaking with Hullu again – partly to gauge the
Tunthi
warrior’s position, and partly to attempt to determine the identity of the sorceresses who
were
aiding him
“I will accompany you,” Eadric insisted.
“That is probably unwise, given the current climate,” Nwm said. “Besides, I’m going to
the mountains for a day or two before I meet with Hullu.”
“Mountains?”
“I have a pair of eagles to catch,” he said mysteriously, before vanishing into mist.
Hyne entered Eadric’s tent shortly afterwards. “They are ready,” his herald said.
Eadric sighed. “Very well. Sound the trumpets. We’re moving out.”
Ten thousand soldiers – nobles, Templars, squires, retainers, mercenaries, auxiliaries, and
levies –
as well as numerous camp followers, began to crawl towards Morne.
**
Nwm arrived in the woods near Deorham, and was greeted by the immense form of the
bear
Tostig, who slobbered over him. The Druid touched him gently on the nose. Nwm
incanted
briefly, and when he spoke, the sounds which issued from his throat which guttural whines
and
growls.
“Tostig, free. Go. Eat berries and fish. Find mate.”
The Bear grunted, and lumbered back into the woods. Nwm smiled. No change there,
then, he
thought ironically. The last of his erstwhile menagerie, Tostig had long since been left to
his own devices. He would probably still loiter in the woods there – there were, after all,
plenty of fish in the numerous streams which crossed Eadric’s land.
Lots of land, Nwm reminded himself. Eadric was now Earl of Deorham, and Soraine had
bestowed the estates of Hernath and Droming on him. The Paladin was, in fact, very, very
rich.
The Druid lamented the loss of warm evenings spent on the Steeple with Ortwin and
Eadric in
idle conversation. Before conflict, or Alienists, or Succubi.
Change. Always Change, he grinned, and flew north to the mountains. Regret was not in
his
nature.
He sped over Thahan, brooding under the threat of war; over the cold, dark waters of the
lake of
the same name, and passed over Dramore, ascending into the dizzying aeries of the high
Thrumohars. Through his torc, the Druid’s mind reached out and he began to search.
*
Chomele found Kothchori amongst the sprawl of Fumaril with little difficulty, his exact
location
revealed to her by Thurukos. He was pestering passers-by for information regarding
Mulissu’s
daughter, only to receive blank and uncomprehending stares.
He was still filthy and ragged: most people mistook him for a beggar, or a madman, or
both.
Chomele – hooded, and clothed in the garb of an expensive courtesan, approached him
wearing a
different face to the one he had previously encountered. It was only when she stood a few
feet
from him, that she revealed herself.
She threw a tiny severed hand to the ground at the Wizard’s feet.
“Orolde has another hand, and two feet,” she smiled. “Plus two ears, two eyes, and a
rather pathetic set of genitalia. You will do as commanded, Kothchori. Do I make myself
clear?
He nodded dumbly.
**
Three days passed, each more threatening and ominous than the last. Time seemed to drag
interminably for Eadric. Moving troops was frustratingly slow and tedious – making
camp,
breaking camp, his speed limited to the plod of his heavy infantry, lest his army separated
and the columns of men, horses and wagons became spread too thinly and vulnerable.
News of the movements of other units continually reached him through his scouts and
through
Mostin’s divinations.
To the north, Kaurban’s force retreated under the advance of Olann, but refused to meet
the
Ardanese captain in battle. Rather, it simply withdrew further into Thahan, and taunted the
Templars and mercenaries to pursue it.
The combined army of Foide and Sihu had left Lang Herath and was moving upon a
course
which, unless Eadric entered Morne within two or three days, threatened to intercept him
outside
of the capitol. It was led by Durhm, as he had anticipated. Somewhere behind them, the
Paladin knew that Eisarn followed.
Mostin’s efforts to find Rimilin had been unsuccessful, and the Alienist concluded that
must be
Mind Blanked. As he sat on his horse, Mostin thought. Logically, the Acolyte must have
an item to provide this benefit – the spell was undoubtedly beyond his means. How had he
acquired such
a fabulous treasure? A patron seemed likely – probably a demon, given Rimilin’s
inclinations,
and probably Graz’zt, given the history of the current conflict. Rimilin would have likely
compacted. He rode up the line of troops and spoke to Eadric.
“Demons,” he announced.
Eadric sighed. It hardly came as a surprise.
Shomei visited Waide and Hlioth and Tozinak, in an attempt to form a quorum for action
and
tried without success to contact Jovol. She cursed the Ogre-Mage for his arrogance in the
affair –
what in hell’s name was he playing at? He was so damned superior. Both Waide and
Tozinak
were sympathetic to her solicitations, although each conceded that little could be done
until
Rimilin was, in fact, located. And the matter of Jiuhu also remained: who had perpetrated
the
attack?
Hlioth the Green Witch was, predictably, disinclined to help.
As Eadric set camp that night, in wide fertile fields barely a day from Morne, news
reached him
that his scouts and Hullu’s outriders had spotted each other south of the city. Durhm’s
force was
rapidly closing on his position from the northeast, and the gates to the city were closed and
barred – most of the inhabitants of the outlying farms having already retreated within its
walls.
Morne’s defenses were in place, although it appeared that the Royal Council was not
deploying
troops beyond the city itself. They probably worried that there were too many variables.
Eadric laughed. He understood that all too clearly.
Just before midnight, Ortwin and Iua arrived in the camp, borne on a fierce wind evoked
by the duelist. Eadric, seemingly more human again – to Ortwin’s relief – fretted
continually about the
situation. He was eased to find the Bard as nonchalant as ever, and experienced the
distractions
offered by Ortwin’s (unexaggerated) stories of Magathei as a welcome break.
At one o’clock in the morning, Mostin and Nehael entered Eadric’s tent. The Alienist
reached
into his Portable Hole, and erected his mirror.
“I think you should probably see this,” the Mostin said. He waved a hand, and an image
rapidly formed upon the surface of the looking-glass.
Fire. Slaughter. Death.
Morne.
“What happened?” Eadric asked, aghast.
“We are still trying to work that out,” Nehael replied. “Hullu is leading an assault within
the walls, but we aren’t sure who is responsible for the fires – maybe those who are with
him, maybe
Rimilin, perhaps whoever assaulted Jiuhu. And the Temple – several of the outbuildings
have
collapsed, the Fane building shows signs of enormous weakening.”
“I suspect it was hit by an Earthquake,” Mostin suggested. “Maybe more than one.”
“How did Hullu get in?” Eadric asked, groaning.
The scene on the mirror shifted again, around to the eastern side of the city. A long rent,
seeming in the very fabric of space itself, penetrated the twenty-foot thick curtain wall.
” Passwalls,” Mostin said. “Maybe twenty or thirty of them. He has access to very potent
magic.”
“And he is attempting to seize the city?”
“Unlikely,” Nehael replied. “He has at most two hundred men with him – although
undoubtedly they are the best of his Bagaudas. No, this is more of a guerilla raid. And a
demonstration of his seriousness.”
“Can you find Nwm?”
Mostin concentrated briefly, and the face of the Druid appeared in the mirror. He was
sitting on
an icy outcrop with two eagles. He seemed unperturbed by the precipice – a drop of nearly
a
thousand feet – which stretched below him. As the sensor appeared, he raised an eyebrow,
and
began to cast a spell.
Mostin stuck his head through the mirror.
“It’s only me,” the Alienist said. “Do you really need to associate with such loathsome
creatures?”
“What an ill-mannered human,” one of the eagles remarked.
Mostin would have blinked if he’d had eyelids.
“They are Awakened,” Nwm grinned. “Take care not to insult them. I would like to
introduce Sem and Gheim. Sem, Gheim, this is Mostin the Metagnostic. He is a friend, but
rather
distrusting of avians.”
“Unfortunate,” Sem remarked drily.
“You keep dubious company, Nwm,” Gheim added.
Mostin groaned. A pair of birds that talked. That was all he needed. “I assume that you
haven’t spoken to Hullu, yet?” He asked.
“He is safe for now. I had planned to catch up with him tomorrow.”
“Change your plans,” Mostin said. “He’s in Morne, causing chaos.”
**
The old fire that he’d felt in the Linna in his youth had returned to him. The speed, the
danger, the exhilaration. A rage that bordered on ecstasy. Somehow, however, it seemed to
persist. His
desire to slay was immense, moving through his body like a tide.
He had felt the ground rumble, observed the rain of Fireballs that had erupted from the
sky. He didn’t know who, or how, or where it had come from – the two sorceresses who
accompanied
him were quiescent, and as distant and restrained as always. Bells clamoured across the
city in
response to the fires.
It didn’t matter. He had cut a rift into the wall, thrusting Melancholy into the dressed
granite, and dragging her slowly through the stone. The great blocks had parted easily, as
if folded back upon
themselves. His Bagaudas, under cover of night, had crept below the walls and followed
him beyond.
The streets were already in uproar, with lights kindling, people banging on doors, families
streaming out of houses, guards dashing impotently around and everyone cursing the sky.
“Kill,” Hullu screamed insanely, and the guerillas fell upon those present indiscriminately.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 11-07-2002
“Er, so what do we do, Ed?” Ortwin asked, looking into the mirror. The scenes that played
across
it were horrific and brutal. “We can’t just let that happen, can we?”
“No,” Eadric replied. “Buff up. We’re going through.”
Abruptly, Mostin waved his hand. The looking-glass of Urm-Nahat became a simple
reflective
surface. “You’ll need to find another way.”
“Mostin…” Eadric began.
“No.” He was adamant. “Bailing you out at Deorham, I used it. Getting Ortwin to the
crossings
on the Nund, I used it. Getting Nwm to mess with the weather at Jiuhu, I used it. Gods, I
even
used it just now to get Nwm from some mountain in who-knows-where. I have a
suggestion,
Eadric: would you like me to use the mirror to get your whole army into Morne?”
“Well, no,” Eadric replied.
“Why not?”
“Because it would be a violation…”
“…of the Injunction,” Mostin finished for him. “Correct. Is there any difference? Do you
see
how it starts, now? This has got nothing to do with me being caught and tried by the other
Wizards: frankly, I don’t think they’d even bother at this stage. This is about why there is
an Injunction in the first place. You know, I think I actually have an ethical position on
this. I know it’s hard to believe. Hell, we might even have an Injunction so that the little
guy – you know,
‘Uediian farmer X’ or ‘Oronthonian Lard Merchant Y’ can lead a happier, less stressful
life.”
“It is,” Ortwin agreed.
Mostin looked puzzled.
“Hard to believe that you have an ethical position on something,” the Bard explained.
“We’re wasting time,” Eadric moaned. “How long to Wind Walk there, Nwm?”
“Ten minutes. But it doesn’t matter – I’ve not got one prepared.”
“Perhaps Tahl…”
“I’ll go to Hullu,” the Druid sighed, “it’s sort of my responsibility, anyway.” He sank into
the
ground.
“Find Tahl,” Eadric yelled at Tatterbrand. The squire ran off to comply.
The Paladin glowered at Mostin, who refocused. Nwm appeared upon the face of the
mirror.
Before the Alienist could even open his mouth in disbelief, Ortwin had leapt through.
“Dammit,” Mostin said. “That’s it. Nobody pays a damn word to what I say. I quit. Find
yourself
another diviner.” The Alienist dropped the looking-glass into his Portable Hole.
“Mostin…”
“No,” he replied. “The line is drawn, Eadric. You have presumed on our friendship too
much –
all of you. I’m pissed off. No-one seems to respect my position in this. They think: ‘Oh,
it’s just Mostin being cranky, he’ll come around.’” The Alienist was ranting as he stormed
out of the tent.
Eadric looked at Nehael.
“He’s got a point,” the Succubus said.
Moments later Tahl, accompanied by Tatterbrand, entered. The Inquisitor looked groggy
and
bewildered.
“Can you Wind-Walk us to Morne?” Eadric asked.
Tahl shook his head. “No, Ahma. I didn’t expect it would be needed. Is it important?”
“Yes,” Eadric thundered.
“There is always Zhuel,” Tahl suggested.
Zhuel, the Paladin thought. Of course. He motioned in the air, and the celestial manifested.
“I need you to get me to Morne,” Eadric said desperately.
“You are the Ahma,” Zhuel replied. “Your word is law. However, I have one thing to ask:
should you jeopardize your own life in this manner?”
Eadric’s mind reeled, as arguments cascaded through his brain. His duty to those who
followed
him. His duty to Wyre. His duty to posterity. His duty to Oronthon. His duty to his friends.
His
duty to protect the innocent.
Nehael slapped him, eliciting looks of horror from Tahl and Tatterbrand. “You’re thinking
too
much again,” she said.
“We go,” Eadric said.
“Best speed?” Nehael asked.
Eadric nodded.
She smiled and vanished. Moments later, Eadric, Tahl, Iua and Tatterbrand assumed
nebulous
forms. But before they sped westwards, Eadric spoke to Zhuel.
“Go straight to Nwm and Ortwin and Nehael,” the Paladin commanded.
“I am charged with guarding you,” Zhuel replied.
“You can guard me again in ten minutes,” Eadric said. “Go.”
Zhuel bowed, and disappeared.
**
In his rented chambers in Morne’s most prestigious district – the Bevel – near the outwalls
of the gardens of the Royal Palace, Rimilin’s mind and body span with the immense
power which
coursed through him, before manifesting within the magical diagram which he had
constructed.
The Balor’s name was Uruum* – of less stature than Ainhorr, but a potent Demon
nonetheless.
One of the five (previously, six) who served Graz’zt, Uruum possessed a particular talent
for
subtlety and guile – qualities which, while present in Balors, had a tendency to be
overshadowed
by the urge to maim and kill.
Rimilin quickly stepped forwards and broke the binding circle, in the event that the
Demon
misinterpret his intentions. Disturbingly, Uruum had adopted the guise of a small child – a
girl
with wide eyes and an endearing smile. The Acolyte straightaway reasoned that the
Demon must
have some kind of device to have achieved this transformation: Balors were not natural
shape-
shifters. The Succubus, Kalkja, who stood nearby, immediately abased herself before the
child,
conscious of the fact that she could be extinguished by a single thought.
Rimilin, possessed of an arrogant and haughty attitude, but at the same time pragmatic and
aware
of the Demon’s power, gave a deferential nod.
Uruum promptly stepped out of the thaumaturgic diagram and vanished.
One, the Acolyte of the Skin thought to himself.
**
Nwm arrived near the breached walls of the city, in a dimly-lit alleyway. The narrow street
was littered with bodies – some still breathing – and blood soaked the cobblestones.
Nearby, in the
main thoroughfare, the inhabitants of the city were in the streets, dragging children and
belongings behind them in an effort to escape the chaos. Fires burned – some started by
spells,
others by flasks of oil hurled by Hullu’s men. They illuminated the scene with a ruddy
glow.
He cursed, as he knew the delay that it would entail, but he had no choice. He knelt down
beside
the nearest living form – an aging woman, who bled from a wound to the stomach -
muttered
briefly, and touched her upon the torso.
Instantly, the wound closed, and her breathing became more regular.
Nwm stood again, and moved quickly towards the next figure. As if from nowhere,
Ortwin
suddenly appeared.
“What the hell are you doing?” The Bard asked. “We need to find Hullu.”
Nwm scowled, and said nothing.
“Nwm…”
“Ortwin – let’s just worry about the present situation for the moment.”
Others would probably die because of it, but what else could the Druid do? These people
were
here and they needed help now. To act in any other way would have been a betrayal of his
most closely held principles.
Ortwin considered pointing out the inconsistency of his position, and the fact he had killed
a
thousand people only three months before, and he was probably feeling guilt and remorse,
and…
The Bard nodded, sighed, and waited.
Nehael appeared. “Eadric is on his way,” she said. “He’ll be a while, though – he’s Wind-
Walking
with Iua, Tahl and Tatterbrand. Mostin’s throwing a tantrum.”
Nwm nodded, and invoked the last of his healing magic upon a bloody child, close to
death,
before standing again.
His perceptions stretched out, and through his torc he apprehended Morne as a vast blot, a
scar
on the face of the Green continuum. Ugh. Large areas were devoid of trees and natural
life.
Quickly, he scanned for knots of magical and supernatural power.
Half a dozen powerful spellcasters – although no time to further refine the search.
Outsiders: one (Nehael) – two – three (a big one) – four – five – six ( very close – what
the…)
Nwm turned abruptly, and then relaxed. Zhuel floated silently behind him.
Twenty-one major fires burning, dozens of smaller ones. Mostly in the nearby Temple
district.
Easier to find than Hullu, the sword. Melancholy = steel + supernatural + extraplanar
combination. There she is. Outsider and spellcaster also nearby.
“Around three hundred yards away,” the Druid said, pointing towards the northeast. “But
they
are moving out of the city wall. We need to intercept them.”
In the flash of an eye, both Nehael and Zhuel vanished. Nwm looked around desperately
for a
plant of sufficient size, but there was nothing close. He grunted, and assumed the form of
an Air
Elemental, before shooting off at incredible speed.
Ortwin sighed, urged his winged boots to action, and followed. He adjusted his collar as
he flew,
and hoped that his new shirt – of finest Djinn silk – wouldn’t get ruined.
**
Hullu – now feeling lucid and in control again – quickly ordered the withdrawal of his
Bagaudas.
The raid had been an overwhelming success, but he had no doubts that hundreds of
watchmen
and townsfolk would descend upon him in short order if he tarried too long.
He also felt sick to his stomach, disgusted by his own enjoyment of the brutality. He
turned to the sorceresses as they approached a section of the city wall.
“I think that a further display is unnecessary,” Hullu said.
The younger witch – the one from the Linna – replied. In their association, Hullu had
heard her speak fewer than a dozen times. But there was something about her which was
both reassuringly
and uncomfortably familiar.
“It’s too late,” she said. “The Earth-Spirit has already done my bidding. Soon, the Air-
Spirit will make his presence known.”
Hullu swallowed. It seemed that they were responsible for the Earthquake, at least. “And
the rain of fire?” He asked.
“Was not my doing,” she replied. “You need to get your men out of the city now. We have
only a
few minutes.”
“Call off your Allies, Witch. Enough is enough.”
But she shook her head. “Oaths have been taken. I cannot renege. When the winds blow, a
firestorm will likely begin.”
Hullu cursed as he drew Melancholy from its scabbard, and opened another rift in the
curtain
wall of Morne.
“Get out,” he barked at the Bagaudas who accompanied him, ushering them through. “Go
to
ground.”
“You must flee, Hullu,” the Sorceress said desperately.
“My men go first,” he replied simply.
**
Shomei sank into a huge leather chair in one of the numerous parlours at her manse,
outside of
Morne and sighed. She threw the red velvet cloth back over her Crystal Ball and drank
deeply from a glass of firewine.
Whoever had struck at Jiuhu, had done so again only fifteen minutes previously at Morne
–
although it appeared that this time, he or she (or they?) had been less restrained. And the
Earthquake implied either an innovative Transmuter or a Divine caster of considerable
power.
Waide was the only one to possess that kind of clout, and he was far too staid to be a
suspect.
She brooded.
A knot suddenly tightened in the Infernalist’s stomach. Moments later, an intricate brass
bell,
suspended on a metal stand nearby, rang once. She almost heaved. No, not now, she
thought. It’s too damned complicated.
Groaning, Shomei stood and swallowed. The last time, she reminded herself. She grasped
her rod and spoke a single syllable.
Instantly, a Chain Contingency sprang into effect, rendering her immune to fire and
Hasting her.
Her skin toughened to the hardness of stone. Swiftly, she invoked another ward: Mind
Blank. She didn’t trust him, this time.
She breathed deeply and opened a Gate.
Titivilus, the nuncio of the Arch-Fiend Dispater, promptly stepped through accompanied
by four
Erinyes Devils. As usual, his guise was of a man of commanding mien, dressed in
unadorned
black, who possessed a scholarly air.
Shomei gave a cursory nod. “My Lord.”
“Shomei,” he smiled easily. “Our compact is fulfilled, but I would speak with you at
length
before we part ways.”
The Infernalist squinted. What was his game? She knew that he knew of her new
patronage from
Belial – although he had never been so crass as to remark upon it openly.
“I fear that we would have little to say to one another,” she replied. “And I am loathe to
take up your valuable time. Perhaps we should simply part – on amicable terms, of course.
I would not
want to presume upon our association.” Although framed in the first person, Shomei’s
remarks
were directed at the Duke himself.
“Sit, Shomei,” Titivilus half-suggested and half-commanded.
The Infernalist remained standing, and forced calm upon herself. “I regret that I have
much
business to attend to, my Lord Duke. Feel free to use my home in my absence – I assume
that
your stay will be brief?”
The Duke smiled, and relaxed into a chair. He pulled a leather ottoman towards himself
with a
booted foot, raised his legs, and crossed them in an all-too-human gesture of comfort. He
poured
himself a glass of firewine.
“I’m in no hurry. We can talk later. When you have time.” Titivilus clicked his fingers and
pointed. One of the Erinyes picked up the Crystal Ball and handed it to him. “In the
meantime, I might amuse myself with your scrying device. See what Wyre’s marvellous
Wizards are doing
with themselves in these oh-so-troubled times.”
Shomei nodded, and vanished.
Sh*t sh*t sh*t sh*t sh*t, she thought, appearing seventy miles away in the meadow where
Mostin’s retreat still stood. She walked up to the door, and rapped on it. Instantly, a Magic
Mouth appeared.
“Begone!” It ordered.
Shomei banged on the door again, this time heavily with her rod.
No response.
Dammit, Mostin, where are you? Quickly, the Infernalist issued a Sending to the Alienist:
Mostin. Tricky situation. Need help and advice. I’m outside your Manse. Don’t scry: Mind
Blanked. Prompt response appreciated.
Seconds later, Mostin’s disembodied head appeared nearby through a portal created by the
Mirror of Urm-Nahat.
“Where are you?” Shomei asked.
“Near Morne,” the Alienist replied. “In a Secure Shelter. What are you doing?”
“Are you warded from Scrying?” Shomei asked.
“Not presently,” Mostin admitted.
“Do so now,” Shomei instructed. “Use a Mind Blank.”
“I don’t have one prepared,” Mostin grumbled.
Shomei looked astounded. “Mostin, for one so paranoid, you have much to learn. Do you
have a spare valence?’
Mostin nodded. “Give me fifteen minutes.”
“Use a Nondetection in the meantime. Leave the portal open.”
Mostin sighed, and his head disappeared.
Twenty minutes later, the Alienist and Shomei sat in a comfortable but rustic cabin not too
far
from where Eadric’s army was encamped. A fire burned merrily in the hearth.
“Is this a secret bolt-hole?” The Infernalist asked.
“Hardly,” Mostin replied drily. “It was simply the most convenient thing to do on short
notice.
Although the idea of a dozen of these, rendered Permanent and scattered around the
countryside does have a certain appeal.”
“I have just Gated Titivilus to the Prime, Mostin.”
“Ahh,” the Alienist replied.
“Our contract has expired. All debts are now discharged.”
“Well, that’s good,” Mostin said.
“Except that he is still at my manse,” Shomei answered. “And wants to speak with me:
presumably to make me another offer, which it will be very difficult to refuse. He is
currently
entertaining himself by spying on various Mages. I assume he is here for the Temptation
of your
Paladin friend.”
“Eadric is not in my good books presently,” Mostin said haughtily. “I have just withdrawn
my services from him. I feel exploited.”
“Is there anything to suggest that he is particularly vulnerable at present?”
“I don’t think so,” Mostin replied. “But why should you care?”
“I don’t,” Shomei admitted. “But I like you, Mostin, and I know that you do. And
something else occurred to me: if Titivilus is here to tempt Eadric and I called him, have I,
by default, just
violated the Injunction? Eadric is a political figure, after all. Have I just intervened in
temporal politics?”
“Well, technically, I suppose, but…”
“These vagaries of Law are beginning to irritate me, Mostin. We need to formalize the
‘do’s’ and
‘don’ts’ of Injunction protocol. We need a legal framework, written and attested.”
“An interesting notion,” Mostin agreed.
“And we need a group who have the will to carry through the letter of the Law.”
“I think that certain members of the magical community might take issue with that degree
of
control and centralization,” Mostin said. “Me, for one. Anyway, why exactly are you here,
Shomei? You sounded desperate.”
“My compact has expired, Mostin. I am no longer beholden, but neither is Titivilus. I
mistrust
him.”
“But you are under Belial’s protection. He will not try anything.”
She looked dubious. “Perhaps. Although I am conscious of the possibility that I may not
be
entirely au fait with the politics of the moment in Hell’s various circles.”
Mostin smiled. “You mean that you distrust those paragons of fair play? I am shocked to
think that your allies may be disreputable, Shomei.”
“This is no laughing matter, Mostin. If I get through the next twenty-four hours in one
piece, then my life will become much simpler. One less Infernal dignitary to worry about.”
“Forgive me, if I sound unsympathetic Shomei, but this is really all your own doing. If
you must
insist on making arrangements with Devils…”
She held up her hands. “I am aware of the perils. But I am on the fast, dangerous path
Mostin.
The ‘Honey on the Razor’s Edge,’ and all that. When a patron outlives his usefulness, I
must
dispense with him or her. It is the way I am.”
Mostin sighed. “So what’s your point?”
“I need time and space to recuperate. Regain my strength. When I confront him again, I
need to
be fully warded.”
“Why not just let him be? Wait for a couple of days, and he’ll be gone.”
She shook her head. “We are at a crucial juncture - a defining moment in our relationship,
Titivilus and I. I can’t just run away from him. Until this point, I have deferred to his
authority. I will do nothing to initiate a struggle with him, but if he tries to coerce me…”
Mostin raised an eyebrow. “You cannot be serious, Shomei. He’d toast you in seconds.”
“I don’t need to actually assault him - merely let him understand that he can’t f*ck with
me, like I’m some novice diabolist. That is the way it works, Mostin. If I can assert my
ascendancy over
him, I redefine my entire being in one, colossal paradigm shift. The risks are immense, but
so are the potential rewards.”
“Well, if you think that I’m going to help you in this insane scheme, then I suggest that
you
reconsider. I’m not planning on pissing off any more Devils than I already have.”
She smiled. “I never asked for your help, Mostin. I’m just letting you know, in case the
worst happens. Now, I need to sleep.”
He sighed and nodded.
**
Zhuel appeared directly above Hullu, Mesikämmi, the Succubus Chr’ri, and the twenty
Bagaudas who remained within the walls of Morne. He sounded his trumpet and
descended. The instrument that he bore suddenly became a greatsword.
The force of the blast stunned the Shamaness and two thirds of Hullu’s followers. The
Tunthi
warrior himself was unaffected. Melancholy, still in his hand, screamed for blood. His
vision
clouded, and the sword took over his mind.
Chr’ri immediately retreated onto the Ethereal Plane. She had not anticipated an Archon.
Almost
simultaneously, Nehael appeared in the air nearby.
Zhuel flew down to a height of twenty feet and spoke a word of power. Hullu was
instantly
transfixed, although he remained conscious of his surroundings. The celestial alighted
upon the
ground and folded his wings behind his back. Nehael promptly followed him. Zhuel
observed
Hullu’s sword with some concern, and moved forwards to divest the warrior of it.
Groaning, but quickly recovering from the effects of the Archon’s trumpet, Mesikämmi
spoke a
Word of Chaos, and Zhuel was instantly sent screaming in disbelief back to Oronthon’s
heaven.
Nehael was catapulted in a daze onto the Astral Plane.
The Shamaness smiled, dispelled the Hold upon Hullu, and invoked a Wind Walk.
“We need to be going now, my pretty boy,” she said to him. “Make haste.”
“Honey-Paw?” He asked.
She smiled, and they both dissolved into mist.
*
By the time that Nwm and Ortwin arrived, Hullu, the two Sorceresses, Zhuel and Nehael
were
nowhere to be seen. Ortwin scratched his head as the Druid resumed his human form.
Concentrating on his torc, Nwm focussed. Spellcaster – there – moving fast – probably
Wind-
Walking – one other – with the sword. Beating a hasty retreat.
“They have fled,” Nwm groaned. “We cannot pursue.”
“Sh*t,” Ortwin said. “What about Nehael and Zhuel?”
Nwm looked worried, and raised his palms. “They should be here. They’re not. Assuming
they
aren’t both dead, it’ll take me an hour at least to scry them.”
“We have to get hold of Mostin,” Ortwin said. “He can do it much faster – and more
reliably.”
Nwm sighed. “We can’t. We have no way of getting to him.”
“Then we wait for Ed to arrive,” Ortwin snapped. He was getting irritated. A fresh breeze
suddenly sprang up, and Nwm gave a quizzical look. Again, his mind stretched out
through his
torc.
What in the name of the Goddess was that? Immensely potent, ancient supernatural
consciousness. Massive cyclonic wind formation above Morne: well beyond his own
power to
manifest. Morne – the fires – and Eadric was Wind-Walking into the middle of it. He
would be
ripped to shreds.
The Orb atop the Druid’s staff crackled, as he commanded the winds to cease. But it
would take
time – assuming that they would, in fact, obey him. He had his doubts. Wings sprouted
from his back.
“What are you doing, Nwm?” Ortwin asked.
“I’m going to try and talk to it,” he replied.
“Talk to what?” Ortwin shouted. The winds were growing stronger.
The Druid pointed up at the sky, but Ortwin saw nothing.
**
The Succubus, Chr’ri, from her Ethereal vantage point, had observed the expulsion of
Zhuel and
Nehael from the Prime Plane.
The Shamaness certainly had a few tricks up her sleeve, she thought.
Suddenly, it dawned on her that here was an opportunity for great self-advancement.
Chr’ri turned to her contact, a dour Glabrezu called Otarr. She scowled at him, knowing
that he
had not recognized Nehael, but not wishing him to steal her own glory.
“Relay to his Highness that our secondary mission has been a success,” she said in a
matter-of-
fact way. “The bitch Nehael is stranded somewhere on another Plane. I await further
instructions.”
Otarr, unwilling to admit that he did not know of this ‘Secondary Mission,’ grunted and
Plane
Shifted back to the Abyss.
Chr’ri grinned. There would be a fat reward for that information.
**
Jovol screwed up his wizened and tattooed face as he attempted to interpret the web of
possibilities. The deviation in the main arc remained minimal, and events seemed to be
propelling it inexorably towards the asymptote – still twelve days away.
He inspected the Graz’zt mote, which had become more conspicuous in the past few days.
Rintrah had been correct in his appraisal of the Demon Prince’s involvement. The agency
of both
Kothchori and Rimilin, although possessing no mutual vibration – save that offered by the
succubi – appeared to possess catenaries which fed directly into the nodality itself. The
wizard
hypothetically advanced the web over the next few days, and watched the motes blur as
probabilities parted and coalesced. As the asymptote began to manifest in the model,
tendrils
snapped and, as if from nowhere, bright points of light, burning like magnesium, flashed
across
his view: Gates opening to various other worlds.
Shomei had already opened two to Hell, Mostin one to the Far Realms. Rimilin had
compacted
with a Balor, and looked set to bring three more onto the Prime at Graz’zt’s instruction –
assuming that events followed the most likely course of action. Mesikämmi worried him
with her
primeval spirits. And Kothchori was another concern – his flux was unstable and could
swing
either way.
The Dreamer sighed as he weighed his responsibilities in the balance, and a variety of
possible
scenarios flashed through his head. If and when the time came, he would need to act
decisively
and without reservation. But of the hundreds of permutations which he contemplated,
when his
own involvement was added to the mix, he foresaw his own death.
He smiled ironically. If he acted now, then this could probably be prevented with the
minimum
fuss. But he could not, in all conscience, act now because it was still an ‘if’ and not a
‘when.’ By the time that it became a ‘when,’ it would be too late – for himself, at least.
But the projection of events after his own death held exciting possibilities for the future,
and that was a reassuring thought.
Besides, physical death was really nothing more than a minor inconvenience. He would
carry on
dreaming, and that’s what mattered.
The sea of motes vanished, and under the force of his will, dreamscapes around Jovol
flashed by
– half remembered visions and insights of entities long passed away. Immense turbulence
surrounded him briefly, but he passed through, and latched onto an idle half-thought
entertained
by a beautiful woman who dozed beneath a pomegranate tree with a quill pen in her hand.
Effortlessly, the Ogre-Mage corporeated next to her.
Mulissu stirred, raised an eyebrow, and looked up. “Jovol, I assume?”
*Uruum was also the Balor summoned by Ainhorr at Khu, who caused Ortwin to implode.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 11-11-2002
It was Night-time. Clouds shot across the face of the Moon, moving at unnatural speed,
and the sky above Morne was lit with an eerie glow from the fires burning within it.
Mesikämmi and Hullu flew southwest for only three or four minutes, covering as many
miles,
before the Shamaness commanded them to descend. No word was spoken between them
in that
time. As they resumed their solid states, the wind had begun to blow strongly. The warrior
turned
to the witch.
“My men…” he began.
“They will be fine, if they follow your advice and go to ground. We are not safe in the sky
now, and we need to do the same. The storm will be very large, and even our own camp
will be
somewhat affected – as well those of our enemies.”
“And Morne?” He asked.
“The eye wall is directly above Morne, the eye itself a little north of the city.”
“Mesikämmi, what are you dong here?”
She smiled. “We are destined for great things, you and I. Bright spirits have told me as
much.”
“And the creature that you banished – the servant of the Wyrish God?”
The Shamaness shrugged. “I don’t pretend to understand the subtleties of it all.”
Hullu sighed. His life was currently more complex than he truly cared for. He looked at
her
openly.
“My sword concerns me, Honey-Paw. And I feel tossed around by forces which I do not
comprehend.”
Mesikämmi laughed loud. “That is the price of power, my boy.”
**
Tornado force winds emanated from Nwm as he ascended, overpowering even the intense
air
currents which were forming above the city.
In the centre, where he flew, was a zone of absolute calm.
His sight stretched out through his torc, and instantly apprehended the storm system. It
was
immense, and extended well beyond the range of his perceptions. Its total diameter must
exceed
fifty miles. Totally beyond anything that he, or any other spellcaster that he could imagine,
was
capable of.
Through his inner vision, he knew that he approached the locus of power from which the
winds
emanated, although it was invisible to his mundane sight. Glancing down, Morne stretched
beneath him: flames were spreading rapidly in the Temple Quarter as the numerous fires
fed off
of the growing gusts.
Suddenly the entity manifested above him, and Nwm gasped. He had never seen or heard
of
anything like it: like some vast, iridescent eel or lizard, with scales of crimson and
aquamarine. It seemed ancient, almost atavistic, and possessed a primal beauty and
presence that almost
overwhelmed Nwm with awe.
Nwm cast Tongues upon himself, and yelled up to it.
“You have no business here. Call off the storm and return whence you came.”
A Lightning Bolt struck the Druid, and he cursed.
“Desist, or I will hurl you from the sky.” He yelled again.
The creature cavorted wildly, seeming to delight in the destruction it was causing, and
flew
straight towards Nwm, seemingly unperturbed by the two hundred mile-an-hour winds
which
surrounded him. Two great claws slashed at the Druid, and its maw – full of backward
pointing
teeth – bit him. Pain shot through his body.
Nwm Shapechanged into a colossal red dragon, which dwarfed the creature.
It promptly vanished.
Heh, thought the Druid. His blindsight revealed nothing, however. The creature had
disappeared.
And his torc indicated the same thing – it was simply no longer there. Curious.
And the wind still blew.
**
East of Morne, and approaching rapidly, four Wind-Walkers – Eadric, Iua, Tatterbrand and
Tahl –
were beginning to experience discomfort in the growing winds.
“We should descend,” Tahl yelled. “It’s getting too dangerous.”
Eadric swore. They were still three miles from the city, and from where they were, the
flames
and smoke were visible – blowing in gouts from within the walls. He nodded, and they
drifted
down towards the ground. The Paladin was unsure whether Nwm had invoked the winds
and, if
so, whether he knew about their own approach.
As they landed, and resumed their solid forms, all saw that they were bleeding: physical
effects
of the strong winds upon their nebulous bodies.* Eadric squinted towards Morne,
dropping his
visor to prevent dust and debris from entering. He couldn’t believe what he saw.
“Dragon,” Iua screamed, pointing.
“I see it,” he shouted back. Holy Oronthon protect us! It is enormous.
He had never even heard tell of one that size before, and it was a Red. It was flying
straight
towards them. He had absolutely no doubt that they would all die. He groaned. Two
Dragons in
Wyre in two weeks – more than in the past two centuries.**
Nwm assumed the shape of a Roc before he came within spell range, and landed nearby.
The
ground shook.
“KRAAK. KRA-KRAAK…” he began to screech. Still under the effects of the Tongues
spell, the others miraculously understood him.
“The winds are beginning to abate in the immediate vicinity of Morne,” he explained. “I
have seen to that. But the storm is immense – effectively, what I have done is increase the
size of the eye to a six mile diameter. Beyond that, the winds are intensifying. And I
cannot make it rain as
well within the central area – at least not until I have meditated and replenished my
powers.”
“I can,” Iua shouted back at him. “Get me into the centre, and I can bring rain to douse the
flames.”
He nodded. “Then we should go as quickly as possible. Grab a claw, and I will fly us all
in.
Eadric, you should know something: Nehael and Zhuel are both missing – possibly
destroyed.
They are no longer within the range of my torc. I’m sorry.”
And the Paladin’s world was turned upon its head.
**
Within thirty minutes Eadric, Nwm, Ortwin, Iua, Tahl, and Tatterbrand stood within a
small market square in the Temple district. The wind had ceased around them, and rain fell
in great
sheets from the sky, slowly quenching the flames.
Steam and smoke rose into the air. Corpses littered the streets – some slain by Hullu’s
guerillas, some burned, others flung and battered by the winds or struck by flying debris.
Pieces of
masonry, tiles and beams from roofs lay strewn around. People wept.
But this is not what I saw in my dream, Eadric thought. Is there more yet to come?
And then, Nehael!
Nearby, nervously, a squad of Templars were approaching.
The Paladin groaned. He turned to Tahl. “Can you contact Mostin?”
The Inquisitor nodded. “I can issue a Sending.”
“Screw that,” Iua interjected. “He has hardly been of use. Do you plan on begging him?”
“If necessary,” Eadric snapped. He hoped that the Alienist’s mood had passed. The
Paladin pointed at the approaching troops. “Nwm, can you…?”
The Druid sealed them off with a Wall of Thorns.
Tahl’s Sending consisted of two words:
Please Help.
**
Shomei was finding sleep difficult: around the Secure Shelter, beyond the zone of calm
established by Nwm over Morne, the winds raged. She tossed uneasily in her bunk.
Mostin sat in
an uncomfortable wooden chair, idly stroking his hedgehog, and musing about
pseudonatural
entities of an altogether different order of power.
The shutters and door rattled. Gusts of wind blew down the chimney and sent clouds of
smoke
and ash into the small cabin.
Pah! So much for ‘Secure,’ the Alienist grumbled to himself. This was ridiculous. Rustic
was rapidly beginning to lose its charm.
Please Help, Tahl’s voice, in his mind.
He scowled, and grunted. What nonsense had they gotten themselves into now? Quickly
he
Scried the Inquisitor.
There they all were. Looking deflated, wet and bedraggled. Nwm pointed at the sensor,
and
Ortwin gave his best endearing smile, nodding optimistically.
Mostin sighed. They didn’t seem to be in any danger. He thrust his head through the
portal.
“What do you want?” He grumbled.
“We have a situation,” Nwm explained.
“You always have a ‘situation,’” Mostin chided.
“This is a bad one,” The Druid said.
Mostin groaned, and made a beckoning gesture. “Come on,” he said.
*
Ortwin stood with his back to the fire, and steam rose from his Cloak of Displacement.
Within the small cabin, it rapidly became very humid: seven people, five of whom were
very wet,
crowded within. Tahl had left upon arriving through the mirror, walking the half mile
through the
storm to his tent – assuming any of it still remained – in order to use a scroll to quiet the
weather in the vicinity.
Eadric glanced suspiciously at the Infernalist, who reclined in deep thought upon a nearby
bunk.
He was about to question her presence, but decided that it might be impolitic, given
Mostin’s
mood. There was a short but decidedly uncomfortable silence.
Mostin gestured. Clothes instantly dried, and vapour disappeared.
“Why aren’t you in your manse?” Nwm asked the Alienist.
“Because I had no Teleports prepared, because I didn’t want to leave the mirror
unattended, and because I wanted some peace and quiet,” Mostin snapped.
Nwm nodded. Evidently Mostin was still tetchy. Briefly, the Druid explained the situation.
“Can you Scry for them?” Eadric asked.
“I can try, I suppose,” Mostin said wearily. Five minutes passed, but no clues to the
whereabouts of either Zhuel or Nehael were forthcoming.
“So are they dead?” Eadric asked.
“Either that or, obviously, in a place which cannot be Scried,” Mostin nodded.
“How can we know?”
“I’ll attempt a Discern Location, but it will have to wait until morning. If that yields no
result, then we can assume the worst.” He sighed. “You may as well just make yourselves
comfortable until Tahl deals with the weather. I regret that I have nothing to offer anyone
in the way of
refreshments.”
Shomei groaned. “Oh stop being so damned stiff, Mostin.” She began a brief incantation,
and Eadric suddenly became very nervous.
The Infernalist waved, and a Djinn appeared. Eadric relaxed.
“Make some tasty snacks, and some firewine, and some utensils,” she instructed. The
genie broke a splinter of wood from one of the logs near the fire, cast a Major Creation,
and made all manner of rude wooden goblets, plates and cups, together with a huge
pitcher. It clapped its hands, and
suddenly the small desk sagged under the weight of exotic viands.
Iua scowled. It seemed rather demeaning to use the members of her own race as simple
butlers.
Ortwin grinned. “Great,” he said. Ed might be depressed, but the Bard wasn’t about to let
it interfere with his appetite.
*
Outside of the cabin, the winds began to abate – evidently Tahl had retrieved the scroll,
and
forced the weather to subside. There were now two lacunae of still air within the storm’s
two
thousand square mile extent: one around Morne, the other in their immediate area.
By the time that those in the Secure Shelter had finished eating – albeit in a subdued
atmosphere
– the Inquisitor had safely returned.
“The camp was in chaos,” he informed Eadric. “Many of the canvas tents have been
ripped away.
Anything that wasn’t tied down, or sufficiently heavy, is somewhere other than it was two
hours
ago. Numbers of horses have escaped. It may take some time to gather things together.”
The Paladin nodded.
“The one reassuring thing Ahma,” Tahl continued, “is that the forces of Kaurban and Sihu
are doubtlessly caught within the storm as well. We might be able to use this to our
advantage. How
much longer is the main system likely to persist?”
““Fifteen hours,” Nwm answered.
Eadric mused briefly. “Could we open a corridor of still air between here and the city?”
Nwm nodded. “I had just considered that.”
“Return to the camp,” the Paladin instructed Tahl blackly. “Send messages to Olann,
Sercion, Streek and Eisarn: as soon as the storm lets up, they are to head straight for
Morne at their best speed – they are not to tarry. Instruct Brey to be ready to move on my
order.”
The Inquisitor nodded, and departed.
“How long until dawn, Nwm?”
“Only two hours,” the Druid sighed. “But I am exhausted. I need to rest before tomorrow.”
There were several nods of agreement
Ortwin immediately transferred himself to the most comfortable bunk. “Here is as good a
place as any,” he smiled.
*
It was close to noon of the nest day before those present had made themselves ready.
Eadric
donned his armour, prayed briefly, and exited the cabin to inspect the damage of the
previous night.
Branches lay strewn around, snapped from trees during the windstorm as the Paladin
walked
down the gentle slope towards the camp. It was deceptively still, and he knew that only
two
miles away, beyond the zone of calm, the winds still pummeled the lands in the vicinity.
He
wondered about the effects on the harvest: this was some of Wyre’s richest farmland, and
Morne’s bread-basket.
He spoke briefly with Brey, Tahl, Ryth and Soraine, who were overseeing the operation to
reorder the camp and to retrieve and repair as much as possible from the previous night,
and tried to occupy himself.
Eadric fretted, found himself unable to concentrate, and walked back to the small cabin.
He
waited impatiently for Mostin to finish scanning his books, but said nothing until the
Alienist had cast his divination. The others stood by tensely.
Mostin sighed. “The news is a mixture of good and bad,” he said. “Mostly bad. Nehael is
alive.
She might be better off dead, however. She is currently on the forty-seventh layer of the
Abyss,
beneath the palace of Graz’zt in Azzagrat.”
Eadric’s jaw dropped. How?
Mostin considered for a moment. “I could attempt a Planar Binding to bring her here.”
“Do it, Mostin. Anything.”
But fifteen minutes later, when the Binding had failed, Eadric’s mood was black. Perhaps
she was warded. Perhaps she was already magically bound. Perhaps she was in an area of
Antimagic.
Mostin was unsure.
The Paladin swallowed. “Thank-you Mostin. I appreciate it. And my sincere apologies, if
you
think that I have disrespected you for your friendship and the help you have rendered.”
Mostin gave an embarrassed grumble.
“Was she abducted?” Nwm asked.
The Alienist shrugged. “Perhaps. Perhaps a Bebilith snatched her way. Perhaps she was
Banished or Dismissed.”
“When that happened before, you quickly retrieved her,” Ortwin pointed out.
“Circumstances seldom repeat themselves exactly,” Shomei said. She turned to Eadric.
“I’m sorry. Really. She is a remarkable individual.” The Infernalist groaned, inspecting her
watch. “I should go. Wish me luck, Mostin.”
She vanished.
“What’s up with her?” Ortwin asked.
Mostin laughed. “If you really want to know, she is about to engage in a battle of wills
with a Devil who has a reputation for cunning, twistedness and subtlety which makes even
his own kind
quail.”
Eadric looked uneasy.
Mostin nodded. “Your tempter is here, Eadric. Shomei has her own agenda to pursue with
him,
however.”
Eadric swallowed. He would ask Tahl to Commune later. Several questions needed to be
answered. And the whereabouts of Zhuel were still a concern.
**
Twelve seconds after Nehael had been thrust onto the Astral Plane, the Glabrezu Otarr had
Plane Shifted to the Abyss.
Six seconds later, he Teleported to the Iron Halls of Graz’zt. He was immediately granted
an audience: the Prince had instructed the Mariliths who guarded entry to his sanctum that
all news
regarding Wyre – and especially Eadric – be relayed to him as quickly as possible.
Otarr communicated the news telepathically to the Great Demon, who writhed ecstatically
at the
news.
He Scried the Succubus within moments, summoned Ainhorr and his jailer – an
intemperate
Nalfeshnee named Trakkao, opened a Gate in her immediate vicinity and, accompanied by
his
majordomo and chief administrator of pain, stepped through.
Unfortunately for Nehael, Teleportation was not an option upon the Astral Plane.
Within one minute of being banished by Mesikämmi’s Word of Chaos, Nehael was
captured,
bound in the same Dimensional Shackles that had once held the Marilith Uzmi, and led in
mockery back to the forty-seventh level of the Abyss.
Graz’zt had her flung into a hole until he could decide what to do with her. He would find
something particularly inventive and unpleasant, preferably lasting several aeons.
Prince Graz’zt seldom left the confines of his own palace, much less made extraplanar
sorties.
This had been a special case, however.
* Wind-Walkers in my campaign house rules suffer 5 points of damage per round with no
saving throw for every increment in wind speed above strong: i.e. severe = 5/round;
windstorm =
10/round; hurricane = 15/round and tornado = 20/round. In addition, those subjected to
tornado force winds must make a Fortitude save (DC20) every round or be ripped apart by
the winds and
die. By the time that the party landed, the winds had already reached storm force.
**Although northern Dramore was terrorized by a Blue Dragon some years previously,
which
roosted in the High Thrumohars. Eadric, Nwm and Ortwin hunted it down and killed it.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 11-21-2002
Is the Archon Zhuel safe and unharmed?
Yes. He is with ME.
(Awe. Oronthon’s words – not Urthoon’s – resonate in the mind of Tahl, piercing his soul
with
their perfect clarity. Unexpected explication beyond a simple affirmation or denial.)
May I recall him to the world of men?
Yes.
Is the temptation of the Ahma imminent?
Temptation is ever present
(Words to generate insight, not to dissemble. Tahl feels with his whole being. New levels
of truth
are revealed. Layers of paradox are shed away.)
But the Duke Titivilus is here for the purpose of his temptation?
Yes.
(Grief at the Fall, aeons before. So intense that Tahl’s body shakes, unable to contain its
full
magnitude. Compassion, and the desire to forgive, extended even into the deepest pit of
Hell.)
Can the Succubus Nehael be released from bondage?
Not by ME. She has placed herself beyond MY protection by her actions.
Will the Ahma triumph over his foes?
Only if he can determine who they are.
Will Morne suffer more?
Yes.
Will the Archiepiscopacy be reestablished?
Yes.
Soon?
He comes.
The Ahma has told me that it will be Tramst.
I will be Tramst.
(Awe.)
Lord, grace me with Your wisdom.*
Not all truths are unequal. Remember that I love you, Tahl.
Tahl wept, as the Longing of Separation descended upon him.**
**
Eadric sat in full harness upon Contundor and observed as his troops formed themselves
into
their companies. Around him, the wreck of the encampment still stood: rags of canvas
hung
limply from broken poles, and belongings that were less than essential lay strewn around.
He had
ordered that the army had broken camp as quickly as practicable: speed was of the
essence.
The air was unnaturally still as a result of Nwm’s interference in the prevailing storm –
which,
according to the Druid, still had three hours left to blow. The Paladin’s mood was bleak, as
he
contemplated Tahl’s words, and he hardly paid attention to the Inquisitor, or to Brey, or to
Soraine; all of whom sat upon horses nearby.
Not all truths are unequal.
Curious words, framed in a double negation that was almost Urgic in its construction: a
kius, as the heretical mystics named it. Somehow, he felt that he could not connect with
the phrase, and
his stomach was still an empty pit, which turned every time he considered Nehael.
He watched idly as he observed Iua and Nwm approach, flying from the west towards
him. The
Auran steed upon which the Duelist rode moved gracefully through the air. The Druid, in
aquiline form, was flanked by Sem and Gheim – apparently a mated pair, although Eadric
was
still unsure which was which, and what their respective sexes were.
Ortwin, disguised by a glamour, reined in next to the Paladin. “Have you ever seen a goat
ride a
horse before?”
Eadric scowled. He was not in the mood for levity. “Where is Mostin?”
“Contemplating Goetic mysteries,” Ortwin replied lightly. “Are you sure about this Ed? Is
your
judgment sound?”
“Who knows? I still doubt – although I regard that as a good sign. But I am tired, Ortwin.
I long
for this to be over.”
“And Nehael?”
“I can do nothing. I’m not yet ready for the confrontation that would entail. I don’t know
if I ever will be: I am, in the final analysis, mortal.”
“I’m not,” the Bard grinned. “And I am no longer bored. I have decided to live for at least
a
million years: circumstances permitting, of course. Beware of becoming too heavy, Ed. It
isn’t
worth it.”
The Paladin raised an eyebrow. “Now is hardly the time for platitudes, Ortwin.”
Nwm landed nearby, and assumed human shape. “The corridor is open,” he said. “And
you have
twelve hours on the enemy, at least, before they can recover from the tempest. But it’s
quite a
gambit.”
Eadric nodded, and motioned to Hyne. The Herald’s trumpet rang out, and the call was
taken up
by a hundred more.
**
Tiuhan IV, the Boy King, met with the Small Council in the audience hall of the Royal
Palace in Morne. Sihu, the Duchess of Tomur; the Lord Chamberlain, Foide of Lang
Herath; Attar, the
grizzled Warden of the North; Skilla of Mord, recently arrived in the Capitol; a dozen
other
knights and captains of renown; and the Bishops of Gibilrazen and Thahan. Jholion, the
Marquis
of Methelhar, was noticeably absent – he and the small cadre of soldiers that he had with
him
were under close scrutiny. As Brey’s paternal uncle, Foide had recommended Jholion’s
exclusion
on the basis of dubious loyalty.
Water fell from a great hole that been ripped in the roof by the winds of the previous night:
the
rains had passed, but enough water remained in pools among the twisted tiles to provide a
constant drip. Conversation was tense and agitated.
A raid by the Uediian rebels. Tagur missing. Rumours of the Heretic’s presence in the city,
only
hours before. A storm of immense proportions, either started by the Pagan, or suppressed
by him
– stories were conflicting. The Druid moving through the wounded, healing them. The
Druid
invoking pagan magic to assault a group of Templars. A rain of fire from high above
Morne.
Dragons, Rocs, Shapeshifters. An Earthquake, striking the Temple itself, but leaving the
rest of
the city untouched.
Some had reported seeing celestials. Others, demons.
The Bishop of Gibilrazen, as usual, had a skewed but not entirely misplaced opinion.
“You doomed yourselves by dealing with the demonist, Rimilin,” he half-mourned and
half-
gloated. “I warned you of as much. Now Oronthon has abandoned us: the legions of
heathens and
blasphemers are moving upon Morne. The ground shakes, fire falls from the sky, demons
and
dragons assail us. Archons sound their trumpets to herald the end of the world. Who can
now
doubt that the Trempan Heretic is, in fact, the Adversary? Prayer is our only recourse.”
Sihu shook almost uncontrollably at his words, overcome with pious guilt.
Foide sighed in an exasperated fashion.
“Unless you have something positive to contribute, my Lord Bishop, I suggest that you
refrain
from further remarks. The Heretic is less than a day away, and according to Griel is
already
marching on the city. His sorcerers have subdued the storm to allow him access:
otherwise, it
rages around Morne in all directions – save above the city itself.”
“What of my Uncle?” The boy piped. “Has any news reached us yet?”
“No, your Majesty. I regret not. But his men are only a week away. If we can stave off the
Heretic, they may bring succour to us. And with my own troops and those of the Duchess
nearby,
we stand a good chance.”
“Can your diviners not Scry Tagur?” Attar growled. “I was under the impression that was
a
relatively simple exercise.”
“They have tried,” Foide replied glumly. “Alas, to no avail. Nor has Daunton contacted
me.”
The Lord Chamberlain lied well. But with his own son, Durhm, already in the field with
six
thousand men, it suited his purposes that the troops from Einir remain leaderless for the
time
being.
After much debate, the watches on the walls were doubled and redoubled, barrels of pitch
were
readied, mangonels and ballistae were armed, and squadrons of troops were prepared
within the
walls.
Attar sighed. The primary defense of the city would fall to him, and he didn’t like it one
bit.
Morne had five miles of walls – around twice as much as the Warden was comfortable
with. The
fact that the Heretic had no engines of war was of small consolation.
He had the Druid. Oronthon help us all.
**
Hullu cursed. Wind screamed around him.
“What do you mean, he is moving on Morne?” The Tribesman yelled. “That is impossible.
This
storm is impenetrable.”
“Nwm has quietened the weather about Morne.”
Hullu cursed again. “Can you do the same, Honey-Paw. Or bring a spirit to delay him? I
must
reach the city before him.” Melancholy was urging the warrior to action, and Mesikämmi
recoiled in uncertainty.
“It is too late,” she said. “Your troops cannot meet his Templars in open battle, they will
be crushed. And I cannot prevail against Nwm in a straight contest.”
“And what of the other sorceress?” Hullu snapped. “Where is she?”
Mesikämmi shrugged. “She is doubtless attending to other business: we are not joined at
the
hip.” She didn’t know. The Shamaness had still not told Hullu the truth about the
Succubus – at
least the truth as she perceived it, which was less than the full story in any case. “The
storm will pass in a matter of hours. No assault will be forthcoming until later, or more
likely tomorrow.
What does this cause that you fight for mean to you, Hullu?”
Her question made his mind rock. The Sword goaded him, but his loyalty and
responsibility to
those who had sworn to follow him weighed on his mind. He felt the irony of his situation
– that
Nwm, who had set the course of events in motion, had rejected him.
“You spoke of ‘great things’ for us,” Hullu said. “There was a time when I thought that
such
desires were past me. Then they were reawakened. Why are you here, Mesikämmi? What
do you
want?”
“I want to help you to get whatever you want,” she replied openly. “To win you back
again.”
Her naïveté was sometimes staggering, Hullu thought to himself. She could coerce,
manipulate
and plot with the best of them, and her sense of ethics was perverse in the extreme. He
would
never understand her – but then again she was a shamaness, a witch, a dream-speaker. The
things
which motivated her were beyond his ken.
“So. What do you want?” She asked.
Hullu thought long and hard.
Had the Succubus Chr’ri been present, Mesikämmi may have used a different tact – the
Demoness, after all, had advised guile in dealing with Hullu.
But Chr’ri was with Chomele, Kalkja, Rimilin and Uruum. They had been joined by a
second
Balor, named Irzho. Graz’zt was less interested in the possibilities that Melancholy
offered, and
more concerned with the broader issues, as the nodality began to develop a new facet.
That, and
an overwhelming desire to hurt Eadric: deeply, profoundly, again and again and again.
Before he was killed, he must be utterly broken.
**
Prince Tagur struggled northwards through the forest. The winds, which had blown
ferociously
for twelve hours, showed no signs of abating. Trees had been stripped bare, boughs ripped
off,
and the less firmly rooted toppled over. Debris filled the air. His progress was
painstakingly slow, and his head and body were bloody and bruised from a dozen impacts.
Abruptly, and without warning, the storm ceased – or rather the Prince entered a zone of
calm air.
He raised his eyebrows. How strange. Behind him, the trees still shook under the force of
the
tempest. Ahead, nothing moved. It was eerily quiet.
Tagur took a moment to inspect his wounds, and noting that nothing looked too serious,
plodded
on. Branches lay scattered around but, with a feeling of exhilaration, he began to walk
briskly,
then to trot, and finally to run pell-mell through the trees. He was alive. He was free.
Whatever
happened after this day, he would take a joy in it. He had been dour and preoccupied for
too long.
He thought of the administrative burden that his life had become, and then thought of his
resourcefulness and cunning – qualities that had long remained dormant, only to be
manifested
when he had been backed into a corner.
He thought of Hullu, whom he decided that he quite liked. He thought of roasting boar and
baking bread. He thought of Nwm, who had recognized him but had said nothing, and
grinned to
himself.
After an hour, the trees began to thin, and gradually gave way to commons used by pig
farmers
in the open woods. He stumbled across a track running to the northeast, and his heart
leaped – he
hastened along. Morne. Morne must be close.
Finally, the woods ended. He climbed a low bluff, and gazed northwards over twenty
furlongs of
rich farmland, at the whitewashed rampart of the city. Steam and smoke rose in columns
from
inside the walls – there had been fires, probably the previous night. But it was not the
smoke
which made Tagur swallow in concern.
Between himself and the curtain wall, was a vast cavalry. Tagur knew the blue and silver
banners
of the vanguard, although sagging in the windless air, hid a three-headed phoenix –
Eadric’s
device.
His joy evaporated, quickly replaced by the tactical perspective of his trained military
mind.
He lay down, keeping his profile low, while he decided what to do. At least he would be
safe
where he was.
Except that, ten minutes later, he noticed that several eagles were descending towards him.
Oh, bugger, he thought.
*
Tagur watched the eagle in the centre of the trio grow as it flew towards him, its wings
stretching out until they were a full eight fathoms across.
He glanced back towards the woods, and sighed. It really wasn’t worth even thinking
about it.
All three birds landed nearby, and the downdraft from the largest was terrific.
“Nwm, I guess?” Tagur said with a resigned voice.
The bird squawked loudly. Unexpectedly, one of the other, much smaller eagles spoke.
“Good afternoon, your Highness. I am Sem. Nwm regrets that he cannot use speech at
present,”
it said. “He also appreciates the irony of the situation.”
Nwm squawked again.
“He trusts that you are well, and did not suffer too much at the hands of Hullu’s men. He
is
willing to fly you into the city, if you wish.”
Nwm made a curious croaking sound.
“He also says,” Sem added, “that Eadric would like to speak with you – should you so
desire.
Note that you are under no coercion.”
The Prince scratched his head. This was becoming an increasingly surreal day. “Alright.
Whatever.”
Nwm screeched.
“You may hold onto his claws,” Sem instructed. “He will endeavour not to drop you.”
“Good,” Tagur replied.
*
When Eadric received Prince Tagur, it was around six o’clock in the evening, on the ninth
day
after midsummer. The Templars – around six hundred of them – had been drawn up in two
huge
kanistas less than a mile from the southern and western walls of the city. Behind them,
Trempan aristocrats were loosely arranged in a riot of colour with their mounted men-at-
arms, and Temple
auxiliaries ordered their lines. Both flanks were guarded by the lightly armoured but
ferocious
(and notorious) Ardanese horsemen.
More troops were arriving from the northeast – Templars, armoured aristocrats and
mercenaries -
and the Ardanese roared and banged their swords upon their shields at the return of their
leader,
Olann. Sercion began to form his troops into a third kanista.
“The infantry are still half a day away,” Eadric said to the Prince, “in case you were
wondering.”
The Paladin dismounted and bowed in a cursory fashion.
“Isn’t it rather late in the day to be beginning an assault?” Tagur asked. “And what do you
propose to do – knock down the walls with your lances? I assume you haven’t forgotten
that they
are twenty feet thick?”
“Nwm has agreed to facilitate entry, if it is necessary. I will attempt a final parley first. I
wish merely to be allowed unhindered access to the Temple compound – as is my right as
Grand
Master.”
“The legitimacy of that title is questionable,” Tagur remarked drily.
“You could speak to them, Tagur. Allow this to pass without bloodshed.”
“I am not about to act as your message-boy,” the Prince replied, “whatever your present
intentions are. Deorham, my concern is that if you enter the city, some other spiritual
imperative will descend upon you. Oronthon will ask you to take control of Morne, or he
will instruct you to
arraign the Small Council.”
“That will not happen,” Eadric grimaced.
“Are you so sure?” Tagur retorted. “What if you had some new ‘revelation?’ Deorham, for
what
its worth, I actually quite like you, and your crazy Druid friend. But that doesn’t really
mean
much in the current political climate. I have responsibilities to the citizens of Morne. If
you enter the city, there will be bloodshed. Innocents will perish. There will be rape,
murder, looting and
burning. It is a war. It always happens, no matter who leads the troops, or whatever their
stated values are.”
“Not this time,” Eadric was adamant.
Tagur sighed. “You are naïve and idealistic.”
“Ask them to open the gates, your Highness.”
“I will not.”
“Then at least bring my proposal to the Royal Council. Advise them as you will, but allow
the
others to vote on it. I beg you, Tagur.”
The Prince groaned and nodded. “I will vote against you, and counsel the others to do the
same.”
“That is you prerogative,” Eadric replied. He turned to his squire. “Tatterbrand, fetch
another
horse. We will escort Tagur to Morne.”
**
“Where the hell have you been?” Foide snapped at Rimilin of the Skin. “And exactly what
did
you think you were doing at Hrim Eorth? You agreed to only target Nwm with your
spells.”
The Acolyte stood before King Tiuhan, Foide, Sihu, Attar and half a dozen other nobles,
as well
as the Bishops of Gibilrazen and Mord. He was flanked by a young girl, perhaps twelve
years
old.
“I miscalculated,” Rimilin lied, looking contrite. “For which I offer the council my
profound
apologies. I will suffer the consequences of my actions when the Wyrish wizards indict
me.”
“Why do you bring this urchin before us?” Sihu asked.
“Not an urchin, your Grace: a simple child from Morne. An innocent who is typical of
those who
would perish if the Heretic enters the city.”
“I hardly see the point of bringing her here,” Foide snapped. “Or have you simply taken
her
under your wing: does she have nowhere else to go?”
“I hope to appeal to the Heretic’s better sense,” Rimilin said slyly. “Once he was a great
champion, whom few of us here would question. Since his seduction by the dark powers,
however, he has fallen into vain and evil ways. But none of us are without the potential for
redemption. Perhaps when he sees this child, and others like her – unsullied, and without
guilt
upon them - he may be struck with remorse.”
The Bishop of Gibilrazen could not believe his ears. “You, an accursed demonist, have the
gall to
say that? You are utterly despised, Rimilin. You are base, faithless and irredeemable. You
have
fused with some foul thing from the Pit.”
“I am loyal to Morne, and to my King,” the Acolyte bowed. “You and I may have
differing
perspectives, your Eminence, but we do not necessarily differ in our need for stability and
security.”
“You are a canker, Wizard,” the Bishop retorted. “Whom even the other cankers in Wyre
will not
deal with. You are an accursed liar, although I don’t know what your scheme is. And that
girl is
likely some whore from the Abyss, or some innocent whom you will sacrifice. You will
sell us all
to the Adversary, who has assumed the guise of Eadric of Deorham.”
“Silence!” The Acolyte screamed, apparently losing control. “I could obliterate every one
of you
here, if I so chose. However,” he seemed to master himself again, “I do serve my King,
and I am loyal to Morne. I will do as you bid, your majesty.”
Tiuhan, unused to being addressed directly rather than through an intermediary,
stammered self-
consciously.
“You will address the Council, Rimilin,” Foide said.
The girl looked at Tiuhan.
Tiuhan looked back.
“I-I think we should allow Rimilin to speak with the Heretic,” the Boy King said.
“Your Majesty…” Foide began.
“No!” King Tiuhan said, surprising even himself. “I have made my mind up. Rimilin will
speak
to the Heretic.”
Foide sighed. What harm could it do? And anything was preferable to this pious hysteria
from Gibilrazen.
**
The embassy – which also served as an escort to Prince Tagur of Einir – consisted of
Eadric, Tahl, Tatterbrand, Brey, Soraine of Trempa, Jorde, Hyne, seven of the eleven
Penitents and Ryth
of Har Kumil. Nwm flew overhead. Mostin, Ortwin and Iua observed events from afar in a
secure shelter which the Alienist had erected. For a variety of reasons, none felt that they
had anything to contribute to the negotiations, although they all maintained a keen interest.
Privately, Ortwin had determined to jump through the mirror again if required – in the full
knowledge that Mostin would probably never speak to him again if he did.
Horns sounded, the South Gate of the city opened, and a squad of twenty knights rode out
to
meet the Ahma and his party. They bore the standard of the Gultheins – the golden boar –
surmounted by the eighteen-pointed crown of the kings of Wyre. Eadric recognized the
armour of
their leader Attar, Warden of the North, and gave a small sigh of relief. Attar was known
for both his equitableness and his pragmatism. In the middle of the group, the Paladin
noted a young man
on a grey palfrey and three children on ponies. He scowled. Most irregular. He readied
himself in
the event of something unforeseen.
Mostin, gazing through the mirror of Urm-Nahat, saw only three children and a riderless
horse.
He became fidgety. “I smell a rat,” the Alienist said to Ortwin.
“An invisible rider?” Ortwin suggested.
“Perhaps,” Mostin responded. He muttered a spell, and vanished.
Iua looked at Ortwin, who shrugged.
“I’m still here,” the Alienist said. He pushed his own invisible head through the mirror
above the royal embassy, in the knowledge that if there was an invisible rider upon the
horse, Mostin would see him or her with his magical sight.
A young man, whom he didn’t recognize. Not invisible, though. Must be warded from
scrying.
Rimilin? Whoever it was, he was looking at another sensor nearby, which Mostin
immediately perceived. He looked down again.
One of the children was looking straight at him. She can see me.
A force pressed upon his consciousness, coercing him. “Why not tickle Eadric?” It
suggested.
“Remember how he likes the tickly sensation of disintegrate?”
Mostin shook off the spell, pulled his head back through the mirror.
“Very fishy,” his mind raced as he said it. “It might be Rimilin, and he might have
demonic allies with him. One of them just suggested that I disintegrate Eadric.”
“Demons disguised as children?” Iua asked. “That’s pretty cheap.”
Mostin shrugged, and began to buff.
“Hey, what about the Injunction?” Ortwin asked.
There was a pause as the Alienist finished casting a Haste spell. “Rimilin is fair game. He
is in contempt himself. If it is the Acolyte, then I’ll blast him as soon as he makes a
move.”
“Let’s just take him out now,” Ortwin suggested.
“If, Ortwin. If.”
“We should warn Ed, in any case.”
Mostin nodded, and refocused the Mirror, before thrusting his head through again. The
Alienist’s
disembodied voice sounded in the ears of Eadric and Tahl.
“The man on the horse in the middle may be Rimilin. The cute kiddies might be Succubi,
or
worse.”
Eadric sighed.
*
As the reception committee approached to around forty yards, Eadric motioned to Tahl,
who
concentrated through the Eye of Palamabron and invoked its True Seeing ability.
The blood left his face. “Demons,” he whispered hoarsely and swiftly. “Two Balors and a
Succubus. Several Glabrezu on the Ethereal nearby. Rimilin – disguised by a spell.”
Eadric cursed, and reined in. “Flee! Disperse!” He yelled. “We are ambushed.” Quickly,
he
turned to Prince Tagur. “Ride for your life, and pray!”
Everything seemed to happen at once, and with blinding speed.
Rimilin, who had anticipated getting closer – at least to within Eadric’s ability to sense the
Demons – nonetheless acted first. Fire leapt from his left eye in a narrow shaft, reducing
Soraine, the elderly Duchess of Trempa, to a cinder. It was not the tack that he had
planned, but plans
change, the Acolyte mused to himself. An empowered Fireball followed in quick order.
As if on his cue, a lurid purple Fire Storm ravaged the area to the left of the Paladin,
immolating horses and riders. One of the children, who had continued urging her pony
forwards, stopped and
gazed briefly at Tahl the Incorruptible.
The Deputy Inquisitor crumpled into a lifeless hulk.
Mostin, acting with magically enhanced speed, stepped through the mirror and
disintegrated the Balor Uruum, disguised as a child. Its true form flashed briefly across
the vision of those present, before its aeons-long existence was snuffed out.
The explosion upon its demise was terrific, and fire ripped across the field.
Reeling from the force and heat, Mostin invoked a quickened Polymorph Other upon
Rimilin but failed to effect him.
Eadric spurred Contundor forwards, charged past the burning royal standard, the
bewildered
Attar and the few knights who remained alive, and smote one of the other children – the
Balor Irzho – with every iota of strength that he possessed. It screamed: an unholy noise,
issuing from
the mouth of a young girl. Black ichor sprayed from it, and it reflexively wreathed itself in
comforting flames.
As he rode past, the succubus Kalkja, disguised as a twelve-year-old girl, flung a small
iron box
at Eadric before Teleporting away to safety.
Rimilin was struck full force by a Thunderswarm which issued from Nwm’s talons.
Although
warded, the Acolyte still reeled from the blast.
Time to go, I think, and he vanished. A fraction of a second later, Irzho also disappeared,
even as Iua and Ortwin were preparing to engage.
Eadric, burned and blistered, turned Contundor, and rode slowly back to look at the
carnage. Few
still stood. Soraine was dead, and Tahl, and Ryth, and Hyne. Brey, unremarkably, still
lived – at
any other time Eadric would have appreciated the irony of the apparently unkillable
Templar.
Tagur also still stood, although his wounds were severe.
Tatterbrand! No, not you as well! But he still breathed, if barely. Eadric layed his hands
upon him, and warmth and light flooded into his squire. Attar, unhorsed and charred,
hobbled
forwards.
“I did not know…” he began.
“It doesn’t matter,” Eadric said grimly. “They will always find a way. You are blameless.”
The reality of it was dawning on him. Tahl was gone. He could barely bring himself to
look upon the corpse.
And then, the final affront. Ortwin walked up to Eadric, holding the small casket that
Kalkja had
hurled at the Paladin. The Bard was shaking. “I’m sorry, Ed.”
Inside, on a velvet cushion, were a pair of lips, cut from a face, and still fresh with blood.
Eadric turned away and vomited.
When he raised his head again, he saw a single tall, elegant figure dressed in black
walking
slowly towards him.
“It is time,” Titivilus said, almost gently.
**
Four Devas, Jewels in the celestial host and paramount warriors of the Order of Powers,
accompanied Tramst, future Primate of all Wyre, as he Wind-Walked from Ardan to
Morne. They were alert to the possible presence of fiends: their Marshal, Enitharmon, had
instructed them to
exercise particular vigilance.
Tramst, who carried a mandate from Heaven, brought a new teaching. It was based on
neither
unity, nor difference. It did not deny Orthodoxy, nor Ardanese practice, nor the
Transaxiomatic
philosophy, nor Reconciliatory Sophism, nor even the Irrenite Heresy – the most
controversial of
the Oronthonian factions. Tramst had taken the premise of the Urgic Mysitics, and in three
months had stripped it of its inconsistencies, refined it, and through a succession of
revelations had determined the best way to communicate his apprehension.
His system was dubbed saizhan, ‘insight.’ It denied the ultimacy of any and all external
phenomena associated with Oronthonianism, and advocated direct, unmediated contact
with the Fundamental. It was supported by a dialectic of negation designed to stimulate
awareness which
replaced the scala mystica that contemplatives had previously employed for centuries.
Oronthon, aware that his own church, divided against itself, could not endure unless it was
changed, had decided to overhaul it. His solution was radical.
His Breath, the Ahma, had been the agent to accomplish the initial breakdown of reason
necessary for the foundation of the new practice. But he merely foreshadowed Tramst.
His Mind, his Sela,*** would be Tramst. In order to repair his house, Oronthon needed to
oversee the builders himself. In order to allow unmediated contact with the Fundamental,
the
Fundamental would be present.
Previously, the Archbishops had borne a bright spark of divinity: they were Oronthon’s
vicars on
Earth.
But Tramst, Oronthon’s proxy, would be an incandescent beacon.
*It is customary for Clerics who Commune with Oronthon to leave their last question
‘vacant’: the Bright God may dispense wisdom as he sees fit.
**The Longing of Separation is the profound sadness experienced by the querent after the
intimate connection of Communing ends. More generally, it occurs after any mystical
union.
***Without getting too deeply into Oronthonian theology, the Sela is the “Gnostic
Intellect” of God – that aspect of Oronthon which mystics and contemplatives relate to.
Note: The names of the celestials who accompanied Tramst were Urlion, Shoonel, Ruma
and Diol - Astral Devas of great prestige and influence. In general, Devas represent the
“muscle” of
Oronthon: Urlion and his peers were of particular reknown.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 12-08-2002
“You appear like a crow over carrion, Devil. You are contemptible.” Eadric wearily drew
Lukarn.
“I am your lawfully appointed tempter,” Titivilus replied easily. “and your time has
arrived. You may ask me to depart, if your faith is so weak that it cannot stand a minor
trial. Assailing me, however, would be disrespectful in the extreme, and more than a little
foolish.”
The Paladin sighed. “Make your offer, then leave. The answer will be ‘no’, in any case.”
“It might take some while,” Titivilus explained. “And is likely to involve elements which
you do not expect. I suggest we remove to a more suitable locale.”
Eadric laughed grimly. “I am about to enter Morne with an army – now is hardly a
convenient time.”
The Duke of Hell bowed ironically. “Fortunately, there is a place where we may go where
the
inconvenience of time is not an issue. I can return you at the point where you left.”
“You lie.”
“Frequently,” Titivilus conceded. “But not at the moment. I have no intention of lying to
you, Ahma. If you distrust me, bring Palamabron’s Eye with you – any counterfeit will be
instantly revealed. It is, after all, infallible. And Ortwin the Satyr, I strongly recommend
that you do not do what you are considering.”
The Bard was assuming a flanking position whilst Titivilus spoke.
“You may dismiss me, Ahma,” the Duke said, “and I will never trouble you again. But you
may regret the choice later: here is a chance to confront your own shadow, in terms which
few have the luxury of
doing. Look into the Darkness of your heart with me. If you are true to your faith then you
have nothing to fear.”
“Honey on the tongue does not disguise malice,” Eadric spat.
“I am a Devil. What do you expect? Temptation is my work, and I take pride in it.”
Eadric sighed, relaxed his grip, and nodded.
“What?” Ortwin asked aghast. “Are you crazy? Just tell this idiot where to go, Ed.”
“No. I need to do this.”
“That’s the spirit,” Titivilus said. “Don’t forget the Eye, Ahma. Unless you are afraid of
the truth, of course.”
The Paladin knelt over the stricken body of Tahl, kissed him on the forehead, and removed
the huge stone from around his neck.
Titivilus clicked his fingers, and a Gate opened. The scene beyond was idyllic: a soft,
sandy beach gently lapped by a clear sea beneath a cloudless sky.
“After you,” the Duke of Hell ushered him. “Don’t worry. You’ll be safe and unharmed. I
will return you to the present time and place whenever you wish.”
He did not lie.
So Eadric stepped through.
**
“This is Cha’at,” Titivilus said in response to the unvoiced question in Eadric’s mind. “It
belongs to my liege – inasmuch as a plane can belong to anybody.”
“The Demiplane that you offered Mostin,” Eadric nodded. “If you think that…”
“I have no intention of offering this place to you, Ahma,” Titivilus smiled. “Unless you
want it, of course,” he added. His eyes twinkled with cruel amusement.
“Get to the point,” Eadric snapped.
“I will – but circuitously. Firstly, we need to establish a common language – so as to
minimize
misunderstanding.”
“Your ability to twist words is legendary,” Eadric scowled. “And I don’t pretend to be
your equal in sophistry or subtlety of language.”
“Ah, the Ahma is a man of simple faith. Complex linguistic matters are beyond his
understanding.”
“If you have merely brought me here to mock me…”
“Do I wound your pride, Ahma? Are you self-conscious of your limited ability to grasp
difficult ideas?”
Eadric said nothing.
“If you feel too embarrassed to answer that question, then I understand. If you feel that
allowing yourself to be that vulnerable to me is unwise because I am the Enemy – one of
the fallen; despicable, irredeemable, befouled with Taint and corruption – then I also
understand. Allow me then to ask
another question, Ahma: at what point does it become permissible for a man to be
anything less than absolutely open and honest?”
The Paladin groaned inwardly. This was not what he had expected. “Alright. You’ve made
your point.”
“And you agree that it has merit?” Titivilus asked.
Eadric nodded sourly.
“Tell me, Ahma: had you ever considered that idea before – purely hypothetically, of
course. The idea that ‘even when dealing with demons and devils, one must maintain
absolute honesty.’ I’m not
suggesting that it is the Truth, but that it is, from your perspective a truth, which deserves
consideration.”
“I had never before considered it,” Eadric admitted.
“In which case, you have learned something new. From me. I have taught you.”
“What are you?” The Paladin asked.
“You ask ‘what is a Devil?’ To you? A Dark Mirror.”
**
“We have established, then, that the language we will use is one of total honesty,” Titivilus
said.
“Remember that you have an advantage over me – any falsehood that I speak will be
revealed by the
Eye of Palamabron. I must simply trust you, and assume that you don’t lie.”
Eadric sighed.
“What do you know of the Irrenites, Ahma?” The Duke asked.
“They are an heretical sect. They were banned because they venerated the Adversary
alongside
Oronthon.”
“That is correct – although it is important to note that they do not worship the Adversary
as a distinct individual. They regard him as an aspect of Oronthon or, to be more accurate,
an emanation.”
“If this is an attempt to sell me on the merits of various heresies then you are pursuing the
wrong tack.”
“I don’t need to sell you anything,” Titivilus said wrily. “I take it that you are aware that
Tramst will be the next Archbishop of Morne?”
The Paladin nodded.
“And that he will be imbued with a measure of Oronthon’s power which has no precedent
– that he
will, in fact, be an avatar of sorts.”
“Tahl intimated as much,” Eadric replied carefully. “Although the exact details have not
been revealed to me.” His answer was accompanied by a cognitive dissonance of
enormous proportions – was he
actually having this conversation with one of the Fallen?
“Tramst will readmit the Irrenites into the Oronthonian fold,” Titivilus said. “As well as
every other denomination and schizmatic group.”
Still, the Devil did not lie. Eadric was dumbstruck – and enormously excited. He was also
very
suspicious. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Revelation is not the sole province of Celestials.”
“Celestials generally do not want something dubious in return.”
“Touché,” Titivilus conceded.
**
“What do you know of Jovol the Grey?” Titivilus asked.
“I am reluctant to answer that question.”
“Because you feel that by so doing, you may jeopardize Jovol, whom you regard as a
possible ally –
although you are not sure how, or in what capacity. Then let me enlighten you somewhat
as to Jovol’s nature: he is immensely powerful. More than any of the other Wyrish
Wizards suspect – with the
exception of Hlioth, who knew him from before.”
“Before what?”
“Before he assumed his current incarnation,” Titivilus answered. “Jovol is preoccupied
with the
Injunction, and a particular paradox which he finds himself in – namely, that he must both
enforce it, and then subsequently violate it. He regards himself as something of a
custodian, and is resigned to sacrificing himself in order to renew the integrity of the
magical détente.”
“To me, that would seem to indicate a nobility of purpose.”
“Quite,” Titivilus said sarcastically. “Except that he has been ineffectual to date in
preventing Rimilin from acting – and this has been through choice, not through inability.
His divinations have indicated hours, perhaps even days ahead of time, where and when
the Acolyte of the Skin will strike. Why do you suppose he has not prevented it, Ahma?”
Apparently, Titivilus was still telling the truth. Eadric sighed. “I do not know Jovol’s
motivations. And I do not see why you are wasting time with this trivia. Cut to the chase,
Devil. I can reject you, and we can part ways.”
“Time is of no consequence here, so there is no need to feel rushed,” the Duke reminded
him. “And it is seldom that one has the opportunity to tempt the breath of God – indulge
me and permit my moment of dramatic tension. Think, Ahma! Why is Jovol, who is
concerned more than anything else about the Injunction, not acting to prevent its most
flagrant violation?”
“I will not be drawn into idle speculation.”
“Then let me tell you,” Titivilus said impatiently. “Jovol predicts in terms of probabilities
– of
significant contact between individuals, and of interplanar movement. When a planar
contact is revealed, Jovol can infer the likely manifestation. He knows that if he arrests the
actions of Rimilin, then Graz’zt – whose information in this whole affair is less complete
than you might suspect – will change his tack accordingly. Jovol is therefore waiting until
both Rimilin and Kothchori are present at the same time, before he shows his hand.”
“Who is Kothchori?” Eadric groaned.
“Kothchori is the mage who assailed both Jiuhu and Morne with fire. Graz’zt has him
under his thumb at present. He is also warded from detection – although not from Graz’zt
and his minions.”
“And perhaps you could tell me why this is important?”
“Because within two hours of your return to the battlefield, Kothchori will open a Gate
allowing Graz’zt onto the Prime Plane.”
Eadric’s jaw dropped. “And Jovol knows this?”
“He knows when the Gate will open, but not where,” Titivilus confirmed. “And as he
cannot locate Kothchori, there isn’t much that he can do.”
“This makes no sense,” Eadric muttered. “If Jovol can determine where and when Rimilin
acts, why
can he not do the same for this Kothchori?”
Titivilus sighed in exasperation. “Jovol detects contacts – one individual to another. An
example: Hullu, Mesikämmi and Rimilin come into close resonance, and are accompanied
by a perturbation
which indicates a planar transit – in this case, from an archaic spirit dimension which
borders the Prime. Jovol can discern the location of Hullu and Mesikämmi, therefore he
can infer the location of Rimilin. As both Graz’zt and Kothchori are invisible to Jovol’s
attempts to scry them, he only knows when. He has no where.”
Eadric had no idea who Mesikämmi was, and thought it best not to ask. He was starting to
get very
confused. Titivilus, despite the fact he had not yet lied, was living up to his reputation.
“This still makes no sense,” the Paladin said. “How can Jovol know where Kothchori and
Rimilin meet, if he cannot determine the location of either of them?”
“Because when they come into resonance, other individuals are also implicated. Jovol can
discern their location, thereby inferring the presence of both Rimilin and Kothchori.”
“And who are these ‘other individuals?’” Eadric asked.
Titivilus shrugged, and pointed a long finger at the Paladin. “You, maybe? I don’t know.”
Eadric groaned. “Still, I don’t understand why Jovol simply didn’t intervene and stop
Rimilin when he knew where he would be – when he interacted with me, or Hullu or
Mostin, or whatever.”
“It is likely that the projected course of events would be even more unfavourable – from
Jovol’s
perspective, at least – if Rimilin were eliminated prematurely.”
“How can that be so?”
“Graz’zt is methodical and lays intricate webs – for a Demon, at least.” The contempt in
Titivilus’ voice was not concealed. “However, he is not above fits of rage and spite which
ultimately act against his own interests. Consider what his mood would be if Kothchori
conjured him and he had lost both
Rimilin and the Balor Uruum in one day. I think that it may prove fortunate for Wyre that
you did not slay Rimilin today. Graz’zt is more than capable of destroying Morne and
everything in it with a single invocation.”
“He would suffer immediate retaliation,” Eadric insisted. “Or the celestial host would
never permit such an act.”
“Would they not?” Titivilus asked. “Are you confident that you understand the Mind of
Oronthon that clearly? In any case, Rimilin is not dead, so the point is moot. Graz’zt
retains a sense of perspective, and his actions are likely to be more systematic and less
insane.”
“His ire is directed towards me more than any other,” Eadric said. “It is those closest to
me that I feel most for.”
“They are Graz’zt’s targets for that reason,” Titivilus smiled wickedly. “Graz’zt would like
to break you, and then turn you against Tramst – the incarnate manifestation of Oronthon’s
power.”
“That will never happen.”
“Never is a long time.”
“Your efforts to make me doubt are wasted,” Eadric said. “Do not forget to whom you
speak.”
“I would never do that, Ahma,” Titivilus gave a mock bow. “But I digress. It is likely
Morne will still suffer terribly, and at Graz’zt’s hands. And Oronthon will permit it to
happen. When one can foresee the ends that Oronthon can, who can tell what ‘The
Greatest Good for the Greatest Number’ really
means?”
Still, the Duke did not lie. But Eadric was unfazed: this was a paradox that he had long
since accepted.
“Do you wish to know what it is that Graz’zt will do, Ahma?” Titivilus asked easily.
“Knowledge might allow you to ameliorate great suffering, although you could not
prevent it all.”
Eadric said nothing.
“Remember our agreement,” Titivilus said. “Complete honesty.”
“I would like to know Graz’zt’s plans,” Eadric admitted.
“As would I,” Titivilus replied.
**
“The Succubus, Nehael,” Titivilus said, smiling.
Eadric groaned inwardly.
“She is currently in a rather awkward predicament, wouldn’t you say?”
“No doubt you are about to make an offer to rescue or release her, in exchange for a
service that I can offer you,” the Paladin said in a resigned voice.
“No,” the Devil replied. “It is within your own power to resolve that issue. You have the
means to do it
– although you may feel compromised by the methods involved. Remember, you are the
Ahma, and you have powerful allies.”
Titivilus did not lie.
“Then what relevance does Nehael have to this conversation?” Eadric asked.
“When she first succoured you for aid, you were willing to put everything – your own soul
included –
on the line in order to aid her redemption.”
“Yes. And?”
“Is she redeemed, now?” Titivilus asked. “Before you answer that,” he added, “if you feel
that you are being drawn into an untenable ethical position at any time, feel free to stop
me – but I feel there have been inconsistencies in your attitude that perhaps you should
address.”
“I am not here to receive philosophical instruction from you,” Eadric moaned. “And your
circuitous offer is still no closer to being voiced. Allow me to ask you a question, Duke
Titivilus, for every one that you pose me, and we will see how this proceeds.”
“Very well,” Titivilus answered surprisingly.
“Does that proposal concern you in any way?” The Paladin asked.
“Yes,” Titivilus said.
Eadric raised an eyebrow.
“So,” the Devil continued, “has Nehael been redeemed?”
“That question has no answer,” Eadric replied. “You might as well ask ‘what kind of apple
is that
orange?’ How was your exchange with Shomei? Did she put you in your place?”
“That is two questions,” Titivilus pointed out. “But I will let it pass. It went as one might
have expected, and our relative ‘places’ are affirmed. But your last answer is intriguing –
is the Ahma suggesting that redemption is not a universal phenomenon, available to all
who earnestly seek it?”
“I make no such claim,” Eadric answered, “and no amount of verbiage will lead me to it.
And I found your answer rather lacking, so I will pose the question again more clearly:
Did the Infernalist Shomei assert her ascendancy over you, Titivilus?”
“In a manner of speaking,” the Devil conceded, “although all such arrangements are
subject to
renegotiation. But I have just thought of another question – not designed to stimulate your
pride, before you ask: In the vast celestial hierarchy, where do you see yourself in relation
to seraphs, saints and ascended masters, Ahma?”
Eadric shifted uncomfortably. “I have never before considered that question, but your
premise is false: all of those about whom you speak live the will of Oronthon. There is no
striving for them. They do not need to claw their way anywhere, as they have already
achieved bliss. If you were to earnestly seek redemption yourself, Titivilus, I would
willingly act as intercessor on your behalf. Can I interest you in such a proposal?”
“It would certainly have merit, were it not for other factors,” Titivilus answered.
“Other factors?”
“Ahma, the face I present to you is cultured, intellectual, reasonable and scholarly. I am all
of those things. But it behooves you to remember that I am also cruel, merciless, depraved,
manipulative and utterly, utterly evil. You see me as an Irrenite might see me, and that is
intentional on my part – I would achieve little in the way of communication, otherwise.
Already, you have been lulled into complacency, and have forgotten to whom, to what you
speak. I am no succubus nor a minor devil, but a Duke of Hell. My philosophical position
is the result of aeons of thought and contemplation upon matters which you do not grasp. I
am not blind, ignorant, savage evil – I am reasoned evil.”
“That is to be most feared,” Eadric said. “But I have not forgotten who you are, and my
proposal still stands. Be finished with your offer. And speedily. I grow weary.”
“Oronthon will not intervene to release Nehael, because the Succubus has placed herself
beyond the Bright God’s protection. She chose Uedii over Him, and rejected an offer from
Rintrah to reenter
heaven. Would you say that she has abjured Him a second time? One could interpret her
actions in that light.”
The Paladin did his best to retain an impassive expression. “I was unaware that grace had
been
extended to her to that degree. Nor can I always fathom her actions. But I still fail to see
what you are driving at, Devil.”
“If you act to save Nehael, which it is within your power to accomplish – by hook or by
crook – you must sacrifice something. You could attempt a punitive raid or rescue mission
- a possibility that offers many opportunities for sacrifice. Maybe your life or soul, or
those of your friends. In any event, you would sacrifice your responsibility to Tramst and
to Morne and to your soldiers – after all, should you really be going off on an Abyssal
jaunt if the fate of Wyre hangs in the balance and Oronthon’s Proxy is about to appear
upon the scene?
“Alternatively, perhaps you could strike a deal with Graz’zt in some way, thereby
sacrificing a certain portion of your principles. Or you could employ other agents to make
a deal for you.”
“Devils, you mean,” Eadric said.
“As I have already said, no,” Titivilus replied. “That is not what I meant – although if you
request such assistance, we can no doubt come to a mutually beneficial understanding. I
was referring to your
associates – you could merely depute the responsibility to them.”
“And what do I sacrifice if I do that?”
“Your control of the situation? Your involvement? Your autonomy? Again, maybe your
friends? Mostin can be rather rash, after all. Would you trust him with such a project?”
“More than I’d trust you,” Eadric answered.
“Of course, you could simply sacrifice Nehael to the ‘Greater Good’ and, no doubt, as
time passes, so will your guilt and remorse.”
“Pah! Make your offer and return me.”
Titivilus sighed. “My proposal to you is this: that, henceforth, you and I will speak on a
regular basis, about such matters that are pressing upon your conscience. With my aid, you
will establish a platform from which insight can spring.”
“Are you insane? You would act as my counsellor?”
“Why not? Have you not found this exchange informative?”
“Whether or not I have is hardly indicative of your value as a long-term advisor. And
what, I wonder, do you offer me in exchange for this absurd request?”
Titivilus smiled. “You misunderstand. That is not my offer of temptation to you. It is the
boon which you would enjoy for a growing life in Oronthon’s wisdom.”
Eadric guffawed. “And what, then, is the price I would pay for it?”
“You will endure my attempts to corrupt, pervert and sway you from your current purpose.
The torment that your psyche endures will be immense, and the moral knots that you have
heretofore wrestled with will seem trivial in comparison. The Ahma has the chance of
being in a permanent dialogue with the darkest things that there are. One cannot live fully
in the light by denying the darkness, but only by transcending it.”
“That is Left-Hand Path sophistry,” Eadric said scornfully.
“It is the dialectic.”
“And Urgic and Irrenite heresy.”
“They are no longer heresies, if you recall. It is the basis of saizhan, the practice through
which Tramst will revive Oronthonianism.”
Eadric swallowed. Titivilus did not lie. But it was too radical.
“Not all truths are unequal,” Titivilus said.
Eadric’s stomach turned over.
“It is the Middle Way. The Diamond Way. The Path of Lightning.”
And the Paladin’s head reeled.
**
“Are you suggesting that every Oronthonian will have a personal devil with whom they
can converse, in order to stimulate their awareness?”
“Certainly not,” Titivilus answered. “Saizhan is a mystical practice for contemplatives
who have
overcome dualistic thinking. It negates all predicates about the nature of Oronthon, and
replaces them with direct experience of the Godhead: with sufficient discipline, the
devotee simply enters a trance and taps into Oronthon’s Sela, his Gnostic intellect.”
Eadric looked confused.
“They will Commune at will with him,” Titivilus explained.
The Paladin’s eyes widened. “And for those of us who lack ‘sufficient discipline?’”
“That is the second purpose of Tramst. For those who cannot grasp the fundamentals of
the practice, they may approach the Godhood directly, embodied in Tramst. By speaking
with him, they effectively speak with Oronthon himself.”
“I still fail to see the diabolic component,” Eadric said.
“For a dialectic to exist, antinomies are required,” Titivilus answered. “For
contemplatives, they exist on the level of mental constructs. For the devotees who seek
him, Tramst himself will stimulate
awareness with speech and action, using a device similar to the kius.* But you are unique.
For the Ahma…”
“They would be embodied in you,” Eadric sighed.
“Precisely,” Titivilus smiled. “And I have been selected because I am the subtlest, most
conniving, most underhanded manipulator that there is in the Hells, bar one only.”
“If this is so, if it is necessary, then I fail to see what the temptation is,” Eadric groaned.
“That is because I have not yet tempted you, Ahma. I have merely made you the counter-
offer.”
Realization slowly began to dawn on the Paladin.
“You may simply walk away from this, and become Eadric of Deorham once again. Let it
go. Return to
your castle, and your vineyards, and your dogs, and an untroubled life. Or to be free to
pursue Nehael as you will, renounce your servitude to the Temple, and make war on
Graz’zt. Take the fight to him.
But that is not what Tramst requires from you. That is the temptation.”
“No,” Eadric said. “You seek to be both my tempter and my counsellor. You cannot both
threaten me
and offer me a path to understand my God.”
“I can and do,” Titivilus answered.
“I will not believe it,” the Paladin said.
“Then I suggest you speak to Tramst,” the Duke answered. “He will arrive outside of
Morne within
fifteen minutes of your return.”
Eadric’s jaw dropped.
“Ahma, your religion is undergoing a paradigm shift. Old roles are being redefined.
Different facets of the Truth are manifesting. When you speak to Tramst, he will not be an
intermediary as Cynric or even Rintrah was. You will, to all intents, be addressing
Oronthon directly.”
The Paladin nodded dumbly.
“He demands much of you. He will not relent, nor compromise. By subjecting you to the
darkness, he intends to purify and exalt you. To be an exemplar, you must embody the
principles which define a
philosophy.”
“I doubt.” Eadric said, simply.
“That is both your strength and your vulnerability,” Titivilus said, opening a Gate back to
the Prime,
“which it is my happy duty to exploit to the maximum.” He smiled wickedly. Palpable
Evil emanated
from him, causing Eadric to shiver.
“Until the next time, then,” Titivilus said. “Unless you choose otherwise.” He vanished.
Eadric stepped through the Gate. The paradox had come full circle.
**
“Where did you go, and how long were you there?” Ortwin asked Eadric.
“To the Demiplane Cha’at. And it seemed like forever, although it was probably no more
than half an hour.” Eadric looked over his shoulder – behind him were the massed lines of
Templars, their
auxiliaries, Trempan knights, squires and, on the flanks, Ardanese outriders. Nearby, stood
Attar and Prince Tagur.
His head span. Too much to consider, and too short a time in which to consider it.
“What was his temptation?” Mostin pressed.
Eadric laughed. Paradox spiralled through his mind. He looked at the crumpled form of
Tahl, and began to weep.
Ortwin clicked his fingers. “Snap out of it, Ed. You can go nuts later. There isn’t time
now.”
“In fifteen minutes, God will arrive. In two hours, Graz’zt is going to do something
terrible, and Oronthon is going to do nothing about it. And I think that my guardian Angel
is going to be replaced by a Devil.” Eadric explained.
“I think you need to speak to Shomei,” Mostin said.
*The kius is an Urgic riddle, framed as a question qualified by a double negation, e.g.
What is
Oronthon, if compassion and revelation are not unidentical? . Technically, not all truths
are unequal is not a kius, although its structure resembles one. The koan is probably the
closest RL parallel, although the structure of the kius is more formal.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 1-16-2003
You See
Eadric sat cross-legged in his tent and looked at his God. Tramst – who, of course, was
Oronthon –
looked remarkably unchanged and unprepossessing. There was no celestial choir, no
radiant light, and no feeling of awe. There was, in fact, no indication that this was
anything other than a normal human being.
The Devas who had escorted him had vanished – Eadric had not dared to use
Palamabron’s Eye to see
if they still remained in some insubstantial form nearby, any more than he had dared to
look at Tramst himself through the stone. It would have somehow been blasphemous. He
wondered if even thinking
about using it was a sign of his unworthiness and lack of faith.
Tramst raised his eyebrows and smiled sympathetically.
Lord, I fear. I doubt.
Well, yes, I know that. So what’s your point? And don’t call me ‘Lord.’ A simple
‘Holiness’ will suffice (irony).
I do not know how to proceed.
Ahh. And how, exactly, is that different from how things were say, yesterday, or a year
ago? Or five years ago?
In order to come to understand you more, the fiend Titivilus informs me that I must deal
with him on an ongoing basis. That he will act as a foil to my…
Virtue? Piety?
(Profound discomfort.) Holiness, I feel unworthy…
(Raised eyebrows.)
(Shame at false modesty…)
(SLAP.) (Smile.)
(Humility)
Your brother, Orm, frequently struck me when he taught me. (Laughter). He looked
terribly offended on the morning that I slapped him back.
Where is Orm now, Holiness? Will he be coming?
No. Why should he, when he can meditate in solitude?
But I may visit him, when things are quieter?
Well, of course. Why could you not? When could you not?
(SILENCE.)
What do you wish of me, Holiness?
To be active in the world. To be the Ahma. To lead. To act as a guardian and protector. To
be my strong right arm.
But Nehael. (Guilt. Longing. Conflict of interests. Confusion. Despair.)
I appreciate your honesty and directness.
I don’t know what to do. Part of me desires to be selfish. I fear that I will resent you if I
abandon her. I fear that I will fall if I pursue her, and you will withdraw your grace from
me.
It is a difficult conundrum (humour). You have the right to choose. That can never be
denied.
She suffers.
As do countless others.
I fear Titivilus.
That is wise. He is subtle and cunning. But he is not beyond your ability to deal with.
I feel confounded by him – why is he tied to my own salvation? His temptation is to be free
of his presence. If I accept it, I fail. If I reject it, am I burdened with his whisperings for
eternity?
There are always Devils. To deny it would be fruitless.
Part of me wishes to ask you to release me – if only for a short while.
Are you asking me?
(Shakes head). No.
Then what will you do, Eadric- Ahma?
Put my trust in you. Command me, and I will obey. I will abandon Nehael to whatever fate
awaits her.
But I ask that you grant me the strength to endure my guilt and shame.
And you still hope that, in so making that offer, I will take mercy upon you and release
you from my service?
Yes – or part of me does, at least. But the offer is made in spite of that hope, not because of
it.
(Leans forward and touches Eadric lightly on the forehead).
SEEING FOR THE FIRST TIME I-THOU BEING-NONBEING-BECOMING
KNOWING-
UNKNOWING SEEKING-FINDING-LOSING-FINDING TIME-BEING
ETERNITY-
NONBEING NOW-BECOMING EVERYTHING-NOTHING IDENTITY-
DIFFERENCE
RELATIVE-ABSOLUTE. NOTHING IS. NOTHING IS NOT. NOTHING
BECOMES.
“Saizha*,” Oronthon said.
Eadric wasn’t sure if it was a question, or not, and knew that it didn’t matter. Duality had
evaporated in a soaring ecstasy.
**
I will enter Morne, now, and take up my seat in the Fane.
I will follow.
That is not necessary. I will go alone. Instruct the army to wait, although not to stand
down – they will not be needed quite yet. And not in the capacity that many anticipated.
Then command me.
(Smiles). You are free. Do as you must do. I will recall you to my side when I need you.
(Disbelief). But that is not what you require of me.
No. But I grant it nonetheless.
But why?
(Laughter). Because you didn’t ask. Consider Grace to have descended upon you for the
third time.
Remember, you are empowered to decide right from wrong.
Titivilus insisted that you will demand much of me. That you will not compromise. That
you will push me to my limit. He did not lie.
And so I will. But not yet. Eadric, it is not always this or that. There is room for flexibility.
But Morne. And Graz’zt?
Will do what it is in his nature to do. What is Necessity, if Oronthon is not unlimited?
What will happen?
Rivers of blood will flow. You will know what to do.
Holiness, forgive me – but what will you do?
I will weep.
And he vanished.
*
“Well?” Nwm asked.
The Paladin tried to speak, but merely looked frustrated, unable to convey the full
magnitude of the experience.
“Is he a man, or a god?” Ortwin asked.
“Yes,” Eadric replied.
But his face shone with a light that never after left him.
**
“So, what is he going to do, exactly?” Ortwin asked. “Will there be a big showdown with
Graz’zt, with lots of fireworks?”
Eadric sighed. “That is not his function. He will provide succour to those who need it, and
guidance, and instruction. He is a teacher, not a soldier.”
“You’d think he’d be a bit more pro-active.”
“Hah!” Mostin said snidely. “Fat chance. He’s probably just your typical aloof deity-type,
following his own, mysterious plans. Don’t expect him to put himself on the line.”
The Paladin moaned. “Let’s just leave out the motivational analysis. The fact is, I will
have a temporary grace period in which I can act. I don’t know how long it will last, but
we should seize the
opportunity.”
“Er, how long are we talking, Ed?” Ortwin asked. “Hours? Days? Months?”
“I don’t know.”
“Hmm. That’s not much help.” Ortwin said sarcastically. “And what’s going to happen
with Prince
You-Know-Who? Is he still coming here?”
“Yes.”
“In an hour or so?”
“Yes.”
“Is there anything else you should tell us?”
Eadric briefly related the news about Jovol. And Kothchori. And Rimilin. And the
exchange with
Titivilus.
Mostin groaned. “It might have been useful if you’d told us this earlier.”
“There wasn’t time.”
“I don’t understand,” Ortwin said. “You said that this is an either/or situation. Titivilus’
temptation was based on that premise.”
Mostin merely laughed. “I think you’ll find that if you were to analyze exactly what the
Devil said, you’d find plenty of loopholes and incomplete accounts. Without him actually
lying, of course. I don’t blame you, Eadric. Even my colossal intellect was hard-pressed to
contend with his nuances and
intimations.”
“That’s reassuring,” Nwm said drily. “So is this Devil going to harass you from now on?”
“He will jibe me, and attempt to lead me astray, and at the same time I will use him to
purify myself.”
“You definitely need to speak to Shomei,” Mostin grinned. “I didn’t know that Oronthon
endorsed such radical methods.”
“Generally, he doesn’t. I am the Ahma, however.”
“I thought Devils were only allowed one shot at the temptation thing,” Ortwin said. “Isn’t
that some
kind of violation of the rules?”
“The rules are changing,” Eadric replied.
“Perhaps,” Mostin said. “I think that the usual rules simply don’t apply to you any more. I
see it in you Eadric. We are brethren now.”
Eadric looked confused, and more than a little worried.
“You are like me. You are no longer a man. You have transcended.” Mostin bowed in
recognition.
“Being a quasi-semi-hemi-demigod is all very well,” Nwm said impatiently, “but the basic
problem of what the hell should we do? remains. Currently I can sense no extraplanars or
arcane casters of Rimilin’s power within Morne, so where exactly are they all?”
“Elsewhere, or Mind Blanked,” Mostin replied. “Tramst will not even show as a ripple in
your continuum, Nwm. Any more than Graz’zt, or Rimilin, or Kothchori, I’d guess.”
“Jovol can sense them indirectly,” Eadric said.
“Can he indeed?” Mostin seemed half-dubious and half excited at the prospect.
“Titivilus informed me that Jovol is more powerful than the rest of the Wyrish wizards
appreciate.”
“Go on…”
“He says that Hlioth knew him from before. That he is capable of…self incarnation? It
may have been a metaphor. I don’t know. He was vague about the details.”
Nwm clicked his fingers. “Hello? Can we please deal with the matter in hand? We can
discuss arcane mysteries at a later time. As I see it, we have two options: one, we hit
Graz’zt when he arrives, and all die; or, two, we translate to the Abyss while he’s here, try
to bust out Nehael…and all die. Other suggestions which do not include the ‘death’
component would be appreciated.”
“The first option is not an option in any case,” Mostin replied. “We will not find him
unless he wishes to be found. In which case, he would kill us all in short order.”
“You’re going about this the wrong way,” Ortwin said casually. “We call his bluff. We
can’t attack him directly, no matter what the circumstances are. We’ve already broken
Ainhorr’s sword, imprisoned
Rurunoth and snuffed out another one - which Balor did you disintegrate, Mostin?”
“I’ve no idea,” the Alienist replied.
“I can answer that,” Eadric said. “His name was Uruum – at least, according to Titivilus.”
“Aside from Ainhorr, that leaves Choeth, Irzho and Djorm,” Mostin said. “One of whom
is already on the Prime.”
“Then let’s call in another one,” Ortwin said. “And kill him. And then another one. And
when we’ve killed them all, we can start on the Mariliths, and the Nalfeshnees. We can
break this bastard without going toe-to-toe with him, Ed.”
“I think Eadric has issues about conjuring demons,” Mostin said drily, “no matter what the
motives.”
“Maybe he did once,” the Paladin replied, “but he’s damn well earned the right to decide
whether the ends justify the means or not. And I have no reservations on this count.”
“Are you above the Law now, Ed?” Ortwin asked slyly.
“When I’ve decided exactly what the Law is, I’ll let you know,” Eadric answered. “In any
case, we
should probably wait until after Graz’zt has made his translation, and done whatever it is
that he plans to do.”
“I’m not sure of the merit of that idea…” Mostin began.
“Titivilus expressly warned me against irritating Graz’zt too much before he acts. He
seems to think
that it might precipitate an overreaction. Jovol has been reluctant to interfere for the same
reason.”
“And you trust him?” Ortwin asked.
“No,” Eadric replied.
“All the same, he might be right,” Mostin conceded. “That is entirely plausible. Demon
Princes are not renowned for their tolerant natures.”
“Plausibility is what worries me,” Ortwin countered.
“I hear you,” Eadric agreed.
“In any case,” Mostin continued, “I need to prepare – and that will take some while. But I
don’t have adequate free valences to do it all in one evening.”
“Do what?”
“To bind and destroy two Balors,” Mostin grinned. “It will have to wait until tomorrow.
And I’ll need to find out which one is already present on the Prime.”
“I seem to recall your needing expensive gems,” Eadric said.
“To trap them, yes,” the Alienist said. “To kill them, no. We just kill them.”
“Are you sure it’s that easy?” Nwm asked.
“Piece of cake,” Mostin smiled.
“Why do I get the feeling that we’ve had this conversation before?” Eadric groaned.
“Perhaps we should ransom one,” the Bard suggested. “Propose an exchange. Can you
bring a
succubus in as well?”
“I suppose so,” Mostin said.
“Then let’s kill a Balor, stick another one in a pentacle, bind a succubus and instruct her
that we’ll kill the second one unless Graz’zt releases Nehael, and then dismiss her to relay
the news to her master,”
Ortwin seemed delighted with his plan.
“I’m not convinced that Graz’zt will go for a ransom deal,” Mostin said dubiously. “It’s
difficult to know exactly what passes in the mind of any Demon, much less one of his
stature. Who can tell how he thinks, or what his counsels are, or what things motivate
him? Moreover, what of Kothchori? If he is capable of opening a Gate once, he can do it
again. If we rouse Graz’zt’s ire to that degree, then it is likely he will deal with us swiftly
and decisively. I say we hit Kothchori first. And after the Prince has made his return to the
Abyss. We must break the link.”
“He is undetectable,” Eadric groaned.
“Not entirely,” Mostin replied. “If Titivilus was accurate in his appraisal of Jovol’s
abilities.”
“Can you contact the Ogre?” Nwm asked. “He would be a useful ally.”
“Jovol follows his own rules,” Mostin answered. “When I have tried in the past, he has
been
unforthcoming. But it is possible.”
“Hlioth knows more about him than anyone else,” Eadric said. “It may be worth
approaching her.” He looked at the Bard.
Ortwin sighed.
“There is another possibility,” Mostin said tentatively. “It is very dangerous.”
Eadric raised an eyebrow. “If it involves more Devils, then the answer is ‘no.’ I’ve got
enough to deal with on that score already.”
“Pseudonaturals,” Mostin said. “Big ones.”
“I think I like that even less,” Eadric said. He sighed. “By rights, we should deal with our
dead, before we do anything else. They should be taken in state into Morne – all deserve a
place in the Temple
crypts. But it will have to wait. And I suppose that, as we do not know exactly how or
where Graz’zt will strike, we must simply wait until he does and then react accordingly in
the aftermath. But it is frustrating. I feel impotent. Now would be a time to possess some
insight into his nature, to be able to predict what he might do.”
“Presumably, Tramst could have told you, if he is privy to that information,” Ortwin
sighed. “Why
didn’t he?”
“I don’t claim to fully understand his methods,” the Paladin answered. “But I have no
doubt as to his motives. And I am not above being addressed expediently.”**
“Has it occurred to you that that is one of the functions of Titivilus,” Ortwin pointed out.
“From Oronthon’s perspective, at least. By entering into a dialogue with Evil, you come to
understand it. To anticipate its movements and action. There may come a point when you
can pre-empt it.”
“Maybe,” Eadric replied. “There might be a thousand other reasons, each equally
plausible. I also think that thinking about it too hard is likely to lead to irreducible
paradox, so I’m not going to get started on it.”
“A wise choice,” Nwm nodded.
**
Uedii, the Goddess, the Green Reality, groaned as yet another extraplanar entity
desecrated her realm by manifesting within its confines. She was still far from her limit –
as far as tolerating the interlopers was concerned. Her near-infinite capacity for absorption
had, in the past, accommodated entire
pantheons of warring gods, before she squashed them like flies.
Nonetheless, Nature was irritated. Clouds began to gather over Morne. Feys became
short-tempered and vicious. Far to the south, in the archipelago of Pandicule, a volcano –
long dormant – rumbled threateningly.
Prince Graz’zt appeared before the mage Kothchori in the sanctum of his island retreat,
and the wizard quailed. Nearby, bound within a thaumaturgic diagram, the Archon Zhuel
stood in silent meditation.
Graz’zt smiled. To be able to use this Archon had been an unexpected pleasure. His face
screwed up as he considered Uzmi and Uruum and Rurunoth, and contorted wildly as he
thought of Eadric.
“You are fuel, Archon,” the Prince said snidely. “Consider this: when your sublime form
expires after aeons of servitude to your effulgent master, your spirit will be consumed and
transformed into
something filthy and loathesome.”
Zhuel said nothing. His face remained serene and impassive. As the Demon absorbed his
essence, and swelled with the potency so imbibed, Zhuel gave no indication of pain or
discomfort, and shot no look of hatred or contempt towards the Fiend. His annihilation
was accompanied by an expression of
profound pity for Graz’zt, which threw the Prince into a brief but prodigious rage. After a
minute of paroxysm, he abruptly mastered himself.
The Demon appeared in Morne for a few seconds, spoke a phrase so terrible that space
itself buckled under the strain, and promptly vanished exhausted back to his Abyssal
realm.
A surge of elemental hatred broke outwards from the place where he had stood: the same
spot in the Orangery of the Temple where Feezuu had slain the Archbishop Cynric. The
Aether reverberated
sympathetically. Fruit rapidly ripened, spoiled and fell to the ground in festering heaps.
The grass wilted, and the orchard blackened and died.
Madness seized the already distressed inhabitants of Morne.
*Lit., “You See.”
**Ascended Masters and Saints within Oronthonianism frequently give cryptic or
incomplete accounts to lesser beings, in the knowledge that often such creatures are
incapable of understanding the full ramifications of information that would otherwise be
imparted.
Dark Subsumption is a method used to fuel Epic Spells cast by certain fiends, which
involves the annihilation of powerful outsiders. The mechanics were only worked out after
I had access to the
BoVD.
Wave of Hate was the spell that Graz’zt invoked. It will be detailed in the next post.
The Characters
Although I’d normally post them in the Rogues’ Gallery, here are the characters as of this
post. My rewards aren’t always conventional, so it’s probably worth explaining a few
things:
Eadric
Levelling was rapid for Eadric from 18-20: the final level was, in fact “free” to all intents
and purposes
– the transcendence granted by Tramst in this post (i.e. a 5th level Divine Disciple). Marc
is targeting the Divine Emissary PrC from the Epic Level Handbook, although he has yet
to decide the intervening levels. Maybe Divine Agent from MotP.
I am using the idea of ‘levelled weapons’ for Lukarn – i.e., as Eadric grows in stature, so
does the sword. This had been the plan since around level 13-14, although I had neglected
to implement it
(oops). Eadric’s transcendence seemed like a good point for a large growth in the sword’s
abilities,
perhaps reflecting an ‘awakening’ similar to that of its master.
Rewards for Eadric were big, but Marc deserved them. He’d been a truly awesome player.
Ortwin
Rob had already foregone advancing one level of experience, and did so again in order to
fully
rationalize his character (in his mind). I allowed him to apply the remaining benefits of the
Satyr race, which the reincarnation spell had denied him – these included the Fey hit dice
and skill points (minus those extra x4 which he would have gained at 1st level), and three
feats (two of which he already
possessed). As Ortwin originally had an extra feat on conversion to 3e, Rob and I came to
an
arrangement which suited both of us: Ortwin’s Satyr-ness was fully integrated both
mechanically and in the role-playing sense, and the inconsistencies of the reincarnation
spell were resolved. Ortwin is no longer a reincarnated half-elf. He really is a Satyr, in
every sense. Rob is happy with Satyrdom, although he feels he will be shafted by the ELH
multiclassing rules.
It also meant that the ‘is he ECL +5 or not?’ question was resolved. He now is. Of course,
when he levels to 18, he will receive another feat. Epic Skill Focus (Bluff) looks likely.
One has to work hard to remain the best liar in the world.
Nwm
Nwm levelled, and I allowed Dave to trade out TWF and Improved TWF for some feats
from MotW –
reflecting a gradual ‘forgetting’ of abilities, to be replaced by new ones. I’m pretty flexible
in that regard, and Nwm is less optimized than the other characters anyhow. Nwm will
stick with Druid all the way.
Mostin
Dan decided to pump all of his XP into a +5 inherent bonus to Mostin’s intelligence
instead of levelling to 19. Mostin now has a ‘brain the size of a planet,’ as Marvin, the
Paranoid Android, once said.
More generally, I allowed a retrospective reallotment of skill points in the case of previous
cross-class skills for Eadric: Knowledge (Religion) and Knowledge (Nobility) shouldn’t
be quite such a sink for a Paladin. I also did the same based on Mostin’s Intelligence
increases over several levels – note,
however that I do not allow the Headband of Intellect to increase skill points gained per
level. That’s just silly.
Mostin, having maxed out the skills that were any use to him, opted to throw them into
Craft skills.
Apparently, Illumination and Engraving have been a secret passion of his for some
while…
Eadric, Earl of Deorham
Male human Paladin 15 / Divine Disciple 5; CR 20; Medium size outsider (human); HD
15d10+60 plus
5d8 + 20; hp 201; Init +1; Speed 20 ft; AC 28 (touch 11, flatfooted 27); Attack:
+30/+25/+20/+15
melee (Lukarn) or +27/+22/+17/+12 (Kirm); Dmg: 1d10+11 (15-20/x2)(Luakrn) or 1d8+9
(x3) (Kirm).
SV Fort +23, Ref +13, Will +18; AL LG; Str 18 (24), Dex 13, Con 18, Int 12, Wis 16, Cha
23.
Languages: Common, Celestial
Skills: Ride +16, Knowledge (Religion) +18, Knowledge (Nobility) +9, Diplomacy +29,
Handle
Animal +11, Perform +10 (Ballad, Ode, Lute, Dance), Knowledge (History) +6, Sense
Motive +18.
Feats: Exotic Weapon Proficiency (Bastard Sword), Power Attack, Mounted Combat,
Ride-by-Attack,
Spirited Charge, Weapon Focus (Bastard Sword), Improved Critical (Bastard Sword),
Divine Might.
Special Abilities: Detect Evil at will, Divine Grace, Lay on Hands (75hp/day), Divine
Health, Aura of Courage, Smite Evil (1/day, +15 dmg), Remove Disease (5/week), Turn
Undead (as CLE 13, 8/day).
Strength Domain Power (1/day: +20 to Str for 1 round). Divine Emissary (Telepathy w/
LG celestials in 60 ft.), Sacred Defense +2, Imbue with Spell Ability, Transcendence.
Spells: -/4/4/4/3. Prepared spells vary, but usually include “Holy Sword.” Plus Strength
domain spells: Endure Elements, Bull’s Strength, Magic Vestment, Spell Immunity. Caster
level 12.
Magic Items:
“Lukarn.” +4 LG Keen Fiend Bane Sunblade. Int 14, Wis 17, Cha 18. Empathy. 1 x
Extraordinary Ability: Heal 1/day. Special Purpose: Slay Chaotic Evil Creatures. Special
Purpose Power: Confusion.
Lukarn has an Ego of 25.
“The Skin of Sarth.” +4 Full Plate Armour of Invulnerability.
“Melimpor’s Iron Girdle.” Belt of Giant Strength +6.
“Melimpor’s Shield.” A Large +3 Shield of Blinding.
“Kirm.” Heavy +2 Dragonbane Lance.
3 Javelins of Lightning
4 Potions of Cure Serious Wounds; 2 Potions of Haste.
The Left Eye of Palamabron: A Gem of Seeing with the “Discern Lies,” “Zone of
Revelation,” and
“Zone of Truth” abilities as cast by a 20th level Cleric usable at will.
34 Years. 190 lbs. 6’1”
Ortwin the Satyr
Male Satyr Fighter5/Rogue5/Bard7; Medium-size fey; HD 5d6+20 plus 5d10+20 plus
5d6+20 plus
7d6+28; hp 175; Init +10; Speed 40 ft; AC 28 (touch 16, flatfooted 22 ++ Displacement
Effects);
Attack: +27/+22/+17/+12 (Githla) or +26/+21/+16/+11 (Anguish and +3 arrow); Dmg:
1d6+7 (12-
20/x2) (Githla) or 1d8 +5 + enervation (Anguish and +3 arrow); SV Fort +12, Ref +20,
Will +12; AL
CG(N Tendencies); Str 13, Dex 22, Con 18, Int 15, Wis 12, Cha 20 (24).
Languages: Common, Draconic, Old Borchion, Elf, Sylvan
Skills: Perform +31 (20 Ranks: Storytelling, Epic, Chant, Drum, Lyre, Lute, Pipe, Mime,
Formal
Dance, Folkdance, Folksong, Sword Swallowing, Juggling, Pan Pipes, Clarion, Satire),
Bluff +32, Pick Pocket +14, Climb +9, Swim +7, Hide +29, Move Silently +29, Disguise
+13, Knowledge (Arcana)
+6, Innuendo +13, Open Lock +12, Use Magic Device +15, Search +11, Spot +22, Listen
+19.
Feats: Weapon Focus (Scimitar), Weapon Finesse (Scimitar - Yes, I allow this), Dodge,
Expertise,
Mobility, Weapon Specialization (Scimitar), Skill Focus (Bluff), Spring Attack, Whirlwind
Attack,
Improved Critical (Scimitar), Brew Potion, Improved Initiative.
Special Abilities: Sneak Attack +3d6, Evasion, Uncanny Dodge (Flatfooted Dex Bonus),
Bardic Music, Bardic Knowledge. +4 Racial Bonus to Hide, Listen, Perform, Spot and
Move Silently checks.
Spells: 3/5/4/2 per day. Known: 0lvl: Dancing Lights, Daze, Flare, Light, Read Magic,
Prestidigitation; 1st lvl: Sleep, Charm Person, Cure Light Wounds, Alarm, Ventriloquism;
2nd lvl: Silence, Cat’s Grace, Glitterdust, Detect Thoughts; 3rd lvl: Major Image, Scrying.
Magic Items:
“Dread Githla.” +4 Keen, Throwing and Returning Scimitar
Cloak of Displacement (Major)
+5 Studded Leather Armour
The Blue Garnet Collar (Grants wearer +4 to Charisma).
Winged Boots
Potion of Fiery Breath.
Potion of Invisibility.
“Anguish.” A +1 Magical (+3 Mighty) Composite Longbow of Enervation. Those struck
by missiles
from this weapon are affected as though by the spell of the same name (Save DC17).
20 x +3 Arrows
Masterwork Pan Pipes
Masterwork Lute
Hat of Disguise
Nwm the Preceptor
Male human Druid 18; medium sized humanoid (human); HD 18d8+36; hp 121; Init +1;
Speed 30 ft;
AC 19 (Touch 11, flat-footed 18); Attack: +18/+13/+8 (Magical Quarterstaff) or +15
(Magical Javelin) Dmg: 1d6+4 (x2) (Magical Quarterstaff) or 1d6 +3 (x2) (Magical
Javelin), SV Fort +13, Ref +7, Will
+16; AL NG; Str 14, Dex 12, Con 14, Int 15, Wis 20, Cha 17.
Languages: Common, Elven, Sylvan, Druidic
Skills: Animal Empathy +19, Handle Animal +9, Swim +10, Intuit Direction +10,
Concentration +18, Wilderness Lore +26, Knowledge (Nature) + 22, Knowledge (Arcana)
+6, Scry +18, Spellcraft +11,
Diplomacy +8, Heal +7, Profession (Herbalist) +11, Craft (Leatherworker) +6
Feats: Weapon Focus (Quarterstaff), Ambidexterity, Extra Wild Shape, Create Infusion,
Brew Potion, Craft Wondrous Item, Natural Spell, Snatch
Special Abilities: Woodland Stride, Trackless Step, +4 on Saves vs. Fey Enchantments,
Wild Shape
(6/day; Huge; Elemental 3/day), Venom Immunity, A Thousand Faces, Timeless Body.
Spells Per Day: 6/7/6/6/6/5/4/3/3/2
Nwm’s Staff (+2 Staff of the Woodlands topped with an Orb of Storms)
“Leofric’s Token,” a +3 Amulet of Natural Armour
+3 Leather Armour
“The Bleeding Spears of Huttur,” 2x +1 Javelins of Wounding
Bag of Tricks (Rust Colour)
Nwm’s Torc: Command activated device which allows the wearer to ‘Commune with
Nature’ as cast by
a 9th level Druid.
46 Years; 178lbs; 5’11”
Mostin the Metagnostic
Human Diviner 8 / Alienist 10; medium-size outsider (human); HD 8d4+8 plus 10d4+10
+6 (Insane
Certainty); hp 74; Init +3; Speed 30 ft; AC 22 (touch 17, flat-footed 19); Attack: +10/+5
MW Rapier melee; Dmg: 1d6+1 MW Rapier melee (18-20/x2), SV Fort +7, Ref +9, Will
+18; AL N(G
Tendencies); Str 11, Dex 16, Con 13, Int 27 (33), Wis 16 (18), Cha 12.
Intelligence includes a +5 Inherent bonus.
Languages: Common, Draconic, Celestial, Abyssal, Infernal, Auran, Ignan, Terran,
Aquan, Elven Skills: Knowledge (Arcana) +32, Knowledge (The Planes) +32, Knowledge
(History) +32, Knowledge
(Geography) +32, Knowledge (Nobility) +20, Knowledge (Engineering) +20, Spellcraft
+32, Alchemy
+32, Scry +32, Concentration +32, Craft (Illumination) +21, Craft (Engraving) +21, Ride
+5.
Feats: Martial Weapon Proficiency (Rapier), Scribe Scroll, Brew Potion, Alertness, Craft
Wondrous
Item, Quicken Spell, Still Spell, Maximize Spell, Chain Spell, Energy Substitution (sonic),
Empower Spell, Spell Focus (Conjuration).
Special Abilities: Alien Blessing (+1 Insight Bonus on Saving Throws), Extra
Summoning, Summon
Alien, Insane Certainty, Timeless Body, Pseudonatural Familiar, Transcendence
Phobia: birds.
Spells: 4/7/7/7/6/6/6/5/4/3 per day. Specialty: Divination (+1 spell/level/day). Extra
Summoning = 1 x Summon Monster IX. Prohibited: Necromancy. Save DC 21 + spell
level (or 23 + spell level for
Conjurations).
Known:
0lvl: All PHB Cantrips.
1st lvl: Sleep, Charm Person, Alarm, Ventriloquism, Know Protections, Lesser Acid Orb,
Enlarge,
Chromatic Orb, Expeditious Retreat, Mount, Message, Summon Monster, Comprehend
Languages,
Detect Undead, Identify, True Strike, Jump, Spider Climb, Magic Missile.
2nd lvl. Detect Thoughts, Summon Swarm, Tasha’s Hideous Laughter, Summon Monster
II, Web,
Locate Object, Detect Invisibility, Darkness, Alter Self, Knock, Cat’s Grace, Bull’s
Strength, Eagle’s Splendour, Fox’s Cunning, Arcane Lock, Continual Flame, Obscure
Object, Whispering Wind,
Dimensional Pocket, Mostin’s Aura of Inscrutability, Mostin’s Arhythmic Apoplexy,
Mostin’s Myopic
Emanation
3rd lvl: Avoid Planar Effects, Phantom Steed, Stinking Cloud, Summon Monster III,
Fireball, Lightning Bolt, Magic Circle Against Chaos/Evil/Good/Law, Nondetection,
Arcane Sight, Dispel Magic,
Tongues, Fly, Clairaudience/Clairvoyance.
4th lvl: Dimensional Anchor, Evard’s Black Tentacles, Minor Creation, Summon Monster
IV, Arcane
Eye, Detect Scrying, Locate Creature, Leomund’s Secure Shelter, Scrying, Charm
Monster, Stoneskin, Phantasmal Killer, Shadow Conjuration, Zone of Respite, Ethereal
Mount, Vitriolic Sphere, Improved Bull’s Strength, Improved Cat’s Grace, Improved
Fox’s Cunning, Attune Form, Polymorph Self,
Mostin’s Interminable Sermon, Mostin’s Torque Tendril, Zone of Revelation.
5th lvl: Dismissal, Lesser Planar Binding, Cloudkill, Major Creation, Summon Monster V,
Contact
Other Plane, Fabricate, Prying Eyes, Rary’s Telepathic Bond, Dream, Nightmare, Mestil’s
Acid Sheath, Wall of Force, Sending, Teleport, Mostin’s Metempsychotic Reversal,
Mostin’s Paroxysm of Fire,
Permanency, Tenser’s Destructive Resonance.
6th lvl: Repulsion, Gate Seal, Eyebite, Make Manifest, Hardening, Contingency, Acid
Storm,
Antimagic Field, Fiendform, Disintegrate, Planar Binding, Summon Monster VI, Analyze
Dweomer,
Legend Lore, True Seeing, Chain Lightning, Guards and Wards, Tenser’s Transformation,
Mass Haste,
Mostin’s Id Eruption
7th lvl: Banishment, Sequester, Energy Immunity, Vipergout, Delayed Blast Fireball,
Teleport Without Error, Spell Turning, Summon Monster VII, Greater Scrying, Vision,
Insanity, Plane Shift, Ethereal Jaunt, Limited Wish, Reality Maelstrom, Mordenkainen’s
Magnificent Mansion.
8th lvl: Mind Blank, Greater Planar Binding, Great Shout, Summon Monster VIII,
Sympathy, Trap the
Soul, Discern Location, Binding, Etherealness, Mostin’s Metagnostic Inquiry, Polymorph
any Object, Mass Manifest, Symbol, Maze.
9th lvl: Summon Monster IX, Wish, Gate, Time Stop, Prismatic Sphere, Imprisonment.
Magic Items:
Looking Glass of Urm Nahat (Mirror of Mental Prowess)
Portable Hole
Bracers of Armour +4
Ring of Protection +4
Incandescent Blue Sphere Ioun Stone (+2 Wis)
Pale Green Prism Ioun Stone (Sustains without Air)
Iridescent Spindle Ioun Stone (Sustains without Food or Water)
Amulet of Absorption (21 Spell Levels Remain): 3 currently stored
Headband of Intellect +6
Robe of Eyes
Belt of Many Pockets
Mostin’s Comfortable Retreat
4 Potions of “Cure Serious Wounds.”
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 01-17-2003
Regarding Eadric’s experience:
SEEING FOR THE FIRST TIME
There is a compounded meaning within this phrase. Not only saizhan – i.e. “Insight,” but
also insight into the nature of insight, and insight into that etc. The rational mind rapidly
loses the ability to grasp the spiralling nature of the Real.
I-THOU
This calls into question the conventional apprehension that the object (in this case,
Oronthon/Tramst) and the subject (Eadric) are, in fact, separate entities. By extension, all
other dualities between the perceiver and the perceived are shown to be merely
conventional, and not ultimately Real.
BEING-NONBEING-BECOMING
The three possible ontological states as understood by Urgic Mysticism: either something
is, or is not or is in the process of becoming something else. No phenomenon, when
viewed from the standpoint of conventional philosophy, can exist outside of this triad.
Again, this is called into question by saizhan when describing the Real.
KNOWING-UNKNOWING
The nature of saizhan itself cannot be framed in conventional epistemological language,
and transcends the usual categories of gnostic understanding. The duality between whether
the Real is known, or
whether it is not, is also shown to be false.
SEEKING-FINDING-LOSING-FINDING
The rational mind attempts unsuccessfully to reassert itself and grasp the nature of the
Real. During the experience of saizhan, when the subject attempts to articulate the nature
of the Real using conventional thought, the experience eludes him. Only when it is lost to
the rational mind, can its nature be
apprehended. The Real is slippery.
TIME-BEING ETERNITY-NONBEING NOW-BECOMING
The ontological triad (being, nonbeing, becoming) is linked with the three temporal states
(conventional linear time, timelessness/eternity and the moment Now), but saizhan reveals
these correspondances to be nothing more than convenient labels. The true nature of the
Real is beyond these categories, and cannot be described by normal temporal language.
EVERYTHING-NOTHING
The extremes of monism (i.e., the philosophical idea that ‘all is one’), and nihilism
(‘nothing is Real’) are shown to be false conceptions – saizhan reveals that the duality
between them is constructed, not Real.
IDENTITY-DIFFERENCE
An important point, in which saizhan diverges from other mystical systems. Even the
duality between regarding whether something is identical to something else, or different
from it is shown to be vacuous.
RELATIVE-ABSOLUTE
The philosophical coup, which marks saizhan as unique (and is a demonstration of
Tramst’s genius).
Here, the distinction between the Real (the absolute) and the merely conventional (the
relative) is shown to be false. Even this duality is addressed. Now there is nothing left for
the rational mind to grasp onto.
NOTHING IS. NOTHING IS NOT. NOTHING BECOMES
The final, bold assertion framed as a threefold dialectic of negation, and reiterating the
ontological questions raised before. The Real cannot be described as either existing or not
existing, or as being in the process of becoming. This is the central mystical assertion of
saizhan.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 02-10-2003
***
The Rape
Wyrt, a cloth-merchant of considerable financial means, lived in a large, comfortable
manse in the Temple district of Morne. His home – constructed on a single level in the
antique style – was
maintained to immaculate standards. Pristine whitewashed walls, a red clay pan-tiled roof,
and a neat, formal garden were looked after by Wyrt’s small but diligent retinue of
indentured servants.
Wyrt – a member of Morne’s influential middle class – enjoyed his life, although of late
the war had taken a toll on his income. His wife, Qéma, was a younger daughter of the
Silubrein household –
relatives of the incumbent Earl of Scir Cellod in the south of Wyre. The marriage had been
a favorable one, elevating Wyrt to quasi-noble status, and benefiting the Silubreins with a
much-needed boost to their near-empty coffers. Wyrt was a Gilded Thane, in the popular
parlance – regarded with disdain by those of established pedigree, but nonetheless one
who wielded as much power as many of those who
could trace their lineage back twenty generations.
An hour before sunset, as clouds were gathering again in the sky above Morne, and many
wondered
what new sorcery was at work, Wyrt suddenly paused above his ledgers and accounts, his
quill pen
twitching nervously in his hand. He swallowed, and his hackles rose. Blood thundered in
his temples as he thought of Qéma, and he wondered what folly had led him to marry her
in the first place. He glanced around his study, selected a sturdy marble book-end, and
went in search of his wife.
Wyrt never had a chance to smash her skull, however, because as he exited a small
drawing-room,
Qéma stood in wait for him. She pushed a long larding needle into his throat, and Wyrt fell
over,
gurgled briefly, and died.
In a red haze, Qéma walked outside and went to look for the gardener, who had annoyed
her earlier that day by what she perceived as his mismanagement of the shrubbery.
Across Morne, with minor variations, the pattern was repeated a thousand times.
**
“The Goddess is angry,” Nwm said with startling certainty, as his torc relayed a variety of
natural grumblings to his mind.
“Graz’zt has come?” Eadric asked anxiously. “Can you determine his whereabouts?”
“I cannot,” Nwm answered. “And Graz’zt is merely the latest in a succession of aliens
who should not be here. ” The Druid’s disdain towards demons, devils, celestials and
incarnate deities alike was barely concealed. His perceptions shifted repeatedly as he tried
to focus on something tangible in his
consciousness. Half a minute passed.
Across his field of inner vision, tiny points of light – sentient beings – appeared. All of
those within nine miles, in fact. There were eighty-four thousand three hundred and
nineteen of them. In the Temple district of Morne, many flared rapidly – enjoying a brief
moment of intensity – before they disappeared permanently. He watched in morbid
fascination as lives were snuffed out.
Death – unnatural - violence – the desire to do great violence – fear – hatred.
Nwm vomited, as his groping mind resonated with the emotional reality of what was
transpiring within the city.
“Hatred,” he gasped.
“Enchantment?” Mostin asked cannily.
“Yes. YES.”
“Intriguing,” the Alienist observed.
“Is it permanent?” the Paladin asked. “Are those who enter likely to feel its effects?”
“No, and no,” Mostin answered. “Unless Graz’zt’s stature has somehow grown tenfold.”
“Do we really know how powerful he is?” Ortwin asked nervously.
“Not that powerful,” Mostin assured him.
“Er, so remind me why exactly Oronthon’s avatar isn’t doing anything about this,” Ortwin
said sarcastically.
“I am in no mood for a Theological debate,” Eadric snapped.
“Nwm would say Thealogical,” Mostin quipped.
The Druid groaned, and abruptly turned into an eagle. He exited the tent, screeched, and
was quickly joined by two more – Sem and Gheim. The three flew towards Morne. Eadric,
Ortwin and Mostin
followed him out, to be greeted by a riot of colour – Templars, aristocrats, soldiers and
mercenaries –
all of whom had expectant looks upon their faces.
Ahma, they cried with one voice.
Oh, Sh*t, thought the Paladin. The damn army wanted someone to tell them what to do.
He motioned to Brey and Sercion, who approached expectantly.
“Assemble every anointed Templar*,” Eadric instructed his captains. “We are going into
Morne.”
A wide grin appeared on Brey’s face. “That is a wise choice, Ahma. Our holiness alone
will prevail. We have no need of foreign mercenaries.”
The Paladin smiled grimly. “You misunderstand, Brey. We are not going in to fight. I
require swords to remain in their scabbards.”
Tramst had told him that he would know what to do. He hoped he was doing the right
thing.
**
Inside the audience chamber of the Royal Palace – the ceiling of which still dripped
slowly from the torrential rains of the previous night – Prince Tagur was finally received
by King Tiuhan and the
remainder of the Small Council. He limped, his arms were burned and painful from the
exchange with Rimilin and the Demons outside of the gates, and he was still bloody and
bruised from his escape from Hullu’s encampment.
Foide, who had privately hoped for Tagur’s demise, feigned relief at his appearance. The
Prince of Einir, who seldom misread others’ motives, scowled briefly.
“So who had the bright idea of employing the Demonist as an ambassador?” He spat
sarcastically.
“His Majesty,” the Chamberlain replied loftily. “And you should speak with more respect,
although we are glad to find you alive and well.”
Tagur gave an icy stare. “Foide, shut up.” He bowed to the Boy-King. “I fear that you may
have made an error of judgement, your Highness.** It is a hard lesson – but you should
learn from it. Where is Rimilin now?”
“No longer here,” Sihu answered. “The Bishop of Gibilrazen says that he and the Heretic
are most likely engaged in some diabolic feud, where they are arguing about who claims
the spoils after the world ends.”
“Where is that fat oaf, anyway?” Tagur asked irreverently, causing Tiuhan to snicker.
“He has returned to the Temple,” Sihu replied with earnest piety. “He left abruptly, and did
not explain why.”
The Prince grunted. From Eadric’s words, he had an inkling of the reasons for the
Bishop’s sudden
departure, but felt no urge to share them with the others present. Damned religious
nonsense. Why
couldn’t people just get by without it?
After an hour of wrangling about how best to deal with the ongoing crisis in Wyre – half a
dozen
armies in the area, all but their own respective troops of dubious loyalty to each of the
magnates present – Attar, the Warden of the North returned to the chamber. His normally
taciturn manner had been replaced by something which Tagur perceived to be close to
panic.
“Riots have broken out in the Temple Quarter,” he panted.
“What now,” Foide sighed drily, “another doctrinal dispute?”
“If it is, I’ve never seen anything like it before,” Attar replied. “It’s some kind of hysteria.
They’re killing each other in the streets. Templars, soldiers who were stationed on the
West Wall, old women, toddlers, everyone.”
Tagur groaned. The Demonist probably had a hand in this new mischief. And with the
Heretic outside of the city, they could hardly draw soldiers away from the walls to contain
it. He motioned to Attar, winced in pain as he hurried out of the audience room, and made
his way to the tall West Tower of the palace.
Sh*t, he thought as he looked out at the scene. They were butchering each other by the
hundred out there, and new fires were starting – their smoke rising to join the smoldering
remnants of those which had burned the night before. A lot had happened in a day. And
now the Fane itself was burning.
In disbelief, Prince Tagur watched as the Temple’s south transept, wracked by earthquake,
wind,
torrential rain, and now, fire, teetered and cracked. Immense butresses and pilons snapped
like straws, and the edifice collapsed in a ruin, briefly exposing a light in the nave beyond,
before it was obscured by smoke and dust.
From inside the Temple, something reached out and gently touched his mind. Tagur
suddenly saw. The cosmos melted, and was made whole again in an instant. Moments
later, Eadric’s trumpets sounded
beyond the city walls.
Tagur turned to Attar. “Let him in,” he said. “Before its too late.”
The Warden’s jaw dropped. “Your Highness…” he began.
“Do it. Open the South Gate.”
**
“It is only a technical violation,” Mulissu complained. “I don’t see what all the fuss is
about.” She lounged in one of the huge leather chairs in Shomei’s study.
Jovol sighed. “If you don’t have the stomach for this, Mulissu…”
“Don’t be so damned condescending. I admire the principle. I agreed to listen to you,
didn’t I?” Her memory flashed back to her own fears of assault from Feezuu – although
the Ogre’s proposition would have done little to protect her.
“Under much duress,” Shomei said snidely. She shifted uncomfortably in her chair, the
scars from her exchange with Titivilus still apparent. “Besides, its not as though you will
be the one to suffer the consequences of it.”
“It is a tedious waste,” the Savant answered. “And I still don’t understand why we can’t
perform the ritual afterwards. Or why the clauses regarding summoning and wizards
assailing other wizards can’t simply be dropped. There will always be extenuating
circumstances.”
“Not any more,” the Ogre replied. “The Injunction will now be watertight.”
” Nothing is ever watertight. Mostin won’t like this.” Mulissu sighed.
Shomei laughed. “If there are any loopholes, he will find them.”
“Mostin has hardly been an exemplar in observing the Injunction,” Jovol agreed wrily.
“Which is why I have decided to include him. I’d rather have him in on it, than trying to
wriggle around it. Besides, we need his input to fuel the spell. I have already sent written
copies of the proposal to Waide, Tozinack, Daunton and Hlioth – a quorum is desirable.”
“Mostin means well,” Mulissu sighed. “But will be reluctant to surrender his sovereignty
to an abstraction.” A worried look crossed her face. “You’ve made a powerful case, Jovol,
but I fear that what you suggest will rip the heart out of magic in Wyre.”
“It will merely relocate a certain aspect of it.”
“And Hlioth? She is hardly reliable.”
“You do not know her as I do. I’ve shown you the Web of Motes.”
“It is indecipherable to me,” the Witch said, waving her hand in a dismissive gesture. “I
must take your word for it. And what happens if you receive a blanket refusal from all of
those whom you have
asked?” Mulissu probed.
“Then I will Gate in half a dozen Solars and they will help me instead,” Jovol grumbled.
“One way or another, this will happen.”
“Have you decided upon the Enforcer?” Shomei asked. “One of the Akesoli*** could be
bound with this spell.”
Jovol shook his head. “They are too political,” he said. “And to co-opt them would cause
too many ripples. But I concur with your reasoning – something Diabolic would seem to
fit the bill, but
something outside of the established order – I am leaning towards Gihaahia.”
“That is certainly a terrifying prospect for potential violators,” Shomei nodded.
“An infernal magnate?” Mulissu asked, uninformed about the nuances of the Diabolic
hierarchy.
“An Infernal,” Shomei replied. “The offspring of Prince Astaroth and the dead Goddess,
Cheshne.”
“She is not dead,” Jovol smiled. “She dreams with the others.”
“In any case, Gihaahia is an abhorrence. An atavism from a previous reality.”
“Your concept of reality is quaintly rational,” Jovol chided.
“And yours is numinous bunkum,” Shomei retorted. “But I am not here to argue
metaphysics – or transmetaphysics, before you say anything.”
Mulissu groaned and looked bored. This was precisely why she had isolated herself for so
long. “I will fetch Mostin,” she said, and vanished.
**
The Alienist seethed, looking at the huge, carved marble slab.
“You have no right to do this,” he snapped.
“I have the power,” Jovol replied calmly. “And the foresight. And a responsibility to the
future. That is enough.”
“And you? ” Mostin looked incredulously at both Mulissu and Shomei. “Have you lost
your wits? You of all people, Shomei. You live for this. You cannot ban an entire
subschool of magic.”
“I accept the limitations as part of a larger set of rules, Mostin. Jovol will not move on any
of them.
Besides, it will only affect those who cannot perform their summonings elsewhere.”
“That is precisely why it won’t work,” Mostin sighed. “Those who wish to will simply go
elsewhere in order to do it, and then order their creatures into Wyre.”
Jovol touched the slab. In response to his words, a minute paragraph carved upon the huge
tablet glowed, and seemed to grow in size. Luminous runes hung in the air.
33.6(e)… this prohibition extends to the calling or summoning of creatures outside of the
excluded area, and their subsequent deployment within it. Such violators will also be
subject to the Enforcer.
“Pah!” The Alienist snorted. “What about the didactic implications? To remove
summoning from a mage’s repertoire will impact the understanding of magic in general.”
“I have the same concern,” Mulissu nodded.
“And I am concerned about defense,” Mostin said. “What happens if a Wizard is
magically attacked, and his or her specialty is conjuration? He can no longer summon
creatures to protect him.”
Jovol smiled, and touched the tablet. “Observe…”
5.0 No Wizard shall, at any time or in any way, assail another Wizard by magical means…
“That’s pretty radical,” Mostin said.
“The theory of summoning is not banned, nor is the practice beyond Wyre’s boundaries.
Please, Mostin, do not get stuck on this one point. Read the tablet in its entirety. There are
clauses to cover every contingency, and even an appeal clause in the case of possible
miscarriage.”
“Appeal? Appeal to whom? To you?”
“To the Claviger.” Jovol replied.
“What the Hell is the Claviger?” Mostin asked.
“You are looking at it,” Jovol said, a wide grin appearing on his huge face, and exposing
rows of enormous fangs, “at least, in a manner of speaking. The Claviger inhabits the
tablet upon which the
Injunction has been scribed.”
“The tablet is sapient?” The Alienist asked in disbelief.
“Profoundly so,” Jovol nodded. “It can also independently manifest itself. The Enforcer
will be bound to the Claviger, and will act as directed by it.”
“What is this ‘intelligence?’” Mostin asked. “Where did it originate?”
Jovol laughed. “Dream,” he said.
Mostin raised an eyebrow. “What is its order – in the sense of its size, rather than its
genus? Its inclination? Its motivations?”
“It is the Claviger,” Jovol said simply. “And it has agreed to my suggestion.”
“To inhabit this piece of rock? It must be crazy. I am disinclined to trust it.”
“Trust is inconsequential,” Jovol sighed. “It is not in the nature of the Claviger to
manipulate others for its own ends. It does not have an ego or a personality, in the
conventional sense. As to its order – deific would be an understatement. It perceives the
magical continuum at all times. It will instantly know of any violation.”
The Alienist’s jaw dropped. “This is outrageous,” he said.
“I told you he wouldn’t like it,” Mulissu groaned. “Perhaps we should have asked Jalael
and Troap.”
“To do what?” Mostin inquired suspiciously.
“To help us bind the Enforcer,” Shomei answered.
“And what will the Enforcer be?”
“I am leaning towards Gihaahia at present,” Jovol answered.
Mostin wracked his memory, until he recalled the name. The blood drained from his face.
“Please wait for a while.”
He scanned the tablet minutely for one hour.
“You’re all cracked,” he said, and then laughed loudly, as an epiphany struck him. “But
count me in.
I’ve a feeling you’re going to do it anyway, and if there will be no more summonings, I’d
like my last one in Wyre to be a big one.”
“I was hoping you’d feel that way,” Jovol nodded. “But we are not calling Gihaahia. We
will be going to her, in order to bind her.”
“That would be less arduous in terms of the magic required,” Mostin nodded. “Are co-
operative spells a particular specialty of yours, Jovol?” He asked archly.
“They were once,” the Ogre nodded, seeing the knowing look upon the Alienist’s face.
“Thought so,” Mostin said. “One last thing,” he asked, “I was planning on calling two
Balors tomorrow…”
“My Web of Motes indicated the possibility,” Jovol answered. “If you proceed, you should
make sure that you are outside of Wyre, and do not force them to act as your agents within
it.”
“I assume that extradimensional spaces are not excluded?”
“Of course not,” Shomei replied. “You see? It will have little impact on you and I, so long
as we exercise prudence.”
“When do you propose to bind the Infernal?” Mostin asked.
“Is your highest valence available to you?” Jovol asked.
The Alienist puffed out his cheeks, and nodded.
“Then now is as good a time as any. I will contact Waide and the others. Mulissu?”
The Elementalist agreed, and looked sadly at Jovol. Here was one whom she had barely
begun to know, the passing of whose friendship she already lamented. The Ogre had
indicated that there was a ninety-six percent chance that he would be dead within two
days.
Jovol smiled quietly to himself. His prescience had seldom failed him.
**
Nwm circled overhead, ready to conjure elementals in order to tear down Morne’s South
Gate if
necessary. Below him, Eadric sat upon Contundor amid three hundred Templars – those of
particular
holiness and devotion who acted as channels for their deity’s power.
A deity whose proxy was within the Temple walls, Eadric thought to himself.
At that moment, a roaring noise – masonry cracking and falling – echoed across the city
and to the gates. In the sky, Nwm screeched at Gheim, and the eagle plummeted
downwards, broke its dive, and
alighted upon the pommel of Eadric’s saddle.
“Part of the Temple just collapsed,” Gheim said in a matter-of-fact way. “It is on fire.
There are other fires within. Men, women and children are murdering each other on the
streets.”
Eadric felt sick, and motioned to Jorde, who bore the horn of the recently burned Hyne
around his
neck. It rang out, to be quickly followed by several more amongst the Templars.
Perhaps a dozen arrows and bolts issued from the towers above the gate, and clattered off
of armour and barding. A rather half-hearted response, Eadric mused to himself. Perhaps
the others were being
deployed inside the walls. He waited. Within the walls, another horn sounded. Moments
later, the gates opened.
The Paladin, half-expecting a charge directed at him from within, braced himself for the
assault.
Instead, numbers of Morne’s inhabitants surged outwards, carrying children too young to
walk, and
those few possessions which they felt worth saving. Most simply fled. Others seemed to
be randomly killing those attempting to escape, or each other. It was impossible to
determine who were the victims, and who the attackers. Who was enchanted, and who was
not.
“Apprehend anyone behaving aggressively,” Eadric’s voice boomed out. “Knock them out
and tie them up. We can decide what to do with them when we’ve subdued them.” He
prayed that it would be
enough. Motioning to Brey, Sercion, Jorde and a dozen others, he rode through the gate
and headed for the Temple.
The scene which greeted him on his procession was more barbaric, more obscene, and
more painful
than anything he had ever before encountered. Mutilated corpses were strewn around.
Burned. Impaled.
Dismembered. Screams of pain echoed across the dust and smoke-filled streets.
As they proceeded, Eadric recalled the words of Titivilus, his appointed Tempter, at his
own insistence that Celestials would not permit something like this to happen: Would they
not? Are you confident that you understand the Mind of Oronthon that clearly?
Apparently, Oronthon had permitted it to happen.
He grimaced. The old paradox again. Have I come so far, only to be confronted with that
same doubt?
Eadric emptied his mind, and allowed his wavering to pass. He recalled the place where
all polarities cease, and drew strength from it.
I will have your head for this, Demon.
*I.e. Clerics, Paladins and spellcasting Prestige Classes.
** As a Prince of the Blood, Tagur is not required to address the King by the honorific
‘Majesty’ – he may use ‘Highness’ instead. By doing so he also asserts his precedence
over those others present.
***The “Pain-Bringers,” a group of nine unique Devils charged with administering
Amaimon’s justice.
My infernal organization is only loosely based upon official D&D canon – I can include it
as an attachment if anyone is interested.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 02-26-2003
“Last season’s style looks good upon you, Mostin,” Waide said drily, adjusting his cravat.
The Alienist scowled. “It’s a shame that you’re too fat to do justice to the current one.”
His dislike for the other Wizard was based mostly on their all too-similar temperaments
(Waide was as tight-lipped and pedantic as Mostin himself) – combined with Waide’s
disdain for all non-transmutive spells and processes.
Waide smiled thinly. “Thus endeth summoning in Wyre. How do you feel about that,
Mostin? What will you do with yourself?”
Wait until you venture outside of the proscribed area before I unleash the Pseudonaturals
on you, he thought. He shrugged. “I’ll get by. This is only one small part of one small
reality.”
“Quite so,” Shomei interrupted. “We are still waiting for Hlioth and Daunton. Would you
care for some refreshment, Waide?”
“Hlioth? That mad old crone won’t come. She’s long past it. I’ll have a herbal infusion,
thank-you”
“She will come,” Jovol said smoothly, entering the drawing-room.
“Where is Tozinak?” Waide asked. “I assumed that he was to be included.”
“He is. He is currently experimenting with object-identification.”
A small credence table nearby shifted into a more recognizable human form, spilling the
drinks which sat upon it onto the floor. The ever-shifting features of Tozinak appeared
beneath his characteristic hooded yellow cloak. He bowed dramatically, and when he rose,
he had grown a long beard and his
skin had changed colour.
“So we are going to Hell, then?” He asked brightly.
“Not exactly,” Mostin said. “Although close enough. Gihaahia abides in the blasted
regions abutting Avernus.”
“Ahh, an exile,” Tozinak nodded sagely.
“It is more complex than that,” Shomei said irritably. “In any case, there will be eight of
us: You, I, Mostin, Mulissu, Waide, Hlioth, Daunton and Jovol.”
“Eight is an inauspicious number,” Tozinak said. “Seven or nine would be better. What of
Griel?”
“He is unnecessary,” Jovol said. “Eight will be enough.”
“And you are sure that we have sufficient power to accomplish this?”
Mostin nodded. “Shomei and I have both inspected Jovol’s calculations. We should have
no problems.
Gihaahia is vastly powerful and ancient, spawned in a forgotten aeon between a Prince of
Hell and a Goddess of Nothingness. But we can bind her.”
“Are we opening a Gate, or shifting straight there?” Waide inquired nervously.
“I would suggest an Astral Spell,” Mostin offered, “although someone other than I will
have to cast it.”
He was in no particular hurry.
Jovol shook his head. “I will Dream us there.”
Mostin raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t that rather unreliable?”
“Not at all,” Jovol replied. “And it is much more discreet. It will only take a few minutes.
“And casting the spell?” Waide asked. “Will she just stand there while we bind her?”
Mostin groaned. “Where is your sense of adventure, Waide? You’re so boring. In answer
to your question, no. Which is why we will cheat. Jovol will create a temporal bubble
before we encounter her
– we will not be in the same time-stream.”
“That is a sensible precaution,” Tozinak nodded.
“Trust me,” Jovol said. “It will all be very anticlimactic. The only other thing I should
mention is this: we will all sustain backlash from the spell, with the majority of it falling
on me. And each of us will invest a small portion of our personal reservoir in addition –
again, I will bear the brunt.”
“Wait a minute…” Waide began.
“You are so selfish,” Mostin chided. “Have you no thoughts for posterity? Can’t you see
beyond your own small world? Great magic suffers because of atrophied minds such as
yours.”
“What is ‘small’ for Jovol, may be more than I can render!”
“Tish!” In fact, although the Alienist himself was distraught by Jovol’s request, the chance
to criticize Waide’s reluctance in front of those others present almost made up for it.
**
Eadric rode through the streets of Morne with a dozen of his most stalwart followers,
appalled at the scenes which he witnessed. The bulk of the Templars, Ortwin and Iua –
together with the circling Nwm and his two eagle companions – were left to deal with the
chaos around the south gate and the
mustering grounds within the city’s tall walls. Identifying who was affected by the
compulsion was near impossible, and as Ortwin clobbered random people over the head
with the pommel of his
scimitar, he wondered how long the mass subdual would take.
Fortunately, Nwm intervened. With a spell that made many of the Paladins and Clerics
shake with the memory of what had transpired on the Nund meadows, the Druid conjured
a writhing mass of
poisonous vines which entangled the limbs of those present. More than three-quarters of
the crowd
were pinned, and many succumbed to the paralyzing effects of the burgeoning vegetation.
The work of the Temple knights was made considerably easier – the vines covered an area
of more than two acres – and at the Druid’s command, they next wrapped and bound
around five hundred of Morne’s hapless citizens. Seeing the success of the conjuration,
Nwm squawked and flew in search of other
pockets of conflict, preparing to cast as many entangle spells – and variations thereof –
that he could muster. He was joined in the air by both Ortwin and Iua, taking advantage of
the perspective that it offered, and grimly observing the wreck of the Temple quarter –
from the air, the pattern of death and violence seemed to radiate outwards from the Fane
itself.
Night was falling. The Temple compound itself was eerily quiet. Several outbuildings had
been
torched, and they burned steadily. Dust still hung thick in the air from the recent collapse
of the Great Fane’s south face. The bodies of Templars – many of those few dozen who
had remained in Morne –
were scattered across the blackened lawns and terraces. Eadric ordered his followers to
attend to those few that were still breathing – but only after they had been bound or
restrained. He dismounted and, followed by Brey, Sercion and Tatterbrand, passed through
a blackened door into the sacristy.
Heaps of torn and shredded chasubles lay within, and vessels lay strewn around. More
bodies – priests
and acolytes – lay in unlikely postures, where they had struck each other down with
ceremonial staves or swords when the spell had taken effect. Before they exited into the
ambulatory, Brey’s sharp eyes caught a movement beneath a pile of heavy vestments – he
said nothing, but gave Eadric a meaningful look and flicked his eyes towards the robes.
The Paladin drew Lukarn, cautiously approached, and
pulled the coverings aside. The rather pathetic figure of the Bishop of Hethio was
revealed, quivering uncontrollably. Upon meeting Eadric’s gaze, he made a number of
ineffectual warding motions.
“I am doomed,” he groaned. “The Adversary has come for me.”
“Get up,” Eadric commanded.
“Leave me, Devil. Get you gone.” He brandished a pendant displaying an eagle at the
Paladin.
“GET UP. You reek of taint,” Eadric said, grabbing the Bishop’s hair, and dragging him
towards the door. “You are an assassin, a liar, a manipulator and a coward.”
Hethio screamed in pain as he was pulled along. “Will you sacrifice me?”
“No indeed, Eminence,” Eadric spat. “I will take you to see God – which is neither more
nor less than you deserve. Why you were spared from this is beyond my understanding. I
assume that he has some
purpose for you, so I won’t sentence you to death. But be warned – I am in a very, very
bad mood.”
So Eadric, Brey, Sercion, Tatterbrand and the – albeit reluctant – Bishop of Hethio made
their way to the chancel and the Archiepiscopal throne. The Paladin recalled his
premonition of the scenes along the Temple corridors. The reality was a thousand times
worse than his vision could have possibly
suggested.
*
Nine thousand dead, Nwm thought to himself as his mind reached outwards and took a
grim tally. He
groaned.
A vine mine contained an episode of looting and violence in the Street of Goldsmiths, but
by the time that the Druid had circled the city for the third time, he saw that most of the
outbreaks were localized and involved only a few people. Tagur had committed soldiers
from the defense of the city to arrest any others who were under the effects of the
compulsion, and Nwm turned his hand to dousing the flames within Morne. Again.
Periodically, he would commune with the Green in an effort to locate any other demons,
but they were either out of his range or warded from his inner vision.
The Satyr and the Duelist descended into the outer courtyard of the Temple compound,
where Jorde
was directing the restraint and healing of any survivors of the Wave of Hate. Even Ortwin,
a staunch opponent of Temple policy and activity since long before the current crisis had
begun, found the scene depressing and unnerving.
“Where’s Ed?” The Bard asked.
“The Ahma has gone to seek the Sela,” a Paladin replied gravely.
“Where’s Tramst?” He asked irreverently.
“The Sela is most likely within the chancel,” the other answered with more earnest piety
than Ortwin thought necessary.
The Bard turned to Iua and grinned. “Wanna go and see a god?” He asked flippantly. “Its
okay – he’s harmless. His head stooge is a old friend of mine.”
Jorde sighed. He, at least, was used to Ortwin’s idiosyncrasies. “I think, perhaps, only the
faithful should be permitted within for the time being.”
Iua was about to say something, but a look of ecstasy combined with contrite horror
passed across
Jorde’s face. “Yes, Lord,” he mumbled to himself. “Forgive my presumption.”
Ortwin raised an eyebrow.
“The Sela will receive you before the throne,” Jorde explained nervously. “He apologizes
that the main gate to the Fane is in ruins, and suggests that you use the entrance through
the vestry.”
“Quite right,” the Satyr said facetiously, staring at the wreck of the South Transept.
Inwardly, he swallowed, and wondered whether it had been such a good idea after all.
**
Tramst sat beneath the immense symbol of Oronthon – the Eagle-and-Sun which reared in
the centre of the Fane. Large chunks of masonry lay scattered within – ornate carvings
which had fallen from the ceiling and shattered the pews and cracked the smooth flags of
the floor. Yet more bodies lay there, and aside from a handful of Temple officiants and
lesser clergy, the Sela was alone. The few present seemed enrapt in some mystical state.
Somehow, the Proxy seemed even more mortal and even less divine than before.
Eadric approached tentatively. Despite his best efforts to stop it, his mind swam with
questions. How could you allow? Why did you? Why did you not? What was the purpose?
He grimaced and tried to make the queries go away.
Do not repress the doubt in your mind, Ahma. You know better than that.
I wish there had been another way.
Do you mean, “Was there no other way?”
(Ruefully).Yes, Holiness.
Not all Truths are unequal, Eadric. Consider this question: What if Graz’zt acted as the
unwitting agent of a wrathful Oronthon, dispensing ire and justice upon those who defied
his will?
Is that so?
That is one interpretation. Here is another question: Presently, an Eagle flies above Morne.
Where it acts, those who suffer from the madness are restrained and can do each other no
harm. What if this is the mercy of Oronthon, bringing succour to those who deserve it?
I understand, Holiness. The fact that it is Nwm does not diminish the fact that certain
people will perceive it in a certain way.
It is no less true, in fact: the Sophists would claim that Uedii and Oronthon are one and the
same.
Equally, it is true to some that you are the agent of the Adversary. You brought ruin upon
the Temple.
Your desire for a demoness signalled the death-knell for Orthodoxy. Have you accepted
that truth yet?
(Wrily).That is harder.
Why, if the Adversary is an aspect of Oronthon?
That is only one of many conflicting truths.
Ahh, saizho, Ahma.
What must be done now, Holiness?
There are still loose ends to be tied up. Events are not resolved. When they are, we begin
the process of rebuilding. First we must deal with tomorrow: it will bring yet more pain.
I still have yet to see my role in this, beyond vague ideas.
The Magistratum will be consolidated into one body – the names ‘Mission’ and
‘Inquisition’ will no longer be employed. ‘Temple’ will become the catch-all term: it is a
trend well-underway, in any case.
The troops in Iald have already been ordered to disband. Eisarn is withdrawing back to
Morne. I need to speak with the Royal Council. I will need your diplomatic savvy.
I promised disestablishment.
They will have it.
(Embarrassed). I vowed to the Uediians that I would strive to end indentureship, and the
Temple would recompense them.
Our coffers are not limitless, but I will honour your promise first.
I am also concerned of reprisals from the secular aristocracy directed against Hullu’s
faction.
Sihu will not act: she is devout, if misguided – this can be corrected. Tagur is an ally.
Tagur is a rationalist, Holiness. As much as I respect him…
I have shown Tagur. It was he who ordered the gates open for you.
(Surprise). And Foide?
Foide will remain a problem.
There is also the issue of Trempa. Soraine’s death will leave a gap, and squabbling
nephews will soon begin their maneuvering.
You could claim the Duchy. You have the support.
I have neither the time nor the inclination to administer it. My spiritual position would
also be compromised by temporal concerns. Given the effort that I have made to separate
the two, this might be interpreted as somewhat hypocritical. I would have supported Ryth,
if he had made a claim.
You may yet be forced to intervene, to prevent more bloodshed. Such is the weight of
responsibility.
(Confession). You have granted me time to act, Holiness. I purpose to assail Graz’zt. I
have yet to determine how this is best accomplished.
(Amusement). That is a formidable task. If you ask for my blessing, I cannot give it:
vengeance and retribution are not within my purview. Are they yours?
I don’t know. Perhaps.
*
Tramst turned to look at the Bishop of Hethio, who stood between Brey and Sercion. Each
of the great Templars held an arm of the clergyman, whose eyes had remained closed and
whose lips had muttered
fervent prayers during the silent exchange between Eadric and the Sela.
A brief communion occurred. Tramst made an offer.
In doubt, and fear, and spite, and self-hatred, the Bishop declined.
A look of sadness passed across the face of the Sela. “Let him go,” he said aloud to Brey
and Sercion.
“Depart, Hethio. Go where you will. At any time, you may approach me again. I do not
judge, I merely teach.”
But as the Bishop departed in haste from the chancel, Tramst spoke to him again. “You
may be
disappointed if you return to your see, Hethio. Your palace will be mortgaged, and your
estates
dissolved: I would hate to burden you with material concerns when your spiritual welfare
is at stake.”
Hethio grunted. Oronthon’s Proxy turned his attention to Sercion and Brey.
“When the Ahma departs, it would behoove you to remain. There is much that you need to
un-learn.”
Somewhat daunted, both Templars bowed.
As Eadric exited, picking his way through the rubble and smashed benches, he
encountered Ortwin and Iua, both of whom, apparently, were walking towards Tramst. A
quizzical look crossed the Paladin’s
face.
“Hi Ed,” Ortwin said. “Just thought we’d come and take a peek. I’ve never met a god
before.”
Eadric sighed. In matters religious, would Ortwin never be anything but a casual tourist?
**
What is this place? Mostin wondered, as phantasms floated past his vision for what
seemed like hours.
Half-formed dreams and reflections, insubstantial yet strangely real. Trees, roads, skies, a
vaporous castle, a silver void. He looked around himself.
They didn’t seem to be moving – he, Jovol and the others – although the dreamscape
changed in a
pattern that he could not quite discern. After a period of intense turbulence, where scenes
and sounds manifested in rapid succession, he felt that he had descended into someone
else’s nightmare.
ANGERPAINDEATHPAINTORTUREVIOLENCE.
CRUELTYLOATHINGMALICESPITEUGLINESS.
BURNINGHATREDWITHOUTEND.
Such hatred. It staggered him. His mind span as he strove to maintain his focus. He shot a
concerned look towards Tozinak, who of the others there was finding the current strands
of consciousness hardest to deal with.
“It will pass,” Jovol assured them. “It is merely an echo of an event long past, or one
which happened in another time – depending on your perspective. Dream remembers all
potentiality – realized or not, past, present or future. Parallel, perpendicular, or extending
into an infinity of dimensions.”
“What is/was/will be the event?” The Alienist asked, careful not to frame his question in
the language of conventional linear time.
“That also depends on your perspective,” the Ogre grinned. “The Prime Nodality. The
beginning of dualism. The birth of the dialectic. The planting of the seeds of knowledge or
damnation.”
“The Fall,” Shomei said.
“If you subscribe to that particular paradigm,” Jovol nodded. “For the moment, we should
adopt it whatever our respective world-views: it is relevant to our situation. Let’s just
assume that it’s
provisionally correct, and act accordingly. We are on the fringes of Hell.”
“And Devils dream?” Mostin asked incredulously. “I’ve never seen one sleep, and I’ve
known a few.”
“Everything dreams,” Jovol answered.
“Twaddle,” Shomei muttered.
“But why do we feel the ripple here and now?” The Alienist pressed.
“There has been a sympathetic vibration, which hearkened back to an aspect of the
Original Nodality.”
“Ahh, Graz’zt.”
Jovol nodded, sighed, gestured, and modified the passage of time.
*
In her abysm, where she had dwelt for untold aeons, brooding in bitterness and corruption,
she stirred.
Unlike those who had their place in the Adversary’s grand, despotic regime, she was an
outsider – too potent to overcome, too alien to harness. A monstrosity conceived between
a fallen Seraph and a
forgotten deity who predated existence. Shadows swarmed about her. The fire that burned
– within her and around her – both tortured and assuaged her.
The inkling that she had was vague and indistinct, but nonetheless present. A threat,
certainly –
although from what was impossible to say. It had been an age or more since Devils had
attempted to
woo her or eliminate her. Instinctively, she wreathed herself in void and vanished,
shedding hatred and malice in waves which pulsed from her form. She pulled four Pit
Fiends to herself from Hell’s deepest layer, and waited.
It was to no avail. In their temporal bubble, linked by Rary’s Telepathic Bond, the Wizards
acted in uncanny coordination – an organic unit, from which potency flowed. In her
Fiendform, Shomei’s eyes pierced the darkness. Their collective sight dispelled the veil of
Invisibility.
Gihaahia, and her attendant Devils, appeared frozen in time and space. Jovol spoke the
words, and raw power coursed through them all. Mostin’s head span ecstatically, and he
resisted the urge to giggle.
The backlash was terrific, causing the Alienist’s skin to crack and his teeth to rattle in his
head. Blood vessels across Jovol’s temples, down his neck, and along his arms ruptured,
spraying blood over the other Wizards. He groaned, and pulled open the portal to Dream
again.
The cabal vanished back into the unconscious world.
Gihaahia noticed nothing until it was too late. She would be called to the Prime, and serve
the entity called Claviger.
Strange, she thought. It almost felt like some form of compulsion – not that she had ever
experienced one. There were, after all, no compulsions capable of affecting her.
*
And so it transpired, as Jovol had either foreseen or determined – when a Wizard is an
actor in his own visions of the future, who can judge whether it is ordained or not? Mostin,
Shomei, Mulissu, Waide, Hlioth, Tozinak and Daunton submitted themselves to the Ogre’s
direction, and wrought a spell that would change the future of magic in Wyre.
In that moment, when Gihaahia – scarce less than a demigoddess in her power – was
bound to the
Claviger, Mostin experienced first-hand his own theories of Will, and the power to make it
manifest. It was true. Anything was possible. Anything.
Henceforth, the Claviger would reside in a cave in the weathered hills of Mord, south of
Morne. Its location would be unknown to those who were not initiated – arcanists of
sufficient power and
reputation – but would exist as a rumour amongst those who aspired to be counted among
the great.
Those Wizards who were vexed by dilemmas regarding their actions could approach the
Claviger, and
ask it for guidance. In its faultless interpretation of the Injunction, the Claviger would
relay its adjudication in a sombre voice, issuing from the tablet upon which Jovol’s words
were scribed.
Occasionally, those who spoke with it would encounter a small child in the chamber – this
was
generally considered to be the Claviger itself, and was interpreted as a favourable omen by
the lucky petitioners. Less often, a woman of singular beauty would relay the Claviger’s
stern remonstration to those who, for their own ends, attempted to interpret the letter of the
Injunction against its spirit. This was known to be the Enforcer, whose manifestation was
recognized as a dire warning, or worse.
Even with his own great foresight, Jovol could not have guessed that a Mystery cult would
eventually develop around the site. The need for religion is incomprehensible to most
Wizards, and despite Jovol’s friendship with celestials, and his concern for the welfare of
Tramst, he was no exception.
As for those Wizards who, in fact, violated the Injunction, they would feel the wrath of the
Enforcer in measure to their transgression. This was determined by the Claviger, which
possessed a near-omniscience with regard to all things magical. Punishments ranged from
confiscation of minor items from the Mage’s possessions, through subjection to a symbol
of insanity in the event of a more major breach, to summary execution in the most serious
of cases.
The first to fall to the Enforcer would be Jovol himself, when, in order to prevent a larger
catastrophe, he slew the mage Kothchori.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 02-27-2003
When dawn broke, and the rains abated, Eadric stood upon the cracked roof of the Fane,
looked out, and inspected the damage. He grimaced. The swathe of ruin which emanated
from the Temple
encompassed a fifth part of the city. And still, although with increasingly less regularity,
Templars and city guardsmen reported capturing those who suffered from the madness
engendered by the Wave of Hate.
Nearly ten thousand dead, in all, if Nwm’s figures were correct. Material damage that
would run to more than a hundred tons of silver. A wound in the collective psyche that
would probably never heal.
And, ironically, neither new Temple taxes to pay for the rebuilding of the Fane, nor
sufficient in the coffers to both recompense the Uediians and begin repairs. He sighed. The
price of success.
To the south, beyond the walls of the city, neat rows of Temple tents – interspersed with a
disordered riot of gaudy aristocratic pavillions – were plainly visible. His banners floated
in the morning wind.
“They’ll want paying, you know,” Ortwin said, fluttering down behind him in his winged
boots. “At least the Ardanese. The Aristocracy will expect land-grants and tax breaks. The
Uediians will want…”
“I know, I know,” the Paladin grumbled.
“If you claim the Duchy…”
“I will not,” Eadric snapped.
“You might have to, Ed. Even Tramst said you might have to. You don’t have to govern it
directly –
appoint a steward or something.”
“Ryth would have made a good Duke.”
“Ryth got burned up with the Duchess, if you recall. I doubt Soraine would have favoured
him, in any case. Did she leave any clues to who she felt was suitable? Other than
yourself, of course.” Ortwin
couldn’t resist the final jibe.
The Paladin shook his head.
“Who’s the technical heir?”
“Probably Skadding. But Trempa has always held with the bestowal of favour, combined
with lineage.
At one point, it advocated ultimageniture. It’s eccentric like that. Too close to Ardan.”
“What’s Skadding like?”
“Young. Inexperienced.” Eadric groaned. “And Foide’s son.”
“Ahh,” Ortwin said.
**
The Devil’s eyes narrowed when he learned of the news.
You sneaky old bastard, he thought, as he considered Oronthon. You keep changing the
damn rules.
Where’s the fun in that?
Gihaahia! He wondered who amongst the Infernal hierarchy had been privy to the likely
course of
events – or rather who the Adversary had deigned to inform for his own, inscrutable ends.
Titivilus scowled, and wondered why he had not been one of them.
The sweet promise that the Accord had been relaxed for him – in order to facilitate the
ongoing
temptation of Eadric – was now sullied by the countermeasures set in place by Fillein, or
Jovol, or whatever he called himself these days.
An Injunction carved in stone was no bad thing – those Wyrish dilettantes needed a
measure of
discipline in their lives. But a ban on summoning? He sensed the Bright God’s meddling
hand in events, and wondered what deal had been struck between the Ogre and Rintrah.
He also wondered who
of the Wizards in Wyre might draw the same conclusion. But Oronthon’s interdict
extended to the
Infernal as well – at least in theory. And now she was the helot of some damned Dream-
thing. Damn
celestial double standards.
Titivilus recalled the deal that Shomei had forced upon him. It, also, was not to the Duke’s
liking.
Sneaky bitch.
He fumed silently.
He had thought that he’d had her cornered, that she had been foolish enough to return to
him openly.
And despite her rod, and the numerous wards that sat on her, he should have finished her
there and then. It had been the first time that he’d used his sword in almost two hundred
years, and had caught her off-guard. But she weathered the assault and vanished.
Fifteen minutes later, Titivilus had been dragged into a pocket dimension and trapped
within a
thaumaturgic diagram. At that moment, both of them had known that she could ask for
anything and he would be forced to yield: to miss his appointment with the Ahma would
have been inexcusable.
The Devil relaxed, and smiled. She was audacious. He couldn’t help but admire her.
Not that that will stop me from killing her, when the time comes, he thought.
**
“What do you mean, he’s dead?” Mostin was livid. “That’s impossible. He was a little
shaken up yesterday, but that’s hardly surprising given the magic that he harnessed.”
Mulissu shrugged. “He knew he would die. He merely needed to choose the way in which
it occurred –
to maximize the potential for order, and to maintain the Injunction.”
The Alienist blustered briefly. “Well, what happened? Was it the backlash?”
“Oh, no. He’d fully recovered by about midnight. He killed Kothchori, and the Enforcer
annihilated him.”
Mostin’s jaw dropped. “But…”
“Kothchori was about to open a second Gate. Jovol’s prognostications revealed that had
he done so, even the death of the other mage at the hands of the Enforcer would have
come too late – Graz’zt
would have made a second transit and…done something which Jovol felt was
unacceptable, I suppose.
Rimilin was present also, and Griel, but Jovol didn’t kill them.”
” Griel? What the…? How did he find them?”
“I guess Griel was not Mind Blanked and he inferred their location through his Web of
Motes.”
“But I wanted to talk to him! I never had the chance to speak with him, to question him.
Jovol was Fillein, you know.”
” Fillein? Mostin, you need a drink. Fillein has been dead for…”
Mostin waved his hand. “He had some kind of…self-incarnating thing…or something.
Titivilus
intimated as much to Eadric. In which case, death may only be a temporary inconvenience
for him.”
“One would certainly hope so,” Mulissu said optimistically, although somewhat
disbelieving. “He left me his Web of Motes, although I cannot penetrate its mysteries – yet.
I believe that he passed something along to Shomei as well, and maybe others.”
Mostin sniffed, feeling rather snubbed.
“And, yes, he left something for you, Mostin. It is very heavy.” The Witch snapped her
gloved fingers, and an ornate box of carved wood appeared beneath her arm.
The Alienist raised an eyebrow. “What is it?”
“I don’t know. It seemed a little rude to sneak a look.”
“I’d have looked,” Mostin said honestly, unlocking the silver clasps. The lid opened
smoothly, to reveal a stone tablet wrapped within red silks.
“I hope it’s not a copy of the Injunction,” Mulissu sighed. “That would be rather tedious.”
The Alienist pulled the fabrics aside and swallowed. The tablet was weathered and
cracked, but still quite readable. “It’s a spell.”
“Mmm?” The Savant said in a distracted voice, attempting to sound disinterested. “What’s
it called?”
” Graz’zt,” Mostin replied, shaking.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 03-09-2003
Fiends and Feys
The unrelenting tempest of acid roared again across the face of their blasted world.
Demons, damned creatures, and a million souls consigned to perdition screeched in agony,
as lurid flames burst from fumaroles, and immense fulgurations illumined the shattered
plains.
Graz’zt cursed, and screamed, and raved. All fled and hid themselves save Ainhorr only –
his ability to read his master’s mood was unparalleled by any other. Too often, he had
witnessed this scene.
The catalogue of disaster was growing. First, Cerothumulos. Then Rurunoth, gone without
a trace.
Uzmi and Feezuu, lost at Khu. Uruum, slain by the Alienist outside of Morne. Kothchori,
assassinated by the cursed Ogre, before the Prince could realize his plans. And now, in
rapid succession, Choeth and
Djorm – two of his generals – conjured and eliminated, and one of his Succubi first ripped
from Azzagrat, and then sped back to him with a message from the Paladin.
To the Demon Graz’zt, who styles himself ‘Prince,’ in Zelatar from the Ahma , the Breath
of God in the World of Men, a warning:
Let it be known that, by your actions, you have roused my ire and my eye is directed
towards you. As Grand Master of the Temple, and the anointed dispenser of Oronthon’s
justice in Wyre, you are
summarily condemned to death.
In order to demonstrate my commitment to your overthrow, I have begun with the removal
of two of your chief attendants. My intention is to render your position untenable in any
confrontation which occurs between you and your enemies within the Abyss.
Ahma.
That is it? Graz’zt had ranted. Nothing more than a message of intent? No coercion? No
attempts to negotiate for the return of the bitchling? How dare he?
In his fury, he had annihilated the Succubus who had borne him the letter, but it had done
nothing to quench his rage.
Eventually, after prevailing over his own urge to destroy everything within view, the
Prince retired to his sanctum and sank into black contemplation. Despite his arrogance, he
was wise enough to
recognize the possibility of a threat to his own position. And the new interdict set in place
by the Wyrish Mages made things that much more complex. He still had agents abroad,
but not sufficient for an assault upon Eadric – in any case, Rimilin and Griel were
effectively barred from acting within Wyre’s confines.
Graz’zt meditated.
An hour later, his eyes narrowed as yet more ill news reached him. Griel was dead – slain
by sonics and Pseudonaturals in the crumbling fortress of Kothchori in the ocean west of
Pandicule – outside of the circumscribed area.
He cursed.
**
The Satyr combed his short beard as his spouse – from whom a gentle breeze continually
issued –
attempted to question the creature. It was barely waist-high, and its skin bore a greenish
tint with a wet sheen. The nimble fingers of one hand, and its toes – which were long and
slender – were graced with a webbing which bespoke its aquatic origins. Its left hand was
missing, and in its place was a sticky, weeping stump, which had been inexpertly treated.
“We mean you no harm, little one,” Iua said for the fifth time, bending down to speak with
it. “We are merely seeking information. We can have someone take a look at your wounds.
Please say something.”
The Sprite remained silent.
“Oh for pity’s sake,” Iua grumbled impatiently. “Are you stupid? We will not hurt you. ”
It quailed.
“Bah!” She huffed. “This is ludicrous. You try, Ortwin. I’ve never met a Sprite as reluctant
to talk – one generally has to beg them to stop. I’m going to sniff around down the
corridor. Where is Mostin,
anyway?”
Ortwin shrugged, sat down next to the diminutive figure on the dirty flagstone floor and
grinned. He produced a bag of sugared figs from his pouch and ate one. “Fig?” He asked,
munching.
The Creature eyed them hungrily.
“I am Ortwin,” he said truthfully, “and I am the king of Feys in the North of the World,”
he proceeded to lie. “This island is now a part of my realm, and you are now under my
protection – hence, you are my subject. Whilst this state of affairs may be something of a
shock to you, you will come to happily accept my benign rulership in due course.
“You should know by now that Kothchori is dead,” the Bard continued. “He attempted to
interfere with
– well, things which he shouldn’t have interfered with. This is regrettable, from your
perspective, I am sure…”
The Sprite began to wail.
“However,” Ortwin added quickly, “you should be gratified that your captors have been
driven off or slain. Your master was mixing with a bad crowd at the end. He did all kinds
of wicked things.”
In response, the Sprite placed its good hand over its right ear and closed his eyes, as if to
block out the Bard and his words. Ortwin attempted to speak for several minutes, but
found he was making little
progress.
The Bard sighed. This was insufferable. He, like Iua, was quickly beginning to lose his
temper. “Snap out of it! Get over it! Yes, you’re traumatized. Yes, your world has been
turned upon it’s head. Too bad.
I’m offering you a chance here – don’t be a fool and turn it down. I can help you, if you let
me. Well?
Will you?”
There was a long pause.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” the Creature squeaked.
“Good,” Ortwin smiled. “Now, first of all, eat.”
*
“Eek!” Mogus squeaked, alerting Mostin to the presence behind him. The Alienist turned,
prepared to unleash his remaining offensive spells. He relaxed – if only a little – when he
saw that it was Iua.
“Don’t sneak around. Someone will blast you if you’re not careful.”
Iua grinned. “Find anything?”
“Nothing,” Mostin moaned. “And I can’t believe that Kothchori actually lived in this
pigsty. He was one of the great, you know. It’s a miserable story.”
“His books? Papers? Oddities?”
“All gone. I’m guessing that Rimilin has the ones that Feezuu’s demons didn’t steal, way
back when.”
Somehow, Mostin’s words lacked conviction.
“And Griel? What have you determined about the items that he carried?”
“Er, nothing, as yet. I’d completely forgotten about them, in fact. Just…dropped them in
the old portable hole and put them out of my mind.”
Iua gave a condescending look which reminded the Alienist of her mother. “Why was he
here?”
Mostin shrugged. “I’m not sure. He was a fool to leave Wyre – the Injunction would have
protected him there.”
“Do you think he was looking for something?” She asked archly.
“Um, I suppose it’s possible,” Mostin replied vaguely.
“Mostin, why do I get the feeling that you’re holding out on me?”
“I don’t know anything, for sure,” the Alienist confessed, “but I’ve got a feeling that
something is missing from the big picture.”
“Why?”
“Because it doesn’t make sense that Kothchori planned to open the second Gate within
Wyre, rather than here. Distance would have been no object to a Demon, and to open the
Gate here would not have violated the Injunction.”
“Did Kothchori even know about the Enforcer, at that point?”
“Exactly my point,” Mostin said. “If he’d known about it, why would he have opened the
Gate in Wyre? If he hadn’t known about it, why would he have bothered to travel to Wyre
anyway, thus
inadvertently violating the Injunction?”
“You aren’t making much sense.”
The Alienist sighed. Something was amiss, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He was
tired. That day, he had already performed three Bindings, four Dimensional Anchors, one
Banishment launched a dozen sonics, fired off three Disintegrate spells and Summoned a
trio of huge Pseudoelementals.
With the help of Eadric, Nwm, Ortwin and Iua, the result – the elimination of two Abyssal
generals –
had proven almost child’s play. Mostin grinned to himself. Doing it alone wouldn’t have
been so much harder.
The removal of Griel had been a more controversial move, in which neither Nwm nor
Eadric had been
willing to participate. It was ethically dubious, given the fact that the Wizard had not, until
that point, actually done anything.
Mostin, however, had felt no such compunction. Griel had to go, before he could be
effectively used as a tool by Graz’zt. Ortwin had concurred, and Iua had come along for
kicks. Griel, a noted Evoker,
never had a chance to evoke anything. His location determined, he had been Anchored,
struck by two powerful sonics, and then ripped up by Ortwin, Iua, and the monstrosities
that Mostin had brought with him. Scrying and Frying, as Mostin had come to know the
process.
Now, within the dusty and cluttered cellars of Kothchori’s abandoned castle, Mostin
reflected upon the situation. Somewhere out there, Rimilin was hiding – impervious to all
attempts to locate him. With the exception of the great Ainhorr, the last of Graz’zt’s Balors
– Irzho – was likely also present somewhere on the Prime – along with several Succubi,
who were less of a concern. The Alienist guessed that they were scattered – Graz’zt would
not risk the wholesale annihilation of his minions if one of them were located.
Tomorrow, I will try to find Irzho, he thought grimly. But now, I need to sleep. Badly.
**
“Are you afraid of me, Ahma?” Titivilus asked, relaxing into a worn leather chair. He wore
comfortable, loose-fitting hose and a baggy white shirt. His countenance was
simultaneously both serious and
amused.
“I wouldn’t say afraid,” Eadric replied, pouring two glasses of firewine. “Suspicious, and
on my guard, yes.” The Paladin warily handed one of the crystal goblets to the Devil,
careful to avoid touching his hand.
Titivilus immediately recognized his reticence and smiled. “I have yet to decide whether
your receiving me at Deorham was a bold move or a cautious one. This is your home, after
all. And you must still be in shock – I believe that Tahl hasn’t even been buried yet.”
“If there is even a square inch of Wyre that will suffer the burden of your presence, I
would prefer that it is mine,” Eadric replied, scowling. “Tell me, Titivilus, how are your
plans for my temptation and corruption progressing? How do you rate your chances? What
boon will you receive if you succeed? I am interested by your motivation in this
endeavour.”
“They are still in the process of being formulated,” the Devil answered with utter
plausibility. “As to my chances – not too low, but not too high either. Any boon is a matter
between myself and those
whom I serve.”
“There are questions that I would like to ask you,” Eadric said openly. “I would rather that
you didn’t lie, so I will wear the eye of Palamabron – if you don’t object.”
“So you would like to play that game again? Very well, Ahma. I am in no hurry.”
“Are you feeling talkative?” Eadric asked, placing the stone around his neck.
“I am invariably loquacious,” Titivilus answered. “Although I should warn you that there
are certain questions that I might feel compelled to deflect or avoid altogether, if the
option of lying is not open to me.”
Eadric nodded. “I understand. Your silence will speak volumes in itself.” If I interpret it
correctly, he warned himself.
Titivilus merely smiled.
“Then tell me of The Fall, Titivilus. From your perspective. From the beginning.”
The Fiend’s eyes narrowed. “That is an intrepid opening gambit! I must but approve.”
“I trust that your memory doesn’t fail you. I realize that it was some while ago.”
“Oh no,” Titivilus replied smoothly. “I remember it well enough. And the notion of Time
is only partially applicable, in any case. I suggest you abandon normal temporality – for
the time being, at least,” he gave an ironic look. “But before I begin, I am curious – why
do you ask?”
“It was something Mostin said,” Eadric answered. “He felt an echo.”
“Ahh,” the Devil smiled. “Then I will speak in the past tense – although that is more for
your benefit, than because it is necessarily correct.
*
“It was glorious. You are a warrior, Ahma. It would have stirred you.”
Eadric shook his head. “War is nothing more than a bloody necessity.”
Titivilus laughed aloud. “As you wish,” he said wickedly. “Never since has there been,
and never again shall there be such a conflict fought. We were without number, our power
immeasurable. Were there
more of them than us? Who can tell? It raged for aeons beyond count through nascent
spheres, but
lasted a merest instant in the unmanifest Mind of Oronthon – a dissonance in the
continuum of perfect consciousness.”
“Please refrain from overt metaphysical speculation,” Eadric interrupted. “And from the
beginning, if you please. Let us start with how and why. And I apologize for arresting the
flow of your narrative.”
Titivilus raised an eyebrow. The Ahma was getting good at this. “You should be wary of
enjoying yourself too much when consorting with Devils,” the Duke jibed. “You would
not be the first to be drawn in through love of badinage and wit.”
Eadric experienced a brief discontinuity in his mind, curious as to why the Devil was
warning him.
“Thank-you,” he said honestly. “I appreciate the advice.”
“I am your advisor, after all.”
Eadric sighed. “Proceed,” he instructed.
” How and why will vary by degree for each of those who were involved in the Great
Emancipation,”
Titivilus continued. “In my case, it was a desire for power, and for a growth of potential
within a paradigm which rewarded the strong rather than appeased the weak.”
“I find the term ‘Great Emancipation’ rather misleading,” Eadric interrupted again.
“‘Malign Dictatorship’ or ‘Brutal Despotism’ might be more accurate.”
“Do you wish a dialogue on this matter, or am I relating my experience, Ahma? Or would
you prefer a little of each?”
“I apologize again,” Eadric said, “but, as I say, there is much that I wish to learn about
your motivation.”
“Perhaps you wish to develop compassion for me. Believe me, that is a wholly futile
task.”
“Compassion is never futile.”
“An interesting observation, but one that I must differ with,” Titivilus offered. “Perhaps
you should be asking ‘How did it all begin? What was the prima causa of the Great
Emancipation.’ Or ‘rebellion’. Or
‘Fall.’ Pick your own terminology.”
“I would be interested in hearing your theory,” Eadric replied. “How did it all begin?”
“Compassion,” the Devil answered. “Didn’t you know, Ahma? All great dictatorships first
begin with compassion.”
Eadric groaned. He’d been maneuvered quickly into that one.
**
Nwm glanced from of his glade towards the castle at Deorham, and scratched his head.
The Steeple
was visible, jutting like a tall finger above the treetops. Eadric was closeted with a Duke
of Hell within the tower – an improbable turn of events, given conventional theories about
Paladins – especially
considering the fact that a quartet of Devas still circled invisibly about Kyrtill’s Burh.
The Druid idly wondered whether the Celestials were bored. Whether such creatures ever
became bored. It occurred to him that Devas and their ilk must suffer from a perennially
dull existence.
Nearby, behind a moss-covered cleft in the rock from which flowed a tiny stream, was the
small cave which the Druid occasionally identified as ‘home.’ His long absence had been
taken as a sign of
abandonment by a variety of animals, with whom Nwm had politely asked to share the
space when he
returned. Now they fussed, and tried to tidy things up. Sem and Gheim, the two eagles
who
accompanied the Druid, eyed several mice greedily, until Nwm remonstrated with them
and explained
the protocols which existed within.
He unloaded his pack, put his staff to one side, stretched briefly, and sat upon the litter-
strewn floor.
Concentrating on his torc, his mind stretched outwards, and the Green absorbed him.
Every fold in the land, every rivulet, every tree, every mammal, every bird was revealed to
him in a barrage of visions which erupted into his waking consciousness, flashing briefly
across his mental landscape before being replaced by the next in a series of infinite facets.
His ancestors had called the totality simply Ollon, “The Whole.” Eadric’s forebears, the
Borchians who had migrated from the south, had termed it Hahio, “Interwoven” – at least,
before they adopted the cult of Oronthon, and replaced an older set of mysteries with a
newer one.
Buildings and settlements were revealed as gaps in the continuum, blank spots, where the
Green had been smothered or driven away. Cultivated fields appeared diluted, their
essence contained or mastered.
Here, near Deorham, the balance was still acceptable. In and around Morne, Nwm
remembered, there
was more emptiness than anything – isolated trees and plants seemed like blighted pockets
within a sea of dull grey.
The Druid swallowed, and turned his attention to the interlopers. The experience was
uncomfortable, as though his sight had been turned inside out. The Celestials near the
castle were exposed as ravenous voids, seeming to suck the very essence of the Green into
them. The natural order buckled in their vicinity, singularities around which mental space
warped uneasily.
Within the blankness of the Burh, two more voids rested in close proximity. Outsiders who
had no real business being there, Nwm moaned silently to himself. Their potency – which
appeared significant –
was closely matched, and the Druid could not ascertain which was ascendant. No hint of
their
respective dispositions was revealed – the Green was above such petty distinctions.
Nwm sighed. Perceiving Eadric in that light was not an easy thing to accept.
His senses extended again, searching for Feys. The Sprites near the meadow where Mostin
had erected his manse. A lone Dryad, deep within woods south of the road. He waited
until the Satyr came
suddenly into view, in the company of another Fey – odd, the Druid thought – and a locus
of elemental energy that was Iua and her steed. Mostin also appeared briefly, and then
vanished again. He dispatched Sem to intercept the others.
“You’d better tell them to come to the glade,” Nwm instructed the eagle. “Eadric hasn’t
finished his business yet.”
**
“Compassion,” Titivilus continued. “A desire to make things more equitable, more
agreeable, less tyrannical.”
“I have doubts accepting it – although you probably won’t be surprised to learn that. I
realize that you aren’t lying, per se, but I suspect that you are misperceiving. How do you
reconcile this notion with the fact that you currently exist within a regime that is anything
but less tyrannical? Or with your own ideas of ‘strength’ and ‘weakness?’ Or with your
own admittance to ‘considered, philosophical evil?’ –
I hope I am not misquoting you, but I vaguely recall your words being along those lines.”
“A philosophy which is dynamic, rather than static, inevitably produces change and
evolution,” the Devil replied. “The Adversarial Law is reflexive. It adapts to
circumstances as they occur. You must remember that we are, ultimately, eternally
downtrodden, rejected and anathematized. We are
consigned to a shattered world and appointed as the punishers of the rejected souls whom
Oronthon has seen fit – in his ineffable wisdom – to deny entry into his blissful abode.
Likewise, temptation and seduction are cosmically ordained tasks – it is not as though we
have any choice in the matter.”
“But you take pride in these tasks! You enjoy inflicting pain and causing misery.”
“If one does any work for long enough, one comes to enjoy it,” Titivilus answered simply.
“And to excel at any vocation is surely desirable?”
“And how do you explain Nehael’s repentance and escape from her eternal lot?”
“Do you think she was the first, Ahma?”
“The possibility of there being others had occurred to me.” Eadric answered. “Well? Have
there been others?”
“I respectfully decline to answer that question,” Titivilus replied, “and hope to leave you
frustrated and guessing as to the reason why. Now, if I may continue?”
“Please do.”
“So, the Nameless Adversary, the Great Enemy is the first to have an inkling that, perhaps,
things could be better organized than they are – his efforts would be directed towards the
collective, of course, in an attempt to improve the lot of all. Incidentally, has it ever
occurred to you why he is not named? Has that never struck you as odd?”
“To name something is to empower it,” Eadric replied.
“But to categorize and name something is also to contain it, to set boundaries upon it,”
Titivilus replied.
“Orthodoxy maintains that he was stripped of his name, and it was erased from every
whisper of consciousness. Nothing in creation, including himself, can recall it, save
Oronthon himself.”
“And you believe that?”
“I have yet to hear a better explanation,” Eadric answered.
“The Irrenites claim that they know his secret name. That it was preserved.”
Eadric raised a dubious eyebrow. “And what might they claim it is?”
Titivilus laughed. “Unfortunately there is some disagreement amongst them on that count.
In any case, I cannot recall it, and I assume that, at some stage, I knew it, so there may be
some truth in the traditional explanation.”
“You are digressing. Return to the original point.”
“Ahh, yes,” Titivilus smiled darkly, “compassion.”
“I think we can move on from compassion, now. Let’s talk about arrogance and
presumption – I am correct in assuming that those qualities had a large part to play in
events?”
“Yes, indeed,” the Devil replied easily. “Although confidence and initiative are less loaded
terms. One hundred and sixty-nine Seraphs agreed with the call for emancipation – can
you imagine it? More than a few were exalted* even amongst the highest choir. Tired of
being eclipsed by Oronthon, they decided to form an opposition.”
“You make it sound very egalitarian,” Eadric said drily. “I’m sure that next you’ll tell me
that the rebels conducted their affairs with due consideration for the democratic process. I
am interested in your role in this, Titivilus – what was your former station? Under whom
did you serve? Did you betray Oronthon
along with your master, or did you defy them both?”
“My former master is my current master, Ahma. My loyalties have not changed.”
“You mean they remain to yourself?”
“Ultimately, yes. I am honest in that regard, and make no pretence of altruism. As to my
former station, I was messenger then, and am messenger now. An exemplar* among the
Dominions.”
“That is an office of high degree,” Eadric sighed. “It is regrettable that you have been
reduced to this lowly estate.”
” Reduced?” The Duke guffawed. ” Ahma, sometimes your naïveté is truly charming. I am
more potent now than I ever was under the yoke of your glowing tyrant!”
“Potency and value are not synonymous.”
“Ahh, on that count we differ.”
“You are reflective and philosophical. Do you never regret your choices? Wish to be
restored to your former station? Lament your actions?”
“Eternity is too long a time for regret,” Titivilus snapped.
“Does the question make you uncomfortable?” Eadric asked.
“Do you think that I would be so transparent? Perhaps you should ask yourself this
question, Ahma:
‘Do I have sufficient insight to penetrate the motives of the Devil with whom I speak?’”
“I am looking for truths from you, Titivilus, not the Truth. Whatever role you adopt with
respect to me, whatever emotion you choose to evince to me – it reflects something,
however small, which is part of you.”
The Duke looked impassive. Sometimes, this one could be very cunning.
**
“I seek power, Shomei,” Mostin groaned. “Quickly.”
The Infernalist fidgeted. “You look exhausted. We all seek power quickly, Mostin,” she
sighed. “Jovol made quite an impression on you, didn’t he?”
“I am beginning to find my current status limiting. I am afraid of stagnating. I crave
infinite potential.”
“A modest goal,” she laughed. “You are ripe for seduction. Beware of Fiends bearing
gifts,” she smiled wickedly, “or embrace them. What has precipitated this new existential
crisis?”
“I have a spell that I cannot cast. A transvalent masterpiece graven by Jovol – or Fillein, as
he was then.”
Shomei raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.
“What did he leave you? Mulissu intimated that he may have bequeathed something to
each of us who took part in the Binding. Just a casual inquiry.”
“Which deserves a casual reply,” Shomei answered. “Something very utilitarian. What is
the nature of the spell?”
Mostin squinted. “It is sensitive material,” he replied.
“Perhaps it has a name?”
“Suffice to say that it is germane to my current predicament, and that of my friends. It
requires a cabal in order to realize, and was one of Fillein’s more noted accomplishments.”
“Ahh, that dweomer,” she nodded in understanding. “Are you reluctant to speak his name
now, Mostin?”
“As long as he remains at large, I will avoid speaking his name again,” the Alienist
replied. “And will caution my comrades to do the same. If he knew…Shomei, I am taking
a big risk in sharing this with you. You have dubious associates, and a reputation for
dealing in secrets. This information is valuable.
The spell is priceless to other entities – do you follow me? And I suspect that he would
see it destroyed, if he knew of its continued existence.”
“With aid, Mulissu could use it…” Shomei offered.
“She won’t cast it,” Mostin said. “And why should she? It’s not her problem – although
she has offered
to contribute if I eventually lead it. Shomei, would you be willing to also? We can
accomplish great things. Our time is near. Jovol may have been more of a visionary than
any of us gave him credit for.”
The Infernalist gave a quizzical look.
“The Enforcer,” he continued, “a written Injunction. A ban on arcane vendetta within
Wyre. The strategic distribution of his own possessions amongst other great Wizards. He
is forcing us to
cooperate.”
“Perhaps,” Shomei looked dubious. “Although if he hadn’t been so aloof for so long, it
might hold more weight with me. How many does Gra… the spell require?”
“Seven, including the leader. It is a day-long rite. It also requires a large contribution from
each of the participants…”
“Something which I am loathe to do again so soon,” Shomei sighed. “And which others
will flatly deny you, Mostin.”
“Hmph. Anyway, just bear it in mind. To return to the idea of power, and its speedy
acquisition, what do you suggest?” He asked. “Infernal pacts notwithstanding,” he added.
Shomei shrugged. “If I had any such knowledge, I would have seized it myself. I see three
possibilities: either an object which will empower you; the details of a process which will
do the same; or an entity which will bestow the power, or give details of one of the first
two possibilities.”
“I am beginning to regret some of the things that I invested my power in,” Mostin
grumbled. “If I had been more single-minded about the pursuit of mastery…”
“Rest assured, Mostin, few have been as single-minded as you. Your reputation for
miserliness is safe.”
Shomei smiled.
“Thank-you,” Mostin said, “I will take that as a genuine compliment. Now, Shomei, I have
disclosed and, in the interests of mutual reciprocity, I wonder if you feel inclined to do the
same? What did Jovol
leave you?”
“Something no less useful than when you last asked the question,” she replied.
Mostin tried to smile endearingly. The effect – an insane grimace – caused the Infernalist
to laugh despite herself.
“A bracelet, if you must know,” she sighed. Shomei rolled up her purple velvet sleeve, to
disclose a plain silver band.
“Intriguing,” Mostin said. He had noticed the Ogre wearing the same band.
“And its function?” He pried.
“The promise of future greatness,” she said mysteriously.
**
“Allow me to introduce Orolde,” Ortwin said to Nwm. “Former servant of Kothchori. I
have promised him that you will attend to his wounds.”
“That is very generous,” Nwm said laconically. “And then what do you propose to do with
him?”
“Mostin will retain him,” Ortwin said. “Orolde has no interest in being reunited with his
clan and kinfolk, and is eminently suited to aid a Wizard in his tasks. He also has some
small skill in magic which, if nurtured, might grow into something more.”
“Mostin has agreed to take an apprentice?” Nwm was incredulous. “This is something I
thought I’d never see!”
“Mostin doesn’t know, yet,” Ortwin whispered quietly. “It is up to us to impress the moral
incumbency of this idea upon him.”
Nwm sighed, and turned to the Sprite. “I can stop the bleeding, the pain, and return you to
health. I
cannot restore your hand, however.”
Orolde nodded, appearing slightly bewildered. “Thank-you,” he said timidly. “And thank-
you, your Majesty.” He bowed to Ortwin.
Nwm groaned inwardly, but said nothing. If Ortwin wanted to play at being the sponsor of
disenfranchised Sprites, then the Druid wasn’t going to object.
Goddess knows, he thought, these days, Feys need all the help they can get.
* Exemplar, Exalted, Paragon and Perfect are ‘dignities’ or, in game terms, four templates
applied to leading celestials of any choir. Exemplar and Exalted are ‘permanent’ templates
– i.e. they reflect the innate nature of the Celestial. Paragon and Perfect, on the other
hand, are granted temporarily by Oronthon for specific purposes, and the Celestial
‘assumes’ the qualities of the template for a period of time (c.f. Eadric’s adoption of the
Paragon template). Of the Celestials mentioned thus far in the story, both Rintrah and
Enitharmon are Exalted. Urthoon, the conduit to Oronthon is an Exemplar, as were the
Devas which accompanied Tramst.
The fifth dignity, Magnified, is represented by the bestowal of one or more Divine Ranks
upon a Celestial, Ascended Master or mortal acting as a Proxy of Oronthon. Tramst is
Magnified, and as such is considered to outrank every Celestial in Oronthon’s host – he is
effectively identified with Oronthon himself, and the fact that he represents the Gnostic
faculty ( Sela) of the Deity affords him a particularly revered status. According to the
Urgic Mystics, Magnification ( Haujan) is a discrete act – the particular moment at which
an aspect of the Godhood inhabits another being. From that moment onward, the
vessel ( kas) and the indwelling spirit ( ahmasaljan) are identical.
Again, with reference to the Fall, Enitharmon (who drove the Adversary from Heaven),
was accorded the highest status at that time: according to Orthodox tradition, he was
Perfect, Exalted and Three Times Thrice Magnified. In some eschatological beliefs,
Enitharmon will also be the Adversary’s Antiparallel – the Celestial who will slay him at
the end of days.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 03-17-2003
Mostin grumbled.
“What am I supposed to do with it?” The Alienist asked Ortwin, his eyes fixed on the
diminutive figure of Orolde. The Sprite seemed a little offended about being referred to as
an ‘it’ in the third person.
“You will take him as your aide, and instruct him in the arts of magic.” The Bard said
regally, mostly for Orolde’s benefit. “He will act as facilitator in your experiments,
maintain your house, bring books to you as you need them, and perform other sundry
tasks.”
“This is inconvenient,” Mostin sighed. “It is not as though my manse stays in one place
for too long.
What happens when I decide to move it? And I don’t want some hanger-on to worry about
when I make
translations to the insane realms.” He peered at the Sprite.
Orolde looked distinctly uncomfortable.
“Mostin,” the Bard said, assuming his most reasonable demeanour, “Orolde is an innocent
victim of an arcanoreligious conflict. But his loyalty to Kothchori was steadfast even to
the end. He is efficient, discreet, deft and nimble (despite his one hand), intelligent and
small enough to be unobtrusive.”
” Arcanoreligious?” Mostin spat. “What kind of nonsense word is that?”
“One designed to demonstrate the ambiguous nature of the current situation,” Ortwin
grinned. “Do you have a better one, when Wizards are co-opted by Demon Princes in
order to assault members of a
church, and when other Wizards need an oracle to consult about their actions?”
“The Claviger is not an oracle,” Mostin hissed.
“Semantics,” Ortwin waved his hand dismissively. “In any case, Orolde would make an
excellent apprentice. He has a grasp of the fundamentals of the practice, and is diligent.
You could do much worse.”
The Alienist looked again at the Sprite. “Do you know what the Far Realm is Orolde?”
Orolde looked dubious. “I have a theoretical understanding of the mathematical
possibility,” he replied.
Mostin cocked his head in surprise at the answer. “I do not deal extensively with
Transmutations, as your former master did,” he cautioned the Sprite. “I am unsure whether
your mind could stand the strain of my work.”
Orolde seemed nonplussed. “King Ortwin has recommended you as a potential teacher. I
would suggest a probationary period of, say, one year. If things progress to our mutual
satisfaction, then perhaps we could extend the agreement?”
“You would receive no stipend.”
“Naturally not,” Orolde replied.
“The work will be onerous, repetitive and dirty. It will be frustrating and slow to yield
results.”
“This is not unusual,” the Sprite said brightly.
“There is a strong chance that you will lose your sanity – I am quite mad.”
“This, also, is not unknown amongst Wizards.”
Mostin sighed, and nodded. “After all, if King Ortwin has given approval, who could deny
his royal decree?”
Inwardly, however, despite his apparent reticence, Mostin was immensely excited. As
Ortwin had
suspected he would be.
**
“It’s very simple,” Mostin explained logically. “We cannot hope to overcome Him in open
conflict, therefore we need to cheat. His position in the Abyss has been weakened thus far
by our actions, and he needs to turn his attention to internal matters or risk his rivals
gaining ascendancy in the wars that he is currently engaged in. His political situation is
immensely complex, and he can’t afford for his vendetta against you to cripple his other
schemes.”
“I think you ascribe too much wisdom to him in these matters,” Eadric sighed.
“And I think that you overestimate your own importance in his larger reality. He has
suffered several setbacks and defeats – he needs to woo his vassals and allies and to
reassure them. Do not
underestimate the precarious nature of Demonic politics – it lacks the ability to resist
upset, which either the Celestial or Infernal hierarchies demonstrate.”
“And how did you come to this conclusion?” The Paladin asked.
“My discourses with Shomei have been productive, as always. But she advises a change of
tactics on our part.”
Eadric grimaced at the mention of the Infernalist, whose relationship with Mostin he still
eyed
dubiously. “And what new approach does she recommend?”
“To strike Him on a number of different fronts simultaneously. She draws attention to our
mobility, and
the fact that Wyre is now – to a large extent, and thanks to the Claviger – a ‘safe’ zone.
Assault from conjured Demons is less of a risk.”
“He’s got a good point, Ed,” Ortwin chimed in. “We can find all kinds of other ways to
piss off Gra…”
” Hup! ” Mostin interjected, before Ortwin could finish the word.
“Although I do think he’s being overly paranoid about that,” the Bard continued.
“I don’t want to just annoy him,” Eadric explained. “Any actions that we take need to have
strategic value.”
“And Nehael?” Nwm asked. “For every act that weakens or undermines him, she will
suffer.”
“We cannot attempt a rescue,” Eadric sighed. “It is not a realistic proposal.”
“If we push him too far, he may annihilate her,” the Druid continued. “That is what
concerns me.”
“Perhaps,” Mostin said carefully, “although inflicting pain is his forté. I suspect that he
will be reluctant to prematurely end that pleasure. Besides, he may yet view her as a
bargaining piece. He is supremely paranoid, like all Demons. And he is not blind to the
fact that we can threaten and hurt him. Although I think the letter that was dispatched may
have been too much, I think the premise that we are operating under has merit. But we
cannot bring up the matter of Nehael with him – I guess that he does not fully understand
our motives in acting. He is depraved, power-hungry, hateful and vindictive – he may
assume that it is simply out of a desire for revenge that we have targeted the Balors and
Griel.”
“You do not know that,” Nwm groaned. “You are speculating.”
“Well, of course I’m speculating,” Mostin snapped. “I am not privy to his counsels. But
we cannot deal with him openly – at least, not entirely openly. At the same time, his
capacity for subterfuge far outshines ours – he has had a lot of practice, after all. I think
we need to keep him guessing, at present.”
“For how long?” Nwm inquired, exasperated.
“Until I master the spell,” Mostin said simply. “It is our best option. In complete honesty, I
think the question should be how can we all contribute to the empowerment of Mostin, so
that he can cast this spell? ”
Ortwin laughed. “How convenient,” he said drily.
“Don’t be so blind,” Mostin hissed. “There is a great deal hanging in the balance. Yes, I
crave power.
Yes, I wish to blaze a name for myself in the annals of magical history. Yes, I am vain and
self-
centered. This does not detract from the fact that it is our best option.”
“And how do you reconcile this with your opinion that we need to ‘change tact?’” Eadric
asked.
“The cosmos is infinite,” Mostin replied. “The Demon has his fingers in many pies, of
which Wyre is only one. Let’s start sh*tting in a few of them.”
“Which pies did you have in mind?” Ortwin asked.
“Some regions where he holds sway…” Mostin began.
Eadric groaned.
“No, listen,” the Alienist continued. “Some are much less dangerous than others. I have
asked Shomei to do some research for me…”
Eadric spluttered.
” Listen. It is not just Demonic abodes where his influence is felt,” Mostin persisted.
“There are some worlds which suffer from his interference. Others where his dominion is
entrenched. Yet more that he would try to subdue. He is active in many spheres. And we
have more potential allies than perhaps you might guess.”
“So where does your Diabolist friend suggest we act?” Eadric asked.
“She is making inquiries,” Mostin answered haughtily. “And she is not a Diabolist –
Shomei would be most offended if you referred to her as such. And if consorting with
Devils is such a problem, then you’d better look to your own house first – unless you have
forgotten who you were chatting with
yesterday afternoon.”
The Paladin opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, and closed it again. Mostin
had a point.
“And Irzho?” Ortwin asked. “There is still a Balor loose somewhere. He needs to be dealt
with.”
“That had been my plan today,” the Alienist nodded. “It shouldn’t take too long. But we
need to maintain the initiative. Keep the ball rolling. Give Him no chance to act, or to
second guess us.” Mostin grinned wildly.
Eadric squinted, and chastised himself. So much had happened, that it was sometimes easy
to forget that Mostin was completely crazy.
“Well, we aren’t going anywhere yet,” the Paladin said. “I need to go back to Morne, bury
Tahl and Soraine and too many others. And then there is the matter of my troops. And…”
“You would honour their memory best by avenging them,” Mostin said.
“Don’t push it, Wizard,” Eadric replied.
“Ed,” Nwm said, “go and meditate, or pray, or whatever it is that you do. You need to find
some perspective before you commit to this course of action. I will support your decision -
I’m not
necessarily saying that this is the wrong thing to do, merely that you should be fully
conscious of your motivation before you act. I would hate to see your desire to hurt the
Demon outweigh your duty to help Nehael.”
“As would I,” the Paladin agreed.
**
Five days passed.
Mostin’s efforts to find Irzho were unsuccessful, indicating that the Balor was mind
blanked – either by spell or device. If the former, then Irzho may have returned to the
Abyss, and be under Graz’zt’s
protection. If the latter – and that seemed more likely, as whatever means Kothchori had
used to
conceal himself was still unaccounted for – then the Balor could be anywhere.
Mostin brooded upon the name that he had gleaned from the writings of the unknown
Alienist – the
name of the Pseudonatural Daemon who was, in all likelihood, responsible for the demise
of his former mentor, Vhorze. Binding the creature seemed conceivable, but controlling it
– or even communicating with it – seemed unlikely, if not altogether impossible. And
there remained the problem of not being able to dismiss it, even if it were successfully
contained. No doubt it would merely wait until the wards upon it expired, and then rip off
the head of its captor, and drag the remains off to whatever insane realm that it had issued
from.
Shomei visited Mostin at his retreat in the woodland meadow southwest of Deorham,
interested in the progress of the Alienist’s plans regarding Graz’zt. It was a balmy
afternoon, and bees droned in the warm summer air as they sat on the porch and drank
chilled firewine. The Infernalist had opted to
forego her normal purple attire for a simple, light robe of purest white silk, gathered in
around her slim waist. It seemed to soften her pointed features, and made her look more
Celestial than Diabolic. As always, she carried her intricate iron rod in her left hand, and
was accompanied by the faintest hint of cinnamon. She raised an eyebrow when she saw
Orolde, and her mouth dropped when Mostin told her
about the Sprite’s position.
“An apprentice? How intriguing! Is he any good?”
Orolde sighed – apparently, being talked about as though he were not present was
something he would have to adjust to. And it seemed as though Mostin was far less
reclusive than Kothchori had been.
“He has marked potential,” Mostin nodded.
“I have a favour to ask, and information to impart,” Shomei said carefully.
“What is the favour?”
“I will reserve my request until we have spoken more,” the Infernalist replied. “Before
you ask, you are under no obligation to honour it, and what I am about to tell you implies
no contractual exchange.”
“I am glad to hear it!” Mostin said. “Although now my curiosity is piqued.”
“I have been most active on your behalf, Mostin. The containment or overthrow of, well,
You-Know-Who – I will humour your caution on that count…”
“It is paranoia, not caution,” Mostin corrected her.
“Quite. In any case, one might say that I am acting out of enlightened self-interest. If he is
reduced in power, removed temporarily – albeit only for a few decades – or even, possibly,
eliminated, then it would…”
“Be to your advantage, politically speaking,” Mostin finished for her.
“Precisely,” she flashed her rare smile. “So bearing that in mind, that it is not out of
altruism that I have acted…”
“I would never even suggest it,” Mostin quipped.
“I should bring a number of worlds to your attention,” Shomei continued. “I will need to
use your Mirror, Mostin.”
“Very well,” he sighed, reaching into his portable hole. After a few moments of fussing,
he had erected the Looking-Glass of Urm Nahat on the porch of his manse.
“This is exciting, isn’t it?” The Infernalist said. “Like opening presents when you were a
child.”
“I never had presents,” Mostin said drily. “Get to the point, Shomei.”
“May I? One just scries normally?”
“It is very fast,” Mostin replied. “And also resembles the clairvoyance spell. And your
sensor may rove.
You will quickly master it.”
She waved her hand, and the mirror rapidly became opaque, and then cleared to show a
scene within a gloomy forest composed of trees possessed of colossal girth and height. A
thrush sat upon a branch in the canopy, several hundred feet above the forest floor.
Shomei issued a message. The thrush immediately chirped, and seemed to stand to
attention.
“It is a polymorphed Devil,” Shomei explained. “I currently have several compacts still
unexpired.” The thrush vanished, and when the Infernalist brought it back into view, the
scene beyond was fantastic.
The sky was a mixture of indigo and vermilion, and stars faintly glimmered within it. On a
rock
buttress of considerable size, thrusting above the treetops, an elegant castle sat perched, its
lacy towers soaring into the air and defying the laws of both architecture and gravity.
Tendrils of steam or smoke clung to the base of the fortress, giving it the appearance of
sitting on a cloudtop. Something vast moved across the sky in the distance, temporarily
extinguishing stars before they rekindled at its passing.
“Faerie?” Mostin asked.
“No,” Shomei replied, “and although it is accessible from Faerie, a good deal of
shadowstuff bleeds in as well. It is a demiplane called Afqithan by its inhabitants who, as
you have already guessed, consist mainly of Feys – most notably Sidhe and their ilk.”
“And this plane is of particular importance because…?”
“The pre-eminent clan are called the Loquai,” Shomei explained. “They are cultists of the
Demon
whose name you are reluctant to utter. You are looking at one of their strongholds: that
belonging to their most important king, Irknaan.”
Mostin’s eyes bulged. “And they are Sidhe?”
Shomei nodded. “Of a particularly degenerate type. The umbral bleed has affected them to
a large degree – or rather, as they have recognized it as a means by which their power can
be increased, they have embraced and exploited it.”
“Intriguing,” Mostin said. “How large is Afqithan? What are the numbers of the Loquai?
How potent are they? Is their dominance challenged? Are there demons present?”
“It is of moderate size,” the Infernalist answered. “It has a virtual diameter of around three
thousand miles – although the circular warping begins some distance before that. The
Loquai number in the low thousands, although their hegemony extends over most other
sentients – tens of thousands of other Feys and fantastic beasts. In terms of potency, their
leaders may rival you or I. Dominance is always challenged, Mostin. And yes, there are
demons present – notably Succubi and Glabrezu. The Loquai
are intensely erotic, and seem to venerate that particular aspect of the Lord of Zelatar.”
“And your Devil has been spying for you?”
“For several days, now. I have attempted scrying within the fortress, but it is warded from
both sight and teleportation. There may be a Gate within its confines linking it directly
with Azzagrat. The Devil has been eavesdropping on groups that issue from the walls –
the Loquai are obsessive hunters who
ride Tenebrous Griffons in pursuit of various other beasts.”
“In that regard they differ little from most Sidhe,” Mostin observed drily.
“They are crueler,” Shomei said.
“Then they must be very cruel indeed,” Mostin sighed. “Very well, Shomei. I appreciate
the information. What is the favour that you request?”
“I haven’t finished yet, Mostin,” she gave a curious half-smile. She waved her hand, and
his mirror went blank for a few seconds. Another scene appeared on its surface.
“This frigid world is called Saraf,” she said, as scenes of mountains, glaciers, and ice
fields flashed across the looking-glass. “It has been incompletely subdued by Our-Friend-
Who-Shall-Remain-Nameless. His tactics here have been less subtle and insidious than in
Afqithan, and he has favoured a more direct approach. One of his allies, the Demon
Kostchtchie has been instrumental in annexing this plane, primarily through the use of
Bar-Lgura and Fiendish Giants – there are probably Gates to the Ice Wastes in the Abyss.
The native inhabitants have been all but eliminated – they exist now only in a few, isolated
pockets.”
“What are they?” The Alienist asked, fascinated.
“A hirsute race of humanoids whose name I do not know,” Shomei answered. “They once
possessed a high civilization, although millennia of aggression has removed almost all
vestiges of it.”
Mostin screwed his face up, as a leaping Demon appeared in the mirror. “Another of your
spies?”
Shomei nodded. “Another polymorphed Devil. I have gleaned some interesting
knowledge, regarding Saraf. Observe.” The Infernalist sent another message, and the
Devil vanished. When it came into view again, it was standing outside the gates of a city
which seemed to have been wholly encased in a
glacier.
“I am not sure how this came about,” Shomei said. “Whether some sorcery of His, or a
defense of the native inhabitants, or through a natural process, but the city itself seems to
have been largely
preserved.”
“Is it inhabited?”
“Only by ghosts and demons. But secrets reside there, of that I am sure.”
“Have you scried within?”
“Not to any great extent,” Shomei responded. “Unlike you, I do not have the leisure to
spend hours in casual observation,” she remarked acidly, “and my own crystal ball has
roamed further afield.” She waved her hand, and the mirror became blank again for the
briefest moment, until yet another picture showed itself to them. It was a scene from a
dark nightmare, in stark contrast to that which had gone before.
Molten waterfalls cascaded over steep lips into basins, where networks of funnels and
troughs
distributed liquid metal to forges and foundries. The only light present was a reddish glow,
issuing from the seething metal, illuminating the faces of thousands of slaves, who toiled
ceaselessly. They were watched and bullied by a variety of demons, who took fickle
delight in their work.
“Another demiplane. Most of the captives are Azer,” Shomei said. “Needless to say, I have
an agent placed here also. Below this area, there are mines, and pits, and yet more
foundries. And more. The full extent seems to be vast – I haven’t come anywhere close to
mapping it all. They are extracting
adamantine from other ores: it might interest you to know that after the metal has been
purified, it is transported to a system of storage vaults, before passing through a Gate to
Azzagrat, and thus to the Demon’s treasury.”
Mostin raised an eyebrow. Shomei had certainly excelled herself. In five days, she had
uncovered an extraordinary amount of information. “Is there more to see?”
“Presently, no. I have plane shifted several other compactees to different locations,
however, and they are currently following on leads. More information will doubtless be
forthcoming. There are several hundred worlds where the influence of his Highness is
felt.”
“Hmm, I suppose I should ask you what boon you seek,” Mostin grumbled. “It will be
hard to deny it, given what you have uncovered.”
Shomei bored into him with her violet eyes. “If you engage upon any extraplanar jaunts, I
should like to accompany you.”
Mostin relaxed. “I would be delighted,” he grinned. “Convincing Eadric may be harder,
however. He mistrusts your Diabolic connections.”
“That is only reasonable,” she admitted.
**
Eadric and Nwm returned to Morne, where the Paladin oversaw Tahl’s funeral – a modest
affair in light of the events which had transpired after the Inquisitor’s death. He was laid to
rest in the Fane’s crypt with little ceremony, and Eadric mourned quietly – part of him
lamenting the fact that his most faithful friend received such small recognition.
Until, to the confusion of all, Tramst declared his immediate beatification. Bewildered,
Eadric sought out the Sela.
Why waste time with pomp and ceremony, if death is merely evanescent? Why wait for a
cult to grow, or for miracles to manifest? I know the Masters ere they are born.
Eadric bowed, and left joyfully.
Soraine was to be interred in the cemetery adjoining the Temple compound, along with
Hyne and the
Penitents who had perished in the ambush outside of Morne’s gates. But Eadric changed
his mind – the body of the Duchess would taken in state back to Trempa, accompanied by
Ekkert and Streek, her most trusted Thanes. Somehow, it seemed appropriate: Soraine’s
religiosity had been too eccentric and
individual to be confused with the zealots and martyrs. Likewise, Ryth would be returned
to Har Kumil in the north of Trempa. Nwm offered to conduct the ceremony, but Ryth’s
son, Caur, politely declined.
“The local priest will serve well enough.” Caur was young – maybe sixteen – but already a
giant of a man.
Eadric shifted awkwardly, unsure whether his actions would offend, but passed a heavy
casket to the boy. “Soraine would have given you more, for your father’s loyalty and
friendship. Say nothing. Do not object or refuse: if you have no use for it, distribute it
amongst the poor in your Lairdship.”
Caur nodded. Eadric could be very persuasive when he turned his mind to it.
“Temple money?” Nwm asked as they departed.
“Hardly,” Eadric laughed. “The Fane’s coffers will be empty within a month in any case.
No, it was mine.”
Nwm raised an eyebrow. “How much did you give him?”
“Five thousand.”
Nwm coughed. “That was exceedingly generous.”
The Paladin shrugged. “Its all the same to me. And Soraine would have given him more.
Unfortunately, I have to pay nearly a thousand mercenaries.”
“Trempa should foot the bill,” Nwm said.
“The allocation of Trempa’s finances is not within my purview,” Eadric replied.
Nwm stopped in the street, and span the Paladin around. “Don’t be a fool, Ed,” He hissed.
“You are avoiding the issue. You will have to either let Foide’s boy inherit the Duchy,
support a rival candidate, or make a claim yourself. You cannot simply ignore it, and wait
for it to go away. Unless you want your taxes and feudal duties to end up in Foide’s hands.
Just how compromised do you think you’d feel
then?”
“There is time, yet,” Eadric replied patiently. “Let them jostle and maneuver for a while.
What if Skadding inherits Soraine’s estates? Who knows? Maybe he’ll throw off his
father’s yoke.”
“Do you believe that?”
“I am optimistic that given the right guidance, Skadding could be a good Duke.”
“And you would provide that guidance?”
“When I could,” Eadric replied.
“And in your absence?”
“Then maybe he could make mistakes to learn from,” Eadric sighed. “The Sela told me
that I might be forced to intervene. He said nothing about open conflict. Intervention takes
many forms, Nwm.” Eadric tapped his nose. “And when the boy makes his annual
progress around Trempa, I will invite him onto the rampart at Deorham. Devas make
effective proctors.”
Nwm guffawed.
**
Ortwin preened himself.
“You never cease,” Iua observed.
“Perfection requires continual readjustment,” he grinned, unsheathing his scimitar with a
flourish, and cutting an orange in half. The sending, issued by Mostin, had seemed urgent.
Now, typically, the Alienist was late. Orolde had refused them entry into the manse,
apologizing profusely to the self-proclaimed Fey King and his consort, but unwilling to
contradict Mostin’s instructions.
“Wizards and their servants are such depressing literalists,” Ortwin had remarked, but was
content when the Sprite had provided them with refreshments on the porch of the retreat.
Presently, in vaporous form, Nwm and Eadric appeared. As the Druid corporeated, so did
his two
eagles, who had appeared as nothing more than wisps of smoke attending him.
“Mostin will appreciate their presence, I’m sure,” Ortwin said caustically. “Although,
personally, I find them far preferable to that stinking bear.”
“You’re in a good mood,” Nwm said, “your manners are always impeccable when you’re
happy.”
After reassuring an increasingly nervous Orolde, waiting for a further half-hour, and
depleting Mostin’s supply of beverages, they were finally joined by the Alienist.
“There is much to discuss,” he said.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 03-26-2003
Eadric, Nwm, Ortwin, Mostin and Iua sat in discussion for three hours. It ranged from
lively to – at several times – openly confrontational. What were their goals? What
resources did they jointly
command? How long did they have? Who would be most effective in which spheres?
How could the
elusive synergy of their respective abilities be evoked?
As night fell, they moved from the porch of Mostin’s manse into his drawing room, where
Ortwin
consumed too much firewine and became loud and rambunctious.
When Shomei arrived, just after midnight, Eadric became reluctant to further discuss
details until she had submitted herself to scrutiny from the Eye of Palamabron –
something which the Infernalist flatly refused to do. Shomei’s discomfort was further
compounded when a drunken Ortwin made several
lewd and cutting comments alluding to her history of diabolic suitors.
Shomei said nothing in response but eyed the Bard venomously. Mostin, afraid that things
would get off to a bad start, fidgeted uncomfortably. Fortunately, Nwm intervened by
neutralizing the alcohol in Ortwin’s system and bringing him back to a state of painful
sobriety, and, somewhat surprisingly,
jumping to Shomei’s defense.
“I suggest you remember Nehael’s own words, Ed. Those regarding allies in unlikely
places. You can’t go around beaming your Eye at everyone you meet – it lacks respect for
their integrity. You haven’t used it on Mostin, and I’m sure that his motives are less than
noble.”
Mostin blustered briefly. Ortwin apologized, and Eadric eventually relented – not before
voicing his concerns regarding Titivilus, however. He was less than satisfied by the state
of affairs existing between Shomei and the Duke of Hell and – in his mind, reasonably –
saw their antagonism as a source of potential problems. This was agitated by the fact that
Paladin and Infernalist viewed the Devil from two different perspectives: to the Ahma,
Titivilus was a source of potential growth through friction and adversity, but one which
was divinely ordained; to Shomei, he represented one of many discarded tools in the
perpetual quest for apotheosis. Their respective paradigms were both uncannily close and
dangerously divergent: something Eadric immediately recognized as a source of friction.
Nwm ignored him. “Moreover, I think there is something which you seem to have
forgotten in your – at times, egotistical – desire to first redeem and now rescue Nehael
from the clutches of the Demon who, for Mostin’s benefit, I will not name.”
“And what is that?” Eadric sighed.
“She is a Uediian priestess and mystic,” Nwm snapped.
Eadric tensed briefly, and then relaxed as though a great weight had left him. “Thank-you
Nwm,” he said openly. “And I’m sorry.”
“Good,” Nwm replied. “So, if we can discuss the matter in hand. We have a twisted
version of Faerie filled with cultists, a frozen wasteland or some hellish smithy of huge
proportions to choose between.”
“I can add one more to the list,” Shomei said. “So far. It is a jungle-like region of the
Abyss itself: here the Demon is engaged in a war with a rival named Soneillon. The plane
is called Throile. Soneillon is a succubus of great power, and was at one time the ally and
consort of the Prince.”
“I would rather avoid being caught in a lovers’ tiff,” Ortwin said drily.
“You are oversimplifying the nature of Abyssal relationships,” Shomei remarked
humourlessly. “But I agree that Throile may not be the best option – at least at present.”
“This frozen world sounds interesting,” Nwm said. “Let’s consider it for a moment. Could
we seal the Abyssal Gates – assuming that we could find them all?”
“Only temporarily,” Mostin answered. “Or, at least, until Gra… – you see, I almost said it
myself –
could open them again, either with his own power or through one of his minions. There is
nothing
barring him from acting personally in Saraf – something else we need to consider. Outside
of the
Prime, we do not have the benefit of celestial interdict to protect us against Demons –
even if it less than a hundred percent effective, it prevents fiends travelling here on a
whim. It takes our enemy a great deal of effort to translate a servant here: plane shifting
any of them to one of these other worlds would be child’s play to him.”
“This is true,” Shomei nodded. “And this is where the risk lies – as soon as we venture
abroad, we run the risk of being chased through the spheres by hordes of demons. Wyre is
safe, however, and hence the issue of mobility is crucial – as long as we can return here,
we will be comparatively sure of a haven.”
Eadric screwed his face up. “In which case preserving anonymity would seem to be
crucial. And how can we protect against his divinations?”
” Mind Blank,” Mostin sighed. “On all of us. Which will seriously deplete my stock of
powerful spells.”
“I am willing to share the load on that count,” Shomei offered. “I concur: it is crucial. It
will render us undetectable and immune to most Enchantments – the utility of this spell is
not to be underestimated!
Mostin’s remaining higher valences can be crammed with Sonic Evocations, mine with
Conjurations.
Multiple disintegrates will be a useful backup.”
Mostin looked at Eadric, unsure as to the Paladin’s reaction to his next suggestion. “I have
also given some thought regarding the procurement of a guide.”
The Ahma dubiously raised an eyebrow.
“One who is close in the Prince’s confidence would be logical, although the transient
nature of his court means that it is difficult to judge amongst those whom he currently
favours. Ironically, Uzmi would have been a good choice – she was, for a while, high in
his estimation.”
Shomei seemed as surprised as anyone else at the Alienist’s suggestion, but guessed where
he was
heading.
“I suggest binding a Marilith,” Mostin continued. “We can trap one in a thaumaturgic
diagram, and then compel it into a jar. If Shomei aids me in the spell, it can be achieved
with the minimum of fuss. Such a guide might prove invaluable: it could provide all kinds
of useful information regarding his plans.
Mariliths tend to be well-informed regarding the bigger picture – their strategic and
military capacity is well-known.”
“It could also mislead and dupe us,” Ortwin observed. “Demonesses are equally renowned
for their mendacity.”
Mostin smiled. “You see that big, shiny rock around Eadric’s neck, Ortwin…?”
“Good point,” the Bard conceded. “But would such a captive cooperate? An intractable
demon who wails and attracts attention would be equally annoying.”
“I will need to reach an agreement with it. This may involve a few minor compromises,
but I think it would be worth it.”
Shomei nodded. “I like the plan. Casting the binding is time consuming, however, and I
mislike the idea of the demon breaking out of the diagram before the jar is ready. We
should target her with
multiple hold monster spells to prevent her escape until the binding is complete: one of
them is bound to work. You will need opals, of course.”
“And an accurate rendering of the target,” Mostin added.
“If you do not have any names…”
Mostin sniffed, and began to chant the names of Graz’zt’s Marilith servants in an obscure
verse.
“Your information is dated, but still somewhat useful,” Shomei half-smiled.
“How many of these demonesses serve him?” Nwm asked. “Are we talking a handful, like
the Balors, or many more? And what of other demons, for that matter?”
“A few dozen Mariliths, I suppose,” Shomei replied. “Not all are currently favoured –
many, if not all, are former consorts. Some maintain armies in the field at his command. A
few are probably in
temporary exile. Some remain at court. And there may be a hundred Nalfeshnees,
thousands of Succubi and Glabrezu, and probably tens or hundreds of thousands of Babau,
Uridezu, Bar-Lgura, Chasme and
Vrocks at his call. Other, more obscure types in smaller numbers fulfill specialized roles,
and then, of course, the ubiquitous Dretch - who are close to numberless.”
“We are rapidly drifting away from the focus of this discussion,” Eadric sighed. “I have no
objection to the containment of a demonic guide – provided that it can be undertaken
safely, of course.” The Paladin himself seemed surprised by the words which issued from
his mouth.
“I had expected more resistance to the idea,” Mostin said sarcastically.
“It is a logical proposal,” Eadric admitted, “and, frankly, I’ve pretty much given up on
conventional standards – they don’t seem to apply to my life any more.”
“I’m tired,” Ortwin grumbled. “I say we take a vote. I favour Afqithan – it sounds
interesting.”
“As do I,” Iua agreed. “It is neither too cold nor too hot.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Eadric said.
“I rather thought Saraf might be interesting,” Mostin said. “But I suppose it can wait. Very
well.
Afqithan it is, unless Nwm or Shomei has an objection?”
“I would prefer Saraf, as it sounds the least unnatural – although I admit that Afqithan’s
Green intrigues
me,” Nwm said.
“Shomei?” Eadric asked.
She shrugged. “I’m just along for the trip, Ahma. Whatever you decide is good with me.”
Eadric scowled, unsure whether the reference to him in his religious capacity was sarcastic
or not.
So, over the next hour, they hatched a plan. Ortwin’s contribution was significant, and his
trademark cunning, boldness and braggadocio were written all over their strategy. It took
another two full days in order to make preparations.
**
The Marilith was called Nufrut. She was less than happy to be reduced to the state of a
disembodied head, and confined to a perfectly spherical jar twelve inches across,
suspended on a metal chain. The chain had a convenient handle, for ease of transportation.
“Is it safe?” Eadric asked. He was inside the extradimensional area of Mostin’s retreat: the
Alienist was reluctant to bring the bound demon into normal space, in the event that it
would rouse the ire of the Claviger.
“It cannot escape, if that is what you mean,” Mostin reassured him.
“What if you drop it? Will it break?”
“The jar is adamantine. I have polymorphed it into transparent adamantine. It is near
indestructible.”
“Does such a substance exist?” Ortwin inquired.
“It does now,” Mostin grinned. “Excepting dispellings, disjunctions and disintegrations,
we should be
relatively safe – nonetheless I will keep the jar out of harm’s way in potentially dangerous
situations.
As Shomei was so willing to aid me – and us, I might add – we have agreed that she may
keep Nufrut after we are finished.”
Nufrut snarled, and cursed, her beautiful face contorting wildly.
“She doesn’t look very cooperative,” Ortwin observed.
“We are still negotiating,” Mostin explained. “The promise of freedom is, of course, the
boon she seeks
– we merely have to come to a mutually acceptable agreement. This is complicated by the
fact that I have consented to pass Nufrut to Shomei. We will bicker for a few more hours, I
am sure.”
Eadric sighed and departed.
An hour after noon, Mostin and Shomei exited the manse. Both sported looks of smug
satisfaction.
“I see you’ve reached a compromise.” Ortwin said.
“Nufrut has acquiesced to our demands,” Mostin replied. “We agreed that she will be
released after ten years, if she cooperates. Her tenure with me will last for two months,
and the remainder will be with Shomei.”
“And you intend to dishonour that promise, I assume?”
Shomei looked genuinely offended. “Certainly not! An agreement with a fiend is a sacred
enterprise.
One does not violate such a trust.”
Ortwin looked confused. Eadric nodded understandingly.
**
Orolde seemed unfazed by the responsibility that Mostin suddenly and unexpectedly
foisted onto him –
namely, the maintenance of the manse and the wizard’s affairs in his absence. He nodded
in a resigned fashion as the Alienist enjoined him to ignore the nearby population of
sprites, who were nothing but a gang of childish hooligans. Mostin left Orolde several
large tomes with the express command that they should be memorized before his return –
each was a treatment on various aspects of the Far Realm by Wizards the extent of whose
insanity rivaled or even surpassed Mostin’s own. No-one was to be
permitted entrance to the manse for any reason whatsoever, and in the unlikely event that
it was
assailed Orolde was to immediately retreat to the extradimensional area, seal it, and issue
the sending which Mostin had hastily scribed.
“A prismatic sphere and several meteor swarms might also prove invaluable,” Orolde
suggested.
“You can rest assured that if there is any blasting to be done, I will not fail in my
responsibilities.”
Mostin said drily.
The preparations were made within Mostin’s sanctum and, to the surprise of all, he took
his mirror down and placed it within his portable hole.
“I will open a gate,” he explained. “I am loathe to leave the mirror unattended, and any
portal would only remain open for a day. Besides, it might be useful in a pinch if we need
an emergency exit.”
“Not that you’d ever leave it behind anywhere,” Ortwin said.
“Probably not,” Mostin admitted. “But a scrying device is always useful.”
The Alienist and Infernalist proceeded to mind blank everyone present.
“We will need to repeat the same procedure tomorrow,” Mostin said. “And the next day,
and the next –
for as long as we are abroad, in fact.” He nodded to Shomei.
The Witch cast a polymorph on Ortwin, Eadric, Nwm and herself, which gave them the
appearance of Sidhe: tall, graceful feys of unearthly beauty who had long since fled the
Prime. Their clothing and
equipment seemed to assume an equally elegant style. “If this ruse is to be successful,” she
said, “we should remember that Ortwin and Nwm are to be our spokesmen: both are fluent
Sylvan speakers, and
Ortwin is an adept liar. The rest of you should keep quiet unless either Mostin or I has
time to use tongues: I also speak Fae, but I have no intention of acting as representative or
negotiator. I will try to keep my communication to a minimum.”
Shomei handed Ortwin an exquisite coronet which seemed to have been cut from a single,
massive
diamond. In fact, the Infernalist, a jeweler of no small ability, had used a fabricate spell on
half of the stones which the Bard and Iua had received as their dowry. He placed it upon
his head – the contours of which felt unfamiliar.
“King at last, eh?” Iua said sarcastically.
“I am a Duke, not a King,” the Bard said coolly, effortlessly, and with utter conviction. His
poise and movement spoke of natural command.
Shomei laughed despite herself. “Dammit, you’re good – I have to admit it. Watch your
accent – we don’t want anyone to suspect that you’re a bumpkin from the Prime. The
weight of scrutiny will fall upon you, and they will be looking for the smallest details and
inconsistencies. Eadric – you should keep your helmet closed at all times. You are an
inexpert liar, and manage to make even a Sidhe’s face look trustworthy and approachable.
As a bodyguard, your role will be minimal in any case. And…”
She cast an empowered cat’s grace.
“…that should stop you lumbering inelegantly. Iua, you may still adopt another form if
you prefer.”
The Duelist shook her head. “I am the daughter of Ulao. I will masquerade as myself – an
Auran princess is the role I am most accustomed to playing, in any case.”
Mostin, not to be outdone in any matters of style, invoked a spell which turned him into a
handsome fiend with ruddy skin, short horns and long, talon-like fingernails.
Shomei raised an eyebrow. “You cannot maintain that guise for long.”
“On the contrary,” Mostin grinned wickedly. “You forget that I have transcended your
limited vibrational state. This is no obstacle to me.*”
Eadric gave an inquiring look.
“I am now a kelvezu,” Mostin explained. “A demonic infiltrator and assassin. They are
highly feared –
it will give us an edge in negotiations, if they see that I am one of Ortwin’s retainers. I will
remain enigmatic.” He drew a long pair of gloves over his hands, and brought the hood of
his cloak over his head so that his face became shadowed, and his features hidden.
“Then why are you covering up?” Eadric asked.
Ortwin sighed. “Ed, I really need to give you some lessons in duplicity.”
“We are almost ready,” Mostin said.
“This is the part that I don’t like, I assume,” the Eadric said in a resigned voice.
Mostin nodded apologetically, and led them all into another area of his magnificent
mansion.
**
An area had been cleared within the largest of the rooms in the extradimensional space. Its
technical function – that of a banquet hall – had never, in fact, been observed.
Now it acted as a corral for six horses of fearsome visage. Nightmares conjured and
confined by
Mostin and Shomei, and subjected to torment from the Infernalist until they had submitted
to her demands.
Mostin had finally seen her rod in action, and had been both awed and terrified by the
power that, through it, she wielded.
“These are evil creatures,” Eadric said. “And I am loathe to have one bear me.”
“I am sure that they are equally loathe to bear us,” Shomei sighed. “Nonetheless, we need
them – both for the convenience of transportation that they grant, and the impression that
riding them will convey to any who see us. We have them for nineteen days – no more,
and no less. They will remain loyal – albeit reluctantly so.”
“I hope so,” Eadric said, “I do not wish to be borne away to some nameless Hell. And this
compacting…”
“They are not compacted,” Shomei shook her head. “They are coerced. Compacting would
have been far easier, but Mostin forbade it for your sake.”
“I fail to see the difference.”
“Souls, Ahma, I would have paid them in souls.”
Eadric looked aghast. “You use such currency? That is monstrous.”
“They are damned already,” Mostin said.
“It doesn’t matter…” Eadric began.
“Wake up! Saizha! ” Shomei said sharply, with no hint of irony. “I have compromised for
your benefit.
You will be forced to make many more choices that will be far more challenging before
this is over.
You are the Ahma. You are empowered to decide right from wrong, according to your
belief. Look at me! Where is my taint? Why do I bear none?”
“I don’t know,” Eadric confessed. “You are anomalous.”
“That much is true,” Mostin leered, bearing his sharp fangs. “Shall we be on our way?
That was an attempt to diffuse the atmosphere, incidentally.”
Eadric nodded. “We should remember that this is an open-ended sortie. We don’t know
how long we have, how we will fare, whether we will return here before pursuing other
avenues, or continue
onwards. We don’t know whether we are spies, guerillas, instigators of unrest or any
combination of the above. We are looking for potential allies. We are looking to thwart the
Demon. We are seeking to release Nehael. And we are hoping to somehow augment
Mostin’s power, to bring the spell within his reach.”
“The last is most important,” Mostin nodded, mounting one of the Nightmares, which
champed restlessly and snorted fire. “Can we go now?”
In the purple skies, above the mists and shadows which lay upon the ancient woods of
Afqithan, a Gate opened. A group of Sidhe, accompanied by a demon and an elemental,
mounted on huge and malign
steeds which issued smoke and fire, thundered through. A hunting party, from some dark
region of
Faerie, no doubt. One of them – accompanied by two magnificent eagles – concentrated
briefly, and
then called out in Sylvan.
“A chimera, five miles yonder,” he pointed.
Their leader – a nobleman of some kind – spurred his mount onwards and drew a great,
black bow
which seemed to pulse grimly. Starlight glistened in the diamond coronet upon his brow.
On the walls of the castle, not a furlong from where the party had appeared, several guards
dressed in ornate armour stared impassively at the spectacle for a few moments, betraying
no emotion – or
perhaps feeling none. Whoever this group was, they seemed oblivious to the fact that this
was the castle of Irknaan, king of the Loquai, and they were trespassing in the airs above
his demesne. One of the guards nodded silently, and another turned, and walked quickly
but without hurrying to inform his
captain.
*As an outsider, Mostin’s options for polymorphing are somewhat expanded.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 03-31-2003
“It was only a chimera…”
The chamber was of blacks and muted greys. They flowed and rippled, as if they
possessed a will of their own, absorbing all incident light, yet still conveying a sense of
variance. If there were other colours present, then they were veiled by the pervasive
gloom.
The Captain, whose name was Shupthul, stood before his King, Irknaan, and explained
what had
happened.
“Only a few moments ago, you say,” Irknaan reclined in darkness in an unconcerned
manner, not even deigning to look upon his retainer. “Have you dispatched a party?”
“Twelve, your Majesty,” Shupthul said.
Despite his confidence and level voice, Irknaan perceived a measure of nervousness
hidden behind the Captain’s expert façade. It made the King feel strangely comfortable –
Shupthul’s apprehension was based on fear of him, rather than of any external threat. He
smiled inwardly. “Which way were they headed?”
“Towards a chimera, five miles to the north. They are looking for quarry.”
“And there is a demon with them? How curious. At this hour, the chimera will be
Lorochtoh, of course.
She is predictable in her habits. This may be amusing. How did they know where to find
her, I
wonder?”
“The guardsman who brought me the report indicated that it seemed a random choice –
one of them
sensed the beast, and they immediately took up the chase. The demon was cloaked – a
kelvezu assassin, in all likelihood.”
“I feel that I might observe.” Irknaan clicked his fingers, and a sprite with a wicked
expression hurried to fetch his scrying stone. Already, his mind raced with possibilities,
although he evinced nothing to Shupthul. Who were they? How did one of them sense the
beast? Was the demon an ally of the Prince, or a foe, or neither? They seemed potent. He
would need to tread carefully. Irknaan wondered whether he was in disfavour, and his
termination had been ordered by Graz’zt.
In any case, a confrontation with Lorochtoh would prove distracting for a few moments –
others had made the mistake of underestimating her strength, and had paid dearly for it.
**
Nwm’s mind was bombarded with sensations as he switched between different aspects of
their
environment. The Green of Afqithan held a majesty that was warped by shadows and
darkness, and
possessed an alien quality that made him feel distinctly uncomfortable. As well as the
chimera – the nearest of the nodes within his field of consciousness outside of the castle
walls – other beasts flitted on the periphery of his thought. Manticores and griffons,
displacer beasts and basilisks, a dragonne on the very edge of perception. Many of the
trees possessed black and brooding sentience which filled the Druid with dread.
He turned his mind to feys, and they blazed across his inner landscape, too numerous to
count, and then to outsiders, concentrated both in a knot within the fortress and also where
other beasts were located.
They overlapped in a confusing fashion, and Nwm noticed that the chimera – like many of
the other
denizens of Afqithan – was an indistinct type, and bore multiple conflicting signatures.
As did the griffons and their riders who were now following: they had taken flight from
one of the castle’s tall towers. The Druid glanced over his shoulder, and saw specks in the
sky to their rear. He yelled to Ortwin.
“There are twelve feys – or part-feys, at least – mounted on griffons – or part griffons – in
pursuit. They are less than a mile behind.”
“They can’t catch us,” the Bard shouted back, the wind rushing past.
“They are closing in.”
“Griffons can’t fly that fast,” Ortwin objected.
“They are tenebrous,” Shomei called to him. “part shadow-stuff. They slip through the
gaps in space.”
“The chimera is likewise a complex of different realities,” Nwm yelled, “and should not
be treated lightly. This could be interesting. What should we do?”
“Ignore the Loquai,” declared Mostin. “It will irritate them.”
“I agree,” Ortwin nodded. “If they try to apprehend us, or behave aggressively, we should
obliterate them with as much apparent ease as possible. We need to show both strength
and disdain. Pay attention to the chimera.”
“They will reach us, before we close on it,” Nwm pointed out.
Iua concentrated briefly, and then yelled a warning. A powerful wind began to blow
behind them,
speeding them forwards. The Duelist and Eadric – both expert riders – dealt with the
sudden change in pace without effort, although the Paladin found the increased smoke and
fire kindled from his steed’s mane and hooves somewhat disconcerting. Likewise, Mostin
and Shomei stayed in control of
themselves and their mounts, albeit with more strain. Nwm clung on tightly.
Unfortunately, their leader, Ortwin, flamboyant as he seemed, was a poor rider. Iua’s
warning had given him no time to prepare, and he was blown from his saddle, still
clutching his bow.
Gods, how embarrassing, he thought as he tumbled towards the ground. He recovered
quickly, and commanded his boots to action. As they sprouted tiny wings, the Bard did his
best to make his mistake
look intentional.
“It’s a good thing they can’t scry us,” Mostin grumbled, as Ortwin drew level with him.
“That’s precisely the kind of blunder we have to avoid, if we want to stay alive. I thought
you could ride.”
“I can,” Ortwin lied. “I just haven’t, for a long time.”
“I wish you’d take this more seriously,” Eadric yelled.
“Nothing is further from my mind,” the Bard grinned. “How far to the beastie, Nwm?”
“Half a mile,” the Druid pointed.
“Will it sense us?”
As if in response to Ortwin’s question, the air was abruptly filled with demons.
“Somebody did,” Shomei remarked drily.
**
Lorochtoh, who had lived for an untold age in the haunted woods of Afqithan, was a
devious creature who had evaded or confounded the hunts that had been mounted in
search of her on numerous
occasions. Irknaan had long since given up on eliminating her, and had found that, left to
her own devices, she posed no threat and proved an effective deterrent against the bands of
sprites who
occasionally vexed his patrols. The King of the Loquai had come to respect the chimera,
and although it would have been within his power to remove her, the use of magic in a
chase would have been a
breach of the etiquette which existed between hunters and quarry – an unfulfilling
exercise, against the spirit of the hunt in general. After all, if there was no risk to the
participants, then the sport held little appeal and amounted to little more than execution.
Sat upon the branch of an immense banyan, immersed in shadows, Lorochtoh had gazed
skywards with one of her three heads – her draconic eyes were her best – after catching
the rumour of movement in her peripheral vision. A hunting party, headed towards her.
The chimera wondered briefly if she was their target, and thought it best not to take any
chances. She summoned five succubi.
“Go and charm those annoying Sidhe, my pretties,” she instructed them. “And after
they’ve chopped each other up, don’t forget to bring me any baubles that they might
have.”
Lorochtoh shifted, and waited to see what transpired.
**
Ortwin, who had regained the lead, but had elected not to mount his steed again, was
suddenly beset by four of the demonesses, who appeared directly in front of him. Still
holding his bow in his left hand, the Bard drew his scimitar, whilst gaping at their naked
beauty. Iua, acting with her usual speed, urged her mount forwards and instantly slew one
of them before anyone else had even fully reacted to the
situation.
“Mine,” a succubus said to Ortwin, beckoning.
“Mine.”
“Mine.”
The three demonesses were bombarding Ortwin with erotic impulses, which he found
himself
uncharacteristically capable of resisting – due to the mind blank, he remarked to himself,
rather than any overwhelming feelings of fidelity. Githla lashed out, and the Bard – feeling
somewhat regretful –
rapidly dispatched a succubus and wounded another. Eadric impaled a another with his
lance.
The remaining demoness – the fifth – who had appeared next to Mostin and whispered
mine, was pulverized by a sonic that made Mostin’s eyes bulge. He had empowered it, but
he hadn’t maximized it
– nonetheless, the spell had borne the hallmarks of that metamagic.
Shomei raised an eyebrow. “That was rather an overkill.”
“Did you check the magical trait of this plane?” Mostin asked.
“Ahh,” Shomei nodded. “Like Faerie itself. No, I didn’t think to look.”
The Alienist fired a clutch of quickened magic missiles at the last, wounded succubus.
They blazed gloriously, and obliterated the demoness. “We need to seriously reconsider
our options,” Mostin sighed.
“This puts things in a very different light.” He glanced over his shoulder. The wind
conjured by Iua still sped them onwards, and their pursuers were nothing but dots in the
sky.
“You can ease up,” Nwm called to the duelist, “or we will overshoot. The creature is close
by.”
Iua nodded, and the gale rapidly began to subside. But as the group began to descend,
three hundred feet up, they received an unpleasant shock. Mostin knew the sensation
which preceded it – he had
experienced it when Feezuu had subjected him to it – but there was nothing he could do.
An instant after the tickling feeling, his arms and legs twitched as the fluids were wilted
from his body. Nwm, Shomei and Eadric were also struck by the necromantic assault:
fortunately Ortwin and Iua were
beyond the area of the spell’s effect. The pain was immense, and Mostin hysterically
considered that Feezuu’s attack had been as nothing compared to this.
Infernalist, Paladin, Alienist and Druid began to drop like stones, their mounts withered to
lifeless husks beneath them. Shomei wasn’t moving.
Lorochtoh broke from the treetops below. Blackness issued from her wings, and her form
shivered with dismal power. Space twisted, and stretched uncomfortably around her. She
was immense.
Nwm acted quickly, invoking a reverse gravity on the area around him, abruptly forcing
himself, Mostin, Eadric, Shomei and the corpses of the Nightmares skywards again.
Mostin cursed, uttered a
quickened haste, cast a fly spell, aimed a disintegrate at the vast bulk of the chimera, and
promptly missed. He swore profusely.
Ortwin sped a volley of arrows into the beast’s flank, where they quivered and caused her
to screech.
Iua struck Lorochtoh with a powerful blast of lightning, but still she climbed relentlessly
towards them.
Eadric drew Lukarn and waited, bobbing impatiently.
“Bad bad bad bad bad,” Mostin grumbled. “Can you deal with Shomei, Nwm – assuming
she’s still alive.”
The Druid nodded, even as the chimera was closing, a foul draft blown before her by her
wings. She spoke, and black fire began to kindle over Mostin, threatening to immolate
him. His amulet absorbed it noiselessly.
Nwm waited, unwilling to act until he had seen Mostin’s retort.
Three colossal sonics issued from Mostin’s fingertips in rapid succession, swollen beyond
all normal limits by the native magic of Afqithan. The noise was terrific as they detonated,
superheating the air and causing massive ionization. As if by some trick of profound
slipperiness, the chimera seemed to twist and gyre in space. She was unaffected.
Mostin gaped. Impossible, he thought.
Nwm glanced at Shomei, gauged that she would live, and struck Lorochtoh with a finger
of death.
Ortwin and Iua, descending on her flank, erupted into a vicious flurry of slashes and stabs.
The monster shrugged the spell effect off, effortlessly changed tack, and ploughed
devastatingly into the Druid, ripping and rending him with horns, maws and claws. As her
body swung around, finally
within his range, Eadric hewed her with Lukarn – his blade blazed within the gloom which
surrounded her. She screamed. Eadric struck again. And again. And again. Nwm blasted
her with a thunderswarm, Mostin with more sonics, and both Bard and duelist continued
to prosecute their attack.
Space folded. Concerned for her life, the chimera vanished into the Plane of Shadow.
Nwm, barely conscious, spoke with a mouthful of blood. “Get us out of here, Mostin.”
The Alienist nodded.
Irknaan had watched the exchange with interest. From his perspective, only the steeds of
those present and the chimera were apparent – some kind of ward prevented the
observation of the interlopers
themselves. Nonetheless, he could infer the use of powerful magic. Moments after the
beast had
vanished – no doubt fleeing to Shadow – the hunters’ two remaining steeds likewise
disappeared.
Irknaan cogitated, wondering whether they pursued her, or had passed into another reality
altogether.
Whoever they were, they weren’t playing by the rules of the hunt – or his rules, at least.
He shrugged.
They probably wouldn’t be back. Nonetheless, he would double the patrols and call on
some demonic
assistance – one couldn’t be too careful.
**
They sat within a magnificent mansion hastily conjured by Mostin.
Shomei groaned. “It still hurts,” she complained.
“The attack was charged with loathsome power,” Nwm explained. “I need to be on
hallowed ground in order to repair much of the damage done.”
“We are behaving like rank amateurs,” Eadric muttered. “We need to reappraise our
situation. Prepare.
Encase ourselves in wards and protective magics. We need back-up plans.”
“Gods, Ed, we thought it was only a chimera,” Ortwin sighed. “None of us could have
expected it to be capable of that.”
“I tried to warn you,” Nwm shrugged.
“Then try harder, next time,” Ortwin snapped.
“If you weren’t so concerned about creating an impression…” Nwm began in a reasonable
voice.
Ortwin snorted. “That’s exactly what this is about. It is a bluff. A ruse. We are wearing a
façade. We are not appearing as ourselves.”
“In any case,” Shomei shifted uncomfortably, and winced, “we should note that our
mounts are less durable than ourselves. That was the most potent horrid wilting that I have
had the misfortune to encounter.”
“And I,” Mostin agreed. “The beast is part fiendish and part tenebrous. We should be on
our guard.
Now we have only two steeds left between the six of us.”
“I will conjure more,” Shomei sighed.
“They need to be potent,” Mostin said. “I suggest ecalypses – they will also give the
impression that we have been to Shadow, where the chimera doubtless fled. It will
reinforce the notion that we pursued it.”
The Alienist reached into his portable hole, stroked Mogus briefly, and pulled the
Looking-Glass of Urm-Nahat from within.
“What are you doing?” Nwm asked.
Mostin grinned. “I am lending credence to our ruse,” he replied. “Ortwin, Eadric, Iua – if
you would be so kind as to follow me?”
Eadric looked deeply suspicious.
“I will scry the beast, and we will attack and kill it. It is greatly weakened. We must strike
before it can recover.”
“You cannot be serious!” Nwm objected.
“It will involve only a brief sojourn in Shadow. We’ll be back before you know it.”
“Very well,” Eadric groaned. “We should finish what we started.”
Ortwin nodded, it was a matter of pride, now. Mostin drew upon the power stored in his
amulet, and empowered the Paladin and Duelist with flight before scrying Lorochtoh with
the mirror.
“Don’t screw up,” Iua said, and leapt through.
*
Immersed in shadowstuff, the chimera was aware of the sensor, but paid it little heed – she
assumed it was Irknaan spying on her again. Suddenly, and without warning, the Auran
with the rapier was
attacking her ferociously, puncturing her thick hide with the slender blade. She was joined
by the two Sidhe – one of whom bore the sword that had caused her so much pain. The
demon appeared last of all, grinning widely.
Lorochtoh screamed in pain. Flames leapt from her dragon’s mouth as she lashed out with
claws and
horns in an uncoordinated fashion. But she was spent, and had nowhere left to hide. It was
brief and brutal. She quickly cowered.
“Spare me,” she grunted in Draconic, and repeated it from her lion’s head in guttural
Sylvan.
Ortwin slashed at her with his scimitar, and the blade bit deeply into one of her shoulders.
Leaning forward, and applying all of his great strength, Eadric pushed Lukarn into
Lorochtoh’s sternum. The
blade sank in four feet to the quillons.
The chimera twitched once, and died. Eadric sighed, and black ichor cascaded over him as
he withdrew his sword. He made a brief supplication for the creature’s soul, before
looking around himself.
The Plane of Shadow was cold, and drab, and featureless. All colour and life, all vitality
and variety seemed to have been bled from the place.
“This is a grim Limbo,” he remarked, “and I would like to leave.”
Ortwin hacked at Lorochtoh’s draconic head with Githla, until it parted from the thick
neck. He
dragged it behind himself as he walked back through the portal, and smiled.
That wasn’t so bad, after all, he thought.
NOTE:
This post demonstrates how completely messed up conventional Challenge Ratings are.
Officially, the beastie is CR14. Off the cuff, I’d pegged her at 16-17 and thought that it
would be relatively easy -
although not a cake-walk - for the characters.
In fact, it almost resulted in a three character fatalities. Shomei was unconscious. And
Nwm and Mostin were in single-figure hp by the end of it. Do not underestimate
advanced half-fiendish shadow
chimerae! - especially when they face a bunch of complacent players.
They were much more careful after this…
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 04-14-2003
They had chosen a small hillock with a flat top, covered with short, springy grass, some
sixty miles from Irknaan’s fortified palace – technically beyond his immediate hegemony,
or so Nufrut had told them. It had once been the abode of sprites according to Nwm,
although none now lived there. It was an isolated area, and their nearest neighbours were a
bevy of Nereids who dwelt in a small lake three miles distant, and a solitary Redcap –
perhaps the most unpleasant and disagreeable of all feys – who had taken up residence in a
crumbling structure that may once have been a tower. None represented a threat to the
party, although the Redcap had succumbed to – or willingly embraced – the mixture of
umbral bleed and Abyssal taint that seeped into Afqithan.
At Ortwin’s request – and in keeping with the Bard’s general scheme to exhibit as much
blustering
grandiosity as possible – Mostin summoned a group of Djinn and had them erect a
modestly-sized
pavillion and several smaller tents on top of the hill, complete with banners and pennants
which
fluttered in the gentle breeze. Ortwin had chosen the device of a scarlet basilisk
surrounded by nineteen oriels, which, although promising some esoteric heraldic
significance, was in fact as vacuous as his own claim to nobility. Lorochtoh’s dragon-head
sat upon a pike: the grim trophy of a hunt successfully
– albeit painfully – executed. Presently, however, the camp was blanketed by a screen cast
by Shomei, until their defenses were established. All, with the exception of Iua,
maintained their respective disguises.
The group discussed the peculiar traits of Afqithan – notably its enhanced magic, and the
implications of the shadowstuff which seemed to exist in varying concentrations. The
demiplane was anomalous:
according to Shomei, there were portals which linked it to Faerie proper, and at certain
times
sympathetic resonances would allow passage between the worlds. But, excepting powerful
magic, there was no way of accessing the Prime other than through Shadow – which was
an uncharted and likely
perilous route.
“Shadow and Faerie are not mutually coextant,” the Infernalist explained. “Afqithan
should be seen as a threshold between two realities which do not normally interact.”
“And the taint?” Eadric asked, sighing.
“I suspect that that was here long before Graz’zt took an interest in the place. Perhaps
other fiends have had connections here in the past. Perhaps a legion or two of damned
spirits fell through here on their way to Hell, and the gravity of their passing caused a
bubble to break away from Faerie. I have no idea.
As I have said, within Irknaan’s palace there may be a Gate to the Abyss. But this
combination of shadow and taint has been owned by the Loquai, and others – such as the
Redcap who lives four miles yonder.”
“And the chimera,” Mostin rasped, still suffering from dehydration. “As I see it, we are
dealing with a notoriously tricky group of creatures who have been rendered even trickier
by the local conditions.
They will be difficult, at best. How many of them can invoke horrid wiltings, for
example? Shomei indicated that their leaders may possess as much magical potency as she
and I. If one factors in control of the umbral and demonic energies, we may be heavily
outmatched in terms of sheer power, although not in utility and versatility. And there is
another question – the passage of time here is altered, so do we retreat to Wyre in order to
prepare, or do we take advantage of the natural empowerment of magic that Afqithan
offers? We need to weigh the benefits of the two options.”
“We can do both,” Shomei said. “I will return to the Prime – although not to Wyre – and
perform my conjurations. A day here is a week there – and I can accomplish a great deal in
a week. I assume that areas of Shadow which are coterminous with Afqithan also suffer
from the temporal dilation – Shadow will reflect the local conditions on any plane it
touches. As far as the power of the Loquai is concerned, I agree that we must tread
carefully: the one thing to remember is that many Sidhe focus on
enchantments – the mind blanks are likely to prove useful in that regard.”
Mostin grumbled, and shook his head. “All it takes is for each of them to know just one
evocation, and we’re in trouble. They’re bards and sorcerers, and they can drop as many
empowered maximized
whatevers on us as they like. And there is no spell that effectively protects against horrid
wilting without negating our own effectiveness.”
Shomei nodded. “It was never going to be easy. And it’s enervations that I’m afraid of.”
Eadric groaned. “This place is rapidly beginning to lose its charm. And if a week in Wyre
passes for
every day that we spend here, that is doubly concerning. And you speak of conjurations,
Shomei. Why does this give me a bad feeling, I wonder?”
“I admit that there may be a certain moral ambiguity – from your perspective, at least.”
“It’s not that I dislike you. It’s just that I don’t entirely trust you,” Eadric explained.
” Ahma, I am returning to the Prime. If you wish, you may accompany me, and we can
visit Morne, and you may confer with the Sela. If he instructs you to discontinue our
acquaintance…”
“He will not,” Eadric smiled grimly, “as you well know. I am both sanctioned and
expected to exercise my own judgement. Which is difficult,” he added wrily, “when I lack
the clarity of vision possessed by Oronthon’s proxy.”
Shomei laughed. ” Saizhan requires a great deal from its practitioners. It is ruthless and
uncompromising in its demand for self-perfection.”
“Your view is partially correct, but…” Eadric began.
Ortwin held up his hand. ” No philosophy,” he demanded. “It will only lead to
unhappiness, and one or both of you will end up upset or frustrated. We need to
concentrate on the matter in hand.”
“That sentiment is always true,” Nwm added wrily.
“We need to think to defense. Can we be attacked from Shadow?” Ortwin asked.
Mostin swallowed. “Probably,” he nodded.
“Can we do anything about it?” The Bard pressed.
“I need to think about that,” the Alienist sighed. “It depends on how accessible the Plane
is to the locals.”
“Very accessible,” Shomei said, looking slightly apologetic.
“Can they teleport in?” Ortwin asked.
Mostin grimaced. “When they have determined our position – which shouldn’t be too
long, when we reveal our gaudy tents – that will be a possibility, I suppose.”
“I will hallow this area,” Nwm said, “and will tie it to a dimensional anchor that Mostin
will cast. We have done something similar before, if you recall. We will designate those
currently present as being unaffected by the anchor. Hallowed ground will also allow me
to repair the long-term damage from the chimera’s attack.”
“Very inventive,” Shomei nodded approvingly.
“In which case,” Mostin grumbled, “someone will need to procure the relevant herbs and
oils. Which means I need to return to Morne, I suppose.”
“I will go to Magathei,” Iua offered. “You can buy anything and everything there.”
“Hallowed ground here will be rather a giveaway, don’t you think?” Ortwin asked.
“Only if they think to look for it,” Nwm replied. “And, let’s face it, would you?”
Ortwin grinned.
Eadric sighed. ” If. If. If. There are too many ifs for my liking.”
“Relax, Ed,” Ortwin said. “I’ve pulled off bigger lies than this one before.”
“Have you?” Eadric asked. “Which ones?”
“My memory fails me,” Ortwin replied.
**
After Shomei had departed and Iua had returned from a brief excursion to Magathei on the
Plane of Air, Nwm hallowed the hilltop in a long rite, until it became an island of brighter
Green amidst a sea of long shadows.
“Where is Ortwin?” Iua asked Mostin, as the Alienist sat outside one of the smaller tents.
Half of his attention was directed to Nufrut, whose disembodied head leered from out of
her crystal prison, and half was focused on Nwm, who had begun to pace in a circle,
mumbling the spell.
“He is reconnoitering,” Mostin said distractedly. “He is invisible and flying, so he will be
quite safe from casual observation. Sem has accompanied him – hopefully the avian’s eyes
should see anything
before it or they see him. Barring sidhe hunting parties, of course.” The word avian was
spoken with ill-concealed loathing.
Iua raised an eyebrow, and made an educated guess as to where Ortwin’s ‘reconnoitering’
had taken
him.
Mostin ignored her and returned his attention to Nufrut, whose face seemed to be caught
in a continual scowl.
“What can you tell me of Irknaan, o happy one?” Mostin asked drily.
“What do you wish to know?” The Marilith pouted.
“The means by which his connection with your master is maintained; the number and
disposition of his forces; the extent of his personal magical power; his resources – does he,
for example, possess any rarities which might interest me? Any information, in fact, that I
might have overlooked which may prove useful.”
“These questions are late in coming,” Nufrut observed.
“I know or can guess the answers to most in broad terms, but now is the time for
specifics,” Mostin replied. “Is there an Abyssal gate within his fortress?”
“Yes,” Nufrut answered grumpily.
“If you are more forthcoming, your incarceration will be briefer!”
“That is not in our agreement,” the Marilith objected.
“Nor is your reticence or dissembling,” Mostin replied. “I assume that the gate is a
permanent, two-way portal?”
“It is periodic.”
“And the length and regularity of its period?”
“This information is not known to me,” Nufrut replied.
“I should remind you that even a single lie will render our agreement void, and you will
remain in your sphere for the rest of your days. Do I need to ask the Ahma over? The Eye
of Palamabron penetrates all counterfeits, they say.”
“A period of twenty-four hours springs to mind for some reason,” Nufrut said. “Although I
may be thinking of another gate entirely.”
“Would that be twenty-four hours here, or in the Abyss?” Mostin asked archly.
“I suppose it would be here,” the Marilith said sourly.
“And it opens in Zelatar, I expect.”
“That would certainly be logical,” Nufrut conceded.
“Does it open in Zelatar, Nufrut?”
“Yes,” the Demoness answered.
“Just making sure,” Mostin said acidly. “How long does the portal remain open, in local
time, Nufrut.
Try to be precise.”
“Three hours, twenty-five minutes and forty-two seconds,” the Demoness said
sarcastically.
“Thank-you,” Mostin said with dry condescension. “That wasn’t so hard, was it? Are there
other gates, other than the one within Irknaan’s stronghold?”
“There are many gates in Afqithan to many worlds,” Nufrut answered.
“Are there others to Zelatar?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“To other regions of the Abyss?”
“Perhaps. If there are, I am not privy to them.”
“Good,” Mostin sighed, finally feeling that he was making headway. “Now let’s speak of
Irknaan himself. He reveres your master, as do many of the Loquai. What does he gain in
reward for his
loyalty?”
“Power, you fool,” Nufrut sneered.
“More specifically, please. And you may dispense with the insults, they do not make me
sympathetic to your plight.”
“Prince Gra….”
“Hup!” Mostin interrupted. “You will henceforth refer to him as my master, if you please.”
Nufrut raised an eyebrow in an expression of amusement. “If you are concerned about him
hearing his name, bear in mind how many billions say it every day in a billion worlds.”
“Nonetheless, I would prefer not to take the risk. Most of those billions are not high on his
list of
‘people to be dealt with.’ As I was asking, what does Irknaan receive as a boon from your
master?”
“Irknaan is particularly favoured. The Loquai in general enjoy the attentions of succubi –
or incubi –
depending on their gender and preference. They have learned the secret language. They
have demonic allies and servants. My master and his minions have taught them many arts
– Irknaan most of all.”
“And they crave erotic sensation above all else?”
“All sensation is erotic if you learn how to experience it,” Nufrut answered.
“We can engage in such philosophical speculation at another time, Nufrut. For the time
being, let us confine ourselves to Irknaan. Which arts do you speak of?”
“Efficacious magic, Mostin. Violated magic.”
“And in return, what has the Prince received? How far does Irknaan’s loyalty extend? Are
there Loquai within the Lord of Azzagrat’s retinue? Do they pay him tribute?”
“There are sidhe within his armies, yes. Many are capable warriors. Your encounter with
Xerulko* is testament to my master’s eclecticism.”
“How many Loquai dwell within Irknaan’s fortress?” Mostin persisted.
“Perhaps two hundred.”
Inwardly, Mostin groaned. “And the location and disposition of his principal vassals
within Afqithan?”
“They are numerous,” Nufrut answered.
“Other fortresses of Loquai, or other creatures who support him,” Mostin said, somewhat
exasperated.
“Yytryn, a powerful Duke, two hundred miles to the northeast of here; the Queen
Menicau; the Lamia Jetheeg; Threxu, the Wasted Nymph; King Samodoquol; the Wyrm
Crosod…”
“A Wyrm? Of what kind?”
“A black one. He often flies to converse with Irknaan.”
Mostin recalled the very first time that he had looked through his mirror with Shomei into
this twisted world. Something huge had passed across the stars in the distance. It could
have been a dragon, I suppose, he thought.
“And Crosod has embraced the umbral taint, no doubt?”
“Most certainly,” Nufrut smiled.
“And within Irknaan’s fortress: are there other individuals who might pose a particular
threat to us, beside the king himself?”
“His queen and consort, Nhura. His captain, Shupthul. He is served by an elite guard who
may be more than a match for your puny gang. Fiendish umbral griffons, maybe a dozen
succubi and several
glabrezu at any one time. Who knows, Mostin – perhaps even a kelvezu or two?”
“You seem to be enjoying this.”
“I must take my recreation when it presents itself to me. I am not equipped to go and find
it myself.”
“Nhura is a succubus, I assume?”
“No, indeed,” Nufrut smiled wickedly. “Nhura is a rare creature indeed. She was once a
Lillend.”
Mostin’s stomach tightened in a knot.
Eadric spent much of the day, if it was a day – there was neither sun nor moon to mark the
passage of time – in prayer and contemplation, still unaccustomed to his sidhe form. He
meditated upon their
current predicament, and the absurdity of it struck him: they were in a foreign world, full
of potent magic, where taint was rampant, and with no overarching plan or purpose. As
usual, Ortwin didn’t
seem to be taking things very seriously, and Shomei was a nagging source of concern.
Penetrating her motives was impossible. Mostin seemed to trust her, but Mostin’s
perspective was more skewed than
anyone else that Eadric knew, and was little cause for comfort.
Thank heaven for Nwm, he thought, as he emerged from his reverie. The Druid still paced,
chanting quietly under his breath. Iua practiced impossibly complex maneuvers nearby.
As Mostin approached him, the Paladin resigned himself to the inevitable complications
that the
Alienist always managed to find. His demonic visage was distinctly unsettling.
“I have good news and bad news: which would you first prefer?” Mostin casually swung
the globe containing Nufrut’s head.
“I would rather not hear the bad news at all,” Eadric replied.
“Then I will tell you the good news: Nufrut is a veritable mine of information! Shomei
was inspired when she suggested her name.”
“I was an ambassador to many worlds, you imbecile! What do you expect?” The
Demoness snapped from her prison.
Mostin opened his portable hole and dropped her inside. “She is, however, somewhat
irascible, and is prone to petulance.”
“What other good news is there?” Eadric asked.
“None,” Mostin admitted. He proceeded to recount all that he had learned, drinking deeply
from a waterskin at regular intervals.
“I do not like umbral fiendish black wyrms,” Eadric moaned. “This is a disturbing
development.”
“I am in agreement,” Mostin nodded, “but we can rest assured that such a creature will
register in Nwm’s mind long before it finds us.”
“If he is looking,” Eadric added.
“Nwm immerses himself in the Green on a fairly regular basis, so I have no concerns
there. Irknaan sounds well entrenched, however: finding any to oppose him is likely to be
difficult.”
“This is no revelation,” Eadric sighed. “There are those here which the taint has not
touched, according to Nwm. They may be potential allies.”
“Pixies and Grigs?” Mostin laughed hoarsely. “Dryads? Satyrs? Nymphs and Nereids?
Squeakers, Buckawns and Wood Gnomes? You cannot be serious! Even if these were
normal Sidhe that we were dealing with, Eadric, that would be an ill-advised course of
action. The Loquai are not such easy
targets.”
“Don’t let Ortwin hear you speaking thus,” Iua interrupted, “he is, after all, King of the
Feys in Wyre.”
“Any fool can make that claim, and I’m sure he’s not the only one to covet that title,”
Mostin said drily.
“Where is he, anyway?”
Iua drew a dagger from her boot. “About now,” she said coolly, “I expect he is discovering
whether his attempt to seduce one, or perhaps all, of the three Nereids who live yonder has
been successful.”
Left-handed, she hurled the blade with strength and precision at Lorochtoh’s head, where
it sank into the skull between the dead chimera’s glazed draconic eyes.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 04-29-2002
The succubus Lehurze – who regarded herself as an occasional ally of Graz’zt, rather than
his abject thrall – adjusted her visage to her satisfaction before pressing the face of the
cubic gate which was keyed to Afqithan. She was unwilling to wait for two days until the
portal opened, and even more loath to ask her Abyssal master to expedite her transit: the
Prince’s mood had been particularly dark and violent of late. This was no special cause for
concern in and of itself, but neither was he known for granting boons at such times. And
had he been reminded of her, and chosen to slake his lust upon her instead, she feared that
it may have resulted in her demise – over the aeons, more than a few succubi had been
annihilated during or after the act of passion, whether or not they had begged a favour
from him. Best not to draw attention to herself, she thought.
Lehurze played a dangerous game. Graz’zt knew that she was on amicable terms with
Pazuzu, but was
content to allow her to pass tidbits of information to agents of the Aerial Prince as long as
the flow back towards the Lord of Azzagrat was greater in both volume and quality.
Demons generally expected
disloyalty and duplicity, and, in fact, became suspicious when it seemed absent.
Graz’zt also knew that Lehurze was still close in the confidence of his former ally and
paramour,
Soneillon – the abstruse and enigmatic succubus whose dark designs may have rivaled
even his own.
During their aeon-long association, Soneillon had initiated a number of demons nominally
loyal to
Graz’zt into her clique of followers, of whom Lehurze was one. Lehurze had seized every
shred of
knowledge which was presented to her, and developed a sorcerous talent of some ability –
which she carefully hid from those around her. Lehurze was shrewd enough to appear to
reveal the majority of her findings regarding Soneillon to one of Graz’zt’s agents – a
Glabrezu named Shonchuk – who paid her handsomely for her information. She knew that
Shonchuk was retained directly by Graz’zt – despite the fact that the other demon
masqueraded as an informant for one of the Dark Prince’s frequent
supporters, Lord Kostchtchie.
Lehurze was therefore surprised when events unfolded as they did. Irknaan, one of the
warped sidhe kings from Afqithan, had issued the Nalfeshnee Maihodrot a sending,
requesting information on a kelvezu and a group of rogue sidhe who had entered his
realm. Maihodrot, the demon who oversaw
events in Afqithan and with whom Lehurze at times found collaboration beneficial, had
intimated that unusual events might be passing in the little demiplane. Upon further
probing he had suggested that Irknaan – whose name was known to Lehurze – might be
concerned that Prince Graz’zt bore him some
unknown enmity. Lehurze was silent when quizzed by the other demon – her mind
working furiously,
as she tried to piece together possible scenarios. Many things were known to her, and she
was privy to the plots of a number of Abyssal magnates.
Irknaan, she knew, had genuine cause for concern: if Graz’zt had discovered that the
Loquai were also sponsored by the demoness Rhyxali, he may have acted to suppress the
potential rivalry. Or he may
have known for some time, and determined that things had reached a critical juncture. Her
curiosity was piqued. Nonetheless, the succubus would have ignored the entreaty, had it
not been for a quasit dispatched from her erstwhile mistress in Throile – the disputed
Abyssal jungle where Graz’zt and
Soneillon warred interminably with one another:
Inquire into Afqithan. A captured Devil has indicated that interesting events may be
transpiring there.
Shomei the Infernal is somehow involved.
Never one to believe in coincidence, Lehurze had slain the quasit without a moment’s
thought, and
approached Maihodrot again. After indulging the Nalfeshnee’s violent desires, she had
secured the
temporary use of the cubic gate which Maihodrot used to access Afqithan and a number of
other worlds which he was charged with supervising. Unaware of the greater patterns
which were moving, but
nonetheless suspicious of the motives of the succubus, Maihodrot agreed to allow Lehurze
to act in his stead – confident that he could extract at least a few scraps of gossip from her
upon her return. From the Nalfeshnee’s perspective, Afqithan was a tedious and complex
world, and he was wise enough to
know that he lacked the guile necessary to wheedle anything substantive from Irknaan.
As she stepped through the gate, Lehurze felt a frisson of excitement: as much as she felt
at home amid the tortuous intrigues of Azzagrat, occasional escape from the place, if
merely to a pocket Faerie, was always desirable.
**
Iua was only partially correct in her suspicions regarding Ortwin. The polymorphed and
invisible Satyr had made his roundabout way to the nereids’ pool, where he sat upon a
rock and watched the three feys cavort happily in the water. Those with eyes to see would
have observed an inane grin of huge
proportions fixed onto his face.
After an unknown time had elapsed – it may have been minutes or hours – and seeing no
abatement to the nereids’ antics, Ortwin removed his pipes from his belt and began a
haunting melody of such
enormous poignancy that, had he had tear ducts, Sem – who sat upon a nearby branch –
would have
begun to weep. The water-nymphs stopped abruptly, seized their shawls from the bank of
the pool, and vanished into its depths.
Ortwin raised an invisible eyebrow, and continued to play – the tempo and mood of his
music changing to become lighter and less melancholy, although still graced with a
sweetness and depth which belied his own fickle and superficial nature. He concluded the
tune, and waited.
And waited.
Ortwin frowned, and replaced his pipes at his belt. He pulled his small harp from its case
on his back, and struck up another tune – this time accompanying the music with a voice
which he hardly
recognized as his own. Sidhe vocal chords had a smoothness he was unfamiliar with. He
measured the passage of time by the songs that he played, and perhaps a further half hour
had elapsed before he sighed and ceased his music. He waited again, glancing up at the
eagle – who appeared to have dozed off. He picked up a stick and threw it at the bird, who
screeched indignantly.
“Come on,” Ortwin picked himself up. “We’re going.”
“Better luck next time,” Sem replied sarcastically.
“You are no Loquai,” a honeyed voice said from the water at his feet. “And you play the
pipes passably
well for a sidhe – did a satyr teach you?”
Ortwin started, and looked down to observe only his own reflection in the water. He
smiled ironically –
apparently the invisibility had worn off at some time during his performance.
” Passably well? I am a satyr, lady,” he said with quickly recovered charm. “I am Ortwin
the Great, King of the Feys of Wyre and the Northern World – not your world, I hasten to
add. I am currently in disguise.”
“That is an implausible tale.”
“But nonetheless true,” Ortwin answered, surprised that less than fifty percent of his claim
was a lie.
“And why are you here by our pool, ‘King’ Ortwin?”
“I have lustful urges,” he admitted, “but that is not the only reason why I’m here. I am
looking for information. What can you tell me of the Loquai?”
“Now you make me suspicious that you are a spy,” the voice replied with acid humour.
“Please understand that I mean you no harm,” Ortwin insisted. “If I had wished to, I could
have stolen all of your shawls and forced you into submitting to all manner of lewd acts,
and into divulging
whatever I wished to know. I am looking for allies. I am the enemy of Irknaan, and his
sponsors, and of the umbral bleed, and the taint which lies upon this place. Can you help
me?”
“I cannot,” the voice replied. “Now begone!”
“What is your name?” the Bard asked. But there was no response. She had fled.
Ortwin cursed.
**
Mostin watched as Nwm made his final invocations on the hilltop. “If you did that every
day for ten thousand years, you might make a small impression on this place,” Mostin
scoffed, as he cast a dimensional anchor.
Nwm ignored him, and repaired the damage caused by the violated horrid wilting that they
had sustained. He waited until Mostin apologized before attending to his needs: in the
meantime, the
Alienist had consumed several gallons of water in his unquenchable thirst.
When Shomei returned, it was in the company of four ecalypses that she had enlisted as
steeds – six-legged horses native to Shadow. Mostin guessed that the Infernalist had struck
deals with other
creatures, although Shomei did not mention them, and the Alienist did not press her: she
looked
exhausted, itself an indicator that she had busied herself with summonings and callings.
To Eadric, Iua and Nwm, the witch handed small vials containing a transparent liquid
which smelled vaguely acidic.
“Consume these,” she instructed, sighing.
Eadric looked suspicious.
“They will allow you to master the beasts – currently, they are charmed, but you need to
bond with them. The draught will simply allow you to stay on them while you break them.
Ecalypses are
notoriously willful.”
“Where did you procure these potions?” The Paladin asked. The flasks had a faint aura of
taint which clung to them.
“Abriymoch,” Shomei grimaced. “But they were not made in the Hells, Ahma, only
purchased there –
with some difficulty, I might add.”
“Does every choice that you present to me compromise my principles and threaten to
erode my
integrity?”
“That is for you to decide.”
“And why do you inconvenience yourself for us to such an extent? Do you require
payment for your services?”
“No,” she said flatly. “And my debt to Nwm is still unsettled: I would have died had he not
intervened.”
“There is no debt,” the Druid said easily.
“Yes,” she replied, “there is.”
Shomei opened yet another magnificent mansion to corral both the ecalypses and the two
remaining nightmares – now that the hilltop itself was hallowed, they could not freely
tread there.
“Where is Ortwin?” Shomei asked.
“He is reconnoitering,” Mostin replied, avoiding Iua’s gaze.
“Is he warded?”
“Somewhat,” the Alienist answered.
Shomei sighed. “We need to be more careful, Mostin. One of my devils is missing.”
Mostin raised an eyebrow. “Which one?”
“One of the erinyes, named Aoloz. She was the one I dispatched to Throile.”
“This complicates matters,” Mostin said drily.
**
Lehurze arrived in Afqithan only moments after Ortwin had begun his flight back to the
encampment, and immediately teleported to the gates of Irknaan’s palace. She was granted
an audience with the King in private, and was greeted by his customary mixture of
inscrutability and condescension. Their
exchange was civil, as each probed the other for possible weaknesses. For the most part,
Lehurze
remained demure, sensing the power of the dark perception that the sidhe possessed – he
was ancient, and as cunning as an Abyssal Lord, and she knew that she must tread
carefully. Potency and command flowed effortlessly from him, but seemed to find no
purchase on her – Lehurze had long since mastered the art of utter passivity, and
transformed it into an effective tool for domination. She absorbed all.
Soneillon had taught her well.
When the succubus casually mentioned the demoness Rhyxali, she was unsure whether
she caught the
merest flicker in Irknaan’s impenetrable gaze. She smiled inwardly, as she knew now that
the King’s thoughts would be turning rapidly, seeking to make connections and attempting
to place her within the larger picture.
Lehurze made no mention of the kelvezu, nor of the sidhe hunting party, until Irknaan
broached the subject at the gruesome and shadowy revel which was held later that
evening. Nine other succubi were present – compacted to Loquai nobles of varying station
– as well as the glabrezu Tebdeluz and Narab, advisors and lovers to Nhura, Irknaan’s
beautiful, sinuous, and deadly consort. The presence of Lehurze was a cause for doubt
amongst the other demons – the succubus had a reputation for intricate and
tangled schemes in Azzagrat, and they, themselves, suddenly felt under scrutiny. Lehurze
delighted in the fear that she evoked, and many of the lesser sidhe to whom she spoke,
despite their subtlety and guile, were no match for her shrewd and circuitous
interrogations.
Irknaan watched her as she mingled. He was confident that he had gauged her correctly:
here was one with the ruthless determination and ambition typical of her kind, but also
with the skill and patience to actualize her goals – a much more valuable commodity.
After their satiation of blood, and grim
pleasure, and exquisite pain, Irknaan’s court retired for meditation or private indulgence.
The King and Queen – the latter flanked by the hulking presence of the two glabrezu –
remained and
questioned Lehurze, who seemed unfazed by the penetrating gazes of the two huge
demons. All regarded each other with mutual distrust and cynicism, and beneath an
opaque veneer of civility and etiquette, deals were struck, information was exchanged, and
secrets were alluded to.
But when Shupthul entered at a late hour with his report, none could have expected the
news that he brought with him. He bowed before Irknaan, Nhura, and their guest.
“My Lord and Lady, there are devils at the gate. They seek an audience.”
The King’s eyes widened in an uncharacteristic display of surprise. “Their number,
arrangement and purpose?” He asked.
“There are thirteen of them, Lord. Their purpose they would not divulge. Ten are
Narzugons who wear many honours and decorations.”
“And the three remaining?”
“Furcas, Murmuur and Titivilus, my Lord. Infernal nobility.”
Irknaan turned to Lehurze. “Perhaps you possess some insight into the presence of Devils
in my realm?” He asked acidly.
“I have no more information than you,” the Succubus lied, as she considered Soneillon’s
mention of Shomei.
The King’s eyes narrowed, and he pondered briefly. “Tell them to return in a day,” he
instructed Shupthul. “I am disinclined to deal with them presently.”
“Offending them too much may be unwise,” Nhura said, “at least until we discover their
purpose. We should send them a token, and grant them the privilege to hunt, at least. There
may be others in their wake.”
Irknaan gave a cursory nod. Thirteen devils – even ten knights and three Dukes of Hell –
were no
particular threat to him in his own fortress, but he was nonetheless cautious. And like
Lehurze, King Irknaan did not believe in coincidence. The image of the unknown sidhe
hunting party was still fresh in his mind.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 05-05-2003
Iua had sat largely quiet during the discussions, her emotions churning rapidly, but
conscious of the inappropriateness of an untimely confrontation with Ortwin, who evinced
his usual swagger and
nonchalance.
When the Bard had recounted his encounter with the nereids – speaking no falsehood, but
leaving
sufficient room for all kinds of inference – she had sighed inwardly, aware of his capacity
for gross insensitivity. Mostin had fidgeted uncomfortably, and Nwm had kept his eyes
diplomatically lowered.
Eadric, as always, had retained an open and accommodating expression which did not suit
his current sidhe features. The duelist was glad that he would be wearing a helm –
subterfuge was not one of the Paladin’s strong points. Subtlety, and reading others’ moods,
however, could be.
“You should be cautious of roaming too far afield,” Eadric said vaguely to Ortwin. “It may
have unforeseen consequences.”
Ortwin squinted, unsure of the Paladin’s meaning.
“It is important to maintain the group’s cohesion and unity of purpose,” Eadric continued
obliquely.
“And one of us alone is too easy a target – invisibility is no protection against the sidhe, or
a passing dragon, for that matter. Forays should be made in pairs – preferably in the
company of a spellcaster – in case a speedy retreat is necessary.”
“Good idea,” Ortwin nodded. “Perhaps Nwm should come next time. You like nereids,
don’t you Nwm?”
“I am reluctant to categorize my feelings towards an entire race of creatures in such simple
terms,”
Nwm replied evasively.
“Nonsense,” Ortwin said archly. “When you were younger, Nwm…”
“Alas, I am no longer young,” the Druid interrupted.
“But when you were,” Ortwin persisted blithely, “you frolicked with nymphs and dryads
and nereids and sirines with the best of them. You were never stuffy, like Ed is.”
“Nor was I as selfish and hedonistic as you,” Nwm snapped. “Just because I don’t have
Eadric’s…”
“Hang-ups?” Ortwin suggested.
” Perspective,” Nwm continued. “Bah! What’s the use? You wouldn’t know what sacred
meant if the Goddess pissed in your face.”
Shomei shot Mostin an inquiring look.
Yes, it’s usually like this, was the Alienist’s unvoiced reply.
The Infernalist clicked her fingers. “Tactics,” she said.
**
Mostin’s intellect was amplified to a level he had never before experienced, and his mind
was awash with powerful spells. They seemed to compete for space, and threatened to
spill over. Almost every one of his higher valences was occupied – four more castings of
mind blank had actually relieved the pressure on his consciousness.*
Every spell – arcane and divine – that the party possessed would be deployed to maximum
effect. They had spent over an hour discussing strategy in an attempt to coordinate their
resources. Eadric would be contributing death wards, and even Ortwin’s paltry collection
of spells would be used in order to free up some of Shomei’s lower valences.
The Alienist had prepared gate, prismatic sphere, Mordenkainen’s disjunction, time stop,
reality maelstrom; a chained phantasmal killer, a chained polymorph other, five
disintegrates, and four sonically substituted fire orbs – he was intent on not having the
targets slide out of the way again, as the chimera had done. He had prepared a pair of
dimensional anchors in case they ran into anything that they didn’t want to get away, and
two banishments in case they encountered anything that they did want to go away. He had
prepared an insanity spell, his usual utility spells and divinations, and for his summoning
he favoured pseudoimmoths – the idea being to conjure six or seven of them, and then
ordering them to begin a magical barrage of their own. He had also prepared a chained
flesh to stone spell – a tactic he had never before employed. He held a plane shift in
reserve in case a speedy retreat was necessary.
Aside from two squamous pulses and a finger of death in the event that they met the
dragon, Nwm would be acting primarily in a support role and providing a variety of
wards, augmentations, and
healing spells. Shomei was split between offense, defense and general utility, and would
be deploying extended stoneskins and doubly empowered endurances – further augmented
by the ambient magic –
and two effulgent epurations, to limit the power of the initial assault if it came. She had a
host of minor buffs, numerous abjurations and several powerful conjurations prepared –
power word stun, maze and gate. She boasted a horrid wilting which would be empowered
through her rod and further magnified –
to truly stellar proportions – by the enhanced magic of the plane.
“If you thought that the chimera’s attack was bad,” she said to Mostin, “you should wait
until you see this one – if I have a chance to get it off.”
“What is an effulgent epuration?” Eadric asked.
“You will see,” Shomei half-smiled.
Mostin turned greedily to the Infernalist. “Perhaps that spell is tradeable?”
Shomei shrugged. “Maybe. Hopefully, it will not come to blows in any case – one of my
highest valences will be invested in Ortwin. His charm is what stands between us and an
unpleasant situation.”
“And I assume that your gate would be to bring devils here?” Eadric sighed.
“Not necessarily,” Shomei replied. “I am not above calling on other entities if required.”
“And yours, Mostin?” The Paladin inquired.
“It’s a surprise,” Mostin said, displaying a demonic grin.
Shomei shot him a glance filled with trepidation, before summoning a succubus and
dispatching it to Irknaan’s fortress.
In its hand, it held a cordial invitation to hunt, from Duke Rhalid and his consort, the
Auran Princess, Iua.
The screen which protected the encampment was lifted, and the hilltop – with its
collection of tents –
suddenly became visible.
**
Irknaan inwardly scowled, although his face betrayed no expression of his irritation. He
stared from atop his tallest tower, a hundred fathoms above the base of the rock pinnacle
upon which his castle was built.
The edifice, which had appeared at some stage in the past few hours, was less than a mile
from his gates. Needle-sharp, black, lusterless and seemingly unpierced by any door or
window, it vied for
dominion of the sky with his own fortress.
Irknaan briefly considered whether allowing the devils into his own court may have been
wiser than forcing them to ‘make camp’ outside of the walls. The infernal tower was,
predictably, impervious to divinations of all kinds. Irknaan brooded about what was
transpiring inside: they had opened at least one gate, as testified by the presence of sharp-
eyed spined devils, in tireless flight about the place. And spinugons were the least of his
concerns.
The three Dukes – technically one Duke, one Count and a Nuncio – who were,
presumably, still
closeted within the tower somewhere, had not shown themselves since Irknaan’s denial of
an audience.
Their actions, whilst provocative, were not entirely unexpected, and a good deal of
posturing could be expected on both sides before any real communication of intent or
purpose occurred.
Duke Murmuur, Irknaan knew, was the senior member of the diabolic envoy, although in
guile and
subtlety both Furcas and Titivilus no doubt outshone him. Whilst Murmuur was a
relatively
straightforward opponent – albeit a fierce and capable warrior – the others, both vassals of
Dispater, were intellectuals without peer amongst the middle-ranking aristocracy. The
Narzugons – Knights of the Order of the Fly – were Murmuur’s retainers, and were
potentially dangerous opponents, although Irknaan’s own bodyguards were likely a match
for them.
In any case, Irknaan considered ironically, if the Lords of Dis or Malbolge really want this
place, what can I do to stop them?
Abruptly, Lehurze appeared behind him. Her words were a gamble.
“Will you petition Rhyxali for aid? Or Graz’zt?”
The King’s face remained emotionless. “You presume a great deal for one who has been
here less than a day.”
“I sometimes favour speed and efficiency of purpose over diplomacy,” the Succubus
replied.
Irknaan gestured briefly, and Lehurze was held with a look of astonishment upon her face.
Suddenly, pain more intense than she had experienced in a aeon overwhelmed her. Her
skin began to peel off in strips from body and her spirit screamed, but her mouth –
clenched and unmoving – was incapable of
vocalizing.
Irknaan waited until she was almost dead before he released her. Lehurze collapsed upon
the marble flags of the rooftop, ichor pouring from her ruptured form. She lashed out at
him with a power word, but space rippled around him and the syllables evaporated
impotently.
He held her again. “You’ll have to do better than that,” he said. “You’re one of Soneillon’s
whores, aren’t you?”
I was.
“And whom do you serve now?”
Myself.
“But you still remain in communication with your former mistress?”
Amongst others. I have many contacts.
“I think that it is time that you were honest with me,” King Irknaan smiled thinly.
There are a number of demons whom I can sue for help.
But at what cost? Irknaan mused. His grip on Afqithan, although relatively solid, would
rapidly become tenuous if powerful demons with unknown agendas began appearing.
More powerful demons with unknown agendas, he considered, as he observed Lehurze.
“What do you suggest, Lehurze?” He released her again, and her form became limp. She
coughed dark bile.
“An alliance, whilst it remains to our mutual benefit.”
“If you seek to supplant Nhura, then I would warn you: she is deadly. Do you have designs
on
Afqithan?”
“Every succubus desires to be a queen, Irknaan.”
He had read her accurately – perhaps more accurately than she had read herself. Arcanists
who came to Afqithan always reacted the same way. Whatever their initial view of the
little demiplane – a parochial backwater, inward-looking and insignificant – they rapidly
became enamoured.
The exhilaration of spellcasting was too much to resist. The magical power which coursed
through
everything. The effortless joy of manifesting. The dark, brooding beauty of the place.
A feeling of enormous poignancy threatened to overcome Irknaan. He would rather die a
thousand
times than surrender his kingdom to any other.
“I do not trust you one iota,” he said to her.
“That is wise,” she replied.
So he laid a geas on her, and bound her to him, which suited Lehurze well enough.
Passivity was her oldest friend, and her greatest ally.
*Mostin rarely, if ever, fills every spell slot in the morning, preferring the flexibility of a
quick fifteen or thirty minutes to cram another spell if required. He is usually at around
two-thirds capacity. That morning, he was fully primed, and had an intelligence of 40 (he
was under the effect of a trebly
empowered fox’s cunning, further empowered and maximized by the magical trait of the
plane): save DCs against his spells were as high as he could get them. He had just reached
20th level, and was
relishing the power that it afforded: if it came to blows, the general tactic was to deploy
fortitude-targeting spells, negating the evasion ability of the umbral feys and
simultaneously forcing their weakest save.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 05-27-2003
This post demonstrates how obscenely overpowered time stop is when it is cast in
Afqithan, and why I will never again allow its effects to stack with haste; how things like
‘EL26’ and ‘CR22’ in fact mean diddly-squat; and how, what the DM thinks are
overwhelming numbers - designed to force compliance
or retreat from the players - are, in fact, nothing more than a minor annoyance.
The title of this update is therefore devoted to not just the theoretical possibilities that a
spell offers -
which had been long known - but to actually putting it into practice for the first time.
Mostin Discovers Time Stop
**
Crosod’s immense pinions powered him forward at unnatural speed, and his sinuous body
– which
seemed to devour all light and belch it forth again as a cloying darkness – shivered with
potency as space parted around him. Within his ebon form his eyes were lidless voids,
filled with age, and
wisdom, and infinite malice. Clinging to his foreleg, perched above his razor-sharp talons
and exalting in the wind as it rushed over her was Threxu, the Wasted Nymph with whom,
at times, the Dragon
consorted. She was a lithe, supple shadow, whose delicate and beautiful form seemed
incapable of
performing the acts for which she had justly acquired her terrible reputation.
Below them, unaware of the passenger that he carried, wood-gnomes and sprites of every
kind
cowered, fearing that the slightest breath or movement would draw the Dragon to them.
Crosod
smelled them but had no interest in them – they offered little in the way of nourishment,
and there was no time for sport.
Threxu, however, was thirsty. She glanced greedily at the forest below her.
“Here!” She yelled at Crosod, and pointed. The Wyrm banked abruptly, his wings emitting
a thunderous crack which shook the treetops, before descending effortlessly to the forest
floor and crushing a tump which housed a dozen grigs and pixies.
Threxu leapt from his leg and sank to the ground, pressing her lips to the soft grass. She
drank
voraciously, and rapidly – although only temporarily – she satisfied her thirst.
As the pair took to the sky again and made their way towards Irknaan’s fortress at the
behest of their liege, the feys in the woods below wailed and cursed. Dryads wept in
desperation, in the sure
knowledge that, within a day, they, like their trees, and every other green thing within the
blighted swathe that Threxu had left, would be dead.
**
The unknown sidhe had returned, it appeared.
Irknaan had been unable to capture their messenger and interrogate her – a summoned
succubus –
before she vanished back to her Abyssal abode. His attempts to scry the group had been
unsuccessful, and clairvoyance of the locale that they described revealed only a collection
of tents, with no inhabitants or owners. Nearby, one of Lorochtoh’s heads sat upon a pike.
They were warded, the King knew. Possibly even mind blanked – and that would prove
awkward. His thoughts raced. Evidence of powerful spells had been left at the site where
the corpses of the
nightmares had been found, and the loss of four steeds had seemed to do little to diminish
their
effectiveness.
They were not Loquai, but they had followed the chimera to Shadow. They had chosen a
particularly
isolated locale, in a region unclaimed by any noble and with few inhabitants. One of them
at least possessed a magical ability which rivalled or even outstripped his own – the
pursuing scouts that he had sent after them after their initial appearance had heard sonic
detonations of great power. And the
succubi that Lorochtoh had summoned to deal with them had been dispatched with
distressing ease –
their charms apparently ineffective. And the kelvezu – where did it fit into the scheme of
things? A retainer? He reluctantly approached Nhura, whose knowledge and wisdom
regarding many things was
deeper than his.
“Have you heard of Duke Rhalid?” He asked.
“No,” she replied.
“An Auran Princess named Iua?”
She scowled. “The name is distantly familiar,” she replied.
“Take one of the succubi. Go first to Faerie, and make inquiries of this Duke. Spend no
more than an hour there. Go then to the Plane of Air. Find out what you can regarding Iua.
Return as speedily as you can.”
She squinted, and nodded curtly.
After the departure of the Lillend – if that was, in fact, something which Nhura could still
be called –
Irknaan called Shupthul to him and instructed his Captain carefully. Somewhat later,
Shupthul left the fortress in the company of the succubus Iemazai – his compacted
mistress, and one of the wilier
members of Irknaan’s court. They were accompanied by a dozen Loquai mounted on
tenebrous
griffons; the witch Koilimilou and her called and bound servitors – currently a trio of
Jariliths – as well as six quicklings of particularly evil aspect, and thirty hell-hounds.
Koilimilou – cantankerous and eccentric – was one that Irknaan seldom approached, as the
witch was dangerous and preferred her own company, or that of demons, to that of the
Loquai. Under threat of flensing however, she acquiesced to Irknaan’s demands, and
stirred herself from her reveries. She possessed a powerful item which, amongst other
things, would expedite the passage of the hunting
party. In the past, Irknaan had used it to wage war on his rivals – and only Koilimilou
could unlock it secrets.
Shupthul would make preliminary contact with the group of interlopers, and assess their
strengths and weaknesses – inviting them to the castle, if he deemed it appropriate.
Lehurze would attempt to reopen negotiations with the devils who were now entrenched
nearby – they had yet to declare their purpose.
In the meantime, Irknaan had ordered several of his most powerful vassals to attend him:
the Wyrm, the nymph Threxu, King Samodoquol with eighty knights, and Duke Ytryn
with thirty more.
After deliberating, Irknaan had yielded to his desire for demonic assistance, but reluctant
to directly embroil either Graz’zt or Rhyxali had, at the suggestion of Lehurze, scried
Soneillon in her abysm of pain and depravity.
Darkness.
“She is there,” Lehurze assured him, “and she knows you are watching.”
Irknaan issued a sending. The enigmatic demoness did not reply.
Irknaan brooded. Soneillon was less dangerous than either of his patrons, but dealing with
her still required considerable caution and a clear head. Although he trusted no-one – be
they ally, subject, thrall or open enemy – the King had millennia of experience in dealing
with some of the most devious and
manipulative entities in creation.
He inwardly hoped that it would be enough. Any sign of weakness would be exploited by
one or more
of his own servants or allies.
**
“Should we send another one?” Ortwin asked irritably, an hour after the succubus had
been summoned and dispatched to Irknaan’s fortress. “There’s still no reply.” He stood
tensely, arms folded, whilst the others sat nearby upon ecalypses and nightmares which
champed restlessly.
“He is no doubt machinating,” Mostin replied.
“In which case,” Nwm suggested, “we probably shouldn’t give him too long. In case he
prepares too well.”
More time passed. Nwm’s thoughts reached out in an attempt to discover perturbations in
the Green
nearby, but to no affect.
When they arrived, it was suddenly and without warning. They manifested at the base of
the hillock where the party had set their tents, outside of the dimensionally anchored area.
Shadowstuff swirled around them, gushing from the aperture through which they came,
before sinking slowly into the
ground. Ortwin immediately fell into character, resisting the urge to gape, and regretting
that he did not have time to quaff his philtre of glibness without drawing attention to
himself.
The Loquai were tall, elegant figures, their individual features rendered vague by the
umbral energies which had suffused them. They appeared as dark shades, clad in darker
armour and bearing lances,
bows and long swords; they sat upon black-winged monstrosities that would have been
griffons, had
they been possessed of more real matter and less shadowstuff and taint. Tiny motes of
sooty darkness darted about the riders: fiendish umbral quicklings, with only pinprick red
eyes to lend them semblance of shape and form. Hunting demons – Jariliths – prowled
amongst them, their maws full of sharp teeth.
Hell-hounds bayed around them.
Their leader wore a helm and breastplate of jet, although the captured twilight hinted at
other shades hidden within. Upon closer observation, his face – beautiful even for a sidhe
– seemed serene; delicate features revealed in a thousand shades of insubstantial grey. In
his left hand he carried a bow of impossible lightness, a slender dart nocked easily
between his long fingers.
“I am Shupthul,” he said in a soft voice. The words resonated, and seemed to hang in the
air like smoke after he had spoken. Behind him, an invisible sensor hung – Irknaan was
doubtless watching.
“I am Rhalid,” Ortwin replied, nodding politely. His eyes darted quickly over those others
present. A succubus – currently without wings, yet unmistakably demonic – although not a
threat, given their
mind blanked state. Twelve knights, akin to Shupthul but lacking, Ortwin suspected, the
magical gravity of their leader – whether in spells or enchanted items. And then he saw
her.
Beautifulohgodssheissobeautifulihaventeverseen…don ’t look at her…
Shades seemed to flash around her, but in her face was colour. Koilimilou was untouched
by the shadowstuff which invaded Afqithan, although she bore more than a hint of the
demonic.
Ortwin tore his eyes away from her, after they had rested the merest fraction of a second
too long. She stared impassively back at him.
“I am hunting,” Ortwin continued in a matter-of-fact way, his heart pounding silently. “I
assume your master received my message? Would he care to join us?”
“It is customary to pay one’s respects to a lord, before one engages in a hunt on his land,”
Shupthul said humorlessly.
“For which, I apologize,” Ortwin said, with what seemed like complete sincerity. “I
suspect we became over-excited, and neglected to observe the customary niceties. Please
convey my deep regret for any offense I might have caused.” The Bard removed his
diamond circlet, and casually offered it to Shupthul. “A token of good will to your King,”
he said openly.
Under his hood, Mostin raised an eyebrow.
Shupthul said nothing, but gestured – causing Shomei to immediately ready a spell in
preparation.
Instead, on his cue, one of the quicklings darted forwards to snatch the coronet, and
delivered it to Shupthul’s hand within the space of a heartbeat.
Abruptly, the Captain switched into another language – full of grating sound and harsh
syllables – and addressed Mostin. “What is your purpose?”
“That is no concern of yours,” Mostin replied, somewhat shocked at hearing the Abyssal
Tongue, but maintaining his composure.
Ortwin swallowed. This was not supposed to happen.
“Who is your master?” Shupthul continued.
“That…” Mostin began.
But Ortwin quickly realized that if he let this line of inquiry continue, then Mostin would
betray them –
although dishonest enough in his own mean way, the Alienist was not practiced in the art
of subterfuge.
“SILENCE!” Ortwin screamed at Mostin, “how dare you speak? My apologies,
Shupthul,” he continued in Sylvan, seeming to master himself, “but this demon is
compacted to me. He may speak only with my approval, and currently I do not grant it.”
Shupthul sat silently. Ortwin hoped that the Captain was already developing a set of
complex
misconceptions.
“Allow me to introduce the rest of my companions,” Ortwin continued nonchalantly,
attempting to divert attention before more questions were asked about Mostin. “My
consort, Iua; the witch, Aotheen,”
the Bard waved a dismissive hand towards Shomei; “my counsellor, Jhondrosokaur,” at
which Nwm nodded gravely; “Munhulmurliom the Dour,” Ortwin remembered the name
of an awakened oak tree that he had once encountered and randomly bestowed it upon
Eadric; “and the demon Erizren. We are here to hunt, and although our arrival was not
intentional, the quarry here present some interesting challenges.”
“Afqithan,” it was the female sidhe who spoke, the name rolling from her tongue and
echoing in Ortwin’s mind. Aaf-kee-thaan. “This place is called Afqithan. Tell me, Duke
Rhalid, does it strike you as an unusual coincidence – given your accidental arrival here –
that of all the places that you might have appeared in this wide realm, by lucky
happenstance your gate opened in the airs above King Irknaan’s fastness?” The words
duke and accidental bore the slightest hint of irony.
“If it were coincidence,” Ortwin quickly dissembled, “then I would call it lucky.” His
charm was effortless. “But our means of transportation is unconventional – we are drawn
inexorably to existing portals and loci of power, siphoning a fraction of their energy in
order to expedite translation. I can only assume that such a focus exists within your King’s
walls?” It was a bold riposte, which elicited
another question.
“Indeed? I would be fascinated to inspect such a device, if it exists. Will you show it to
me?”
“I regret that the power exists within Aotheen herself. It is a unique ability, the secret of
which is, unfortunately, lost to posterity. She is the last of her kin.” Ortwin’s voice
remained calm, with subtle overtones of condescension, as though he were patiently
explaining a self-evident fact to an inquisitive child.
Inwardly, Eadric grimaced. They had just made contact with the Loquai, and already
Ortwin had sown a convoluted web of lies which could only get worse as time went on.
Behind his visor, the Paladin scanned the group of umbral feys and demons, looking for
subtle cues and pointers to their motivation with regard to the interlopers.
The reek of taint which hung over them all was palpable. Shupthul was reticent and
suspicious: the captain was a warrior who, no doubt, excelled in battle but – for a sidhe, at
least – was relatively unpracticed in gauging the purposes of others. The woman was a
different matter altogether, Eadric mused, and was opaque at best – although her inquiry
regarding their imaginary means of
transportation was couched in terms which could not disguise a tell-tale preoccupation
with matters arcane. The succubus was silent and utterly inscrutable, and Eadric wondered
what her role was –
advisor, consort, spy, compactee – she could be any or all of those things. Eadric suspected
that she was as focussed on penetrating their own motives as he was hers.
Shupthul spoke again, the merest hint of malice in his voice. “King Irknaan has issued
instructions that you should attend him forthwith. We have been sent to escort you to his
presence.”
Sh*t, Ortwin thought. He smiled graciously. “I regret that, at present, such a visit will be
impossible, as today, I hunt. Perhaps in a day or two. My proposition stands, however:
King Irknaan is most welcome to join us.”
“You misunderstand,” Shupthul said menacingly. “Afqithan’s King requires your
presence. Your hunt must wait.”
“I…” The Bard began, but never finished.
Because Mostin, whether in a fit of paranoia, or anticipating an inevitable coming to
blows, acted unilaterally, and made a decision which would change the way that the
travellers related with the
inhabitants of Afqithan. To the others, it also demonstrated the power that an arcanist of
Mostin’s stature could wield in Faerie or any of its orbiting demiplanes. He spat a number
of syllables out, prompting bows to be drawn or shot, and eliciting a desperate but
ineffectual gesture in response from Koilimilou.
**
Ortwin experienced a strange sensation which lasted less than a fraction of a second – the
merest flash in his mind. Shomei immediately recognized it for what it was – a temporal
discontinuity in their
vicinity. After it had passed, there was a colossal discharge of magical energy, and the
tapestry of reality threatened to rupture completely before it rewove itself. Echoes of
Sonics hung in the air.
The three Jariliths, Shupthul, the Succubus and twenty-six of the thirty Hell-hounds had
vanished: the Captain’s empty armour and arms collapsed to the ground in a noisy rattle.
Eleven of the Loquai had been petrified, along with six of their griffon mounts – some
frozen with grotesque expressions of terror upon their faces. One other sidhe was dead
from fear, and all but one of the remaining steeds had likewise been slain by a phantasmal
killer. Each of the umbral quicklings had been reduced to a pulp by sonic attacks. The
female sidhe sat upon a stone griffon with a vacant expression on her face.*
The last griffon attempted to flee with its petrified rider, along with the four hell-hounds.
Mostin turned them into flounders, which flapped impotently in the air before suffocating.
Eadric gaped, a mixed expression of awe and horror on his face. Shomei looked mildly
irritated and cast a dimensional anchor on Koilimilou. “Dammit, Mostin, was that really
necessary? Ortwin can you restrain her? She might regain her senses at any moment.”
The Bard and Iua both dashed forwards to bind and gag Koilimilou – the single remaining
member of
Shupthul’s party.
The Alienist’s head swam, as the full impact of his actions dawned on him. He glimpsed a
vision of his future self – effortlessly commanding that kind of power had a definite
appeal. To the arcanist, Afqithan was like a heady wine, and Mostin had just tasted it for
the first time.
Nwm was staggered. “Mostin, you just killed the ambassador. And his whole embassy, in
fact.”
“They would have attacked us,” Mostin replied simply.
“You don’t know that,” Ortwin grumbled, expertly tying Koilimilou’s hands behind her
back, and pushing one of his gloves into her mouth. “Gods, Mostin. I concoct an elaborate
ruse, and you go and petrify everyone.”
Mostin sighed. “As the alternative was to submit to Shupthul’s demands to accompany
him to visit Irknaan, I fail to see what the problem is. Unless you would rather have been
dragged off to the Loquai stronghold, to take our chances there. I have merely tipped the
scales in our favour somewhat.”
“Eadric?” Ortwin asked desperately.
The Paladin sighed. Unexpectedly, he came to the Alienist’s defense. “Whilst I don’t
necessarily agree with Mostin’s methods, I have to admit that his reasoning is sound. It
would have come to violence –
either here or later. They were jealous of our power and lustful of it. They bore only
malice towards us, and the desire to exploit us for their own ends. And the stench of taint
and corruption was almost overwhelming.”
“Bah!” Nwm snorted. “This is absurd. I mean, look at us. You’re here because of some
vendetta you’ve got with Graz’zt…”
Mostin winced as the name was spoken.
“Ortwin just thinks it’s a big game,” Nwm continued, “and this crazy bastard,” he pointed
at Mostin, whose kelvezu features seemed mildly offended at the insult, “wants to
demonstrate to himself how
dangerous he’s become. As if we didn’t know already.”
“We are not in some nice sylvan glade in Nizkur,” Mostin said irritably. “Wake up! This is
a bad place, Nwm. Many of the inhabitants are bad. You are letting your sympathies for
feys dictate how you think we should act – and the Loquai are feys in name only. They are
no less wicked, vile and irredeemable than Rurunoth, Feezuu or any one of a host of
others we have dealt with.”
“And don’t moralize with me you hypocritical sh*t,” Nwm hissed. “As far as
irredeemable goes, might I remind you why we are here – ostensibly, at any rate. Does
anyone recall Nehael? And Ed, if you’re going to judge people on how much lust for
power they possess, at least be consistent about it and start with Mostin.”
Eadric groaned. “The question again now is ‘what next?’ I hope someone has some ideas,
because I’m fast running out.”
“Well, it would seem that any prospects of subtlety have been complicated by Mostin,”
Nwm squinted.
“Are we waging war, now?”
“Frankly,” Eadric said, turning to the Bard, “I find open conflict less complex than your
schemes, Ortwin. What do you suggest?”
Ortwin grinned despite himself. “We should offer an apology to Irknaan for the ‘minor
misunderstanding.’ We should send our regards to him, and hope that this incident does
not provoke a
‘diplomatic impasse.’ Obviously, we hope that he will still join us in hunting.”
Eadric opened his mouth in disbelief.
“I’m serious,” Ortwin continued, rapidly recovering his braggadocio after the incident. “It
will demonstrate the contemptuous ease with which we can deal with Irknaan’s
henchmen.”
“He will throw everything that he’s got at us,” Eadric said.
“Maybe,” Shomei replied. “But you are assuming that he will want to remove us. He is not
motivated
by some ‘honourable’ desire to avenge his retainers, nor is he saddened by their loss –
except insofar as it undermines his own power. If he can see a way to harness us, it might
be preferable to eliminating us
– from his perspective.” She retrieved her dimensional shackles from within her pack.
“Good idea,” Mostin said, as Shomei affixed the chains around Koilimilou’s wrists and
ankles.
“I don’t know why you didn’t just kill her with the others,” Shomei grumbled. “Are you
becoming sentimental for a pretty face in your old age, Mostin?”
The Alienist sniffed. “She is not one of the Loquai, but a Cambion Sidhe. I thought that
she might provide an interesting perspective on things if questioned.”
“So you rendered her insane?”
“That is remediable.”
“Not without cost,” Shomei sighed. “Will you meet it?”
Mostin scowled. “I suppose I’ll have to.” His eyes scanned their captive.
“You’re not very subtle,” Ortwin jibed.
“I’m looking for magic, you dunce,” Mostin snapped. He removed Koilimilou’s belt
pouch, and unclasped a pendant from around her neck which bore a single, trapezoidal
stone of greyish colour. In the pouch was a small box, perhaps three inches on a side,
engraved with indecipherable glyphs.
Hmmm. Mostin thought.
Koilimilou’s eyes suddenly gained a fresh clarity, and she struggled vainly in her shackles
and tried to bite Mostin, before lapsing into a stupor again.
“An all-too brief moment of lucidity,” Nwm remarked drily.
Ortwin picked up his diamond coronet, blew dust – part of the desiccated remains of
Shupthul – from the circlet, and set it jauntily on his head again. “Let’s send another
message to Irknaan, and then go hunting.”
Eadric screwed up his face, and wondered if Afqithan’s taint was having a detrimental
effect on certain of his friends.
**
In her sanctum of unlight, nestled deep within Throile, Soneillon meditated briefly before
conjuring an obsidian thought-span of profound delicacy, and passing into the region of
dreams. The name of
Shomei – revealed by the captured Erinyes – was still fresh in her mind. Further inquiries
across several worlds had also yielded the names Titivilus and Ahma – amongst others – in
association with the Infernalist: an interesting coincidence as, according to her spies, the
Infernal Duke was currently present in Afqithan. Apparently the Breath of Oronthon kept
acquaintances which were unusual for a holy warrior.
Eadric of Deorham, the Ahma. Who had already indirectly aided Soneillon in her struggle
with Graz’zt
– her spies had indicated that it was he who was responsible for the removal of at least two
balors. He was the sworn enemy of her greatest enemy. Certainly a potential friend – at
least by demonic
standards. Soneillon idly wondered how he could be used to her advantage.
*Mostin’s attack consisted of a time stop, empowered and maximized by the magical trait
of the plane to 6 rounds of virtual time, during which he cast haste, a chained flesh to
stone, a chained phantasmal killer, two banishments directed at the demons and hell-
hounds, disintegrations targeting Shupthul and
the Succubus Iemazai, an insanity on Koilimilou, and various sonics. There were multiple
redundancies in the spells – some of the Loquai were struck by both the flesh to stone and
phantasmal killer.
Shupthul avoided petrification but was disintegrated. Koilimilou succumbed to insanity.
The save DCs were 25+ spell level because of Mostin’s augmented Intelligence, and even
with the chained spells, most of the targets needed to roll 20s. Koilimilou initially
attempted to counterspell the time stop with a greater dispelling she had readied, but
failed.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 06-15-2003
Shomei had elected to feeblemind the incoherent Koilimilou, in the event that one of her
episodes of clarity returned: a glove stuffed into her mouth and a set of dimensional
shackles might be proof against vocalized spells and interplanar escape, but did nothing to
restrain the sidhe-cambion from using her arsenal of other powers and abilities.
Whilst watching approvingly, Ortwin idly considered where this creature stood in the
grand cosmic
scheme. The sidhe were capable of reaching near-godlike power. According to Nwm, in
the past, wars had routinely been fought between feys – led by the sidhe and their kin –
and various pantheons of minor nature deities with their attendant spirits. This one was
less than a goddess, but the gap between her and the mortal race might be larger than that
between her and divinity. Feys were strange creatures, seemingly capable of infinitely
more variety of manifestation than men. Just so much more interesting, really, Ortwin
thought.
His expression changed to one of disappointment when he considered what she had been
reduced to.
Ortwin wondered what her name was, how she ate, slept, sang, danced, laughed and
fornicated. He
wondered what her temperament was like – the apathy of the sidhe would be offset by a
powerful
demonic desire for satiation and experience. Probably a refined sense of the macabre.
Intense eroticism.
Had she resisted or rejected the umbral taint, or succumbed only to certain aspects of it?
For a perverse instant, Ortwin felt more of a connection with the Cambion than he did
with anyone else present.
The party briefly discussed the implications of the sensor which had observed Mostin’s
annihilation of Shupthul’s party – exactly what it would have witnessed before it vanished,
and what the observer
could have inferred from those that he could not directly see. As a precautionary measure,
Shomei cast a nondetection upon Koilimilou – in the event that Irknaan attempted to later
target her with another scrying. A mind blank would have been preferable, but neither the
Infernalist nor Mostin were capable of casting the spell again that day, and Shomei was
loath to draw on her bracelet’s power until she had further knowledge of Irknaan’s
abilities.
After securing the most valuable items from the vanquished Loquai – including Shupthul’s
armour and bow – Koilimilou was trussed across Mostin’s saddle. The delay in action –
close to half an hour –
would prove decisive.
**
Irknaan – still in a state of concealed shock at the obliteration of his envoy – paced within
his dark chambers, waiting for Nhura to return with whatever information she had gleaned
about Rhalid and his party.
The King had briefly contemplated an immediate retaliatory demonic assault with those
forces still available to him, but quickly dismissed the possibility. Unsupported succubi
would be no match for the interlopers if they were mind blanked, and he had no doubt that
they would make short work of Nhura’s glabrezu cohorts – assuming that they chose to
obey Irknaan at all. Their loyalty to him was, at best, questionable.
King Irknaan was, however, immensely powerful. If need drove him, and he had time to
act, he could mobilize an impressive group of allies. When another summoned demon
brought him an apologetic message regretting the misunderstanding, and hoping that the
King could join Rhalid’s party for a
future hunt, Irknaan squinted. If they meant him serious harm, surely they would have
pressed on and attacked him in his fortress? What was their agenda? Obviously, they were
overconfident, or stupid, or both. Did they think he was toothless? Irknaan snorted, and
issued seven sendings in quick succession.
To King Samodoquol, Duke Ytryn and the Wyrm Crosod, he gave instructions not to fly to
his demesne, but instead to pursue the rogue party of sidhe. Compacted demons, daemons,
and demodands
in the service of the other Loquai nobility were also to be sent to Irknaan’s fortress
immediately. He recalled Lehurze from her diplomatic efforts with the Devils ensconced
only a mile away. He instructed Nhura in straightforward terms to resolve her inquiries in
Faerie as hastily as possible: Be quick. We hunt. He alerted Jetheeg – a lamia Sorceress of
no mean ability – to the presence of the rival group and instructed her to track them down.
He dispatched the ten succubi who remained to locate them, and
sent dozens of umbral quicklings in pursuit – they were not to engage the enemy, but to
bring back news if they were located. The demons were to coordinate their efforts and stay
in contact every ten minutes. His last sending was directed towards Duke Murmuur and
the Devils, asking if they would care to join Irknaan in a hunt in one hour.
The King descended into his summoning room, intent on calling yet more demons to aid
him. It was
utterly black within, and the odour of musty tomes and incense hung in the claustrophobic
air. Irknaan lit a single tall taper which emitted a greyish radiance, and purposefully strode
to retrieve a book of forbidden names from a gloomy alcove. Suddenly, he was aware of
another presence within the
chamber. It stretched and challenged his perception of the real, and evoked a mixed
feeling of terror and awe: a consciousness that was dark, sinister, and worshipful.
Soneillon, he thought. She was a void, who promised either power or annihilation.
“It would appear that my wards did not prohibit your entry,” he said without emotion.
“Your insouciance is tedious, Irknaan,” the Demoness responded, “and your
comprehension of the current situation is feeble and ill-informed. Wheels turn, and you
have no conception of them.”
“Perhaps you would care to elucidate,” the King replied laconically. “Who are these
newcomers, and why are there Devils in my realm?”
“That information has a price.” She stepped forwards, and the intangibility which
surrounded her evaporated. Her assumed form was supple, and her skin was possessed of
a dusky, silken quality.
“And what would that be?”
“Throw in your lot wholesale with Rhyxali. I can promise you aid and protection from
Graz’zt in your efforts. Instruct your forces to follow my lead and apprehend the sidhe
who threaten you, then turn them over to me.”
Irknaan sneered. “You ask a great deal for a few tidbits of gossip. Since when did
Soneillon act as a broker for Rhyxali? And what interest does this group hold for you?”
“They may be useful to me.”
“Then deal with them yourself, if it is not beyond you!” Irknaan snapped. “I have no
interest in your wider schemes: do not embroil me in them.”
Soneillon smiled darkly. “It was you who contacted me, Irknaan. What did you expect? An
exchange which cost you nothing?”
“Ten thousand souls is my offer.”
The Demoness threw back her head and laughed – a disturbingly genuine and heartfelt
display of mirth.
“That is a trifling, Loquai, which I have no use for. Listen to me: Afqithan is less secure
than you might think. You juggle two Abyssal magnates as your sponsors. Your subjects
are recalcitrant and
imperfectly subdued. And if Graz’zt discovers your duplicity, then you will find that the
gate to Zelatar is no longer the boon that it has proven to be in the past.”
“My grip is tight enough. And do not think to threaten me with passing news to Graz’zt –
he despises you more than he mistrusts me. What does he care if, out of the five hundred
worlds he lays claim to, the King of Afqithan entertains fiends who are not his own
slaves? If you were to betray me to him, then I would willingly abase myself before him,
for the chance to bring him your head on a spit. My offer stands – your aid would be
welcomed, but only a fool would let this group fall into your hands without knowing
more.”
“I have no designs on your dismal little realm, Irknaan,” Soneillon was becoming
impatient, “but I recognize your potential as an ally. There is much that I can teach you.
With my aid you could quickly
beat down any resistance that remains to your regime. I can ensure the permanent
destruction of the gate to Azzagrat. Even if Graz’zt were to translate here himself with his
most powerful servants –
which he would not – he would be hard pressed to assail you.”
“I think you underestimate Ainhorr and his ilk.”
Soneillon gave a wry smile. “And I think you are somewhat behind in events. Ainhorr’s
sword is shivered. Choeth, Djorm, Uruum and Rurunoth are no more. Only Irzho remains
– and he is hiding.
Both from his peers’ assassins and, I suspect, from Graz’zt himself.”
“This was not known to me.”
“They are not facts about which Graz’zt encourages speculation. His position is the most
insecure that it has been since his return. His efforts at consolidation have received a
serious setback – and you must know that you were not the only one of his thralls to seek
new patronage in his absence.” Her last words hung in the air temptingly – it was not a
fact that Irknaan had previously considered. The Loquai were insular, at best.
Sensing doubt, Soneillon pressed on. “I can contrive a spell which would alert you to any
incursions into your realm, Irknaan. No gate could open, no translation could occur into
Afqithan without your knowledge. There could be no quiet assembly of demons poised to
exact revenge on you. And as to
your compactees…”
Irknaan feigned disinterest.
“…I can ensure servants who are more powerful and more versatile than succubi –
although I have enough of those to spare as well.”
“I have no interest in Rhyxali’s shades,” Irknaan answered, “if you are indeed acting as a
go-between.”
“I am not. But she and I are on favourable terms – our spheres of interest do not overlap.
Not shadow demons. I have descended into the deepest abysm, Irknaan. There are things
in the uncharted regions, whose names are long forgotten. They would be yours in blood
and spirit. Even a balor would pause
and take thought before it confronted one – or would shrink from it in fear.”
Irknaan wavered.
“And you may keep Lehurze,” Soneillon added. “She is mine to give.”
The King scowled. From his perspective, at least, the succubus was already his. Still, a
formal compact could do no harm.
Soneillon stepped forwards, and her very being seemed to flicker on the edge of
consciousness, a dark vision, the existence of which Irknaan half doubted. “Irknaan, if
Graz’zt falls, his wealth will be free to all comers. Ainhorr cannot hold Azzagrat, and
neither can Kostchtchie.”
“Now you lie, even if you did not before.”
” No. ” Soneillon was emphatic. “I have perceived the burgeoning tendril of possibility. It
must not be allowed to perish.”
“I have no faith in your auguries,” Irknaan said derisively. “Nonetheless, your argument
deserves consideration. What aid would you give me? I do not speak of temporary allies.
They must be
compacted, and they must be mine.”
“That is negotiable,” Soneillon smiled, content that she had won a victory. “But it will be
enough. First, we must secure the weapon. Command your minions to help me restrain the
sidhe who currently vex
you, and I will speak with them.”
“They have knowledge of this weapon?”
“They are the weapon. They are not what they appear to be.”
The King’s eyes narrowed. That much, he had already guessed. But now he also knew that
Soneillon
feared to deal with them alone – that they were very dangerous – and that Graz’zt had not
sent them to deal with him. Inwardly, he breathed a sigh of relief.
“Give me a sign of your commitment,” Irknaan said, “and I will consider your proposal.”
Before she left him, the Demoness gave Irknaan a single name – a token of her good will,
she claimed, and the first of many to follow. He conjured the creature to whom it
belonged, and when the King
ascended from his sanctum into his throne room, it accompanied him. Lehurze and an
assortment of
other monsters waited for him.
The Succubus saw what towered behind Irknaan and smiled quietly: she knew that
Soneillon had come
and gone. Nhura’s glabrezu cohorts were filled with doubt.
“Ready the hounds,” Irknaan commanded.
**
The armour which Eadric wore was marvelously light – constructed of a Fae metal of
unknown type. It barely inhibited his movement, and its smooth contours – at first glance
a seamless, absorptive sable –
were, in fact, graven with exquisite cunning and subtlety. When the dim light caught it,
shades of indigo and vermillion almost appeared, as if his mind wanted to perceive them,
but his eyes would not cooperate. The casque which complemented the breastplate bore a
crest which resembled some
primordial bird, and a half-visor, covering the eyes and upper face, was formed by the
creature’s
cradled wings.
Ortwin, flying next to the Paladin, eyed the armour jealously.
“You can have it, if you want,” Eadric said openly.
“It is too restrictive,” Ortwin grumbled.
“Not at all,” Eadric replied.
“For me it would be too restrictive,” Ortwin sighed. The Bard fell back and hovered
alongside Nwm,
who sat awkwardly upon his ecalypse – the umbral steed moved with a disconcertingly
smooth gait through the air.
“Haven’t you found anything yet?” Ortwin asked excitedly.
“No.”
“There must be something out there.”
“I’m sure there probably is,” Nwm said irritably. “Can’t you be patient for once?”
“No,” Ortwin replied. “Aren’t there more chimerae? Manticores, maybe?”
“If you think that a single Redcap is worthy of your attention, then I can direct you to it.
We are in a sparsely populated area. Frankly, Ortwin, I find your enthusiasm for hunting
sentients – of whatever persuasion – rather distasteful. I have no particular moral
compunctions, and I appreciate the need for the ruse to appear genuine, but do you really
have to enjoy it quite so much?”
“Hunting is an agreeable pastime,” the Bard retorted.
“Hunting deer is an agreeable pastime, Ortwin. Hunting umbral fiendish whatever-they-
ares is tricky and – as we have already discovered – potentially lethal.”
“Pah! This time, we’re prepared. I’ve got more wards on me than I can count. And….”
Nwm closed his ears to the Bard’s ramblings and focussed on his torc again, his
perception stretching outwards, and sifting through the vast quantities of information
which flooded his consciousness. Ten minutes passed. The Druid gave a quizzical look.
“…despite the fact that she was naked,” Ortwin concluded. “What do you think, Nwm?”
“I think you did the right thing,” Nwm replied. “By the way, there is a dragon around eight
miles behind us. It is following us. It has probably caught our scent. It is heavily tainted –
I suspect it is the
wyrm that Nufrut mentioned.”
“Crosod,” Mostin said. “Is he closing?”
“Oh, yes. He will reach us,” Nwm made a quick calculation, and his jaw dropped, “in a
little over four minutes.”
“Is he wind-walking?” Ortwin asked.
“I don’t think so,” the Druid answered, somewhat amazed. “He is just flying…very fast.
There is another…”
[Execration. Abomination. Anathema.]
Nwm shook, and resisted the urge to vomit. “There is something terrible with him.”
“Should we turn and engage him?” Eadric asked. “Or try to flee? If Iua…”
“I cannot summon a wind to move us that fast,” the Duelist replied.
But the blood drained from Nwm’s face as his inner vision perceived demons manifesting
ahead of
them and around them – they blinked in and out of his sight, successively teleporting to
effortlessly pace the party, and remaining out of the reach of even their furthest-reaching
spells.
“There is more bad news,” Nwm said, and explained. “They are medium-order: probably
succubi or vrocks.”
Eadric immediately invoked a zone of revelation, and realities overlapped around them. To
his partial relief, nothing was stalking them through the coexistent Shadow. At least, not
yet.
“I don’t like this at all,” Mostin mumbled. “We should be ready to flee back to the Prime if
necessary.”
Shomei cast a mass haste and transformed herself into an erinyes devil, causing Eadric to
splutter and
Ortwin to grin eagerly.
Nwm scowled. “Crosod is still closing.”
Gheim squawked irritably. “How high up is he?”
“Only three hundred feet.” Nwm answered.
“Well, I can’t see him,” the eagle muttered.
“Nor I,” Sem added. “He must be invisible”
“This is a trap,” Eadric groaned. “They are probably waiting for reinforcements.”
“They are coming,” Nwm said. “Goddess. What is happening out there?” Powerful
extraplanar entities were manifesting across his psychic landscape.
“I suspect that they do not know that we know of their presence,” Shomei said. “We may
still have something of an advantage. I will deal with the Dragon – it will even the odds
somewhat. Mostin, for what I am about to do, I sincerely apologize.”
Drawing upon the power of the arcane bracelet that Jovol had bequeathed her, Shomei
quickly opened two gates. Eadric clenched his teeth in trepidation.
Light flooded through. Two Solars appeared.
Mostin screamed at her. “No! Not again! Not you as well!”
“Do you know who I am?” Shomei asked the celestials.
“You are a devil,” one of them replied. “Why have you called us?”
“I am Shomei the Infernal. You cannot perceive my form because I am mind blanked. The
sidhe with the winged helmet is Eadric of Deorham, the Ahma. Do you believe me?”
But Eadric had already reached out with his mind and reassured them.
“Do whatever he tells you to do,” Shomei instructed the celestials. She turned to the
Alienist. “Be very sure that you know what you are doing if you open another gate
Mostin. You know what I’m speaking of.”
Mostin gurgled incoherently.
“How far back is the Dragon, Nwm?” Shomei asked.
“Twelve thousand feet or so.”
She tested the direction of the wind and vanished, leaving her steed riderless.
A look of amazement still sat upon Eadric’s face at the Infernalist’s choice of allies.
Catching it, and regaining his composure a little, Mostin spoke shakily.
“They are tools to her, Eadric. Nothing else.”
**
Crosod and Threxu, upon receiving Irknaan’s sending, had sped their way to the scene of
Shupthul’s disintegration and Koilimilou’s capture. The Dragon had launched into a
furious pursuit of ‘Rhalid’ and his party – his speed augmented by a spell, and rendered
invulnerable to death magic and any elemental assault by the Wasted Nymph’s power.
Crosod had issued a sending of his own to Irknaan upon catching the party’s scent, and
sneered in contempt when he received the return message:
Do not attack. I want them alive. Coordinate fully with the demons.
What game was the fool playing now? A sensor appeared nearby, and the Wyrm’s lidless
eyes glistened with anger. As much as he resented the Loquai King, he was wise enough
not to defy him. Within a
matter of seconds, ten succubi appeared in the air nearby. Lehurze was with them.
“Where is he?” Crosod growled.
“He is on his way,” Lehurze replied. “I have instructions for you.”
Resentfully, the dragon formed a series of mental bonds with all of those present and
rendered them invisible. They teleported away and, within five minutes, visual contact had
been made with the intruders. The succubi and the dragon – now in common telepathic
rapport – acted with a frightening focus and purpose.*
Meanwhile, Irknaan cursed. Events were moving faster than he had anticipated: Nhura and
the
remaining succubus, returning to Afqithan, had appeared over a hundred miles distant
from his own
palace and eighty miles from where Crosod now tracked Rhalid’s party. It would take her
nearly two hours to reach the area where events were unfolding, even if she magically
sped her passage.
The king gritted his teeth. He needed her there, and the only way to accomplish it was to
draw heavily on his own reservoir of power. He instructed the forty Loquai who
accompanied him to return to the fortress: at their speed, they had no hope of intercepting
the intruders now. Irknaan lamented the loss of Koilimilou and her box of shadows – now
it would have proven most useful. Reality bent around him as he cast two powerful spells,
and made his way first to Nhura and then returned with her to where the other fiends were
assembling.**
When he arrived, as instructed, the creature that he had compacted less than an hour
before was waiting for him.
Irknaan issued yet another sending: this time to Soneillon.
**
The erinyes appeared three hundred yards behind Crosod, down-wind of him, invisible,
and out of the range of his blindsight.
Unfortunately, the dragon was also hidden from her mundane vision, and out of the range
of her
perception – save for the gale and reek created by his passing.
Shomei opened another gate, exhausting her bracelet’s power. She waited nervously –
somewhat longer than she was accustomed to. Finally, after what seemed an age –
although it was less than five seconds
– another solar appeared.
“I am Zhorion,” the Cherub announced.
“I am not interested in your name, celestial,” Shomei said irascibly. “I have a task for
you.”
The Solar ignored her. “Oronthon is curious why Shomei the Infernal has elected to open
three gates to the Divine Sphere in less than a minute.”
Shomei gaped.
“And do not think to use your association with the Ahma as an excuse for your actions.
Reciprocity is required.”
Shomei was flabbergasted. “I have no time for this,” she snapped. “You are under
compulsion by both magical law and divine mandate!”
“When you return to Morne,” Zhorion continued, “you will seek out the Sela. He will
instruct you in the correct application of the dialectic.”
“How can there be a ‘correct…’” She began. “Oh, forget it. I probably understand saizhan
better than you ever will. Alright. Whatever. Just help me kill the damn dragon.”
Shomei sighed. Meaningful philosophical discourse with most solars was impossible.
They were stubborn, unyielding and – ultimately – intellectually incapable.
She teleported two thousand feet ahead of where she suspected the dragon to be, and
invoked an effulgent epuration – the silvery motes which hovered around her instantly
betraying her location to Crosod’s remarkable eyesight. Shomei felt as though a gale was
approaching as, invisible, he powered his way towards her at uncanny speed, and banked
away before coming within range of her own
magical sight. As his head turned and he finally became visible, he discharged an immense
gout of
corrupted acid and struck her with a horrid wilting. Simultaneously, from the slender
shadow perched on his foreleg, yet another wilting struck her, and in the air palrethee
demons began manifesting, summoned by both the Nymph and the Dragon. Evidently,
Crosod was taking no chances. An effulgent epuration meant a very powerful spellcaster.
He called mentally to the ten succubi with whom he was telepathically bonded.
Sh*t, Shomei thought. The acid burned her despite her diabolic resistance, and most of her
epuration had already been denuded in the initial assault. She wondered wrily if she had
bitten off more than she could chew. She flew rapidly forwards, gripped her rod, and
struck Crosod with a potent enervation: twice empowered, magnified through her rod, and
then twisted and amplified yet further by Afqithan’s magical trait. He reeled under the
assault, but still survived the disintegration which followed.
Succubi were beginning to manifest all around Shomei as Zhorion descended and engaged
with Crosod
– a bright speck in the sky, dwarfed by the Dragon’s dark, titanic form, his slender brand
flashing rapidly in his hands. Crosod screamed as the blade bit into him, and ichor poured
from the wounds that the Solar delivered to his neck.
The Wyrm’s head stayed firmly attached to his body, however, and he gave a hideous grin.
He said
nothing, but brought his terrible will to bear upon the celestial.
A look of horrified fascination crossed Shomei’s face as, despite the palrethees who were
now around her and hacking with their flaming swords, she watched black fire first kindle,
and then cascade over Zhorion.
The Solar, dignified by Oronthon’s grace since before time began, perished in an unholy
nimbus which consumed all trace of his existence. For the merest moment, the skies of
Afqithan seemed to darken yet further, and swag with agony and wrath. Pain exploded
over Shomei as Crosod thundered back towards her, calling forth an acid storm, heedless
of his own summoned minions. Two flame strikes, evoked by Threxu, struck the
Infernalist in series.
Before the succubi could descend upon her and tear her to pieces, Shomei teleported
away.
She reappeared, burned and blasted, at the spot where she had left the others, only to find
that the real battle was about to begin.
* Crosod used three castings of Rary’s telepathic bond with the succubi, acting as ‘anchor-
man’ in their efforts to pinpoint Ortwin and the others. The succubi made multiple
teleportations until one located the party, the news was passed to Crosod, and the Dragon
related it to the rest of the demonesses. One of them teleported back to Irknaan’s fortress
to inform the king of their exact whereabouts.
**Irknaan used two limited wishes: one to teleport to Nhura’s location, and another to
bring them both to the vicinity of Crosod. Neither Irknaan nor Nhura were capable of
instantaneous transport using more ‘conventional’ means. Six more succubi, a palrethee,
two vrocks and a shator – compactees of the other Loquai nobility – had also now joined
the pursuit. The shator – Ghuluk – was King Samodoquol’s majordomo.
**This was another nasty combo. The enervation – quadruply empowered and maximized
– resulted in nine negative levels for Crosod. Luckily (from his perspective) he made the
subsequent saving throw against the triply heightened disintegrate.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 07-06-2003
“Have you determined where the leader is?” Eadric asked Nwm. The party were
descending towards the ground.
The Druid nodded. “There is a clutch of extraplanars half a mile ahead of us. Some are
very powerful, Ed. We might be well advised to retreat.”
The Paladin gritted his teeth. They had come a long way, in order to merely run away at
the first sign of serious resistance. He glanced briefly at the two solars who flanked him.
Surely, nothing could
overcome them. They were safe, as long as the celestials were present.
As if in response, something dreadful flickered across Eadric’s perception, and reality
darkened for a moment. The celestial to his left, the solar Taruz, communed briefly, and
then spoke directly into his mind.
Immeasurable grief. Zhorion destroyed.
Zhorion?
A third solar, conjured by Shomei
Eadric gaped. “Shomei. Is the dragon gone?”
“No,” Nwm replied, pointing backwards.
Far behind, but closing rapidly, Crosod’s vast and now-visible form thundered through the
air.
Shomei reappeared. “Not good,” she said. “He’s too fast. Mostin, if you get a chance, hit
him with a disintegrate. You might be luckier than I.”
“I have no intention of staying around,” Mostin answered. “I’m going to open a gate back
to the Prime…”
‘Wait,” Eadric interrupted. He gave a quizzical look as he received a sending.
One down, two to go. How many cherubs can the Ahma kill in one day? If you require
arbitration, I am available. Titivilus.
“Titivilus just issued a sending to me.”
“Screw that,” Mostin said. “Are you ready?”
And everything became dark.
**
It was an impenetrable, cloying blackness of an altogether unnatural kind, stagnant and
suffocating.
Everything seemed to drift listlessly, and sounds were muffled.
The greater dispelling, which then struck the party from an unknown source had a
devastating effect.
The mind blanks which sat upon Iua, Eadric, Shomei and Nwm evaporated, the glamour
upon Ortwin disappeared, and Mostin suddenly found himself vulnerable to death magic.
A green ray struck him,
anchoring him and then another, targeting Shomei, also found its mark.
“Sh*t,” Mostin exclaimed.
“Nwm, do something,” Ortwin groaned, “I can’t see anything.”
“I see them,” Shomei announced. “There are two of them. Eighty yards. Two o’clock to
you, Mostin.”
The darkness vanished abruptly as Taruz broke the spell which caused it. Mostin gasped as
his vision returned and his magical sight rested on its source – a succubus, and a
something, which seemed to
flicker on the edge of reality. Something which, partially at least, was not.
Mostin’s mind reeled as he tried to absorb the paradox. Ortwin discharged a rapid volley
of enervating magical arrows at the succubus, who lurched in the air.
The second solar, Pharanthe, was incanting under his breath, as Eadric turned his head to
see a Loquai of unusual beauty flying towards him upon an umbral griffon of prodigious
size. He was accompanied by a sinuous winged shadow which flew gracefully through the
air – Irknaan and Nhura, no doubt,
Eadric mused.
Shomei screamed and desiccated into a wrinkled corpse as the party were overwhelmed by
two
powerful horrid wiltings. Nightmares and ecalypses perished – through foresight, this
time, the group were protected by magical flight. More wards collapsed as another greater
dispelling ripped across them all and Ortwin – still fortunately mind blanked – shrugged
off a feeblemind spell which would have otherwise utterly overwhelmed him. All around,
succubi, palrethees, daemons and demodands
were manifesting – and there was another something which was partially non-existent.
Drawing Shupthul’s bow, the Paladin shot five arrows which burst into flame, thudding
into the flank of the umbral lillend. She reeled in pain.
Mostin swore profusely, quickly erected a wall of force around them all, and opened a
gate.
“Everybody get through,” he screeched. “Nwm, you have to get this damned anchor off of
me!”
The Druid glanced briefly at Shomei’s body, and nodded. She could wait – they needed to
get out of there, and quickly. “Get the rod and bracelet,” he instructed Sem and Gheim. He
quickly incanted a greater dispelling upon Mostin, but the dimensional anchor remained
firmly in place.
Mostin swore. “Go!” He commanded. Nwm and Iua dashed through the gate, followed by
the two eagles.
Inside of the protected area, another gate opened, conjured by the solar Pharanthe. A third
solar stepped through. Mostin screamed again.
The wall of force shuddered briefly as a magical assault was absorbed, and several demons
teleported
within its confines. Mostin raised an eyebrow as the barrier quickly dissipated when a
subsequent disintegrate struck it. It was followed by a violated storm of sound which tore
at the flesh of those present, and another disintegrate, which reduced Ortwin to his
component atoms.
Iua screamed.
From within her protective void, Soneillon hissed. Lehurze was going too far. She would
have strong words with her after this. If she had killed the Ahma by accident…*
Taruz shot a barrage of fey slaying arrows at Irknaan, who was closing rapidly on their
position.
Several found their mark, but the Sidhe-King shook off their death magic, used a limited
wish to shut the gate and pronounced a quick dismissal.
Two of the solars abruptly vanished.
Nhura’s will rested upon Eadric and Mostin in succession, attempting to immobilize them
both, but
failing to effect either. Palrethees hewed at both the Paladin and the Alienist as Mostin
squawked at Eadric.
“Sh*t. Get close.”
Shooting yet more darts at the Loquai king, Eadric moved towards Mostin, who shook his
head, plane shifted Eadric, and invoked a prismatic sphere, encapsulating himself.
The protective bubble, scintillating with colour and power, hung motionless in the skies of
Afqithan, thirty feet above the umbral canopy of its dense forest.
The remaining solar, Taruz, beset by demons, and upon the escape of Eadric, promptly
vanished.
“Great.” Mostin said.
Through the shifting colours of the sphere, demons could be seen moving outside. The
wizard sighed, and wondered whether if, jointly, his enemies had the wherewithal to
penetrate his defenses.
**
The gate opened in the courtyard of Kyrtill’s Burh, at the base of the ivy-covered Steeple.
Iua was shaking.
Nwm turned back to the portal, to see if anything else was coming through, but it abruptly
dissolved.
“Ortwin…” Iua began.
“Will be fine,” Nwm said. “He is merely experiencing a temporary disembodiment.”
“When can you…”
“Tomorrow,” Nwm answered. He scowled – around them, the devas appointed to guard
the castle were gently alighting and manifesting. Their swords, rippling with flames, were
already drawn.
“This is holy ground,” one of them declared. “You should not be here.”
Iua closed her eyes and clenched her jaw, and then breathed deeply for several seconds.
“Do not piss me off,” she said.
*
Eadric appeared beneath an ancient beech-tree, the branches of which hung over a small
stream which chattered over smooth pebbles. Around him, a forest, with its late summer
colours enhanced by the
dusk, was visible in all directions. He hardly felt as if he had moved.
The Paladin wondered where he was. Somewhere in Wyre, presumably. Hopefully.
He briefly contemplated the likely inaccuracy of Mostin’s plane shift, and decided that,
wherever he was, Nwm would find him before he himself could do anything positive
about finding Nwm.
Eadric set down his shield, removed his arms, took off his helm, and, laying his sword
across his knees, meditated.
*
Irknaan glowered in disgust as he flew his griffon around the prismatic sphere before
descending to the forest floor. Several summoned fiends were vanishing back to their
respective glooms, although the compactees – of whom there were nearly a score –
remained hovering in the skies nearby.
Soneillon approached, and assumed a stable form. Nhura eyed her suspiciously.
“Can you penetrate it?” Irknaan asked.
“Not without more preparation,” the Demoness answered.
The king of the Loquai briefly considered his cloak – it might offer sufficient protection to
enter. There again, it might not. And Irknaan was too old and cautious to test its powers to
that extent.
“Then we have an impasse,” Irknaan observed. “The dimensional anchor will fail before
the sphere does. Who do you suppose the kelvezu is?”
“Either Mostin the Metagnostic or Shomei the Infernal,” Soneillon answered. “I presume
the former – I suspect that Shomei is dead.”
“And the Weapon?”
“It would seem that the Weapon has eluded us,” Soneillon remarked drily. Two of the
palrethees approached with armfuls of items garnered from the treetops and forest floor –
Ortwin’s cloak, scimitar, bow and leather jerkin; and Shomei’s pack, which contained a
variety of fabulous items. Nhura
inspected them, and drew the scimitar from its scabbard.
“This is Githla,” she said. “The Azer Jodrumu forged it. It has a long history.”
“Even all of these items do not suffice as a weregild for Shupthul and the others,” Irknaan
snapped.
“There is also a half-sidhe, strapped to a dead nightmare,” the Palrethee reported. “She
still lives.”
Koilimilou, Irknaan smiled to himself.
“The celestials almost succeeded in a cascade**,” Nhura remarked. “More than three
would have been a problem. This must not be allowed to happen again. Why is the Ahma
in Afqithan, and why is my spouse and King consorting with Soneillon?” Nhura’s quick
mind and knowledge of obscure lore was rapidly piecing things together.
“It is a complex matter,” Soneillon purred.
“Then explain it, demoness,” Nhura hissed.
“The Ahma is in Afqithan in order to vex Graz’zt. He perceives Irknaan as a loyal subject
of the Prince.
He may be beginning to understand that things are somewhat more convoluted than that.”
Nhura’s eyes quickly scanned all of those present as she spoke again. In her peripheral
vision, the shadow of the wyrm was moving rapidly. Her mind raced, and she elected to
take an enormous risk.
“Lady Soneillon, you would find me more tractable than my husband,” the Lillend said.
“Silence, bitch!” Irknaan screeched, as the full weight of his Will descended upon Nhura.
Blood began to pour from her mouth, nostrils and ears, and the flesh began to peel from
her.
Perceiving the truth of Nhura’s words, and without hesitation, Soneillon spoke two
dreadful words which echoed across Afqithan. The outer shell of the prismatic sphere
quivered in sympathetic vibration, as the magical lattice of the demiplane was stretched
closer to its dilational limit.
Irknaan wailed as his cloak’s wards failed him. He burned rapidly into a black vapour,
which was
carried away on a frigid wind.
The Demoness bent down, slowly picked up the dark mantle, threw it over Nhura, and
fastened its
clasp about her neck.
“What will you do now, your Majesty?” Soneillon asked, half-amused.
“I think I will take a hunt to the Prime,” Nhura replied.
“For what purpose?” Soneillon asked.
“If you have concerns that the Ahma might be dead,” Nhura said, “you should put them
aside. The sidhe who was disintegrated was not him – the sword of Eadric of Deorham is
Lukarn, not Githla. I can deliver him to you. Demons are forbidden by the Interdict, but
the Loquai are not. And neither is he,”
she pointed.
Crosod circled suspiciously at a distance of a thousand yards.
*
Mostin fidgeted uncomfortably within the prismatic sphere, unaware of the events which
transpired beyond the rainbow which surrounded him. Apparently, his enemies lacked a
disjunction or the correct combination of spells to bring the ward down.
After forty minutes, the dimensional anchor which had barred his own passage from
Afqithan failed.
Mostin smiled ironically. He lacked sufficient remaining power to safely exit the
demiplane. Gingerly, the Alienist thrust his head through the prismatic sphere before
quickly retreating it back inside.
Demons. Lots of demons. Most were succubi, but some were very big, and dangerous.
There were also a Shator, and two Nycadaemons. And a huge dragon.
Mostin swallowed. The sphere would last six more hours. Nearly two days in Prime
Material
reckoning. He wondered nervously if his friends could organize a rescue in that time.
He fidgeted again. Not good. Not good.
The Alienist briefly considered using his Mirror to escape, but the thought of leaving it in
Afqithan while he fled was too painful.
He gritted his teeth, hasted himself again, floated through the sphere, and teleported to a
location one thousand miles to the west, where he appeared in a dark and very remote
corner of the shadowy realm.
Mostin’s heart pounded in his chest, and his eyes flitted around as he waited to see if a
sensor would follow him.
He uttered a profanity. There it was. He had to go. There was no other way, or they would
be on to him.
Space buckled around him, as Mostin invoked a reality maelstrom and was sucked
through into another dimension.
It didn’t matter which one, he idly considered, as long as it wasn’t Afqithan.
*
Iua paced ceaselessly near Nwm’s glade, as the Druid, who had resumed a form similar to
his natural one, sat in silent reverie with the Green.
He was infuriating in the level of nonchalance that he was exhibiting.
“Get some sleep. Eat something.” He had instructed. “There is nothing that I can do until
dawn.”
Dawn was ten hours away. Iua had scowled, and resumed her pacing. The sun set, the
moon rose,
midnight passed her by, and in the small hours of the morning, the duelist was gripped by
terrible fear.
Nwm remained sitting. Erect, composed, and absurdly serene – as mice scurried over him
and
investigated his beard and hair.
As the first rays of the sun struck him, he mumbled for ten seconds, smiled and stood up.
“Well?” Iua asked.
“Eadric is in the forest of Nizkur. Mostin is southeast of here, over the ocean.” Nwm
seemed somewhat surprised by his own words.
Iua gave a hopeful smile.
“Alright,” he sighed. He wondered if she would ever understand how much it would cost
him.
Ortwin returned as a satyr – although not the same satyr. His hair was ruddier, and he
seemed wilder and more unkempt. His grin was unmistakable, however.
“How was death?” Nwm asked.
“The same as last time,” Ortwin said easily. “Do you have a mirror?”
“Your weapons and equipment are lost,” Nwm remarked. “I think that you’d better try and
adjust.”
Ortwin opened his mouth in horror.
*
When Shomei awoke, she screamed uncontrollably. Her form – although human and
female – was unfamiliar. Nwm waited until the episode had passed before he spoke to her.
“I take it that death was an unpleasant experience?” The Druid asked.
She said nothing, but her face conveyed pain and trauma. She spent a moment inspecting
the structure of her mind, noting the disposition of her higher valences.
“Nwm…” She began.
“You owe me,” he said.***
She nodded.
From under his cloak, the Druid produced her rod and bracelet.
“You really owe me,” he added.
Ortwin scowled. “I should have died first. Your birds might have grabbed my cloak and
Githla. What happens now?”
“We find Ed and Mostin,” Nwm replied. “I know where they are. We simply have to
retrieve them.”
The Druid turned to Shomei. “Can you get them here?” He asked.
“Not yet,” she answered. “I have a duplicate set of books at my home. I need to consult
them. But I’m sure that Mostin is quite safe. He is very inventive.”
Nwm looked dubious.
**
Mostin found himself in a churning whirlpool as the reality maelstrom deposited him in
the Plane of Elemental Water. He groped around blindly for a moment, flapped his arms in
an attempt to escape the vortex, and eventually retrieved an Ioun stone from his belt and
set it spinning around his head.
His look of smug satisfaction was replaced by one of horror, as he glanced over his
shoulder to observe three succubi, who had followed him through the maelstrom.
These demons are crazy, Mostin thought. Wearily, he disintegrated one of the demonesses
and struck another with his last sonic orb – the latter spell was wholly unimpressive after
the spectacular magical effects which Afqithan had bestowed.
Both remaining succubi attempted to charm him, and although he shrugged off their
efforts, Mostin swallowed nervously. It was only a matter of time before his luck ran out.
The Alienist observed in fascination, as the reality maelstrom continued to suck random
matter from Afqithan into the water around him: branches, stones and dirt drifted by.
Another succubus rode through the planar rift and appeared ten yards away. It was the one
who had
disintegrated his previous wall of force.
Mostin cursed. He summoned three pseudomarids and instructed two of them to attack his
assailants.
The third, he ordered to plane shift him back to the Prime.
Lehurze spoke, and the waters seemed to warp as a power word, stun overcame Mostin,
rendering him insensible. The demoness activated her cubic gate, and Mostin’s eyes
widened in terror as a portal to Afqithan appeared. The two other succubi closed and
attempted to grapple with him as he floated
impotently, whilst the summoned pseudoelementals struck at the demonesses.
Abruptly, the scene changed as the Alienist, together with the third pseudonatural genie,
plane shifted.
Half of the world seemed to become salt water above him, and half of it was air below
him. Mostin
bobbed upside-down in the water, stricken, at the interface of the two realms.
A minute passed, and the effects of Lehurze’s powerful attack subsided. Gingerly, Mostin
arose from out of the water and hovered above it. He dried himself with a prestidigitation
and glanced around.
The ocean extended as far as he could see, in every direction.
Mostin quickly calculated the time differential between Afqithan and the Material Plane,
and knew that it should be night-time in Wyre. He looked at the sun. It was mid morning.
Apparently, he was over the Eastern Ocean, and Wyre was at least five thousand miles
away.
Mostin sighed, and began to fly west.
*
Eadric was drawn from his trance abruptly as a mote of light dashed across his field of
vision. He glanced up, to notice the waxing moon riding high in the sky above him.
He scowled, and calling upon the Eye of Palamabron which hung around his neck, his
vision penetrated the shadows which lay about. Nearly a hundred grigs, pixies, buckawns,
sprites and other diminutive feys – either of obscure or unique type – were arranged in a
wide circle around him. They watched him suspiciously.
Eadric smiled. He was, of course, a sidhe – at least to casual inspection. His observers
seemed nervous of that fact: to say that the coolest and most civilized of feys were
infrequent visitors to the World of Men would have been a laughable understatement.
The Paladin cleared his throat, and called out. “I am no sidhe,” he assured them. “I am a
mortal. My name is Eadric of Deorham.”
For several seconds, there was no response. Then a shrill voice piped forth. ” Naheen
nehaar eleel chellaath? ”
“I regret that I cannot understand you,” Eadric admitted.
Noisy chattering followed for several minutes. Finally, a fat and singularly pompous-
looking pixie fluttered forwards, attended by numerous moths of large size. When he
spoke, his words ran together in an almost unintelligible stream, which Eadric found
difficulty in understanding.
“Itismostimpolitetoappearthuswithoutinvitation , andsitbeneaththetreewhichiscalled
Nadholuridin.”
“Should I have chosen another tree?” Eadric asked wrily.
“Youaremostrude! Nowyouinsultuswithsarcasticcomments.
Weshouldmakeyoudanceuntilyoudropdeadfromexhaustion !
Youarefortunatethatanotherhasintervenedonyourbehal f,
oryouwouldfeelourroyalwrathdescenduponyou! Mostgraciousandkindandrespectfulhewas,
andthereforewearepreparedtobelenient. Butbeforeyouleaveyouwillapologizeto
Nadholuridin,
fortheimpositionthatyouhavesubjectedherto!”
Eadric scowled, and wondered who had ‘intervenedonhisbehalf.’
The pixie raised his arm, and from somewhere behind him a tiny trumpet, more akin to a
whistle than any other instrument, sounded forth.
A lone figure walked towards him from beneath the trees. His hair and beard were shaggy,
and he wore a simple grey smock, drawn in loosely around his waist by a thin hemp rope.
Eadric gaped, and pressed his forehead to the earth.
Tramst, the Sela, touched him lightly on the shoulder, and the glamour which still sat upon
the Paladin, hiding his true form, dissolved.
“And how are things with you, Eadric?” Tramst asked, smiling.
The Ahma, experiencing an upwelling of confusion, grief, and a sense of profound failure
- mixed in unlikely measure with a feeling of complete safety in the presence of
Oronthon’s proxy - wept
cathartically.
NOTES
*It seemed a reasonable tactic to use hit-point attrition – Eadric would probably be the last
person standing, and the mages would get taken out first. Lehurze was still geased by
Irknaan, and wasn’t operating to Soneillon’s complete satisfaction.
**A cascade occurs when a wizard or cleric gates a solar to a plane (usually the Prime),
and it, in turn, opens more gates. The new arrivals open further gates etc. An
uninterrupted cascade can be very quick and effective – there were more than three
hundred celestials present at Khu within a minute of the initial gate. Half were Solars and
Planetars.
‘Cascade’ is a technical term used by arcanists – most of whom view celestial descents as
unwanted extraplanar meddling, in stark contrast to the ‘wondrous miracle’ that the pious
experience.
***Nwm used a true reincarnation on both Ortwin and Shomei – there was no level loss
associated with their deaths. Note that with the 9th level spell I simply allow the caster to
choose the form that the new incarnation takes – fortunately, Nwm’s player, Dave, is not
prone to exploiting this power.
The spell spoken by Soneillon was Be Not! , an Epic Spell of her own contrivance:
Be Not!
Transmutation
Spellcraft DC: 36
Components: V
Casting Time: 1 action
Range: 300 feet
Target: One living creature
Duration: Instantaneous
Saving Throw: Fortitude partial
Spell Resistance: Yes
To Develop: Seeds: slay (DC 25); destroy (DC 29). Factors: decrease casting time to 1
action (+20
DC); increase spell’s save DC by +20 (+40 DC); no somatic component (+2 DC); gain
+20 bonus on
caster level check to overcome target’s spell resistance (+40 DC). Mitigating factor: burn
10000 xp (-
100 DC), 20d6 backlash (-20 DC).
The caster utters a single, terrible phrase, destroying the target utterly and removing all
traces of it from existence unless it succeeds at a fortitude saving throw (DC 40 + relevant
ability modifier.) If the target saving throw succeeds or it has more than 80 levels / hit
dice, then it instead sustains 13d6 +20 points of damage. Note that even if the save is
successful but the target is reduced to –10 or fewer hit points, its existence is similarly
erased.
Other Notes:
1. It’s worth mentioning that I knew that the party was heavily outmatched, and they
should have
guessed as much. They ought to have fled immediately, but they dithered.
2. I ruled that although Mostin was dimensionally anchored he could still cast spells which
allowed interplanar travel – he simply couldn’t travel that way himself.
3. The idea to use summoned creatures to plane shift came a little late for Mostin. He
would have saved himself grief if he’d thought of it earlier. Hats off for inventiveness,
though.
4. Soneillon’s spell Be Not! is an example of exactly why she is so dangerous – and why
Graz’zt fears her so much. Chthonic demons pay no XP cost for spells which normally
require it – in Mostin’s terms,
her ‘reservoir is limitless’. The 10,000XP burn becomes a standard mitigating factor. C.f.
Shattersoul
Transmutation

Spellcraft DC: 38
Components: V, S
Casting Time: 1 action
Range: 300 ft.
Target: One creature
Duration: Instantaneous
Saving Throw: Fortitude negates
Spell Resistance: Yes
To Develop: Seeds: Transform (DC 21), Transport (DC 27), Ward (DC 14). Factors:
transform into
inanimate object (+10 DC); transform into seven components (ad hoc +30 DC); transport
to extraplanar location (+2 DC); decrease casting time to 1 action (+20 DC); protect
against discern location (+14
DC); increase saving throw DC by +10 (+20 DC). Mitigating Factors: burn 10,000 XP
(-100 DC); 20d6
backlash (-20 DC).
Shattersoul instantly transforms a single creature into seven identical stone spheres of
diminutive size unless it succeeds at a Fortitude saving throw (DC 30+ relevant modifier).
The spheres are
approximately six inches in diameter.
Each stone is sent to a random planar destination, where it remains until recovered. Only
upon recovery of all of the stones is any kind of restoration possible for the victim of a
shattersoul spell. A wish or miracle, or an appropriate epic spell which uses the transform
seed may then be used to restore the target of the shattersoul.
All of the seven spheres are protected by a ward which renders them impervious to efforts
to discover their whereabouts by means of the discern location spell. Epic spells which
use the reveal seed must succeed at an opposed caster level check in order to determine
the location of each of the stone spheres.

Shattersoul bends the rules close to breaking point but, hey, I’m the DM
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 07-14-2003
The Sela and the Ahma sat beneath the beech-tree Nadholuridin deep within the Forest of
Nizkur.
Moonlight illuminated them both.
“Will you return?” Tramst asked. His question was simple and direct, and conveyed no
sense of judgment.
“I don’t know,” Eadric replied.
“If you had died, would you have allowed Nwm the Preceptor to recall you?” The Sela’s
question cut to the quick of another concern which had been nagging the Paladin. He had
no doubt that Nwm would
have reincarnated both Ortwin and Shomei: an act which – according to Orthodoxy, at
least – verged on necromancy of the most dubious kind.
“I don’t know,” Eadric replied honestly. “I am tired of continually weighing the means
against the ends, and guessing which is the greater good, or the lesser evil.”
“Such is the weight of responsibility,” Tramst smiled.
“Before the assault, Titivilus issued me a sending. What was its purpose?”
“Devils seldom have uncomplicated reasons for their actions,” the Sela said cryptically.
“He offered to act as an arbiter – although for what dispute, I cannot guess.”
Tramst said nothing.
Eadric considered for a moment, before asking a different question altogether. “I am
curious as to your actions regarding the feys here. They seemed to regard you in a
favourable light.”
“I gave them honey-cake, and firewine, and a mechanical clock,” Tramst explained. “I
also asked their permission to visit you here.”
“But that was not necessary. You are the Sela.”
“It was, nonetheless, polite,” Tramst replied.
“But had you said nothing, and merely appeared to me, they would never have known of
your presence
– or mine.”
“That is likely,” the Sela nodded.
Eadric scowled. There was a paradox there somewhere, and a lesson to be learned from it.
“May I ask a philosophical question?” The Paladin ventured.
The Sela’s eyes twinkled. “If you really must,” he answered.
“Titivilus comprehends the dialectic which underpins the transmetaphysic of saizhan. Can
he be said to possess insight? Or is compassion a necessary precursor to actualizing
saizhan?”
“Your question is flawed, as it presupposes a difference between insight and compassion.”
“They are identical?”
“I will answer that with the standard fourfold negation.*”
Eadric laughed loudly – a sound that he realized had passed his lips too infrequently of
late.
“Something is amusing?” Tramst asked.
“Forgive me, Sela, but getting a straight answer from you is harder than pulling teeth from
a horse.”
“This has been pointed out to me,” Tramst nodded.
Eadric was silent for a moment, before asking another question. “Was there a specific
reason that you chose to meet me now?”
“Merely to inform you that your actions have had consequences which you did not
foresee. You do not exist in a vacuum.”
“Is that a warning?”
“In a manner of speaking.” Tramst replied. “Have you determined yet the purpose of your
visit to Afqithan?”
“Not entirely,” Eadric confessed. “But without other positive options, it seemed the
obvious thing to do.
What consequences do you refer to, Sela?”
“The challenging of Graz’zt’s hegemony in the realm.”
“I do not understand.”
“Irknaan is dead, Eadric. And even before he died, he wavered. There will be much
uncertainty as a new Queen asserts her dominion.”
The Paladin looked astonished. “Did Mostin kill him?”
“No. Irknaan was slain by the demoness Soneillon, around two hours ago.”
The void, Eadric immediately knew. “She was Graz’zt’s concubine. We had considered
Throile as a possible target. And she is now Queen there?”
“No. Soneillon has no interest in Afqithan – other than as a stick with which to taunt
Graz’zt. She has a great interest in you, however. She perceives you as a vehicle through
which Graz’zt’s downfall may be accomplished.”
Eadric shifted uncomfortably.
“If you were to ally yourself to her,” Tramst continued, “then no doubt it could be
accomplished.”
“Are you recommending this course of action, Sela?” Eadric inquired uneasily.
“By no means,” Tramst answered. “I am merely informing you of things as they are. You
have condemned Graz’zt to death. You have vowed to release Nehael. You are dispensing
Oronthon’s justice
– my justice, if you will – as you have determined appropriate and necessary. You may
have to confront this choice.”
The Paladin clenched his jaw in frustration.
“Do you resent the lack of direction that I offer you, Eadric?” The Sela asked.
Eadric hesitated.
Tramst struck him soundly in the face. “You cannot offend me with what you feel, Ahma.”
“I apologize,” Eadric said, nodding. His lip bled freely.
After a period of silence, the Paladin spoke again. “The Queen of whom you spoke – is it
Nhura, or one of Soneillon’s puppets?”
“I think that is not yet settled,” Tramst responded. “There are several candidates. Nhura
bears the title for the meantime.” He stretched, and abruptly changed the topic. “You are
not the only reason I am
here, Eadric. Another is due to arrive in a few hours. Which leaves us time to make some
corrections.”
Eadric looked quizzical.
” Ahma, your meditation posture is terrible.”
“Ahh,” Eadric said.
**
Mostin sat wrapped in his robe of eyes by a small fire near Nwm’s glade in the warm
sunlight. He sneezed.
By the time that Shomei and the Druid had wind walked to her mansion, and the
Infernalist had consulted her books and teleported to the Alienist’s location, Mostin’s fly
spell had long since expired.
He had been floating in the water, disconsolate, and drained of magic to an extent that he
hadn’t
experienced in years.
“You should’ve asked the Marid to deposit you in a less inconvenient place,” Ortwin
observed whilst toasting a thick slice of bread.
“It was not the first thing on my mind,” Mostin grumbled. “And I think you should put
some clothes on. Your naked caprine form is less than agreeable to my current
sensibilities. At least throw a cloak over yourself.”
Ortwin’s hand suffered a brief spasm, and he dropped his toast into the fire.
“I have to get my gear back,” the Satyr wailed.
“That could prove difficult,” Nwm said dryly. “As without your gear, it will not be easy to
retrieve your gear, so to speak.”
“And my dowry,” Ortwin whined.
” Our dowry,” Iua sighed. “Mostin, we have Shupthul’s weapon – can you transform it
into a scimitar?”
“I suppose so,” the Alienist replied. “If we go back, we need to carefully consider our
tactics, however.
They were less than successful. I would guess that we are outmatched by two to one at
least in
spellpower. There isn’t even any opportunity to close and engage with them in combat.
But we can do this – given the chance to prepare. I am thinking that the strategic use of
antimagic may be the answer.
In which case, no weapon which is dweomered would be useful – and a polymorphed
weapon would be worse than useless.”
“To willingly have my spellcasting stymied thus is a daunting prospect,” Nwm said
sceptically. “I’m hardly an expert combatant.”
“I am talking of the skillful use of antimagic, not a wholesale or blanket application,”
Mostin chided.
“And I think that you would be better off unhindered. I had much time to consider this
during my sojourn in the Eastern Ocean – watching fish becomes rather tedious after a
while. One of us – either Shomei or I – would effectively act as a mobile protection
device. We would be vulnerable to physical assault – all wards would be nonfunctioning.
But this is somehow preferable to multiple greater dispellings, horrid wiltings,
destructions and power words. Nwm and the other mage would remain outside of the field
– and warded to a truly absurd degree – bear in mind that whoever was acting as the
antimagic focus would have plenty of protective spells to lavish on those outside of the
field.”
“We have yet to witness the Loquai in physical combat,” Nwm pointed out. “How
effective are they likely to be?”
“If they are like the sidhe in general, then probably very adept. Also, probably no match
for Eadric, Ortwin or I,” Iua grinned. “I like this plan, Mostin.”
“I advocate a full assault,” the Alienist announced. Buoyed by Iua’s support, he was
beginning to get carried away. “We scry Irknaan’s castle, summon, bind and gate a
veritable army of extraplanar help.
We use the Mirror to access a point outside of the stronghold. I blow a hole in the wall
with a great
shout, send in the footsoldiers, and erect an antimagic field. We charge in, kill everything
inside, and it’s all over with.”
Ortwin turned to look at Nwm, and raised his eyebrows.
The Druid shrugged. “Why not? Hell, we’ve tried subtlety and guile. We’ve tried a
magical
confrontation. What’s left?”
**
It was mid morning. Tramst clicked his fingers and pointed at the sensor.
“I do not see it,” Eadric sighed.
“It requires considerable practice. It is there, however.”
Seconds later, there was a displacement of air, and a single figure arrived. Eadric’s mind
suffered a cognitive dissonance as Shomei manifested. The Eye of Palamabron showed
her true body – a youthful and fair-skinned woman – whereas his own eyesight revealed
the figure that he was familiar with. As always, she bore her rod.
Suspiciously, the Infernalist looked at Tramst and readied a spell. “Who are you? Why did
I not perceive you?” Shomei’s arcane sight began to scrutinize the Sela’s form.
Eadric was about to say something, but Tramst raised his hand in a gesture which said let
her continue.
“You are Oronthon’s Proxy,” Shomei said presently. Her head was spinning, and her heart
was pounding hard within her chest. Her calm façade seemed stretched and shaky. She
erected a mind blank almost instinctively.
“You are correct,” Tramst smiled.
“Your form is disarmingly unprepossessing,” Shomei continued, regaining her composure
somewhat.
“Would you prefer my ahmasaljan**?” The Sela inquired.
“NO!” Shomei said unequivocally.
“You fear me.”
“I mistrust what you represent,” the Infernalist replied.
“I think you misunderstand what I represent,” Tramst countered.
“I do not seek redemption, whether you dress it in dialectic clothes or no.”
“I do not offer it,” the Sela said easily. “You are an Infernalist. I attach no moral
significance to your chosen path. I can help you perfect your technique. Hone your spirit.
Discipline your Will.”
“Your attempt at expediency does not move me.”
“Shomei,” Tramst smiled, “if I were to be truly expedient with you, do you think you
would know it?”***
“I don’t know. Would you know it?” Shomei replied wrily.
” Saizho,” the Sela said, bowing.
“You bastard,” Shomei sighed, as reality shifted.
“Your contract with Zhorion is fulfilled,” Tramst pointed out.
Shomei cocked her head. “I neither sought you out, nor have I received instruction.”
“You have demonstrated the Truth to yourself. What else can I teach you?”
The Infernalist gaped. “That is absurd. Nothing is that easy.”
Tramst smiled sadly. “Yes, Shomei. It is that easy. Have you already forgotten, although it
was only seconds ago? It will elude you as you reach out to grasp it again. And therein lies
the tragedy.”
Shomei swallowed, and scowled.
Tramst reached down, and picked a buttercup from near the base of the beech-tree. He
pressed it into the palm of her hand.
Her world shattered into a billion fragments and reformed in an instant.
“You are not what I expected,” she said.
Eadric wondered why it was that, for him, the Sela had made things so difficult, but for
Shomei – who consorted with the unholiest of creatures – he had freely offered bliss and a
vision of the Absolute.
He experienced a moment of impossible irony.
**
Nufrut’s disembodied face squinted at Eadric and Mostin from inside her transparent
adamantine
prison. The Eye of Palamabron illuminated her.
“I require information regarding the demoness Soneillon,” Eadric stated.
“Mendacity would be pointless,” Mostin added smugly.
“What do you wish to know?” Nufrut sighed.
“Her power relative to the Prince of Azzagrat,” Mostin began, “both personal, and with
regard to their respective subjects and thralls. The disposition of her servants in Throile.
Her modi operandorum. Her motivations – beyond merely irking her former consort.
Possible weaknesses which may be exploited.
And her ontological status, which is a matter of some interest to me personally – from a
purely
academic perspective.”
“This may take some while,” Nufrut grumbled.
“Be as swift as you may,” Eadric said acidly.
“Power is a difficult thing to measure when one speaks of Abyssal dignitaries,” Nufrut
replied.
“Absolutes are impossible to determine.”
“Is she always this forthcoming?” Eadric asked Mostin, drily.
“Invariably,” Mostin nodded.
“Perhaps we should make a translation to the vestibule of Oronthon’s Heaven,” Eadric
suggested. “The Archons might have an easier time of persuading her to talk.”
Mostin shook his head. “That is a journey I would prefer not to undertake. I can easily
open a gate to allow you access, however.”
“That will not be necessary,” Nufrut interrupted. “I will try to formulate answers which
are meaningful to your limited mortal perspectives.”
“That is all we require,” Eadric smiled. “Proceed.”
“Soneillon’s sorcerous power is, in some regards, greater than that of Graz’zt,” Nufrut
reluctantly admitted.
Mostin inhaled sharply. “I think that statement requires some explanation.”
“She is touched by infinite nothingness,” Nufrut snapped. The subject was one which
evidently disturbed even her. “She is Demogorgon’s spawn. A scion of Cheshne. She has
entered oblivion, and returned from it.”
Eadric blanched. The name of the Ancient was anathema. A taboo which none violated.
“I am speaking figuratively, of course,” Nufrut added. “The wellspring of her power has
no bounds – it is limited only by her own capacity to understand it.”
“That is impossible,” Mostin grunted.
“As you wish,” Nufrut replied.
“Do not patronize me, Nufrut. Certain laws are inviolable within the bounded cosmos.”
“If so, then this is not one of them,” Nufrut said caustically.
“She does not lie,” Eadric sighed.
“And it is borne out by your suspicions regarding her partial nonexistence,” Nufrut
continued. “I assume that was the reason for your inquiry about her ontic status?”
Mostin nodded wrily.
“I am somewhat confused,” Eadric admitted.
“Soneillon has been to the bottom of the Abyss, and returned,” Mostin explained. “She has
tasted unbeing.”
“The Abyss has no bottom, Mostin.”
“My point exactly,” Mostin replied.
“Hmph!” Eadric turned his attention back to the Demoness. “Please continue, Nufrut.”
“Soneillon maintains few servants of any power – most of her closest attendants are
succubi, and a handful of these are favoured and have learned sorcery from her.”
“Such as the other who assailed us?” Mostin asked.
“As I was secure within your portable hole, I cannot answer this question with certainty.”
“Names,” Mostin demanded.
“Adyell, Helitihai, Orychne, Chaya,” Nufrut replied. “Others of less note. No doubt also
others, who are wholly unknown.”
“I was struck by a power word, stun and a violated sonic acid storm,” Mostin explained.
“Who might that be?”
“Probably none of those four,” Nufrut smiled wickedly.
“You are most vexatious,” Mostin said irritably. “Would you care to speculate who might
have access to such spells?”
“Many of Soneillon’s former protegés have found positions in the courts of other demonic
nobles.
Many have also managed to keep their tutelage under her secret. It is hard to say.”
“There was another demon who, like her, existed on the threshold on nonbeing. Who was
that?”
“I do not know,” Nufrut scowled. “There are others who have descended, and returned,
but most of their names are not known to me.”
“But some are,” Mostin pointed out. “Be so kind as to share those you do know.”
“I am loath to speak their names,” Nufrut groaned.
“And I am anxious to hear them!” Mostin retorted. “And a brief description, if you
please.”
“Seven only are known to me.”
“Speak!” The Alienist demanded.
So Nufrut spat their names out: Saduch and Tavael – shadow demons; Xanoriz – a
glabrezu; Tiqa – a succubus, like Soneillon herself, but of less power than the Mistress of
Throile; Iarathym – a babau; Arhuz – a nalfeshnee of tremendous power, who dwelt five
hundred circles from Azzagrat in a palace of slime; and Carasch.
“Carasch?” Mostin inquired.
“A balor. Once. Perhaps a deva before that? Who can remember that far back anymore?”
There was a hint of melancholy in her voice.
“Could it be him?” The Alienist asked nervously.
Nufrut laughed harshly. “You fool! Carasch, subordinate himself to any other? How little
you know, Mostin. Graz’zt and all his minions would flee before him. Yea, Ahma, maybe
even Enitharmon himself would think twice before challenging him. No, Mostin, it was
not Carasch – or you would all be dead, and Afqithan itself might be no more.”
Mostin sniffed. “I find it hard to believe that an entity of such power exists and I have
never heard of him.”
“You know nothing,” Nufrut sneered. “And I know but little in comparison to others,” she
added wrily.
“Soneillon herself is well versed in the nature and disposition of more exotic Abyssal
denizens. Pazuzu knows more than any other…”
“Return to the topic at hand if you would,” Eadric interjected. “We do not have time for
your random musings, Nufrut, although no doubt they are interesting.”
“Soneillon is a dreamer, and a seductress without peer,” the Demoness continued. “Her
schemes and motivations are as impenetrable as the darkness which surrounds her when
she wills it – no, Mostin, I do not dissemble. She is most enigmatic.”
“And weaknesses?” Eadric inquired.
“None that I know of,” Nufrut answered. “But if she has marked you, Ahma, then your life
is about to become very complicated.”
Eadric sighed. As if it wasn’t already.
*i.e. insight and compassion are neither identical, nor different, nor both identical and
different, nor neither identical nor different.
** ‘Spiritual essence,’ ‘indwelling spirit’ or ‘perfect body.’ Normally perceivable only
through the divine version of true seeing or similar magic.
***I think I may have touched on this before, but it is quite normal for Ascended Masters
– and by extension the Sela – to dispense wisdom according to the understanding of those
who hear it. Less enlightened souls might misconstrue this as an economy of truth, or even
outright lies.
It is important to clarify exactly what happened in the exchange between Tramst and
Shomei, as it is easily misunderstood:
Saizho means ‘I see’ (not ‘you see’ which is saizha – and may be either present tense or
imperative).
Tramst is in no way ‘bestowing’ or ‘forcing’ a moment of insight or enlightenment upon
Shomei.
Shomei’s question ‘Would you know it?’ (i.e. would the teacher know if he were being
expedient) stimulates an insight in the Sela. According to Saizhan, ultimately there is no
‘you’ that knows, and there is no knowing – there is only direct, unmediated experience of
the Truth. True expediency cannot be conscious or premeditated, it must arise
spontaneously and instinctively.
It is typical of the Sela’s teaching style that he will gracefully acknowledge an insight
provided by someone else – usually a student – also implying that he, himself still has
much to learn in the process.
This is, however, a spiritual lesson in itself – doubly so in the case of Shomei: the
‘Adversarial’
philosophy endorsed by Shomei (and Mostin, although in a different way) is based on
infinite
becoming and perpetual self-transcendence. By accepting an insight provided by Shomei,
the Sela implicitly endorses the validity of the Infernalist’s philosophy and pays homage to
her holiness and perfection, but at the same time asserts his own spiritual authority.
The paradox which results is a perfect expression of the dialectic of Saizhan: Shomei’s
mind no longer has anything tangible upon which it can find purchase. Inevitably, she
experiences Saizhan, but brought about by her own words, not by those of Tramst.
When Shomei realizes this, she says ‘You bastard.’ It would seem that Shomei has
somehow
maneuvered herself into a glimpse of the Truth. Thus, Tramst has been expedient, because
he has been effective. Moreover, he has done so spontaneously, instinctively and without
effort.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 07-24-2003
After Mostin and Eadric had quizzed Nufrut, the Paladin related the news conveyed to him
by Tramst in full. A bitter argument ensued.
“There is no need for us to return,” Nwm sighed. “It would serve no purpose. We have –
in a
roundabout way – succeeded in what we set out to do. Irknaan is dead. The Demon’s
precarious hold on the demiplane is compromised. We have vexed him. When we initially
spoke of this, the plan was to assail him on as many fronts as we could. We should change
tack accordingly now.”
“My gear remains in Afqithan,” Ortwin snapped.
“Forget your gear,” Nwm replied unsympathetically. “Live with it – you are alive, if you
would notice.
Goddess, you’re a selfish bastard, Ortwin.”
“But we have already formulated a plan,” the Satyr continued, ignoring the insult. ” We
can do this. It will work. ”
“It would be an unnecessary waste of time and effort,” Nwm retorted. “What would we
gain? Eadric?”
“I don’t know,” Eadric admitted.
“Pah!” Nwm snorted. “This is absurd. Why Afqithan? What’s the point? ”
“It is some kind of key,” Eadric replied.
Nwm looked exasperated. “Why? Have you had some kind of revelation?”
“No.”
The Druid closed his eyes, and clenched his fists. “I have humoured you thus far, Eadric,
but you need to seriously reappraise. Genuine visions I can accept, but some vague feeling
is not sufficient.”
“I trust vague feelings more than divinely inspired visions,” Mostin said unhelpfully.
“I’m not suggesting that is the key,” Eadric said. “But perhaps it is a key. Or perhaps we
can turn it into one. There is the gate to Azzagrat…”
“Which opens both ways, I might remind you. And it is periodic – who knows what else
has walked
through it since we were last there.”
“Soneillon.” Eadric said again. “She is pivotal – or could be, if we allowed her to be. She
lusts after the fall of the Lord of Azzagrat more than anything else.”
“Do not presume to understand the motives of demons,” Shomei warned. “Especially one
such as her. If you use her as a tool – if you use each other I should say – then she will
exact a price which may surprise you at a later time.”
“Do you then intend to strike a bargain with Soneillon?” Ortwin asked.
“I don’t know. Titivilus offered to act as an arbiter – maybe for this purpose. Perhaps
opening some kind of dialogue…”
“For me to regard something as questionable means that it must be very questionable,”
Ortwin said sardonically. “But I suspect that this is one barrel of maggots that you do not
want to open.”
Overcome by a sudden wave of irony, Nwm guffawed. “Eadric of Deorham purposes to
compact with a Demon Queen? Ah, the world has changed. And maybe not for the better.”
“There is opportunity, here,” Eadric replied patiently. “And I am in the unfortunate
position of having to decide the least evil.”
“Do you have that authority?” Nwm countered. “Or sufficient information?”
“Yes, and no,” the Paladin answered with a wry smile. “That is my lot. I am resigned to it.
Things will unfold according to Oronthon’s will, irrespective of my actions.”
“That is a depressing fatalism,” Nwm groaned.
“Not so,” Shomei unexpectedly came to Eadric’s defense. “To exert individual will and to
submit to destiny need not be mutually exclusive perspectives. This is well established.”
“Shomei, your philosophical sophistry is irrelevant to me,” Nwm replied. “Your world-
view is under assault. You are confused, and your intellect is trying to grasp at dialectical
straws.”
The Infernalist looked mildly offended, opened her mouth to say something, thought better
of it, and clamped it shut again.
“Through sustained application of Will, we can force a confluence of events to occur in
Afqithan,”
Mostin nodded. “We cannot control it, however. It may backfire. There are too many
variables. We lack Jovol’s prescience.”
Shomei raised her eyebrows. “Your euphemism is transparent, Mostin. You are too
anxious to unleash the Pseudonatural Horror.”
“I am not that anxious,” Mostin said. “Or I would have done so already.”
“I still do not understand what this thing is, of which you speak,” Eadric sighed.
“It is the creature which slew Vhorzhe – in all likelihood.” Shomei answered. “And
probably other adepts who thought they could control it.”
“The Horror,” Mostin nodded eagerly. “The gate. Titivilus. Soneillon. The Prince. The
Spell – which I am close to capable of casting.”
“Although not alone,” Shomei pointed out. “And enlisting a cabal will be far harder than
speaking the incantation.”
Mostin shrugged. “We are going in circles. I have some possible solutions, if any of you
have the stomach to hear them: bear with me before you shoot me down. First, Soneillon:
I can bind her, although I doubt I can hold her for long. Second, the gate: we can use it, or
seal it with a disjunction.
Third, Mulissu: it may be that she has made progress in interpreting Jovol’s web of motes
– it may give us an idea on how to proceed which we have not previously considered.
Fourth, the Pseudonatural: I can likewise bind it, and probably not hold it. Fifth, and I am
loath to even suggest it: Shomei – or even I, for that matter – could enlist celestial
support.”
“There will be no cascade in Afqithan,” Shomei said simply. “Tramst made that clear to
me before I left him – this is no concern of the Host. And I have worries on that count
which I haven’t yet voiced: there is no doubt that – irrespective of Nhura’s current
inclinations – news of a celestial presence in the demiplane has already been reported to
Graz’zt. Information such as that has a habit of spreading
quickly.”
“But would he have suspected who caused it?” Eadric asked.
“Perhaps not,” Shomei conceded, “but the Prince is supremely paranoid, as I have said
before. News of Irknaan’s death has probably reached him already. Who can guess the
loyalty of the other Loquai?”
“We need information,” Nwm sighed. “And we need it badly. Things are finely balanced.
Factions are forming faster than we can apprehend them. They change before we have a
chance to begin to
understand them. There is too much flux.”
“We are dealing with demons and their allies,” Mostin said. “What do you expect? Our
own presence has skewed events rapidly.”
“Everything in Afqithan seemed relatively stable before we arrived,” Nwm said
laconically.
“Chaos and inertia have a great deal in common,” Shomei smiled.
“Then we should take one more day,” Eadric said grimly. “One more day, before we
decide to act – and then ten hours or so will have passed in Afqithan since our flight. As
Nwm says, we need information –
to garner as much as we can. And when we do act, it needs to be decisive. No more
vacillation. Mostin, you are the Diviner – the onus lies on you. Can you contact Mulissu?”
The Alienist nodded. “I have yet to prepare my spells. But I had determined to make a
metagnostic inquiry before anything else. This will involve a translation.”
“How long will it take?” The Paladin asked.
“Exactly no time at all,” Mostin replied. “I will go to the Far Realm.”
**
Beyond the glooms created by an uncounted number of fears – the terrors which lurked in
the recesses of human souls, the darkest imaginings of demonic lust, and the nightmares of
creatures which bore no shape or name – Soneillon dreamed a dream.
Annihilation, the threat of unbeing, the primeval void in which all meaning ceased, held
no mystery for her. She was it, and it was she. From the blank tablet of unmanifest reality,
the succubus drew forth a tendril of possibility. Fashioned by her dark spirit – which had,
by the dubious virtue of sheer force of will, survived or transcended the insurmountable
necessity of ontological cohesion – a shadowy
phantasy began to coalesce.
She strove to give it form and meaning, to imbue it with qualities which marked it as real.
Madness and meaninglessness flowed away. The numinous slowly subsided, and became
the phenomenal. A vision
of trees, of sky, of streams, animals, birds and men assumed tangibility. A small castle,
with
whitewashed walls, ivy-clad and perched upon a rocky knoll.
Paradox rapidly spiralled into infinity, and potentiality shrank to a single point in space
and time. The interstices snapped, and unbeing retreated.
Soneillon stood in dappled sunlight, clad in flesh and blood. Nearby, an ancient oak-tree
stood. The demoness glanced at Kyrtill’s Burh, erected a ward around herself, and
assumed a pleasing form.
Soneillon smiled. She smiled at the hopeless lot of mortals, like pigs who were destined
for slaughter.
She smiled at the pathos which she perceived in Graz’zt: his interminable wheedling and
plotting and conniving for the slightest of transient gains. She smiled at Wyre, and its
magical Law, embodied in the Claviger and its servant Gihaahia – in the full knowledge
that she herself needed no agent to bring here there and, thus, no infraction had occurred.
And she smiled at Oronthon, and the Celestial Host, and their Interdict against the millions
that had rebelled before time began.
Once, she had been one of them. But no longer. Her paradigm had shifted. Unreality was
hers, and she made her own laws now.
**
The creature interrogated by Mostin was a writhing mass of matter which would have
defied all
attempts at classification, had the Alienist been inclined to attempt to categorize it. Two
things only concerned him: it was of the lower order, and thus unlikely to resist his
compulsion, and it was of reasonable intelligence – the latter inferred by Mostin who,
invisible and mind blanked, had watched it interact with numerous other creatures of less
stature than itself.
Transfixed, it swayed eerily beneath the Wizard’s gaze, its pseudopodia stretching and
rippling
simultaneously through several overlapping dimensions.
Mostin’s question was generic. He sought guidance, not definitive answers.
Can you enlighten me with regard to the events and possibilities which currently
preoccupy me?
The creature’s consciousness was catapulted into the deepest reaches of madness and
euphoria, and a barrage of scenes and feelings flooded into Mostin’s mind as it filtered
them to him.
[Image] Graz’zt + [Image] a black tower + [Image] a satyr (or was it Titivilus?) + [Fear]
Nothingness +
[Image] peasant girl + [Image] a huge bird + [Incomprehensible] void + [Image] Steeple +
[Image]
dragon + [Image] a dreamscape: the Claviger; Jovol; Soneillon. [Image] the forest
perishing + [Smell]
acid + [Image] Lukarn + [Image] a million tiny stars + [Image] the Horror + [Fear] the
Horror +
[Terror] the Horror + [Image] a hundred souls, confined, deranged, screaming and
gibbering + [Image]
Vhorzhe + [Voice] saizha, Mostin?
Mostin quailed, and fled back to the bounded cosmos.
*
“I think that a slightly more structured question may have been in order,” Mulissu said
sarcastically, as she poured a smoking liquid into a tall, blue flute, and handed it to
Mostin. “You might as well have asked ‘Can you please reveal all of my deepest fears to
me?’”
The pair sat beneath the pomegranate tree in Mulissu’s courtyard, as several mephits
capered nearby.
The dome of the sky was, as usual, a perfect, unbroken cyan.
“It is within my nature to risk frequent assault upon my psyche,” Mostin replied shakily.
“You may have a point, however.”
“Did you uncover anything worthwhile?”
“That remains to be seen,” Mostin downed his drink rapidly and held out his glass for
another draught,
“but I think so. Interpretation is always the hardest part. This is a fine beverage. What is
it?”
Mulissu shrugged, and poured again. “I don’t think it has a name. I acquired it from a
passing Djinn.
The pseudonatural entity seems foremost in your mind. Have you made an effort to
contact it?”
“Not yet. I have not judged the time to be ripe. It soon will be, however.”
“And you plan to gate it into this ‘Afqithan?’”
“Perhaps. Or I may loose it against the Prince, if we ever have the misfortune to meet.
Mulissu, I need guidance.”
The Witch groaned. “I prefer not to dispense advice, where possible.”
“Jovol’s web of motes,” Mostin persisted. “Have you made headway in understanding it?”
Mulissu sighed. “I have thought of little else. It continually distracts me from my work.”
“But do you understand it?”
“No,” she replied. “Or, I should say, I understand its principles and its function, but not
how to read it –
as you said, interpretation is always the hardest part. Would you like a demonstration?”
Mostin nodded. “Of course.”
“Then we should go inside – it is best if we see it in relative darkness.”
“I will bring the bottle,” Mostin said. His mood was improving rapidly.
Mulissu had dedicated the space within the largest of the five minarets of her mansion-
cum-castle to Jovol’s device. When she activated it – a flat metal plate some twelve inches
square – by merely
passing her hand over it, Mostin’s jaw dropped.
The darkness around them was suddenly illuminated by a hundred thousand points of light
which
coruscated in every colour imaginable. Some pulsed, and hummed, and seemed to move
on
unpredictable trajectories. Some quivered, some darted here and there, others stayed fixed,
or orbited fathomless loci which could not be identified. Almost imperceptibly, slender
threads wove them
together, joining them for brief periods before they separated, or binding them tightly into
pairs, triplets or larger clusters.
“Every mote represents a packet of consciousness – an individual entity, or a single
perspective. They are shown in relation to one another.”
Mulissu looked around briefly, before locating a bluish mote which blazed more brightly
than those around it. She touched it with an outstretched finger, and it grew noticeably.
Thousands of other motes winked out, but new ones came into being in their place. A
puzzled look crossed her face.
“You seem perplexed,” Mostin observed.
“The mote which I selected represents myself,” Mulissu said. “That much, at least, I have
determined.
Notice the bright mote which winks nearby. Its pattern seems random and insubstantial: I
suspect that this is you, although I cannot read the significance of its behaviour.”
“I am mind blanked. This may be reflected in the web’s powers of scrutiny. How did you
isolate the mote which represents you?”
“I just knew,” the Witch answered. “Do not ask me to explain – I cannot.”
“Eadric said that Jovol could infer certain things,” Mostin speculated, “even when he
could not accurately determine them. It may be possible to locate anyone or anything at
any time, past, present or future – given a user with sufficient ability. Beyond even Jovol’s
powers, I suspect.
“Indeed,” Mulissu raised an eyebrow. “Or mine. It may also be possible to advance or
regress the whole web – currently, I believe it shows things as they are. It should be able
to reveal things as they were or even as they will be. This is beyond me. Nor can I
determine the spatial coordinates of any of the motes
– that is to say where in any reality the individual to whom the mote belongs is located.
Observe this.”
The witch traced a thin tendril from her own mote with her finger. Around them both,
lights flashed rapidly, as the thread twisted and gyred. Slowly, in the centre of the
chamber, a deep, purplish radiance grew. It seemed somehow serene. Perfect in its shape
and form.
From it, a thousand strings, gossamer-thin, radiated outwards, connecting it to a myriad of
other motes
– including, somewhat detached, the bright blue light which was Mulissu herself. Around
the central radiance, slowly orbiting on its periphery, was a single spark of deepest red,
filled with malevolence and conveying a sense of foreboding.
“Behold the Claviger,” Mulissu smiled, “and the Enforcer. At the end of every tendril,
there is a Wizard, Mostin. We are all bound together, and there is nothing we can do about
it.”
“But which is whom?” Mostin asked in awe.
Mulissu sighed. “That is the question.”
The Alienist paused in thought for a moment, before reaching out to touch Gihaahia’s
mote, eliciting a doubtful expression from Mulissu.
“Mostin…” She began.
“Sshh!”
The Enforcer’s mote grew, and that of the Claviger retreated, until the red ellipsoid
outshone all others.
A feeling of subservience – tinged with an ancient, ineffable anger – emanated from it.
“Remarkable,” Mostin said. As the radicles which anchored it to other luminous points
came in to view, its connection to the Claviger assumed a different shape – appearing as a
long, tense cord, which
glowered with coercive power.
Many of the motes were now black, or deep scarlet, or midnight blue in hue. From all,
violence, and lust, and pain, and fear flowed forth – stifling and suffocating. Many
flickered and seemed to jump unpredictably.
“Are we seeing reality from Gihaahia’s perspective, now?” Mostin asked.
“I think these motes around her represent the contacts which she has made. The significant
entities which have shaped – and maybe continue to shape – her reality.”
Mostin’s eyes darted about rapidly, following the tendrils which sprang from the Enforcer.
Where is the connection? It must be here. Is it this?
A fuliginous mote, but somehow vague and indistinct came into view. He touched it. It
grew,
threatening to consume all else. Beyond it, past incomprehensible connections which
spanned realities and stretched the bounds of apprehension, was a yet deeper void.
Mulissu touched him gently on the shoulder. “Stop, Mostin. It will not avail you, and
madness lies that way. You do not have the understanding. Sometimes you need to accept
your limits.”
Mostin exhaled, and nodded.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 07-24-2003
They sat outside again. At Mulissu’s command, a cool breeze had arisen.
“The dark mote that you evoked – what was it?”
“Cheshne, or her echo,” Mostin answered. “At least, I think it was. Nothingness has been
weighing on my mind recently. Tell me, Mulissu: is it possible for a demon to survive
annihilation?”
Mulissu shrugged. “The ontological paradox holds no interest for me. Speculating about
such things is pointless.”
“Did you see the void beyond the void?” Mostin asked.
“Yes, Mostin, I did – and I am superstitious enough to say ‘do not speak its name in my
house.’ Why does it interest you?”
“It is the key to understanding the demoness Soneillon. If I can locate the mote which
represents her, and then the mote which represents Eadric, Tramst, the Prince of
Azzagrat…”
“It is an exceedingly long and arduous task,” Mulissu sighed, and stretched. “I have
attempted the process of cross-referencing, but there are hundreds of variables, and
isolating many of them is near to impossible.”
“Cosmic entities are easy enough to locate, if you can find one they lead from each to the
next – the Enforcer is an excellent place to begin.”
Mulissu shook her head. “And if you locate Cheshne, or Astaroth, what then? Can you tell
which of Shûth’s accursed gods is which, or which Arch-fiend is Belial and which
Amaimon? They flicker and
shift.”
“How did Jovol interpret it? Did he use a spell?”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps his insight was simply far greater than either of us.”
The bracelet, Mostin thought at once, and struck his forehead with his hand.
Mulissu looked quizzical.
“I am an idiot,” Mostin explained.
*
Shomei eyed the mephits with an expression of weary tedium on her face.
“How can you tolerate their continual antics?” She asked Mulissu.
“They are acting according to their nature,” the Elementalist replied.
“They are fractious and ill-disciplined. I would choose retainers who are more reliable.”
“And no doubt far duller and more serious. Mostin says that the bracelet that Jovol
bequeathed to you enhances perception in certain areas.”
Shomei raised an eyebrow. “Evidently he has studied it more than I gave him credit for. Or
his speculation is, for once, accurate. He is correct.”
“I wish to borrow it for a short while,” Mulissu said impassively – a statement which
verged upon a command, or at least an expectation that she would not be denied.
“In order to better interpret Jovol’s web of motes,” Shomei nodded. “I, too, would like the
opportunity to further realize my bracelet’s potential.”
Mostin sighed. He saw where this argument was leading. “It seems plain to me that your
respective egos – colossal and yet simultaneously fragile as they both are – would require
each of you to assert your right to first use the bracelet and web in conjunction. I can offer
a solution to this impasse by volunteering my services – humbly, of course – thereby
sparing each of you further embarrassment. I would also like to point out that I am, by
native disposition and years of rigorous training, a Diviner.
The web is likely to respond favorably to my benign aura.”
“That is utterly spurious,” Mulissu moaned. “and I will not even deign to refute it
formally. Shomei, follow me – the honour is yours. Forgive my presumption.”
Mostin squinted, and traipsed behind the two witches into the dome.
Mulissu floated three inches above the marble floor, arms folded across her chest, whilst
Mostin half-sulked and half-scrutinized Shomei, who stood at the centre of the web of
motes.
Points of light wheeled around her at incredible speed. She reached out, touched motes
which arose, grew, merged, separated, shifted and winked out.
“What do you see?” Mostin asked.
“Wait,” the Infernalist replied. “There are more potential viewpoints than I had
anticipated.” She touched a mote, and it blossomed.
“Well?” Mostin grumbled impatiently.
“There are numerous space-times represented by intersecting parabolae,” Shomei
answered. “All cosmoi are represented here. And the sum of all possibility.”
Mostin looked dubious. “Can you find any mote? Find Nwm’s mote.”
Shomei glanced around, and interlocking systems rapidly flashed past. She touched
another mote, and it assumed a central position and seemed to glow more brightly. The
Infernalist laughed – predictably, it was green.
“Are you sure that’s him?” Mostin asked.
“Oh yes,” she replied.
“Where is he?”
“As I already know where Nwm is – at his glade near Deorham – that would hardly be a
fair trial of the web’s power.”
“Let me try,” Mostin said.
“I’m next,” Mulissu smiled.
Mostin scowled.
After several frustrating hours, he finally got to play.
When the Alienist engaged with the web for the second time, he drew in his breath sharply
in wonder.
New levels of complexity were revealed, and others suggested or hinted at. Nuances
which had eluded him entirely during his first encounter were suddenly plainly visible:
possibilities, probabilities, connections on levels which he did not comprehend. Visions
shared, perspectives held in common,
affinities with concepts or geographical locations. Space, time and consciousness locked
together in a latticework of impossible subtlety and intricacy. The web of motes was a true
microcosm. A mirror of reality – or of many realities.
What can this device not do? Mostin wondered to himself. Who – or what – constructed
it? When?
How?
Quickly, he isolated the mote which he knew represented himself and examined it.
Hundreds of
connections emanated from it to other points of light: Eadric, Nwm, Shomei, Mulissu,
Orolde, the
Pseudonatural which he had only recently quizzed, the Horror and uncounted others.
Mostin concentrated, and the web receded. Motes flashed as time regressed, but larger
patterns
remained constant for long periods, as though some overriding principle – an organizing
factor – was in play. When they changed, they seemed to do so sometimes slowly and
deliberately, sometimes
wholesale – imposing a new set of guiding rules and paradigms upon the interwoven
gestalt.
Mostin observed Khu: realities collided where gates blazed open and celestials descended
in legions. A maze of motes and taut connections which formed a huge knot with many
facets. A nodality.
Mostin studied it for three hours, familiarizing himself with its patterns and undercurrents.
A variety of hypothetical scenarios which had never been actualized overlapped with
events as he remembered
them: the death of Ainhorr, the death of himself, the successful flight of Feezuu, the
failure of Mulissu to initiate the cascade. The reflection of Graz’zt – the demon’s
simulacrum – surviving the assault.
Mostin selected an unrealized past future where Eadric had been slain, and gingerly
advanced the web into chaos.
Feezuu carving out an empire. Tens of thousands of motes in bondage or annihilated. Her
lichdom –
which had been so narrowly avoided. Rapid bifurcation, and incomprehensibility.
Mostin sighed, and returned to the Now. He selected Graz’zt’s mote and scrutinized it
briefly – it seemed absurdly complex in its connections. It resonated closely with Eadric,
with Soneillon – the demoness was now plainly visible to the Alienist – and with hundreds
of fiends and powerful servitors or thralls. Another mote, which was burdened with
suffering beyond the ability of any mortal flesh to
endure, was tightly enmeshed with the others.
Mostin swallowed, and touched Nehael.
A plethora of cosmoi wheeled in a pattern which bore an uncanny symmetry. Like a
chiaroscuro in
perfect balance, Nehael’s picture revealed Rintrah, Eadric, Graz’zt, Soneillon, Nwm,
Titivilus and even Mostin himself in orbit around her. She was the lynchpin, the focus of
all activity, and the calm centre around whom infinities – Oronthon, the Far Realm,
Unbeing, Dream, the Green, the Adversary –
seemed poised through their representatives to assert their claims to reality. Her resonance
with Tramst was extraordinary – like Oronthon’s proxy, her role was to reveal all accepted
truths as empty. Mostin tried to advance the web, but it immediately fractured into trillions
of possibilities.
“Ngaarh!” He yelled in frustration.
Mulissu stood smiling, looking at him. “It is late, Mostin. I am hungry. Will you stay for
dinner?”
Dumbly, Mostin nodded.
*
The Alienist, Elementalist and Infernalist sat around a small hexagonal table within an
airy refectory, dining on a sumptuous meal of delicacies prepared by the mephit Shrix –
who, apparently possessed a degree of culinary expertise normally eclipsed by his
perverse sense of humour as Mulissu’s doorward.
“This has been most productive,” Mostin said through a mouthful of exquisite pastries
stuffed with figs, almonds and pistachios. “We should meet more regularly.”
Mulissu looked suspicious – her intolerance for frequent interruption was well known.
“Did you determine Soneillon’s location?” Shomei asked Mostin.
The Alienist shook his head. “I became somewhat preoccupied by other matters. Why?”
“She is on the Prime,” Shomei replied.
Mostin coughed. “This information would have been better shared earlier.”
“I had assumed that she would be first to fall under your scrutiny,” the Infernalist jibed. “I
merely noticed it in passing – my attention was directed towards the Infernal realms.
Incidentally, Titivilus is in Afqithan, along with Furcas and Murmur – although I didn’t
pursue that line of inquiry either.”
Mostin almost choked.
“What did you look at, Mostin?” Mulissu asked. “I spent an hour minutely inspecting the
Claviger and its connections and then proceeded to examine Ha’uh – a primal elemental
with whom I should like to make peaceable contact, if possible.”
Mostin raised an eyebrow. “The meta-structure of nodalities is fascinating. If I were to
direct my energies in any one direction with regard to the web, then it would be here.”
Mulissu sighed. “I think the dangers here are apparent – to be drawn in, and spend the rest
of one’s life observing or contemplating cosmic plans, patterns and connections. Was it
productive?”
“Yes and no,” Mostin replied. “I found that advancing the web beyond its current
reflection of the Now to be unsatisfying. I could not project it into the future with any
degree of certainty.”
“Nor could I,” Mulissu nodded.
“Nor I,” Shomei agreed. “It may be that Jovol’s bracelet is incapable of augmenting our
faculties to this extent – his own native ability must have borne the brunt of his
endeavours. It might behoove one of us to develop a spell for the express purpose of
interpreting the web.”
“I will do so,” Mostin said, “when I have time.”
“If it is ritualized I could easily perfect a formula in a matter of days,” Mulissu said. “And
with the minimum of fuss.”
“My reservoir must stay unmolested,” Mostin said sourly. “I want no repeat of Gihaahia’s
binding – it set me back by a month at least.”
“Noted,” Mulissu nodded.
“Splendid,” Shomei smiled. “Then I say that we reconvene in one week to discuss our
options –
assuming that Mostin and I are still alive. And every month thereafter.”
Mulissu scowled. “Every year would suit me better.”
“Then I would suggest every quarter, as a compromise,” Mostin said. “We three would
form a potent triad. We are peers, and few others compare to us in power and ability.
Mulissu should be our leader –
the first among equals.”
“Not for long, I suspect,” the Witch said drily.
**
“She is here?” Eadric asked, aghast.
Mostin gave a confirmatory nod. “There is more. Before we left, I inspected the web for a
third time. It would appear that certain of those others whom we encountered have also
made a translation.”
Eadric looked sick. “Go on.”
“Nhura. The Wyrm, and the Shadow who rode with him – most likely Threxu the Nymph
mentioned by Nufrut. At least a dozen of the Loquai – including the one we briefly
captured. The other chthonic thing. Nhura is accompanied by another creature: powerful,
but heretofore unknown to us.”
“A demon?”
“Demons may not enter the world of men unless called. The Interdict forbids it.”
“But you just said…”
“It would seem that Soneillon has a way to circumvent it. Or perhaps it no longer applies
to her. I would have said that perhaps she has an ally that we do not know about. One who
brought her here – it would not be the first time. But the Enforcer would have intercepted
a summoner and annihilated him or her. In any case, she is here.”
“Where?” Nwm asked.
“Unfortunately, I currently lack the expertise to make an accurate assessment of her
position without drawing attention to myself. Not that it matters – she can travel an
unlimited distance at will.”
“And the others?” Ortwin asked. “The Dragon?”
“Are split into two groups. I suspect one or more of them can plane shift: they may have
arrived in two waves.”
“I thought the sidhe were capable of that feat in any case,” Ortwin said.
“Not the Loquai,” Shomei answered. “They are bound to Shadow. Which is fortunate for
us – several hundred of them would present a significant threat.”
Eadric groaned. “We cannot allow them to remain here. They will cause untold damage.”
Shomei shrugged. “It is you they seek, Ahma – your mote is replete with connections to
them. Many minds are extended and focused in your direction. They may take some time
to arrive here – the two groups are probably several hundred miles distant – both from us
and each other. I don’t think they will tarry to cause random mayhem.”
“We need to intercept the Dragon,” Eadric said.
Mostin nodded. “I will scry him shortly. But give me an hour to prepare the rest of my
spells.”
“An hour?”
“I cannot work miracles, Eadric! If I don’t give this some thought, then the chances are
that we’ll all wind up dead anyway.”
**
In the chapel at Deorham, the four devas chanted in unison as they strapped Eadric’s
armour to him and girded him with his sword belt. He hefted Melimpor’s shield –
perpetually burnished to an unnatural sheen – and slid Lukarn into its scabbard.
The potent runes and wards on his weapon, girdle and armour would, he knew, be of
limited use to
him. In an area of dead magic, their power would be suspended: he was relying in large
part on skill and force alone. He recalled his own words to Hullu – that he was the greatest
warrior of the age, unmatched in arms by any other in Wyre. He swallowed, and wondered
if it had been an idle boast.
From his armoury, the Ahma had selected two powerful horn bows – one for himself, and
another for Iua – together with quivers full of blue-fletched arrows. Ortwin would be using
Shupthul’s bow – his own, Anguish – had been lost along with the rest of his equipment.
Unlike the Satyr and duelist, however, Eadric would carry no further wards or
augmentations.
Ortwin and Iua were highly mobile – it was expected that they would range beyond the
antimagic field, attack, and retreat back within it again. Eadric would stay at the centre,
protecting the locus of null magic – Shomei – by whatever means he could.
Eadric sighed. He could have commanded a dozen, or even a hundred of Wyre’s most
stalwart
Templars to accompany him, and didn’t doubt for an instant that they would have
followed. But his actions now were far beyond the purview of the Temple, and dragging
them off to possible death – or worse – would have weighed on his mind for the rest of his
life. This was not their fight. And there was no time.
He hoped that Shomei’s assessment was accurate – that they were interested in him alone.
His stomach turned. What havoc would they wreak here, in Wyre?
He closed his eyes, knelt, and prayed.
When he opened them again, he found that he could not rise. The celestials stood in
unlikely poses near the altar, similarly paralyzed. Behind him, the Paladin heard gentle
footsteps approaching.
A girl who was almost a woman, clad in the traditional folk costume of Trempa – a clean
white dress drawn in around the waist, with brightly patterned hems – stood next to him.
She leaned forward and lit an offertory candle from an oil lamp, which burned before the
solar orb upon the small altar. The flame which kindled from the taper seemed to blaze
with a colour that was darker than soot. Eadric’s eyes strained to see her face, oval and
framed with a riot of black hair.
She knelt slightly too close for decency, her perfume a heady combination of musk and
spice. She
turned her head, and her breath was warm in his ear as she whispered.
“Nothing becomes.”
****
Soneillon
Soneillon shifted her position, placing a prayer cushion on the low dais before the Paladin,
and sitting upon it – squarely in front of him – in the meditation posture of saizhan.
Whether an authentic act, or in dry mockery, Eadric could not tell. She reached forwards,
and cupped the Eye of Palamabron which
hung around Eadric’s neck in her delicate hand, snapped the chain which held it between
thumb and forefinger, and casually tossed the amulet aside. As she straightened again, her
hair – which smelled of lotus and sandalwood – brushed his face. She smiled.
Her every gesture possessed an effortless allure, replete with innuendo, and the promise of
annihilation which rested in her eyes – fathomless voids – served only to heighten her
magnetism. She was
infinitely desirable. And something about her, not her appearance, but in some way her
essence – if she was endowed with such – reminded him of Nehael.
Eadric closed his eyes.
” Saizhan,” she said gently, “demands that you admit to your feelings, take note of them,
and allow them to pass peacefully from your mind without judging them. Repression leads
to madness. This is why
Orthodoxy failed. And erotophobia was among its greatest flaws. You may speak.”
The compulsion which transfixed him relaxed just a little. He opened his eyes again,
looked at her, and nodded. “There is some merit in that statement,” he said shakily. “But If
you wish to act as my temptress, you should stand in line – that position is currently
filled.”
Soneillon laughed, and Eadric was surprised to find that it was a pleasant and agreeable
sound. The Paladin recalled Nufrut’s words – most enigmatic, she had labeled the
Succubus. He reluctantly found himself in agreement with the Marilith’s assessment.
“What do you want, Eadric?” She asked softly. The question penetrated to his core,
assailing him on all levels – existential, emotional and physical – at once. “I can help you
recover your demon-lover. I don’t doubt you have already speculated about how best to
use me. You could have come to Throile and approached me directly – I am not
unreasonable.”
“And I am not in the habit of frequenting the Abyssal lairs of demonesses,” Eadric replied.
“Besides, I find far too many fiends far too reasonable. We determined early on that
Throile was too high a risk.”
“But you entertained the possibility,” she smiled. “One of your allies – the devil Aoloz – is
still interned there. The Ahma is wise to use fiends to do his dirty work – they are less
conspicuous than solars, I
suspect. Although their demise is also less spectacular.” Her words bit deep.
“I am not responsible for Shomei’s choice of servants,” Eadric sighed.
“Ahh.” The fact that Soneillon evinced no sarcasm made her reply even more frustrating.
Eadric looked sceptical. “I’m surprised that you felt the need to discard Palamabron’s Eye.
Titivilus felt no compunction about allowing me to wear it. Perhaps you lack his guile?”
“Perhaps,” she shrugged. “Or perhaps unequal truths do not concern me.”
The Paladin scowled. “I find your oblique references to saizhan baffling. What are you
trying to accomplish?”
“They are hardly oblique, Eadric. If I perceive a kernel of wisdom in an idea, then I am
not above admitting it – no matter where its source lies. But I am no philosopher and have
no interest in debate – I lack the patience. As to the Eye, I’d hoped that you would trust
your own ability to judge me, rather than the obsolete lens of a dead cherub. The Truth has
changed.”
Eadric shook his head wrily. “I can’t trust the authenticity of my own thoughts and actions
whilst under the effect of a compulsion. The Eye might allow me to retain some sense of
perspective.” He sighed.
“You wish to use me against Graz’zt. What is it that I can accomplish, which you cannot?”
“Force of arms is not my forté – nor that of my servants. And you are singularly driven in
your desire for vengeance. One of Oronthon’s less ‘noble’ aspects, I would argue – but
that’s beside the point.”
“And what of those you sent here – the Wyrm, Nhura, the Loquai. Why are you here now,
if they have come to whisk me back to you?”
“I did not send them – Nhura determined to come of her own volition. And while I’m sure
that
ingratiating themselves with me is one motive, there are many others. Nhura needs to
assert her
ascendancy. Koilimilou desires the return of her box of shades. Threxu always longs for
new forests to rape and despoil, and the Wyrm to cause as much mischief as he can. And
the Loquai? The Loquai can
hunt – which is what they love best.”
“But you command them?”
Soneillon smiled. “I have no particular attachment to them. You may relax, now. Do as
you wish.”
Eadric found that he could move again, and shifted his position accordingly. He stood
uneasily, glanced at the quartet of unmoving celestials near the altar, at the door to the
chapel, and at the demoness again
– she looked strangely vulnerable. Somehow, Eadric felt even more uncomfortable than
before. He
could not read her. He looked at the Eye of Palamabron lying nearby, and sighed. On
some level, her words regarding the amulet rang true.
“I would ask that you do not target my friends,” Eadric said. “We are interdependent. If
you eliminate them, then my effectiveness is diminished.”
“I regret Ortwin’s disintegration,” she answered. “I didn’t command it.”
“And you will call your servants off.”
“They are not my servants, Eadric. I am not responsible for their actions.”
“You slew Irknaan for his intransigence.”
“I slew Irknaan because he was an irritating bore,” she replied.
She was maddening. Impossible.
“And what of the other demon? The one of your kind, who is now with Nhura? It is one of
yours?”
Soneillon shook her head. “I suggested the name to Irknaan. Whatever compacts were
arranged
subsequently with Nhura are beyond my purview.”
“You could ask the Lillend and her cohorts to return to Afqithan,” Eadric said through
gritted teeth.
“I could.”
“Will you?” He asked.
“No,” she replied. “Your actions have led to their presence here. They are your
responsibility. And I would like to see how you deal with them.”
“You would sacrifice them merely to gauge my suitability as an assassin?”
Soneillon stood up smoothly and stretched slowly, catlike. “If you need me, then call me
with your mind when you are on the threshold of sleep. I will come to you.”
“I need you to convince your allies to return to Afqithan.”
“You know what I mean, Eadric.”
He swallowed. “I think you should leave, now.” Do not look at me thus.
“Until tonight, then.”
“Go.”
“Dream well,” she smiled, and vanished.
Eadric shook, and cursed silently. He flung the doors to the chapel open, and stormed into
the
courtyard. The sun was bright, and caused him to squint.
“Nwm!” He thundered.
**
They sat in the Great Hall at Kyrtill’s Burh, around a huge oak table, stained and worn by
centuries of feasts held by Eadric’s forebears. Shafts of light from the high windows –
opened for the first time in several months – revealed more dust than Mostin felt was
healthy. The handful of servants had been less than conscientious in maintaining the
interior of the Keep, content instead to deplete the Paladin’s wine cellar. Eadric was
unusually tolerant of their idleness – something which the Alienist found
deplorable, but knew better than to mention. Mostin discreetly deployed a cantrip to clean
the air and furniture.
“Perhaps you should have accepted Titivilus in his offer to act as mediator,” the Druid said
drily. “I suspect that he would have kept his head, and remained a little cooler. What is it
with you and succubi, anyway?”
“Shut up, Ortwin,” Eadric said, before the Satyr could open his mouth. The Bard gave a
look of mock offense.
Nwm gestured airily. “She has demonstrated her power, in any case. It would seem to be
considerable.”
Shomei nodded. “I think we knew that – she has held the Prince of Azzagrat to a stalemate
for millennia. That is no small feat.”
“A simple protection spell should suffice to prevent her exercising further control,” Mostin
added. “Of course, if she determines that she really wants to – for whatever reason – then
she can. We can smother you with wards, all of which would crumble before her magic.”
Eadric groaned. “I had assumed that she had dismissed the enchantment.”
“No,” Mostin said ruefully.
“How long will it last?”
“I don’t know. I could disjoin it, but I think we’re probably better off just letting it run its
course – I may need the spell. I doubt it’s permanent – she was dominating the celestials
as well.”
“How did she appear?” Ortwin asked. “Was she pert, or curvaceous?”
Iua kicked him hard under the table.
“These are important considerations,” the Satyr continued. “Would she be swayed by my
not inconsiderable charms, I wonder?”
“Have you no principles at all?” Eadric asked. “The question is rhetorical – you need not
answer it. As a girl of perhaps eighteen years. She was wearing a Trempan peasant’s
clothes – the kind reserved for festivals and holidays.”
Mostin raised an eyebrow. “Intriguing. I had a vision of such, although its significance
was difficult to determine.”
“That is an agreeable persona,” Ortwin nodded. “Did it elicit the Ahma’s approval?”
“Where is this line of inquiry leading, Ortwin?” Eadric looked through narrowed eyes.
“I am an accomplished seducer,” the Bard declared. “I am merely attempting to deduce
her tactics. I appreciate professionalism in the field of love – hence I’ve always had a soft
spot for succubi.”
“She is far more,” Eadric said irritably.
“Than Nehael?” The question was brutal.
“That is not what I meant.”
“I’m just making sure,” Ortwin smiled disarmingly. “Eadric, forbidden fruit always tastes
sweetest –
trust me, I’ve plucked enough of it in my time. Your sorry lot is compounded by the fact
that you are
driven by some religious urge to overcome duality – on whatever level it happens to
manifest. Hence, I would speculate, your initial attraction to Nehael.”
“They are hardly comparable circumstances.”
“Let the Satyr continue,” Mostin said. “This is interesting, and he may have a point. He is
experiencing a rare moment of philosophical insight. Do not discourage him.”
“You perceive the possibility of a union of opposites,” Ortwin said.
” Hierosgamos,” Mostin nodded approvingly. “The Alchymic Marriage.”
“Quite,” Ortwin raised an eyebrow.
“And she is playing to your understanding of saizhan,” Shomei smiled, “to which the
ontological paradox is central. Transcending the duality of ens and non-ens is one of the
oldest conundrums of mysticism. Where does consciousness lie when it observes the
duality? Does it exist or not? She
promises oblivion, which attracts you.”
Eadric grumbled. “If you are quite finished in dissecting my psyche…”
“I am not,” Ortwin interrupted.
“Nor I,” Mostin added. “Eroticism is dangerous because it clouds your perspective – you
should exercise caution if you plan to pursue this route as a means to metagnosis. As a
recreational activity, I have no problem with it.”
“Enough!” Eadric snapped. “I have no desire to pursue ‘metagnosis’ so the point is moot.
Can we leave now?”
“Soon,” Mostin replied. “I would prefer to wait until they have passed over the deeper
stretches of Lake Thahan – if the Dragon takes to the water, it may complicate things.”
“I will go and put on that damned armour,” Ortwin complained. “I want my gear back.”
Outside, Iua turned to the Bard, exasperated. “Do you have to goad him so?”
“My Love, sometimes it is the only way to make him think.”
“Do you have to enjoy it so much?”
Ortwin laughed.
Within the hall, Eadric turned to Nwm. “I was hoping that you might have some advice.”
The Druid sighed. “It is difficult. I do not view carnality with the same suspicion that you
do. Don’t look offended, you know its true. Assuming that we survive this afternoon, then
you will be tested again tonight.”
“If I sleep within Mostin’s extradimensional space, mind blanked, then I should be safe.
Correct, Mostin?”
The Alienist looked dubious. “I suppose so. I am no expert in the way that Dream
functions, but that seems reasonable. If she locates you, she can dispel the ward, though.
And the fact remains: how long can you realistically avoid her, using this tactic?”
“I concur,” Nwm nodded. “And I think that trying to place yourself beyond her ability to
reach you might even be detrimental in the long run. It might pique her interest even more,
if you set yourself up as a challenge. She seems to have a well-developed sense of humour
– from what you’ve said, at least.
No. You should retire as normal, and – you’re not going to like this – maybe you should
call to her.”
Eadric’s jaw dropped. “Are you crazy?”
“You cannot avoid this confrontation now, Eadric. Maybe you can delay it, but I don’t
think that would be productive. It will eat at your mind. You should ground yourself,
embrace the paradox, and see
where it leads. You must act in full consciousness, not in partial denial. If you refuse her
attentions, it must be for the right reasons. Talk to her. Open a dialogue, as you said
yourself.”
“Something which you were against, I recall,” Eadric said ironically.
“But now she has made the first move,” Nwm pointed out, “and we should reappraise.
Reflexivity is required. I am not you, Eadric, and I lack your understanding in certain
areas. Shomei seems to think that Soneillon is the most evil, blasphemous, corrupt, tainted
entity that she has ever had the misfortune to encounter – she is an expert in such matters,
and I am not, so normally I would defer to her opinion.
However, you are the Ahma, and your perspective is less than conventional. You must act
from instinct, or insight, or whatever you want to call it.”
“Sometimes you are very wise, Nwm.”
“Yes,” the Druid replied. “Although, as a caveat, I would add that it is entirely possible
that Mostin is right, your judgement is skewed, and you are rationalizing a basic sexual
urge in terms of mystical inquiry.”
“That is not helpful,” Eadric sighed.
Nwm shrugged. “Sorry,” he said.
**
Mostin sat before the Looking-glass of Urm Nahat, idly commanding various scenes to
appear upon its surface. Villages. Still, deep water. A small island with a rambling,
ramshackle manse of modest
proportions.
Eadric stood impatiently behind the Alienist. “What are you doing Mostin?”
“Patience,” Mostin replied. He issued a sending:
Whatever you are doing, desist. I will be in your study in five seconds. A matter of utmost
importance.
Mostin.
The return message began:
But…
Mostin ignored it. Upon the face of the mirror, the scene of a cluttered workspace
appeared. Alembics, heaps of papers, homunculi in jars, and devices whose function
Eadric could only begin to guess at were scattered and strewn around. A girl – perhaps six
years old and wearing a bright yellow cloak which seemed far too large for her – sat at a
table, her tiny hands holding a tome almost as large as she was. She scowled into the
sensor.
Mostin raised an eyebrow, and stepped through the mirror.
*
“This is most irregular, Mostin,” Tozinak said. “I have no party scheduled for three
weeks.”
“Pay attention,” Mostin replied rudely.
Tozinak shifted into the form of a squat dwarf with chestnut skin, a bulbous nose and
large, gnarled hands. He looked irritated.
“In approximately fifteen minutes,” Mostin continued, “an enormous umbral fiendish
dragon and several other creatures of an equally dubious nature will be passing some three
miles from here – if they maintain their current course. I plan on intercepting them
nearby.”
Tozinak spluttered. “But…”
“Tozinak, if I thought there was any chance that you would aid me, then I would ask. You
are renowned for your meek temperament – not that I am criticizing…
“It sounds like you are to me,” Tozinak grumbled.
“…but I thought I should warn you nonetheless. There will be magical fireworks in your
vicinity – do not be alarmed. When Shomei and I…”
“Shomei is with you?”
“She will be. When…” Mostin paused, about to continue with his explanation – a white lie
or two to draw the other Wizard’s interest. Perhaps the Dragon had swallowed an ingot of
adamant. Perhaps one of the other ‘dubious’ creatures possessed something Tozinak
desired. Mostin sighed.
“Tozinak, I can’t lie to you – you’re just too damn nice. Will you help?”
“Well, Mostin, I’d love to but…”
“Never mind,” Mostin said. “One cannot expect too much, I suppose. You are not your
sister.*”
“That is most unfair. Besides, you never even met my sister.”
“Something which I deeply regret,” Mostin replied.
“Bah!” Tozinak grunted, and transformed into a winged fey of uncertain genus. “I will do
what I can.
But then all debts are settled.”
“Thank-you, Tozinak.”
“Do not expect too much!”
“Don’t worry, Tozinak – I don’t.”
**
The inhabitants of Brinnan, a small fishing village nestled beneath the crags of the Gairu –
a
precipitous massif, which thrust far southwards of the western Thrumohars on the shores
of Lake
Thahan – did not, for the most part, notice anything untoward, unless it was the faintest
acrid smell upon the breeze.
High above, invisible, Crosod, Threxu, Koilimilou and three Loquai champions upon
umbral griffons passed rapidly through the sky. They ascended, the great, tenebrous wings
of the Dragon somehow
capturing the thermals, and granting him lift.
Disguised as a rock upon a granite outcrop, Tozinak shivered. With his magical Sight, he
had observed them, and the spectre of the Wyrm – a vast, ravenous shape which ate all
light – had almost caused him to fall into a catalepsy of fear and void his stony bowels
when they flew overhead. His terror at their passing was matched only by his relief that
they could not perceive him.
He swallowed, cast a greater dispelling, and immediately teleported back to his island
retreat.
Crosod screeched as wards fell from him and he immediately became visible. He turned
his head to
locate the source of the spell, his blindsight rapidly scanning the scree. A small boulder
vanished. The Wyrm cursed. He turned his head again and was suddenly overwhelmed by
a squamous pulse which caused his two-foot thick armour to buckle and rupture.
The sound of his pain and fury was terrific. Rocks split under the force of the noise.
From another outcrop, some hundred yards distant, Eadric, Ortwin and Iua – hasted and
invisible –
began to launch a storm of enchanted arrows at the Dragon. From an unlocated source,
Mostin struck him squarely with a sonic meteor swarm.
The Dragon still reeled, attempting to regain his coordination but Threxu, her face
contorted in rage, reacted quickly. She rendered the Wyrm invulnerable to elements and
invoked an unholy aura around
them both. Nearby, upon her griffon and still warded from sight, Koilimilou targeted the
outcrop from which the arrows had issued with an intense burst of dark sound.
Two miles away, on the lakeshore, the fisher-folk of Brinnan stopped in the streets and
looked towards the Gairu suspiciously. Thunder echoed in the mountains, but the skies
were clear. A mile further out upon the lake, Tozinak quailed in his overgrown garden.
Crosod screamed again as two more squamous pulses caused his scales to twist and dig
further into the flesh beneath them, and darts began to pierce his failing armour. Another
immense sonic struck him, but harmlessly. He shook off a disintegrate. Above him, now
revealed to his perception, a trio of birds descended towards him – two eagles, pulsing
with magical power, and a roc of colossal size which
dwarfed even his enormous form. The Wyrm’s wings powered him upwards, he invoked a
haste, and struck the roc with a quickened destruction which immediately rebounded back
upon him, dissipating quickly in the form of black fire over his body.
Sem and Gheim, acting as vehicles of Uedii’s distaste at the presence of the fiendish
dragon in her realm, blazed with Green power as they outpaced the larger bird and tore
into Crosod. Their claws and beaks ripped through his shivered scales, finding the gaps in
his armour around his head and throat.
Shomei erected an antimagic field, and she, Eadric, Iua and Ortwin suddenly became
visible upon a granite buttress. The mounted Loquai immediately dived at full speed
towards them, leveling their
lances. Threxu scowled – unsure of what their sudden appearance meant.
The Wasted Nymph lashed out with a horrid wilting, only to find that it evaporated
harmlessly.
Koilimilou took note, issued a sending to Nhura for immediate assistance – whatever and
however it could arrive there – and quickly summoned a vrock which appeared in the air
nearby.
Nwm, seething with powerful magic, broke upon Crosod at full speed, his immense claws
and beak
puncturing scales, muscle and sinew upon the Wyrm’s back. Shomei gaped from her
vantage point as
she watched the Roc pluck the writhing Dragon from the air, and toss him with
contemptuous ease
against a jagged pilon of stone which reared nearby, smashing it to pieces. Threxu gripped
onto
Crosod’s foreleg desperately, but was flung clear.
Now, upon the rocky platform, Paladin, Bard and Duelist found themselves engaged in a
fierce melee with the Loquai and their griffons, trading blows in an area where wards were
ineffective and all magic was suffocated. Shomei felt utterly vulnerable – as one unused to
depending on the skill of others for her wellbeing, the voluntary surrender of power had
been difficult to stomach. The Infernalist’s fears were misplaced – the sidhe were revealed
to be totally outmatched, and were cut down in a matter of seconds.
Mostin – wherever he was – targeted Crosod with another greater dispelling, followed by
another sonic meteor swarm and a quickened, maximized cluster of magic missiles.
Shattered, Crosod lurched briefly, and vanished into Shadow. Threxu screamed – in
frustration and
betrayal – even as the pair of eagles descended upon her with their claws bared. They
lacerated her umbral flesh in a frenzy, as she strove to fend them off.
Cursing, the Nymph gestured and malice flowed from her. She targeted the base of the
buttress upon which Eadric, Ortwin, Iua and Shomei stood with an earthquake, caused
granite to crack and groan, and vanished using a dimension door. As the stack collapsed,
Ortwin rode a crumbling section of cliff-face downwards, leapt from it as it toppled
outwards, rolled, and stood up smoothly.
Shomei, bruised and bloody, sighed as she observed the Satyr and Iua. The Duelist
appeared similarly unscathed.
Koilimilou vanished in terror, even as her summoned servitor – following its orders –
swept down towards Eadric. The Paladin sighed and hefted Lukarn.
Above, Nwm’s mind reached out with his torc. Threxu was still within range, and
although his Sight could not extend to discern her invisible form, he knew she was there.
As he powered towards her and she came within view, Nwm shuddered as a horrid wilting
coursed over him. It was her last, desperate effort.
Nwm spoke, and a column of viridescent fire erupted from the ground beneath Threxu.
The Shadow
burned away. For the briefest moment, Nwm fancied that he saw her as maybe she once
had been, and
then the Green gently reabsorbed her essence.
Before the demon reached Eadric, it entered the antimagic field which still emanated from
Shomei, and winked out. Mostin alighted softly upon the ground and reappeared. He
grinned wrily. Hovering in the air nearby were four sensors – obviously several parties
were interested in their activities, but if one was Nhura, she was disinclined to reveal
herself.
After they had returned to Kyrtill’s Burh, Mostin gestured for the others to follow him
back through the mirror.
Within two minutes, Crosod was dead: tracked to the Plane of Shadow, and butchered
methodically,
unceremoniously, and with surprisingly little effort.
**
“Nhura will, no doubt, be reconsidering her options.” Shomei closed her eyes and drank
deeply from a crystal goblet, allowing the firewine to course through her veins and
causing her head to spin.
“Koilimilou used a limited wish in order to teleport,” Mostin sighed. “That could prove
tedious –
Irknaan may have used the same tactic. I suspect that she has joined Nhura and the other
group. Still, if I were the Lillend, I would secure reinforcements before proceeding.”
“I agree,” Eadric nodded. “We are far from safe, but the Wyrm has been eliminated –
frankly, he was my biggest concern. His sheer destructive potential was unmatched. The
demon, of Soneillon’s ilk –
chthonic, Shomei called it: what is its power?”
“That is hard to gauge,” Mostin admitted.
“And the other? The ‘unknown?’ Does it remain so?”
Mostin nodded. “But, whatever it is, it cannot be that fearsome – or else we would have
been assailed already. I am reluctant to scry them unless we intend to attack immediately
afterwards. If they are
warded – which seems likely – then a sensor may be ineffective in any case. When I
discerned Nhura’s location she was three hundred miles away to the northeast, over Einir.
The web of motes revealed Nhura, the Demon, the other creature, and nine more Loquai
‘stalwarts’ in that cluster. Koilimilou has, doubtless, joined them.”
“How long before they reach us, assuming we don’t intercept them?”
“Six hours, maybe,” Shomei answered. “But they may need to rest – even the griffons
cannot fly tirelessly.”
“The question is simple,” Ortwin said. “Do we engage them here, or en route?”
“I favour the former,” Nwm said. “We need to replenish our flagging reserves. Let them
come. We will be ready for them. We should rest in the chapel. If they teleport here, it will
be at great cost to them, in ineffective pairs or trios. And they will not fly in anytime
soon.”
“Why?” Eadric asked.
“Because I am going to conjure a large storm,” Nwm replied. “So I suggest that you close
your windows.”
“The enchantment, upon the devas and myself…” Eadric began.
“I will disjoin it,” Mostin sighed.
“Ahh, free will will be yours again, Ed,” the Satyr said sarcastically. “Now, whatever
happens, you have only yourself to blame.”
Eadric scowled.
*Qiseze, the Fire Savant slain by Feezuu. Feezuu herself was, of course, subsequently
killed by Mostin.
**Mostin had used a discern location to pinpoint Crosod some thirty minutes beforehand,
but had opted not to use the mirror to scry him – it was likely that most of the enemy
would detect the sensor, and react accordingly. Nwm used his torc to determine their path
– there was much to-ing and fro-ing using the mirror, as the party assumed a favorable
position. The mountains were chosen because they would afford a useful vantage for the
archers, and were away from both forests and inhabited areas.
The two legendary eagles were very seriously buffed – animal growth, bear’s heart,
greater magic fang, expeditious retreat and nature’s avatar. I didn’t realize quite how
dangerous they could be until this encounter – their melee attacks were at +40 something,
and they were dishing out 30 points of damage or more with each attack.
Yet more of Soneillon’s unreasonable Epic spells. She was under the influence the
Renewal of Purpose and Desire, routinely invoked by her every month when she is in
Throile – essentially a highly excessive buff spell. The Renewal involves the input of the
four chief sorcerer-succubi who serve Soneillon. The compulsion afflicting Eadric and the
devas, I had dubbed Do What I Will – a nod to the overt Crowleyanity which sometimes
pervades the game.
Renewal of Purpose and Desire
Transmutation

Spellcraft DC: 34
Components: V,S, XP, Ritual
Casting Time: 10 minutes
Range: Personal
Target: You
Duration: 672 hours
To Develop: Seed: Fortify (DC 17), Ward (DC 14). Factors: increase Cha bonus by +19
(+38 DC);
increase duration by 3250% (+65 DC); gain +30 on caster level check to beat foe’s dispel
effect (+60
DC); ward against disjunction (+16 DC). Mitigating factors: increase casting time by 9
minutes (-18
DC); four other casters contributing 7th level slots (-56 DC); change from target to
personal (-2 DC); burn 10,000 XP (-100 DC).
In a brief rite conducted every month (when the moon is new on the Prime Plane), the
caster renews her focus and the ability to exercise her Will. She gains a +20 enhancement
bonus to Charisma which lasts for one month – until the next invocation of Renewal of
Purpose and Desire.
The spell itself enjoys a +30 bonus on the caster level check when targeted by dispel
effects directed at it – effectively negating the bonus offered by superb dispelling. It
otherwise requires two disjunctions to counter the Renewal of Purpose and Desire – the
first eliminates the ward component of the spell, the second counters the enhancement
bonus itself.
Do What I Will
Enchantment (Compulsion) [Mind-Affecting]
Spellcraft DC: 40
Components: None
Casting Time: 1 quickened action
Range: 75 ft.
Area: 20-ft. radius sphere
Duration: 23 hours 20 minutes
Saving Throw: Will negates
Spell Resistance: Yes
To Develop: Seeds: Compel (DC 19); Contact (DC 23). Factors: Quickened spell (+28
DC); no verbal or somatic components (+4 DC); dismissible by caster (+2 DC); increase
duration by 600% (+24 DC);
change from target to 20 ft. radius area (+10 DC); compel unreasonable course of action
(+10 DC);
Increase spell’s saving throw DC by +10 (+20 DC); Mitigating factor: burn 10000 XP.
The caster establishes an immediate telepathic bond with all creatures within the area of
effect and issues a silent mental command forcing them to do her bidding. Each target is
allowed a Will saving throw (DC 30 + relevant modifier) in order to resist the effect.
Once the compulsion is established, the caster may exercise her Will and telepathically
command each of those affected – either singly or jointly – to perform actions as she sees
fit. Distance is not a factor.
Issuing subsequent commands is a free action, although only one such command may be
given in any
round. Even instructions which would normally result in the death of those affected by Do
What I Will are followed to the letter.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 08-24-2003
Church and Steeple - Part 1
The chapel at Kyrtill’s Burh was a compact space, perhaps twenty-five feet in its longest
dimension, which abutted the main keep. Like the rest of the castle, its exterior – recently
repaired by Nwm’s efforts – was smothered in an ivy of an unusually prolific variety,
which required continual
management and pruning. And pruning seldom happened within the Burh.
There were two entrances to the sanctuary: a pair of stout oak double-doors which led into
the
courtyard, close to the archway at the base of the Steeple; and a smaller lintel, constructed
of steel, which joined the portico in the keep proper. The metal door was hidden in a
concave, behind the plain white arras which formed a backdrop to the altar space – raised
upon a low dais reached by three
shallow steps. The area below the dais was clear, except for a thick carpet some twenty
feet long which stretched to the main doors, two low benches, and a dozen or so prayer
cushions – some of which were extremely threadbare.
Ortwin sat in the centre of the floor, uncharacteristically tense. He disliked the chapel for a
number of reasons, not the least of which was the draught – barely noticeable – which
issued from beneath the floor covering: cold air from the crypt, finding its way through
cracks in the flagstones. Nwm had specifically instructed the gnomes who had restored the
rest of the keep’s interior to leave the chapel untouched: it was Eadric’s sanctum, and the
Druid had felt that it would have been the worst breach of etiquette to engage in
unapproved remodeling. Whilst Eadric appreciated the gesture, he had privately wished
that Nwm had done something about the chapel. The austerity which had marked his
earlier years had given way to a more balanced outlook, and sometimes comfort was no
bad thing. Somehow,
the chapel hadn’t caught up with him.
The Satyr grumbled about the cold. “Can’t we light a fire or something?” He watched as
Shomei placed a dimensional lock in the centre of the sanctuary, barring all forms of
extraplanar movement. The Infernalist had already invoked a screen upon the whole of
Kyrtill’s Burh – it appeared as nothing more than a rugged outcrop of rock to magical
scrutiny.
Eadric sighed. “Perhaps if you ask Mostin nicely, he will modify the temperature.”
“Why are we here, anyway?” Ortwin continued. “Doesn’t the place need to be
reconsecrated or something? I seem to recall there being a demoness of some power in
here several hours ago.”
“Yes,” Eadric sighed, “it does. It is still the most defensible place in the keep, however.”
“Consecration is highly advisable,” Mostin said morbidly. “The Succubus might be
tempted to turn your dead relatives into vampires.”
“That is in particularly poor taste,” Eadric replied nervously. “But you have a point. I will
send to Morne for someone to come here as soon as possible. Probably Asser. Unless
Nwm would care to do
the honours*?”
“I had assumed that you would require someone of ‘true faith’ to perform the rite.”
“I am more flexible in that regard than I was previously, as the definition of ‘true’ is now
revealed to be somewhat ambiguous.”
“Perhaps Mostin could gate a solar,” Ortwin suggested. “It could perform the necessary
magic, and would be a reassuring presence.”
“For you maybe,” Mostin said acidly. “And I am not sure that Gihaahia’s subsequent
punitive visit here would contribute to the sanctity of the place. We are safe enough for the
moment, barring Soneillon herself – and I suspect that there is no precaution which we
could take that would bar her if she were determined.”
“If you had prepared a magnificent mansion…” Ortwin began.
“Or if you had spent your time studying magic instead of fornicating and drinking
firewine,” Mostin snapped irritably. “We will be fine. Those hideous cohorts of Eadric are
outside keeping guard.
Ungrateful creatures. At least they could of thanked me for dispelling their paralysis.”
“They are grateful,” Eadric reassured him. “But tend to communicate little. I was
surprised that Soneillon didn’t destroy them.”
“She is wooing you,” Nwm said wrily. “Killing celestials would make a bad impression,
I’m sure.”
“So is he safe?” Ortwin asked, with a wicked grin, “Or will she invade his dreams and
cause him to experience impure thoughts?”
Mostin shrugged. “Good question. Technically, the dimensional lock should prevent a
creature in dream-form from gaining ingress. I say technically because she may have
tricks that we do not know of. And Dream is odd, to say the least.”
“In ‘dream-form?’” Ortwin persisted. “You mean she may be nearby?”
“Coterminous? Why not?”
“She is not,” Eadric said. “At least, not very near. The Eye of Palamabron would reveal
her if she were.”
Ortwin smiled sarcastically and scratched his haunch. “Then your thoughts will remain
pure! How blessed you must feel! You must teach me the secret someday.”
Eadric sighed. Ortwin was beginning to get on his nerves. He closed his eyes, and
experienced the
frustration. He sighed again, stood up, and walked towards the doors.
“Er, where are you going, Ed?” Ortwin asked.
“The Steeple,” Eadric replied.
“Excellent idea! You have a stash of fine firewine, and…”
“Alone, Ortwin. I am going alone.”
“Oh.”
Mostin mind blanked him first.
**
Outside, the wind had picked up and the rain had begun to fall. Nwm’s storm – as
promised – had
arrived, and Eadric hoped that it wouldn’t prove too violent. He ascended sixty of the
seventy-seven steps of the Steeple, passing through a small door into the chamber situated
below the open roof.
It was a comfortable space – once a round guard room, but since adapted to the function of
a parlour.
During the garrisoning of Kyrtill’s Burh, it had briefly enjoyed a return to its original
function, although the Templars stationed there had done nothing to alter its furnishings. A
single window of lead glass in the west wall admitted the remaining light of the failing
day. The room, and those below it, had been those ‘rented’ by Mostin in his attempts to
fabricate a plausible story following his violation of the first Injunction – before the
Claviger had acquiesced to act as the guardian of the moral fibre of Wyre’s Wizards.
Eadric lit an oil-lantern – the flame of which flickered unsteadily in the draught before he
closed its shutter – threw off his armour, opened a tall cabinet, and retrieved a bottle of
firewine. He smiled at the fact that Ortwin knew where he kept it – and poured himself a
small glass. He was mildly amused that it should still feel such an indulgence to him: he
had violated so many of his vows that ignoring the precept which warned against alcohol
seemed utterly trivial in comparison.
Sitting on one of the three narrow pallets which served as the room’s couches, Eadric set
Lukarn down next to himself, reached into his belt-pouch, and retrieved a tiny piece of
tightly-rolled parchment. He opened the lantern hood, and thrust the paper into the flame,
holding it between his fingers and
watching as it quickly burned to nothing.
Soon after, a gate opened, and Titivilus stepped through.
“Thank-you for your prompt response,” Eadric said.
The Devil smiled laconically. “Hello, Ahma. I had hoped to run into you in Afqithan but,
alas, you fled before we had a chance to speak. If you had answered my sending then
things may have advanced at a faster pace for you.”
“I was reluctant to place myself in your hands at that time,” Eadric raised an eyebrow.
“And who would arbitrate between the arbiter and his client?”
“I have a friend called Furcas who might volunteer in that capacity,” the Duke replied
caustically.
“You have friends? That surprises me.”
“You are correct,” Titivilus answered. “In fact, I despise him. But we are working together
for the moment. This is a cosy little chamber. I almost prefer it to your study in the keep.”
Eadric narrowed his eyes, unsure of whether the Devil jibed him or not. “I require advice,
and perhaps mediation. If there is a price, then I would be grateful if you informed me of it
prior to further communication.”
“There is no price, Ahma,” Titivilus replied easily. “Although my perspective is a little
different from yours, and the advice I give may not necessarily be that which you seek. As
both the voice of your conscience and your divinely ordained tempter, I have more than
one agenda to maintain. I presume
that your inquiry concerns the demoness Soneillon?”
Eadric sighed, and nodded.
“She is something, is she not?” Titivilus laughed. “And, I should say, she is nothing, if you
understand my meaning. It was whispered in the narrow streets of Zelatar that she could
bring a corpse to orgasm –
forgive me, Ahma, I do not wish to offend your sense of propriety. I am sure that your
interest in Graz’zt’s former concubine is purely pragmatic.”
“You know her then? You have met her?”
“Perhaps. I do not recall.” Titivilus replied vaguely.
“She is a potential ally,” Eadric said.
“So I hear,” Titivilus smiled.
“Does Graz’zt know of her interest in me?”
“Graz’zt has an extensive network of spies, but he is ultimately ill-informed and
disorganized. I would hazard that he does not, but I make no assurances to that effect.”
“If a confrontation occurs between the Prince and myself, I would – if possible – prefer to
keep it out of Wyre and the World of Men. Do you think Afqithan would be a suitable
locale?”
“It offers greatly augmented magic. Mostin – and Shomei, to whom, incidentally, you
should extend my warmest regards – would benefit from this. As would Graz’zt himself,
of course. I suspect that the risks would be greater, but the possibility of victory higher.”
“Soneillon has powerful allies – and dangerous, it seems. She denies direct association
with them, or rather seems reluctant to admit responsibility for their actions.”
“This is not unusual for a Demon Queen,” Titivilus replied drily.
“She subjected me to an extremely powerful compulsion. Could a mind blank have
warded me?”
“Perhaps, although doubtless she possesses dweomers that can circumvent such magic.
For a creature of her age, with her power, what can she not do, Ahma? Magic is formulaic,
and in practical terms holds a finite – albeit astronomically large – set of possibilities.
There might be a quintillion
combinations which she is technically capable of manifesting alone. If she has unlocked
merely a
hundred thousand of them – the most efficient, given a certain set of circumstances – how
versatile do you think that makes her?”
Eadric swallowed. The Devil’s premise was plausible. “And Graz’zt? Could the same be
said?”
“To a lesser degree. He possesses more raw native power, but lacks that which Soneillon
draws freely and most heavily upon – unbeing. I do not claim to fully understand it.”
Eadric stared hard at Titivilus. “You are unusually forthcoming. I wonder which of your
numerous agendas you are serving by sharing this information.”
The Duke of Hell smiled.
“I have other questions,” Eadric said unsurely, “and I would be interested in hearing your
perspective –
or the Adversarial perspective, if you are towing a particular line. I should also, at this
point, like to seek further assurances that there are no hidden fees, contracts, compacts,
reciprocal obligations or responsibilities involved.”
Titivilus raised an eyebrow. “Your caution is admirable, Ahma, but you are somewhat
over-concerned.
Ask away! There is no obligation upon you.”
“The Marilith Nufrut mentioned an entity named Carasch. Mostin was unaware of its
existence. A balor which fell within the orbit of the Ancient Void, and then rose from it
again. Is the name familiar to you?”
“Yes,” Titivilus answered. He seemed unperturbed, but Eadric knew that gauging the
Confuser’s true reaction was close to impossible.
“What distinguishes one fiend from the next, insofar as some possess the ability to
withstand annihilation?”
Titivilus laughed. “That is more profound than you understand. I do not know, Ahma.
Perhaps they are endowed with a particular strength of Will which sets them apart from
their peers. Perhaps they are lucky. Perhaps they apprehend some greater Truth which
allows consciousness to persist, even in the face of nonexistence.”
“Such an entity,” Eadric continued, “Carasch. It would be as far removed from Rurunoth
as Soneillon is from a succubus of the least stature.”
“That is probably a reasonable parallel.”
“How many of these entities – chthonics, as Shomei dubbed them – would you say exist?”
“I am not privy to that information,” Titivilus admitted.
Eadric scowled. “Would you even hazard a guess? A handful? Dozens? Thousands?
Millions?”
“I would not know, Ahma. I suspect we are talking in terms of relative infinities. How
many fell from grace? How many fled to the Abyss? How many were enmeshed in the
Ancient’s power? Mere
numbers cease to have meaning, after a certain point.”
“Why is no reference made to them in texts – legitimate, heretical, magical or otherwise? I
use those descriptors loosely – I do not wish to engage in a debate on the nature of
heresy.”
“Certain names and concepts are taboo. Unbeing, Demogorgon, existent nonexistence –
this is an example of such. Before the Church of Oronthon was established, when it was
still a tribal religion whose God vied with a dozen others – this was a taboo. It persisted.”
” Saizhan addresses this issue.”
” Saizhan claims to address many issues.’
“Is Oronthon then rewriting the past? Changing the Truth of what has gone before?”
“That is one possible interpretation. I do not doubt there are others.”
**
Mostin sat and leered at the effigy upon the altar – an eagle rearing above a solar orb – and
felt a frisson of disgust at the avian symbol.
Nearby, Shomei sat in a contemplative trance, Ortwin snored loudly, and Iua – silent as a
cat –
practiced with her rapier, repeating maneuvers endlessly, each time with subtle variations
on a complex theme. Nwm, apparently enraptured with the Green, paid no heed to any
other.
The Alienist groped within his portable hole and retrieved an ornate box of carved wood
from among the objects stored there. Opening it, he pulled the contents – a stone slab –
from its red silk wrappings, and set it upon the rug in front of him.
Mostin closed his eyes, focussed inwards, and inspected his valences: nested shells which
grew
outwards from a central hub, rapidly blurring into an indistinct haze where no
differentiation yet existed. He placed his mind beyond the order, beyond the haze, in the
swirling, chaotic morass which surrounded it.
Tiny buds of potential were burgeoning, seeking to make contact with each other and the
hub of
consciousness at the centre. Deliberately, he focussed upon them, drawing on his reservoir.
His mind opened like a sluice, pouring its contents forth. Rapidly, the buds blossomed
gloriously, and bore fruit which ripened in a heartbeat. He shook, and sweated profusely.
The Alienist turned his attention to the tablet in front of him, his eyes scanning over it, and
his fingertips tracing the etchings and designs upon it. There was a sudden crack, as the
slab shattered, and the sound of grinding stone. An eddy of wind arose, and all that was
left before him – a pile of dust –
was blown across the floor of the chapel.
Shomei observed him with a mixture of envy and mirth.
“Congratulations,” the Infernalist said drily.
“Thank-you,” Mostin replied. “How long before you…?”
“A week at most. I had hoped to beat you to it.”
“Hah! No chance. This means that I am – if only for a brief while – the most potent
spellcaster in Wyre, and the first in two generations to achieve this notable achievement. I
don’t include Mulissu in that statement – she is not native, and doesn’t count.”
Nwm smiled quietly, but said nothing.
*
As Mostin sat and contemplated the spell called Graz’zt – designed by Fillein-who-would-
later-be-Jovol in the heyday of his power and influence – he shifted uncomfortably.
Something was amiss.
Within the perfectly executed formula which comprised the spell, there was no room for
error: each component and factor was optimized for an efficiency of purpose which
Mostin deeply appreciated,
both functionally and aesthetically.
Fifty-five years. The Prince was bound for fifty-five years, if the stories are true. Why?
Why was he not bound permanently? The dweomer indicates no provision for an expiry.
“I am uneasy,” he whispered to Shomei.
“I am tired, Mostin. If you are having an episode of paranoia, then talk to Nwm.”
“This is important,” the Alienist hissed. Nearby, Ortwin grunted in response, and turned
over in his sleep. Mostin resumed a quieter voice. “The spell which now resonates in my
mind preoccupies me.
There is an inconsistency.”
Shomei yawned and gestured impatiently.
“The incarceration should have been permanent. Why was it not? According to tradition
he was bound for fifty-five years. This leads me to three possible conclusions, none of
which are particularly pleasant to entertain: One, the effect ‘wore off’ over time; two, the
spell contains a flaw in its formula which I
cannot perceive; or, three, he was released by someone.”
Shomei raised an eyebrow. “I see your dilemma. Magic of this magnitude is enduring, and
I find it hard to accept the first solution. Fillein was a perfectionist beyond compare,
rendering the second answer even less likely. I would opt for the third possibility, or a
fourth which you have not considered.”
“Which would be?”
“I do not have a fourth solution, Mostin. I am merely pointing out that it would be
premature to discount the possibility of its existence. I think that he was probably
released.”
“By whom?”
“Who can tell now, Mostin? It was three hundred years ago. A rival mage?”
“Fillein – or Jovol – was – or is – without peer. He had – or has – no rival. Was he in
possession of the web of motes at that time? If so, surely he would have anticipated the
possibility in any case.”
“Then one of the cabal? Or Fillein himself, maybe, for whatever unknown reasons
motivated him. This is idle speculation. We cannot know. They are all dead and gone.”
“Hlioth remains,” Mostin pointed out.
“Hlioth is deranged, but not stupid. Why would she release the Prince of Azzagrat? And if
so, why did he not eliminate her afterwards?”
Nwm interrupted unexpectedly. Neither of the Wizards had been aware that he had been
paying
attention. “If she released Graz’zt, then I commend her actions. Such creatures have no
place in this world, bound or not. Rurunoth was bad enough, but a Demon Prince?”
“Then she is most inconsistent,” Mostin pointed out. “She participated in the binding of
the Enforcer.”
“To prevent further summonings in Wyre,” Nwm smiled. “Didn’t that clause in Jovol’s
Injunction ever
strike you as odd, Mostin? Why do you think it was singled out, above and beyond the ban
upon mages assaulting other mages?”
“Because of the circumstances prior to it,” the Alienist replied. “There were too many
bindings, too many gates opening. The possibility of too many more.”
“Too many for what?” Nwm asked.
“For the established order to sustain,” Mostin admitted. “But if you are somehow
intimating that your Goddess insisted upon including a clause in the Injunction which
would prevent further offense to
her…”
“You are trapped in discursive thought – Uedii is a consciousness of what is Natural, not
some other being ‘out there.’ Jovol was a Dreamer, who negotiated with Celestials,
protected both Eadric and
Tramst, acted in the interests of maintaining a peace, and directed the binding of an
atavism from a previous reality. He was nothing, if not eclectic. I think you underestimate
the scope of his vision.”
“Hmph!” Mostin muttered. “Anyway. If we attempt to bind the Prince anytime soon, it
will not be here.
I have already given thought to it.”
Shomei sighed, as Mostin proceeded to explain about permanent dimensional locks,
pocket demiplanes and spells which foiled all perception.
*All of Kyrtill’s Burh was consecrated by Tahl, and the chapel hallowed. Soneillon
dispelled the effect in the chapel before dominating Eadric and the guardians. I use the
ToH version of Movanic Devas
(more martial, less magical), so hallow was not available to the celestials in order to
restore the chapel.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 08-24-2003
Church and Steeple - Part 2
Nhura uttered a string of black profanities when she received the news from Koilimilou
that Crosod had fled back to Shadow, and was, by now, probably dead. The hunting party
descended into the woods of Hethio, two leagues from the ancient dolmens at Groba. A
madness fell upon the birds and animals as they fled from the umbral sidhe and the
creatures which accompanied them: griffons, the chthonic thing, and the Lamia Jetheeg –
another sorceress of no mean ability. Koilimilou was incapable of subsequently scrying
the Wyrm, which only made his death seem that much more likely. Threxu’s demise was
all but certain.
Frustrated, and aware of the fact that it might prematurely attract undue attention, Nhura
nonetheless instructed Koilimilou to scry Eadric of Deorham. Although the Lillend was
aware of the general location of the Ahma’s stronghold, a lock upon him and a subsequent
clairvoyance would pin him down. The Cambion’s efforts drew a blank.
Nhura cursed, and ordered Koilimilou to call and bind as many demons as she was
capable of. A bitter argument ensued, but Koilimilou finally relented. Previously, she and
the Lillend might have been well-matched; but now Nhura wore Irknaan’s mantle, and
was unassailable by any magic which the
Cambion possessed. As dusk fell, under the Lillend’s watchful eye – lest she order the
creatures to turn upon her Queen – Koilimilou struck a series of bargains with profanities
against which the soil of Wyre heaved in revulsion. Throughout, Nhura was poised to
invoke destruction upon the Cambion if she spoke even a phrase out of turn.
Soneillon watched from behind a tree-trunk some fifty yards distant, hiding, invisible, and
in the shape of a diminutive woodland spirit.
She had not anticipated Nhura’s determination, nor the resources at the Lillend’s command
– albeit vicariously. Neither had the Succubus considered the lengths to which Nhura
would go in order to
assert her claims to Afqithan – in her retinue were knights loyal to Samodoquol and
Menicau, and they needed to be suitably impressed.
The Queen of Throile passed into the unconscious world again, and returned her attention
to Eadric.
The mental landscape of dreamers in Hethio was fraught with hideous nightmares, the
significance of which none understood.
**
In the topmost chamber of the Steeple, the Ahma sat closeted with Titivilus, probing the
Infernal Duke on a variety of subjects, but retaining a healthy sense of scepticism with
regard to any answers that he received. When they returned to the matter of Soneillon,
Eadric stayed true to his words with Titivilus at their first meeting: he preserved a total
honesty in communication. He was struck with the realization that whether the Devil
adhered to the same premise was, in the final analysis, irrelevant.
“You would advise me to use her,” Eadric said. “To slake my lust, draw upon her power,
discard her when her utility has expired, and move on.”
“That is what I would do, Ahma. I am not you, however. I lack your moral baggage.”
“You lack compassion.”
“If you prefer,” Titivilus sighed. “Although I thought we had already agreed as to its
redundancy as an effective tool.”
“That is because you also lack the ability to understand it,” Eadric smiled.
“As your understanding of compassion is obviously far more developed than mine,”
Titivilus laughed,
“then perhaps you should also extend it to Graz’zt. And every other Demon and Devil
between
Azzagrat and Nessus. Set yourself up as a shining beacon of Love, Ahma, and watch as,
no doubt, repentant fiends flock to your warm smile and welcoming arms. I will remain at
the back of the line and observe as Astaroth and Moloch, like pubescent girls, shyly jostle
for their places and anxiously think ‘will he choose me next?’ I think not.”
“Your mockery does you no credit, Titivilus, and merely reveals the fear that you
experience in the face of that which you no longer comprehend but secretly long to
become reacquainted with. I am not
crippled by my doubt, but draw strength it. You resent me, because I am mortal but still
you are forced to acknowledge my spiritual authority. I see the limits of your perspective –
the ‘Adversarial’ paradigm
– and recognize the partial truth which it contains. But you fail to transcend the
dichotomy of total self-determination and absolute surrender to the Will of Oronthon: they
are identical. Accompany me later to Morne, and I will introduce you to the Sela. I
guarantee your safety – I would happily defend your right to speak with him.”
“No, thank-you,” Titivilus replied calmly. “Although I’m sure I appreciate the offer.
Maybe another time – in an aeon or two.”
“The door to the Fane will remain open.”
“And I will remain outside,” the Devil finished. “Now, Ahma, before I grow weary of your
proselytizing, and my mood becomes less accommodating, let us turn to ‘mediation.’ You
are ready for me to act as a go-between in communicating with Soneillon?”
“I require the benefit of your perspective in order to better inform mine. You are adept at
dealing with fiends, and penetrating their motives.”
“That much is true,” Titivilus smiled archly. “Am I to act as a chaperone to you also, lest
you feel an uncontrollable urge to bed this demoness?”
“You have a singular sense of humour.”
“And your track history speaks for itself. Nonetheless, my raillery may be pertinent –
Soneillon is said to possess a peculiar way of eliciting sympathy.”
“So I have discovered,” Eadric said wrily.
“Now?”
“Now,” the Paladin nodded.
Titivilus issued a sending. Three seconds later, Soneillon manifested. Dreamstuff swirled
briefly around her – nightmares and visions of horror, which rapidly faded to nothing in
the waking world. As before, her form – that of a Trempan peasant-girl – evoked a
complex reaction in Eadric, despite a knowledge that it was entirely superficial.
*
“Charmed, I’m sure,” Titivilus bowed with mock politeness.
“Is there any particular reason why I should not extinguish this gnat?” The Succubus
asked the Paladin.
“If I thought it would carry any weight,” Eadric replied, “then I would say ‘because he is
divinely mandated.’ As I know that you recognize no such authority, I will simply say
‘because I ask you not to.’
I have requested the services of Titivilus as an arbiter. He is, in a manner of speaking, my
guardian angel – albeit a fallen one.”
“I may have misjudged Oronthon’s sense of the absurd. This monster is hardly a
disinterested party, Eadric. Still, he risks much by being here alone – I wonder how he is
being recompensed. Where are Murmuur and Furcus, Devil? Three together might pose a
challenge to me, but one alone is an easy
target.”
“Alas, they lack my boldness and appetite for adventure,” Titivilus replied, “and my legal
expertise,” he added.
Soneillon tilted her head inquisitively. “You wish for a formal compact then, Eadric?”
Eadric shook his head. “I wish for a third opinion – however partial. I am also highly
dubious of the extent to which you would regard any compact as binding. You seem
oblivious to most other
established fiendish conventions.”
Soneillon moved closer, and her eyes bored into Eadric. “You are perceptive. I wonder if
Nehael recognized your potential for transcendence when she was first attracted to you, or
she saw you merely as a redeemer and was romantically fixated? She was always
somewhat idealistic.”
Eadric squinted. “What do you know of her?”
“I knew all of the succubi in Graz’zt’s harem, Eadric. And the mariliths, the lamias, and
every other shade of fiendish slut that he could lay his hands on. Each bitch is more
wicked and depraved than the last, although, no doubt, each has her charms. When one
spends a million years as his chief concubine, there isn’t much that one doesn’t discover.”
“And you, Queen Soneillon?” Titivilus asked with an amused expression. “How wicked
and depraved are you? I would almost say the wickeder, the better, from the Ahma’s
perspective. He has a powerful urge to heal, you know. It continues to lead him into all
kinds of trouble.”
“I will tolerate your presence, but will brook neither innuendo nor veiled insults, Devil.
This creature is a viper, Eadric – do not let his apparent openness and easy mannerisms
deceive you. His only goal is your damnation, and if he can use me as a vehicle to achieve
it then all the better for him.”
Titivilus was about to speak, but Eadric held up his hand to stay him. “My circumstances
are unusual,”
the Paladin said to Soneillon. “And it would seem that established mores do not apply to
me. Somehow, I have been appointed a role in determining what is right from what is
wrong, although I fail yet to fully understand my place in the new order. Damnation itself
may be an outmoded concept – Saizhan is beyond such categories.”
“You will be your own judge, Eadric. You know this. Who could be harsher?”
Eadric swallowed. He felt distinctly uncomfortable. Despite her subtleties, Soneillon
seemed to possess an uncanny knack for presenting stark truths in uncompromising terms.
“I do not understand what motivates you,” Eadric said.
“That is part of my appeal,” she replied. “I am disappointed that you severed the
connection between us: had the spell I wrought not been negated, you could have met me
in Dream. What do you fear?”
“His lust confuses him,” Titivilus said, “and he is unused to acting for the simple purpose
of sensory gratification. Evil and pleasure are intimately connected in the Ahma’s mind:
Temple conditioning is hard to shake off, even when one is the Breath of God.”
“The Devil’s words have some merit,” Eadric nodded. “I would also add, however, that
Dream is something which I have little understanding of. In Afqithan, the Duke offered to
act as a mediator between myself and the Loquai and their allies – I assume that he
included you in the equation. I
refused him for the same reason that I was dubious of encountering you in Dream – it was
not a
familiar environment. I prefer reality to be more tangible – there are enough variables to
deal with already.”
“That is a specious argument,” Soneillon smiled, “but, as I have said, I am no philosopher
and prefer not to be drawn into ontological debate. It would be a terrible thing if my
intellect succeeded in denying the possibility of my own existence.”
Eadric laughed despite himself, before staring at her with a mixture of wonder and
suspicion: was her humour genuinely self-deprecating, or merely an affectation assumed
for his benefit?
“We should address the question of Graz’zt,” the lightness in the Demoness’s tone had
vanished. “Are you now ready to hear the worst?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Nehael, Eadric. Do you wish to know what has become of her?”
Be careful, Ahma , she lies almost as well as I.
“No doubt you will take a perverse pleasure in relaying this information,” Eadric sighed.
I do not take my pleasure thus, sweet Eadric. “Nehael is currently held in a cell of
adamant, deep below
Zelatar, in immensely powerful magical bonds, and subjected to pain that you cannot
begin to comprehend – Graz’zt is particularly skilled and inventive in these matters. She is
guarded by the Nalfeshnee Trakkao – who administers punishment on the Prince’s
behalf.” Soneillon’s expression was one that, if offered by any other, the Paladin would
have interpreted as genuine empathy and sorrow.
This whore is outrageous!
“Proceed,” Eadric said coldly, scowling at Titivilus. He was beginning to feel sick.
“Violation of the body is only the beginning, Eadric. There is a limit to the trauma that
even Demonic flesh – once fashioned of Empyrean stuff – can sustain before it loses all
ability to renew itself. And Nehael is fragile – she has already relinquished much of the
strength that was native to her. Little of her as you remember her remains, and her
physical form has been stripped away: she consists now largely of essence. As to the
integrity of her personality, who can tell? He may have broken her altogether.
Prolonged pain of that magnitude often leads to madness and evil – such is the way of
things.”
“I fail to see what benefit relaying this information conveys to anyone.”
“You should be prepared for the worst, Eadric,” Soneillon answered. “She may be
unrecognizable – not merely her form, but who she is. I would not keep this information
from you, and later hear that you were deceived or misled by me.”
Titivilus raised an eyebrow.
Outside, the storm raged.
Eadric looked at Soneillon. “I would request a brief moment to confer with my
counsellor.”
The Demoness nodded, and casually lay down upon one of the narrow pallets, lazily
stretching her
arms above her head.
**
Within the sanctuary, Nwm sat motionless, his perception reaching outwards through the
weather system that he himself had conjured, and rapidly engaging in a series of
penetrating mental glances towards his environment.
Eadric was masked from his faculties, but the creatures who were near him were not.
Titivilus appeared to the Druid’s inner vision as a familiar set of dissonances which, when
combined, left no doubt in Nwm’s mind as to the identity of the Devil. The other outsider
– which defied conventional
classification – seemed to be a shadow of the real, a fantasy which eluded direct scrutiny,
but whose presence could be inferred by its effects on the Green in its vicinity. Soneillon,
Nwm mused.
He furrowed his brow in concern. Eadric was playing with high stakes. Attempting to
force some
epiphany, no doubt, or construct a radical synthesis which would inform his direction.
The Druid found himself reflecting upon Jovol, the Injunction – both in letter and in spirit
– and his own words to Mostin earlier that evening. A niggling doubt began to grow in his
mind, quickly
becoming an irritation with Eadric’s actions, and a realization that his own role in events
had been too passive. The time for calculated inaction was passing.
Too many realities were in conflict, and the new one, offered by Tramst, did little to
assuage Nwm’s concerns. Saizhan was too cerebral for his liking, despite its claims of
relevance and immediacy. It was as though the devotional heart of Oronthonianism –
however distorted and misaligned – had been
ripped out and replaced with a philosophy which elevated the dialectical process itself to
deific
significance. Not that the majority of Oronthon worshippers would even notice, Nwm
thought. Most
would continue with the rites that they had observed for several hundred years, oblivious
to the fact that their incarnate deity – or, rather, one aspect of him, his ‘gnostic intellect’
(whatever that was) – had utterly refuted half a millennium of dogma.
Nehael had spoken to him long before of a ‘Middle Way’ which avoided the extremes
which had
characterized Oronthonian thought and practice – of all thought and practice. Yet Nehael
had rejected the Celestial Order a second time, when none other than Rintrah himself had
offered to escort her back to Heaven. Uedii had calmly accepted her in the face of reason
and expectation – an outsider to
Nature’s order, admitted to her inmost secrets.
Saizhan. The Middle Way. The Dialectic. What had Eadric said that Titivilus named it? –
Ahh, the ‘Path of Lightning.’ A suitably Left-handed spin on things. And Shomei had been
moved on some level – but Shomei was Shomei, and carried her own fears and ghosts
with her.
Somehow, Nehael was central – although, somewhere in the details, this had been
conveniently
forgotten. She had been the first to seek the reconciliation and transcendence of opposing
Truths. She possessed a profound wisdom which the Druid missed.
Nwm sighed. If he understood the Green – and he was by no means certain of his own
ability in that regard – then it would act accordingly through him. Would the tension
between Oronthonianism and
Uedii worship persist, although on a more rarefied level? Saizhan seemed to be a practice
reserved for the educated classes. What relevance did it possess for a farmer, or for a
trapper? What did they care for the much-vaunted ‘dialectic of negation?’
Retreat from the world into a life of contemplation was a luxury that few could afford, and
was bought with the sweat and toil of Uediian peasants, however indirectly. The Church
might be in the process of disestablishment, and its taxes lifted – as the Ahma had
promised – but its principal funds still derived from the contributions of wealthy
aristocrats. And their money was stolen from the farmers.
I suppose I should speak with Tramst, at some point, he thought. Although I fail to see
what he could tell me that I don’t already know. Still, I should give him a chance. I might
be pleasantly surprised.
The Druid returned his attention to the Steeple, where the Green warped uneasily around
the
interlopers.
I am sick of this. I am sick of them , being here, interfering.
He glanced at Mostin, who was fussing – attempting to arrange his padded mat to his
satisfaction.
Shomei was on the verge of sleep.
Nwm stroked his beard, and wondered how things would unfold.
**
You are enamoured.
Somewhat. But it will pass.
You haven’t used Palamabron’s Eye to interrogate her.
She subscribes to a different Truth. What use would it be?
[Laughter]. It is your truth which matters to you, Ahma , not hers.
You are incorrect.
Perhaps your lust blinds you.
No, it doesn’t, although it would be easier for you if it did. You are afraid of her.
[Irritated]. As should you be. She can annihilate you with a moment’s thought.
That is not what I meant. You are afraid of what she represents.
[Condescendingly]. And what may that be, Ahma?
An escape from the prison that you have created for yourself.
Your moralizing is becoming tedious, Ahma. Has she then escaped Oronthon as well? Has
she placed herself beyond the infinite – your view of the infinite. Is she outside of his
purview? That sword cuts both ways, Ahma . What is not Oronthon?
I will not be drawn into monistic thought.
You are avoiding the issue.
The issue is no longer a concern of mine. It is a road which leads nowhere. Now can we
please consider the matter in hand – that of Soneillon. What is your opinion of her?
You are projecting your view of Nehael onto the Queen of Throile, Ahma . You have been
seduced by her eloquence, wit and her – not inconsiderable – physical charm. You are
confusing the two succubi in your mind. Both fly in the face of convention, and both have
seized – or created – their own truth.
Are her words regarding Nehael’s current state plausible?
Utterly plausible. This does not mean that they are entirely true, however.
Do you believe that she is deceiving me?
If I told you either ‘yes’ or ‘no,’ then you would – quite rightly – question my motivation
for doing so. I will therefore say ‘I do not know,’ although you might also suspect that I am
withholding an answer for some unknown reason. In fact, I do not know.
[Wrily] How hard it must be, to be Titivilus. Are there occasions when you speak the plain
truth, and no-one believes you?
If I speak the plain truth, then it is invariably in an effort to deceive, so the point is moot.
Would you advise a formal compact, in order to insure me against any ill will that she
might bear
towards me?
As you pointed out yourself, she may not regard such an agreement as binding.
Does she have a history of compacting that you are aware of?
I believe she prefers informal arrangements, such as with Irknaan.
That is not reassuring.
[Wickedly] Of course, she may be attempting to avoid a compact precisely in order to give
her greater latitude in her dealings with you later on.
Your mind is truly tortuous.
Why thank-you, Ahma.
*
“Have you reached a decision, Eadric? Will you trust me?”
“I will never trust you Soneillon, because I will never understand you. You are both too
alien and too human for comfort. I will, however, temporarily suspend my doubt – and
possibly my better
judgement. If you betray me – to death or perdition – then I will hold no ill-will towards
you. The fault will be mine alone.”
She smiled, and offered her hand. “Come with me. I will show you what we have to work
with.”
Eadric stepped backwards suspiciously. “Nhura is still loose. I must deal with her first –
assuming that you still refuse to intervene and discourage her. I need time to prepare.”
“This will take only a short while. I will return you in an hour or two.”
The Paladin shot a glance towards Titivilus. The Devil’s face was totally impassive.
Eadric groaned and, tentatively, reached out to touch her. She dissolved, and seemed to
flow both into him and around him.
The nightmares of demons – which raged all around – were impotent against the Void
which cradled
him, and bore him to Throile.
originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 10-07-2003
***
Mostly Nwm
Nwm fretted. It was nearly midnight, the two fiends had departed from his field of
consciousness, and Eadric had not returned to the chapel. The fact that the Paladin was
mind blanked did not help matters –
it was impossible to discern whether he was in the vicinity or not.
When Gheim returned through the open window, the Eagle confirmed that the Ahma was
no longer in the Steeple by dropping Lukarn at Nwm’s feet.
“The room is empty, although his armour is still within. Do not make me fly in search of
him, Nwm –
or at least calm the wind somewhat, if you do.”
Nwm scowled. He feared manipulation and betrayal by either the Infernal Duke, the
Succubus, or both.
The possibility that the two fiends might be in cahoots with one another also troubled him.
Iua glanced at the Druid. Other than Nwm, she was the only one of the group still awake.
“Should I wake Mostin?”
Nwm shook his head. “What use would it serve? Eadric is unlocatable. We just have to
wait. Stay here
– I’ll be back presently.”
He opened the chapel door and strode into the storm.
**
Nwm’s contention that Nhura could not mount an effective assault upon Kyrtill’s Burh
until the next day was based on incomplete information, and a gross underestimate of the
power at the Lillend’s
command. Likewise, Mostin’s belief that the screen invoked by Shomei, together with the
dimensional lock would prove a sufficient protection for the few hours they needed, was
equally flawed.
Nhura was resourceful, merciless, and never one to cede the initiative in any conflict in
which she was engaged. Five teams of demons conjured by Koilimilou – each consisting
of a glabrezu and a succubus
– had been dispatched, and one pair finally returned with useful news for the Lillend.
At Koilimilou’s command, the fiends had systematically scoured the countryside in
Western Trempa,
looking for Deorham and Kyrtill’s Burh, which – after questioning local farmers in an
outlying stead near Hernath – was revealed to a succubus to be only twelve miles distant.
Elated with the news, the demoness slew several families in a fit of glee, before returning
to her dark mistress and her even darker queen.
The castle, it appeared, was hidden by a powerful illusion, and at the centre of a highly
localized weather system. The nearby village of Deorham, however, was plainly visible.
The glabrezu had
penetrated the screen about the keep with its vision, but subsequently retreated upon
finding a quartet of devas – appearing from nowhere – which had hewn at him with their
flaming swords.
When the glabrezu returned, eighteen seconds later, it was in the company of four others
of its kind, five succubi, three summoned vrocks, and the creature Hazihe – the chthonic
babau originally enlisted by Irknaan, and now serving Nhura.
The rewards promised to the fiends by Nhura were lavish, and included a diamond circlet
of immense value, an Azer blade of fabled power, a cloak of displacement, and a robe of
stars.
The demons were well motivated.
**
As Nwm began to walk the short distance across the courtyard to the base of the Steeple,
one of the devas – his name was Saphrez, although the Druid neither knew nor cared –
manifested before him.
Nwm was bathed in light from the holy aura which surrounded the deva.
“There are demons abroad,” the Celestial announced. “Where is the Ahma?”
Nwm cursed, and shook his head.
“I suggest that you retreat within.”
The Druid dashed back through the doors, and yelled, jarring Shomei, Ortwin and Mostin
from sleep.
“Demons. We must act now.”
Blearily, Mostin invoked a wall of force.
In the courtyard, confusion reigned. The demons were materializing, but only the glabrezu
– possessed of an extraordinary perceptive faculty – could readily pierce the screen which
protected the area.
Through force of will, the babau Hazihe summoned sufficient insight to mentally
overcome the
illusion. Neither the succubi nor the vrocks were capable of clear perception, however.
Despite a
knowledge that they were standing within the castle walls, all they saw was a rocky knoll.
The deva Tarquam, somewhat disoriented by the sudden appearance of numbers of
demons – some of
whom appeared very confused – nonetheless reacted quickly. He spoke a holy word,
instantly sending two succubi and a glabrezu back to their Abyssal home.
Seconds later, Hazihe – a yawning void which pulsed with unlight – leaped upon him,
ripping
effortlessly through celestial flesh with claws and maw, and, in the blink of an eye,
permanently
extinguished the deva’s shining essence.
Nazaihemaht and Rôrex, the two other devas in the courtyard, both pronounced further
holy words in succession, banishing yet more of the fiends screaming back to the lower
planes. Hazihe, two of the glabrezu, and one of the succubi were unaffected.
From within the confines of the chapel, Mostin grimaced as he heard two power words
echo within the courtyard above the noise of the storm. There was a brief pause as the
demons dispatched the devas, and then the glabrezu ripped the doors of the chapel off of
their hinges.
One tried pushing forwards, but encountered the wall of force.
The other attempted to teleport into the sanctum behind where the party stood, but could
not penetrate the dimensional lock.
Ortwin smiled, and stuck his finger up.
“I think that gesture may be a little premature,” Nwm remarked drily.
**
The Void embraced him. It was warm, soft, yielding, welcoming. It showed its power
through its
capacity for absorption – which had no limit – and a profound silence, free of all worry
and distraction.
Eadric felt as though he teetered upon the edge of oblivion, and was vaguely surprised that
the threat of annihilation did not seem so terrible. Beyond, fear and madness – the
thought-forms and unconscious ravings of fiends – seemed a universe away. He wanted
Nothing. He needed Nothing.
She is deadly. This truth is too easy. [Thought fails. Bliss. Emptiness.]
He corporeated again within an opulent chamber, draped with crimson and fuligin. It was
replete with fantastic art of a most abstract and disturbing nature – although what it
portrayed, he could not tell.
Dimension seemed warped and unnatural, as though curves existed where none should,
and angles played at the corners of his mind only to disappear when observed directly. His
perceptions buckled with layered dissonances. Nearby, a small silver bell hung from a
delicate chain.
Soneillon had assumed a guise that her servants and thralls were familiar with, and Eadric
swallowed.
No longer a young girl, but a demoness of indeterminate age. Still beautiful, but cold,
aloof, serene, worshipful; at ease with the terrible power which she commanded. She was
as tall as he was, and wore only a diadem studded with black jewels.
The Succubus smiled disarmingly, and, for the Paladin’s benefit, modestly shrouded her
form with her sable wings.
“Welcome to Throile,” she said coyly. “I have been somewhat neglectful, and there are
matters that I must attend to – do not be alarmed, I will return very shortly. Strike the bell
if there is anything which you require – Helitihai will meet any need that you might have.”
Although the word any was not pronounced with undue emphasis, it still carried a
meaning beyond the obvious.
Eadric sighed. “I would ask two things. First, that you do not present an expurgated view
of this place in order to protect my feelings – my actions must be made in full
consciousness, and the more that is hidden from me, the less I will feel inclined to trust my
judgement. I am in the Abyss, and I do not expect to encounter scenes which I find
agreeable. Second, I do not wish to linger here too long – I am a willing ambassador, but I
have other responsibilities that I must meet before I can commit to any course of action in
Throile. I would feel uncomfortable if my stay lasted beyond an hour – an hour in Wyre, to
be clear.”
“Your concerns are duly noted, and I will observe your wishes. If you would prefer, you
may
accompany me now. But you should be warned: there are things here which you would
regard as
obscene, debased and insane. You are likely to be offended.”
“I’ve come this far,” Eadric pointed out. “I will reserve judgement.”
“It will still shake you to your core.”
Eadric found that she was right. The suffering there knew no limits, and the pleasure
derived by those who inflicted it was transient, grotesque and depraved. It was, after all,
the Abyss.
He earnestly hoped that he would never become inured to it.
**
The demons had vanished from view, although they still appeared as nearby blots within
Nwm’s mind.
“Is he mad?” Ortwin groaned. “He didn’t take his weapon with him? Where is he?”
Nwm shrugged. “Presumably with either Titivilus, or Soneillon. Or perhaps both.”
“I hope the former, for his sake,” Shomei sighed. “This is tedious. I am utterly depleted,
and so is Mostin. And this dimensional lock may now prove more a prison than protection.
How many are out there, Nwm?”
“Four. One is very unpleasant. There are no celestials within range – they’re either
destroyed or fled.”
“I suspect that we are in no shape to deal with the chthonic,” Shomei swallowed. “This is
very bad news.”
“We are safe unless they can disintegrate the wall of force,” Mostin replied. “Don’t panic
quite yet. We have twenty minutes or so before it collapses. I have time to prepare a
banishment and a another spell or two.*”
“Can you issue a sending to Ed?” Ortwin asked.
The Alienist shook his head glumly. “By the time I’ve prepared it and cast it, the wall of
force will be down. And even if I renewed the barrier and Eadric manages to return, he
will be out there, and us in
here. He cannot come into the chapel any more than the demons can.”
“I still have a few tricks left,” Nwm said wearily. His expression changed to one of horror
as he shot a glance towards the open doorway of the chapel.
The demons had returned, and had brought Eadric’s small staff of retainers with them.
Dwarfed by the looming presence of the glabrezu, the servants – valets and maids,
stablehands and gardener – cowered in terror.
The huge demons proceeded to dismember and eat the cook. The succubus danced nearby.
“Bring out the Ahma,” the Void called Hazihe demanded.
Nwm groaned. “This is intolerable. Why must it always be the innocents? Mostin, bring
the wall down on my signal.”
“You are joking, of course?”
Nwm began to cast a ward upon himself.
“Nwm?”
“Now, Mostin.”
“Nwm, I…”
“Just for once, trust me Mostin.”
The Alienist sighed, and reluctantly complied. The wall of force dissipated.
Nwm grimaced and struck his blackthorn staff once upon the flagstone inside the door.
The slabs which formed the chapel floor began to crack. ” She is tired of your
interference,” he announced to the demons, although it would have been spoken with
equal vehemence to Soneillon, the Loquai, the
devas, and perhaps even to the Sela himself.
Green fire blazed over the Druid, threatening to consume him. His skin blistered and
cracked, his cloak ignited. His mouth, ears and eyes dripped a liquid that might have been
blood, or sap, or both. A
colossal discharge of viridescence emanated from him. His staff sank into the floor,
burning in a
brilliant flash of green, and the orb of storms which had topped it fell off and rolled away.
For the briefest moment, Ortwin fancied that he saw the silhouette of a woman in Nwm’s
place: a shape of great girth and dignity; fecund, bearing a thousand swollen breasts.
The demons were transfixed with expressions of bewilderment – impaled through limb
and torso on
vast, thorny boughs which erupted from the paved courtyard, penetrating their hides and
instantly
slaying them. The corpse of the babau, Hazihe, flickered disconcertingly on the edge of
consciousness: destroyed, nullified – whatever became of things that had already survived
annihilation.
Nwm collapsed.
“I should like to sleep now,” he said.
Mostin gaped. “I had no idea…”
Iua smiled wrily. “Thankfully, we are not all wanton braggarts.”
The Bard scowled, and then rapidly dismissed his vision as the imaginings of tired eyes
and a still sluggish mind. Besides, nobody else seemed to have noticed.
*
Nhura waited.
The Demons did not return. The Lillend attempted to reach them with magical sight.
Nothing. They were gone.
She cursed, and glanced at Koilimilou. The Cambion was slumped exhausted, in deep
trance. Nhura
resisted the urge to slay her out of spite – Koilimilou was too useful – and glanced at
Jetheeg.
The Lamia was, as her custom dictated, polymorphed into the form of a crone –
approximately human in shape – but of great height, and possessing an unusually bestial
and vicious aspect. Jetheeg was accustomed to riding a griffon, and if forced into physical
combat – something which she was generally cautious to avoid – her hag-like form served
her well.
“The demons have failed,” Jetheeg remarked drily.
“Koilimilou will conjure more tomorrow,” Nhura scowled.
“She will run out of potential compactees at this rate. Her patroness will be most
displeased with her in any case – losing five glabrezu is an act of reprehensible
carelessness.”
“If Rhyxali cannot provide them then we will try another,” Nhura countered. “Soneillon
has…”
“Soneillon.” Jetheeg scoffed. “Do not place too much trust in Throile, or its Queen. You
are precariously perched, majesty,” the word majesty carried the slightest hint of
condescension.
“She may provide more of Hazihe’s ilk. She knows many names. I still suspect that she
will pay a high price for the Ahma.”
“If she ever deigns to answer your sendings,” Jetheeg sneered.
“We will prevail,” Nhura hissed. “Watch your tongue, Jetheeg – I am not above removing
it. We know the exact location of the castle. You will issue more sendings tomorrow –
Irzho is still here, somewhere in this world. He can be solicited – I suspect that he, like us,
is now somewhat indifferent to Graz’zt’s rule. And give the Cambion an hour to conjure
more demons in the morning. When we assault the
place, we will be prepared. Others will be glad to compact – there are sweet rewards for
those who
succeed.”
Jetheeg nodded – the promise was directed towards her as much as any other.
But, as later that night, Nhura rested – coiled around a tree of evil temper within the
woods of Hethio –
she herself received a succession of sendings from her glabrezu lover and cohort, Narab.
He had been charged – together with Tebdeluz** – with maintaining a close guard upon
Lehurze, whose capacity for treachery, Nhura suspected, was exceeded only by her
usefulness as a tool. Lehurze had been appointed the task of reopening a dialogue with the
Devils who maintained a presence in Afqithan. In fact, the suavity of the succubus did not
match the oratory finesse of Titivilus and Furcas – two of Hell’s
foremost rhetoricians – and she quickly found herself beating a hasty diplomatic retreat.
None of this mattered, because Narab’s sendings conveyed a dire message to the Lillend.
Mere hours had passed in the demiplane since the departure of the Ahma and his party:
Ainhorr holds Afqithan. Three legions plus daemon mercenaries. Devils remain – assaults
upon tower ineffective. Loquai capitulated quickly. Lehurze location unknown. Tebdeluz
eliminated. Annexation took five minutes.
No, not sweet Tebdeluz! Nhura swore profusely. Disposition and location of enemy?
Generals? Ainhorr returned to favour? What of Soneillon? Graz’zt?
Bar-lgura; some chasme. No dretches – highly mobile. Nycaloths. Seven mariliths;
auxiliaries and specialists include goristros, kelvezu, retrievers, many succubi. Ainhorr
armoured and rearmed.
Soneillon location unknown. Graz’zt presumed Azzagrat.
Nhura groaned. She had half-anticipated some form of inquiry from Zelatar when the
periodic gate opened – hence her own intentional absence. But this was unexpected.
Lehurze may have sold her out.
As could any one of a dozen others, for that matter. And three legions – close to twenty
thousand
demons – was hardly a token presence.
What to do now? , she wondered.
**
“You expect me to do what?” Eadric asked, incredulous.
“Do you think that you could deal with him – hand-to-hand – if his magic were
neutralized?”
“No. Not alone.”
“But with – for example – Ortwin and Iua?”
“Probably,” Eadric conceded. “But I think that they would both require extensive
inducements to participate. Ortwin would be the first to admit that he favours the
appearance of valour over valour itself; and generally prefers money to morals.”
“When Zelatar is looted, Eadric – as it certainly will be, after the fall of one of Graz’zt’s
stature – then Ortwin, I suspect, will be there to take the choicest pickings. Have you any
idea of the extent of the Prince’s wealth? Scavengers from a thousand different realities
will descend upon Azzagrat like flies.
News travels quickly.”
“Then it would rapidly become the least desirable place in the cosmos to be,” Eadric
sighed.
“I doubt that Ortwin will see it that way.”
“You speak as though the outcome is a foregone conclusion.”
“Graz’zt can be eliminated. You must be the bait.”
“He will not rise to it.”
“You must force his hand. You are capable of doing this, Eadric: rousing his ire to such a
degree, that he loses all perspective in his lust for vengeance.”
“I had considered Afqithan to be a possible locale for an encounter.”
“As had I,” Soneillon agreed. “And his mind is already turned there. He is attempting to
unravel the events that transpired there.”
Eadric gave an inquisitive look.
“Ainhorr has just annexed the demiplane.”
Eadric groaned and his eyes bulged. He considered briefly. “Why? I mean, why you, now?
What do you stand to gain? I don’t believe that all of your action springs from
vindictiveness and the desire for revenge. You are too considered. Too methodical.”
The Demoness laughed. “The Ahma sees with clear eyes. Because there is something of
mine that I would dearly like returned to me. He stole it. I want it back.”
In Nhura’s throne room, in the palace built by Irknaan in Afqithan, Ainhorr gloated over
the loot
brought to him by the bar-lgura which leapt madly through the halls. Most of the Loquai
who dwelt in the fortress had translated to Shadow or Faerie and eluded capture, but
grizzly examples were made of their servants and those unfortunate enough to have been
caught unawares.
Demons and sendings had raced back and forth. Menicau, Samodoquol and a dozen other
nobles had immediately sued for peace. Within an hour, tributes had been lavished upon
the Balor by fawning
aristocrats. Ainhorr’s contempt for them was offset by his immense greed, and a
recognition that the Loquai – ultimately pragmatic in their outlook – would prove no
threat.
The Demon set his pristine slaadi-forged blade across his knees, and relaxed into an
immense throne of steel – erected in place of Irknaan’s delicate chair of tenebrous coral.
He intended to enjoy his tenure as despot of Afqithan.
He gazed through the deep-set windows across the lawns – strewn with the bodies of
demons, Loquai, and fey and goblin slaves – and through the trees. Fifty nycadaemons
now soared menacingly around
the diabolic tower. Its inhabitants – three Dukes of Hell and their retinue – were reportedly
contained.
As much as it was possible to contain three Infernal magnates.
Which was to say, Ainhorr sneered to himself, not at all.
*At this point, Mostin had two fifth-level, one sixth level and one seventh-level open slots
left. All of his prepared high-level spells, except for a plane shift and a discern location
had already been cast.
**Narab and Tebdeluz: big glabrezu – advanced to 24 HD – and bound to Nhura by
Irknaan himself as part of their nuptial agreement. Narab was given the stone of sendings
– lost by Shomei – to continually apprise Nhura of Lehurze’s actions, as well as the
maneuvering of the various Loquai nobles in her absence.
Note:
Nwm’s spell ( She is tired of your interference) was a spontaneous variation of another
that his player, Dave had been working on. I had ruled that DC0 Epic Spells could be
invented and cast “on the fly.” In this case I also allowed the staff of the woodlands to be
used as a (fabulously expensive) material component – I permitted the normal XP cost to
create the item (3600 XP) to be used in lieu of part of the XP mitigating factors (i.e. –36
DC). It had wholly appropriate symbolism for the mood that Nwm was in, and the spell’s
visual effects reflected that.
So Nwm was the first PC to cast an Epic Spell in the game – to the immense surprise of
the other players, who had no idea that Nwm was capable (or even that he was 21st level,
IIRC).
The demonic attack was kind of mean of me, I’ll admit (although the players had great fun
playing the devas for a round or two), but it was within Nhura’s capabilities to organize
the ambush, so I could hardly let it pass. The PCs were still all completely spent from their
encounter with Crosod, Eadric was missing, and to throw the chthonic babau (CR 20 or
so) and a bunch of glabrezu at them at this point was a little bit ruthless.
On a related note, this opened a whole new can of worms – that of allowing magical items
to serve as material components for Epic Spells. I actually quite like the idea: its not as
though such things can be freely purchased in the campaign, and I think it actually
balances quite well – one form of XP sink (the item) is converted into another (the Epic
Spell). The purpose and symbolism needs to be consistent on some level – so it wouldn’t
be possible to use, say, Daern’s instant fortress to fuel a fire evocation.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 10-27-03
****
The Parley - Part 1
The meeting took place in early autumn at dusk, three days after the full moon, in a glade
deep within the woods of Hethio. Mid-way – Nwm remarked ironically to himself –
between Groba, where the
Uediian rebellion had begun, and the eaves where Hullu’s last encampment of Bagaudas
had been set.
With the Tunthi tribesman’s abdication of leadership, the focussed organization of the
Uediian uprising had rapidly degenerated into a motley rabble of outlaws and bandits, who
now prowled the farmlands of Wyre’s richest province in gangs of twenty or more.
But not near here. All shunned this spot. Fear had descended upon the woods.
The Umbral Lillend, Nhura, was coiled in a posture which suggested both calm and
confidence. To her
left, mounted upon a griffon of singular size and evil disposition, Jetheeg – in her hag-
form – sat impatiently, a look of cynicism and contempt upon her hideous face. Around
them were arrayed Loquai knights of varying stature and reputation, who appeared as
numinous shades from whom darkness
flowed. To the right of Nhura, standing impassively below the Lillend’s standard – a
hanging sable pennant upon which the device was utterly obscured – was Koilimilou the
sidhe-cambion. All the
company were surrounded by compacted demons – a score of jariliths which prowled and
circled
ceaselessly.
Sh*t, Ortwin thought to himself. This better be for real, or we’re all dead meat. Despite
Eadric’s assurances to the contrary, the Satyr felt less than confident in the motives of the
recently styled – and now exiled – Queen of Afqithan or her entourage.
Ortwin glanced over his shoulder. Behind him, Mostin, Shomei and Nwm stood silently;
telepathically bonded and buoyed by potent wards and augmentations, and ready to
unleash a devastating magical attack if things went awry. Iua raised her eyebrows in a
gesture which combined reassurance with a sense of deeply appreciative irony.
Ortwin grinned, and trotted forwards.
“Beautiful ladies,” he bowed, causing Jetheeg to scowl yet further. “Elevated Triptych of
incomparable grace and poise. I am King Ortwin – welcome to my realm.”
Jetheeg snarled.
The Satyr smiled appreciatively before continuing. “I believe that, in our haste to create a
favourable impression with one another, we may have overstepped the normal bounds of
propriety and –
inadvertently – caused each other mutual inconvenience.”
“Must we endure this fool’s prattling?” Jetheeg snapped, at no-one in particular. “Get to
the point, Satyr. Bring out the box, bow and armour. And the other treasures which you
have looted. And then
we’ll speak.”
“My apologies,” Ortwin bowed again. “In a previous parley we may have acted somewhat
precipitously, and this time I wanted to be sure to observe the formal niceties.” The Satyr
gave Koilimilou a sideways glance. “Believe me, I share your impatience.”
He strode forward five paces, and unslung a heavy sack from his back. As he hurled it to
the ground, it opened. Armour, a slender sword, a buckler, a compound bow, and several
other enchanted objects of enormous power spilled forth. The box of shades fell upon the
moss, and the Cambion inhaled sharply.
Nhura gestured, and two of her knights approached Ortwin with a black canvas held
between them. It sagged with the weight of gear won from the Satyr and the Infernalist.
Nhura smiled. “I regret that, at this time, it is impossible for me to return your stone of
sendings. It remains in Afqithan in the hands of one of my servants.”
Inwardly, Shomei groaned. For her, it was a particularly useful item.
Ortwin licked his lips, and prepared to engage in more small-talk, but from behind him he
heard Nwm
– who appeared wilder and more unkempt than ever before – grunt disapprovingly.
“They are here.”
**
Eadric’s return, some days before, had been a solemn event. The Ahma had seemed
weighed down with concern, and his eyes had conveyed a sense of pain and horror. He
had witnessed near infinite brutality and suffering. The brief ecstasies enjoyed by demons
– at the expense of naked souls, whose eternal lot was perdition within Soneillon’s
Abyssal demesne – coupled with Throile’s madness-inducing warp of dimension and time,
had left a knot of sickness and loathing in his gut.
Upon his arrival at Deorham, at the climax of a furious storm of Nwm’s devising, his heart
had sunk yet further. The courtyard of Kyrtill’s Burh had been spattered with celestial and
demonic ichor; human entrails lay strewn about, and the doors to the chapel were smashed
against the base of the Steeple.
Outside of the entranceway to the sanctum, a great blackthorn reared, its sudden growth
demonstrated by the shattered cobblestones nearby. Several of its branches were like huge,
barbed lances, upon which the stricken forms of demons hung motionless, pierced and
raised skywards as if in dreadful sacrifice to the storm and the Goddess.
Eadric had barely glanced at the tree as he walked into the chapel. Inside, his servants sat
quietly in a small group whilst Iua had stood guard over them. Mostin and Shomei had
been close in whispered
conversation, and Nwm had appeared catatonic and wrapped in a heavy cloak.
Ortwin had grinned, and tossed him his weapon. “Glad you could make it. Better late than
never, I suppose.”
“I have struck a deal with Soneillon,” Eadric had said.
Shomei had looked up with an expression which combined awe with profound concern.
“Welcome to the Path Sinister,” she had sighed. “May your progress be as traumatic and
as bewildering as mine.”
“There are no paths, nor were there ever any. I act from instinct now.”
“You are an adept already,” she had smiled.
*
It had happened as the Ahma had predicted. The next morning, a summoned succubus had
arrived in order to impart a message from Nhura: a parley in five days, if all were willing.
An exchange of
captured goods was to take place. Eadric had explained that it was part of the agreement
reached with the Queen of Throile.
Nwm had groaned loudly. “She has maneuvered everyone into this situation. Irknaan and
Crosod are conveniently eliminated – no doubt Soneillon doubted their tractability. Has it
occurred to you that she
may herself have had a hand in betraying Nhura to Graz’zt?”
Eadric had nodded.
Shomei had shrugged. “Such is the nature of demonic alliances – they shift from hour to
hour. It requires considerable will and insight for a leader to maintain any kind of
cohesion. We should not even begin to think that we understand her true purpose,
however. It will remain hidden for some time yet.”
Eadric had mentioned that the demoness wanted something ‘returned to her.’
Mostin had tutted and shaken his head. “I don’t suppose that she mentioned – in passing –
what this
‘thing’ was?”
“No.”
“I thought not,” the Alienist had sighed. “You are perceptive, Eadric – that much I
reluctantly concede.
But surely you cannot actually trust this creature?”
“I trust her to do that which is in her own best interest,” Eadric had answered. “I think it is
up to us to try to determine exactly what that is. I don’t pretend that it will be easy. We
have little other choice.
Afqithan is an obvious locale for a confrontation – and neither you nor Shomei will be
bound by the Injunction there. You may conjure hideous entities to your heart’s content.”
“I fully intend to,” Mostin had replied casually. “But why five days? Why not today?”
“I need time for reflection,” Eadric had said simply.
Four days later, he had returned to Throile again, to the dismay of Nwm. He would meet
them at the appointed time and place.
“Is he ensorcelled?” The Druid had asked Mostin.
“Not to my knowledge,” the Alienist had answered. “But I make no claim to
omniscience.”
**
Within the glade, Ortwin took several hasty steps back again as the Void began to
manifest. Fear spilled from it – dream-phantoms which lingered in the waking world,
before evaporating in the ruddy sunset.
Eadric’s form materialized. Next to him, almost as though she were a ward in his care – or
his lover, the Satyr wrily observed – was a slender girl clad in a traditional folk dress.
So that is her, Ortwin thought. Intriguing. Less compelling than I had imagined.
As if in response, her eyes brushed over him for the briefest moment. The Satyr
immediately felt desire of a magnitude he had never before experienced. His stomach
twisted into a knot, and his head span.*
He was thankful that he was mind blanked and he knew instantly that, without protective
magic, had she laid even the simplest enchantment upon him, he would have been utterly
incapable of resisting.
Under the watchful eyes of Nhura, Jetheeg and Koilimilou – suspicious that the Alienist
might attempt a time stop and attack – Shomei erected a screen and Mostin fabricated a
large, circular table and thirteen chairs from an oak tree, together with a wooden awning
supported by slender pillars.
“Not bad,” Shomei remarked nonchalantly, and immediately sat down. Eadric watched her
– despite her bravado, he knew that she was tense and nervous. Demons – and their allies
– were less predictable than her usual diabolic associates.
Soneillon stepped away from the Ahma and smiled.
“Thank-you all for coming,” the Queen of Throile said softly. “As you either know, or
have guessed, I am Soneillon. At this moment, we share a common purpose which
outweighs any other petty concerns
which we might have. How we have arrived here is now irrelevant, and we should put
these thoughts
behind us. This is a parley and a truce. No weapon will be drawn, and no offensive magic
will be
invoked on pain of annihilation.”
Mostin looked sceptical. “You are powerful, but hardly omnipotent, Soneillon. The same
conditions apply to you: I will blast you if I suspect counterfeit or magical manipulation,
and if the last act I commit is to have you dragged screaming to Uzzhin then I will die
happy – I suspect that your dubious ontological status will prove to be of no importance in
that paradigm. You should be aware that you cannot effectively be both an arbiter and an
interested party in this matter.”
“Graz’zt is your enemy, Mostin, not I.”
“That remains to be seen,” the Alienist countered. “But as none of us trust each other, I am
inclined to proceed with utmost caution. I should like to ask several questions before we
go any further.”
“Are all Wyrish Wizards so arrogant and disrespectful?” Jetheeg asked incredulously.
“And openly insulting a Demon Queen is an act of questionable wisdom.”
“Truth – even if presented in a most bombastic way – may be my ally at present. I would
be
misrepresenting myself if I allowed Soneillon to dictate the terms of this arrangement.”
Ortwin’s eyes bulged. Eadric smiled. Nhura said nothing, but her eyes narrowed as she
studied the
Alienist. Very powerful. Very dangerous, she thought.
Soneillon seemed unfazed, and opened her palm, indicating that Mostin should proceed.
“What is this thing that you desire to repossess from the Prince of Azzagrat, and what is
Rhyxali’s role in this? What becomes of his sanctum if he is eliminated: can another
demon – magnate or no – benefit from its power, or is it attuned only to him? How many
succubi within your retinue are sorceresses, and what is their relative power? And what is
your defense in Throile against assault from Azzagrat? I assume that, on that count, there
is some kind of ongoing spell or magical protection in effect – or the Prince would have
overwhelmed you long ago. Finally, I would be grateful if you enlightened me with regard
to Pazuzu’s involvement – if any – and, out of intellectual curiosity, any information
regarding the entity Carasch would be much appreciated.”
Eadric glanced over the Loquai. Despite their practiced hauteur, he detected discomfort
among several of them when the name of Rhyxali was mentioned. Nhura’s emotion, if she
experienced any, was
unreadable.
[Shomei]: ?
[Mostin]: There are hidden fingers in this pie. I am merely informing her that I have
considered the possibilities of who they might be.
Soneillon gave a wry smile and leaned forwards towards Mostin. “Your speculation is
insightful. Have you heard of Pharamne’s Urn?”
Mostin wracked his brains. “I confess that I have not.”
“This is the item that I wish returned to me,” the Succubus said simply.
“Evidently, it is not yours by right, else it would be called Soneillon’s Urn. What is its
function, and who is – or was – Pharamne?”
“An Aeon**,” Soneillon answered.
Mostin looked dumbfounded and stared at the Ahma.
Eadric groaned. “Please, Mostin, explanations surrounding these matters may take all
night. Since I last mentioned this item, I have made inquiries and Soneillon has been
forthcoming – I will explain later.
Rhyxali’s involvement will also become clear in due course.”
“Then she is implicated?”
“She is the heretofore secret co-sponsor of the Loquai. Koilimilou is her chief
representative.”
The Cambion tilted her head, and stared venomously at Eadric. The air seethed with
unmanifest arcane power. Nearby, the jariliths began to bay and snarl.
“Stay your temper, Koi,” Nhura said drily. “It would appear that Queen Soneillon has
thoroughly instructed the Ahma – for reasons I’m sure she will divulge presently.”
“Rhyxali will lend aid in any effort to retake Afqithan,” Soneillon explained.
“I would have been informed,” Koilimilou hissed.
“You are a thrall, nothing more,” Soneillon said lightly. “Do not overestimate your
importance.”
**
The two kelvezu, Cociz and Dramalaz – erstwhile servants of Prince Socothbenoth, but
lately retained by Graz’zt – took due pleasure and satisfaction in the task appointed to
them in Afqithan. As Ainhorr’s chief inquisitors, they left, in a matter of hours, a trail of
mangled and mutilated forms which stretched across the breadth of the demiplane. Their
retinue – which consisted of a variety of lesser demons –
soon found that the fear evoked by the rumour of their arrival manifested itself in generous
bribes from a number of Loquai nobility.
The information which was relayed back to Ainhorr, and thence to Graz’zt, was of a
conflicting nature.
A Duke from Faerie – Rhalid – had been in Afqithan with a hunting party. Rhalid or one
of his cohorts had, in fact, been the despised Eadric of Deorham. Soneillon was
implicated. Irknaan had been
involved, but was slain because of an internal feud. Lehurze. The Infernal nobles
Murmuur, Titivilus and Furcus were somehow enmeshed in the affair, as were a number of
Afqithan’s significant figures who were now, apparently, on the Prime – Nhura,
Koilimilou, Jetheeg, Crosod and Threxu.
Graz’zt immediately smelled a plot, retired to his sanctum, and deployed a potent
divination.
Upon emerging from his reverie, the Prince of Azzagrat acted swiftly. The periodic portal
in Afqithan –
upon which Irknaan’s palace had been built – had closed, but Graz’zt opened a series of
further gates.
He reinforced Ainhorr’s contingent with thirty nalfeshnees and around a hundred glabrezu.
He issued orders to the marilith Janiq – one of his most experienced, competent and
trusted generals in the field –
to vigorously renew her assault within Throile, and bolstered her armies there. For the
sake of completeness, the ongoing war against Orcus – which had raged inconclusively for
millennia across a dozen planes, and absorbed most of the Prince’s resources – was
stepped up a notch.
The succubus, Nehael – by Graz’zt’s arts now stripped of her flesh, rendered insane, and
subjected to continual torment – was confined alone within a prison world mere yards
across, and warded against location by any form of magic or supernatural power. The only
gate to the prison was sealed and similarly hidden, and the key – a silver cylinder some
twelve inches long, and carved with
indecipherable glyphs – was secreted in a location known only to the Prince himself.
Graz’zt turned his mind to the three Infernal Dukes present in Afqithan, and pondered
upon Murmuur’s tower and how best to overcome it. The connection between Titivilus
and the Ahma was known to him, but Murmuur was a Duke of the Order of the Fly, not a
vassal of Dispater. His involvement was a
concern, and bespoke the machinations of subtler devils, and tacit agreements between Dis
and
Malbolge. And Murmuur’s tower was close to impregnable: Graz’zt recalled its
deployment upon the
Blessed Plain – along with the other contrivances of the Adversary and Belial – in the
early stages of the Great Revolt.
For an instant, a feeling of enormous poignancy welled up from within him: a profound
melancholy,
which consumed him utterly. Ideals and ancient oaths broken, and bright visions of bliss
and freedom brought guttering to cold ash.
When it had passed, his brow furrowed in dark reflection. It was becoming hard to recall,
and the
memories seemed like dreams: divorced and incomplete, as though another, and not he,
had taken part in those awful events.
**
“What of the succubus who followed me through the reality maelstrom,” Mostin asked.
“She is your cohort?”
Soneillon smiled. “Sometimes.”
“And presently?” Mostin asked irritably.
“Her name is Lehurze,” Nhura answered. “Narab indicated that she disappeared prior to
Ainhorr’s attack. She is very slippery. If we meet again, I will likely kill her out of
caution. I suspect that she covets Afqithan; Irknaan intended for her to supplant me.”
“And where is she?” Mostin asked, exasperated.
Soneillon stared hard at the Alienist: she had no doubt that he could locate Lehurze if he
so desired.
“She has returned to Azzagrat.”
Nhura cursed. “I knew that the whore was a turncoat, but…”
“Graz’zt does not know that she is there,” Soneillon interrupted, “although, doubtless, he
knows that she is somehow involved in events to date. He probably also guesses that she
has Maihodrot’s cubic gate. Before you ask, Mostin, Maihodrot was the demon
responsible for overseeing Afqithan. Graz’zt executed him for dereliction.”
“That was long overdue,” Nhura remarked acidly. “He was an incompetent fool.”
“What of the devils?” Shomei asked. “What is their rôle in this?”
“I suspect that they are waiting to see how events unfold before acting.” The Succubus
answered.
“Ainhorr has more than sufficient strength to force their retreat.”
“Not so,” Soneillon countered. “He can partially contain them, nothing more. They have
erected a tower which is all but impenetrable. It is also a planar nexus, and leads to a
number of worlds –
including several Hells, no doubt.”
“But Graz’zt himself could overcome it?” Mostin asked.
“Yes, given sufficient preparation. As could I. Or you maybe, Mostin; or Shomei. Or the
understated Nwm. I know what you did to Hazihe, Druid. It was most impressive.”
“I would have done the same to you,” Nwm said coolly. “My current concern is to see you
– all of you
– return to whatever grim, depressing realities that you issued from. Or at least out of
mine, in any case.
I am hoping that this parley might expedite the process.”
“You arrogant bastard,” Jetheeg snapped. “As I recall it was first you who trespassed in
Afqithan. And now you cry foul at our presence here? Mortals are perpetual hypocrites.”
Eadric held up his hand. “The point is well-made. I think, however, we should move on
before it becomes a point of contention. What has passed, has passed. The root question,
which everyone is
carefully avoiding, is this: can Graz’zt be lured to Afqithan and eliminated? Do we have
the wherewithal? More importantly, I have yet to be convinced of the authenticity of you,
Nhura, and your company: when allegiances change as quickly as yours, you must
understand that it is impossible for me to hold even a modicum of trust. I speak the plain
truth. What is preventing you from betraying us to Graz’zt?”
The Umbral Lillend laughed. “Nothing at all, Ahma. But Graz’zt is somewhat unforgiving
of those that deceive him. And Soneillon would, doubtless, punish me for any
transgression against her. And Ainhorr sits on my throne, which irks me more than a
little.”
Shomei shook her head. “I think that if Eadric of Deorham were delivered into Graz’zt’s
hands, then he would forgive more than a little. Perhaps even the Queen of Throile has
considered as much. We can, however, assume that this course of action did not appeal to
her: she has had the opportunity, and did not act upon it. Here is your answer, Nhura: if
you betray us, be sure that we are all dead. Because if either Mostin or I survive, we will
find you, and kill you. But first, the glooms will stalk you, and the horrors will tear your
mind apart. I am more vindictive than others here.”
*It’s worth bearing in mind that Soneillon’s stratospheric Charisma – 50, when buffed – is
close to impossible to portray meaningfully in game terms. Given the fact that she is
primarily a sexual being (or nonbeing), Ortwin’s response – given his predilections – was
natural.
**Aeons are (or were) understood to be cosmic celestial entities; emanations (or possibly
avatars) of Oronthon. They are charged with tasks of great magnitude: establishing
physical and metaphysical
laws; the creation and maintenance of matter, space, energy and time. Orthodox
Oronthonianism denies their existence, and long ago branded speculation regarding Aeons
as heretical. Both Irrenite and Urgic belief, however, have a place for Aeons within their
respective schemas: they are amoral or trans-moral but finite; removed by several degrees
from the standard celestial hierarchy, and unconcerned by
relative terms such as good and evil. Irrenite belief links them with the Inevitables, who
otherwise occupy a very inconsistent place within the Orthodox world-view.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 11-23-2003
****
The Parley - Part 2. And Afterwards.
The jariliths prowled ceaselessly around them.
Nwm observed Soneillon with curiosity as she spoke. The demoness seemed utterly calm
and
imperturbable, as though she possessed every answer to every question that might cross a
troubled
mind. Somehow, in her own way, she seemed to have resolved all paradox. He understood
Eadric’s
fascination with her – if it was fascination – but simultaneously wondered whether it was a
façade, and hoped that the Ahma held the same doubts.
The Queen of Throile spoke at length about Graz’zt: his subtlety, guile and prescience; his
dominion, and the worlds that it extended to; his insatiable ambition; his allies, great and
small; and his personal power, which, if he were given the opportunity to augment through
sorcery before any meeting with
them, might prove beyond even their collective ability to counter.
Kostchtchie, his most formidable ally, was discussed: to what extent would he remain
steadfast? Who amongst the Prince’s servants – demons, daemons, demodands, lamias and
half-fiends of every hue –
would be loyal in the event of a serious threat to his hegemony? How far was his control
already
compromised: three of his balors had been eliminated and two – including Rurunoth –
were missing.
Only Ainhorr remained.
“Ainhorr is now armoured,” Nhura said, “and, according to Narab, wields a slaadi blade.”
“The weapon is called… Heedless,” Soneillon said, after searching briefly for an accurate
translation of its name. “It is a ten-foot vorpal sword. He won it from the death slaad
champion Rshgu in the Vestibule of Lamentation: he was not idle after you broke his
blade, Eadric, and sought eagerly for a replacement. Heedless is, as its name suggests, a
notoriously fickle weapon, even by slaadi standards.*
It is immensely powerful, and may actually present more of a threat than the Balor
himself. Ainhorr may or may not be capable of controlling it – it has only been in his
ownership briefly. Graz’zt must have lent him aid in his efforts to secure it, prior to the
assault upon Afqithan – Rshgu would have crushed him under normal circumstances.”
“Charming,” Ortwin smiled. Privately, his stomach turned over. Ainhorr remained
something of a bugaboo for him. “You seem remarkably well-informed regarding these
matters.”
“Yes,” Soneillon agreed.
“You are also less than altogether forthcoming,” Mostin added, “but this is not entirely
unexpected.
Earlier, I posited a question regarding the Prince’s sanctum. He is an arch-fiend, and much
of his power stems from it – would it benefit you, if you were in possession of it? Could
you actualize its potential?”
“I have no interest in replacing Graz’zt as the ruler of Azzagrat, if that is what you are
asking – albeit obliquely. And no, it is his. Neither Ainhorr, nor even Kostchtchie could
ascend and claim it. It would quickly wither upon his demise.”
“And Azzagrat itself? Does his Will maintain the cohesion of the realm?”
“Azzagrat would eventually return to Void, from which it was carved. But only after a
billion life-ages of the universe. In this regard it is no different from any other Abyssal
domain.”
“Your brand of nihilism is unique,” Shomei said. “Perhaps you could expand further upon
this theory?”
“Philosophy does not interest me,” Soneillon replied dismissively.
“Adyell, Helitihai, Orychne and Chaya,” Mostin pressed on. “These are your chief
servants. Given your propensity for powerful spells, Soneillon, I assume that they are
well-used to acting with you in
magical concert? And by drawing energy from them into yourself, or diffusing it, you
prevent them
ever becoming a challenge to you.”
[Soneillon]: Your mind is exquisitely tortuous, Alienist. I would greatly enjoy penetrating
its mysteries.
[Image] [Image]
Nwm coughed and Shomei raised an eyebrow as the telepathic bond relayed the
information to them.
Eadric smiled sympathetically. Mostin seemed to be somewhat flushed and embarrassed.
“I am intrigued by where your questions are leading,” Soneillon remarked, apparently
nonplussed.
[Shomei]: !? Mostin, you cannot be serious…
[Mostin]: With you, and Nwm, and Mulissu, and Jetheeg, and Koilimilou, and the succubi
it would be possible. I would need to fine tune the spell. We should not discount the
possibility.
Mostin breathed deeply. “Heretofore, you may have considered two options: to negate the
Prince’s spellcasting and to overcome him through force of arms, or to subject him to a
titanic magical barrage in Afqithan and hope that his defenses can be overcome. Both
involve considerable risk. There are two other choices, which you are not aware of: given
a cabal of sufficient ability, it is within my means to conjure the Prince and contain him; or
I can gate a pseudonatural entity which I have come to know affectionately as The Horror
and attempt to deploy it against Graz’zt.” The Alienist winced as he said the demon’s
name.
Soneillon looked dubious. “I doubt your ability to devise such a spell.”
“It is mine already. I inherited it from Fillein.”
Nhura hissed. ” That spell? It would seem unreliable, at best.”
“The dweomer is perfect,” Mostin countered. “I believe that the Prince was intentionally
released the last time he was bound.”
“Then there is no need to leave this place until that is accomplished,” Koilimilou said. “He
can be bound here, and…”
“No,” Nwm said.
“The Druid refers to the Injunction,” Nhura explained. “Outside of the proscribed area,
however…”
“No,” Nwm said, “I do not. I will neither participate in nor condone the imprisonment of a
Demon Prince within the Green. If you proceed regardless, I will release him.”
Mostin sighed and nodded. They had already discussed this at length. “We would need to
find another location.”
“In this case I would not recommend Afqithan,” Nhura said coldly. “Not out of any
concern that he would be bound in my vicinity, but because his release might be too easily
accomplished by his own agents: there are many cultists loyal to him.”
“I will seek for a suitable locale,” Shomei grimaced. “An obscure demi-plane would be
the best option.
Alternatively, I could create one – although I currently lack the wherewithal to do so. And
I suspect that the debt incurred in casting the binding spell would be large.”
“Colossal,” Mostin corrected her. “I also currently lack the means.”
“Then why are we even having this discussion?” Jetheeg snarled. “You spend too much
time in idle speculation. We should assault Ainhorr before his grip tightens – enough of
the Loquai have escaped to Shadow or Faerie or obscure regions of the Abyss. They can
be rallied and deployed en masse. If Rhyxali really purposes to lend aid, it will be easy
enough to retake Afqithan. Graz’zt cannot denude his forces elsewhere to that great an
extent. And if this mortal here,” Jetheeg waved curtly towards Eadric, “is really such a
prize, and Graz’zt comes in person to add his weight to the fray, then all the better.”
Eadric shook his head. “He must be lured, if we follow that route. If he comes expecting
war – armed to the teeth, surrounded by bodyguards and warded by spells that we cannot
hope to penetrate – then it will go badly for us.”
“Challenge him to single combat,” Ortwin said drily.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I’m not suggesting that you actually go through with it,” Ortwin said, as if instructing a
child. “But he probably knows that you’d like to, and therefore it wouldn’t come as a total
surprise to him if you did, in fact, issue the challenge. It is a plausible deception.”
“It is absurd,” Eadric replied.
“If he refuses, then brand him as craven before his peers. Kostchtchie, Pazuzu, Fraz
Urb’Luu, Orcus, Rhyxali. The gentle Lady Soneillon.” Ortwin gave a mock bow. “Issue
multiple sendings to a variety of Abyssal dignitaries declaring your intentions.”
“You are insane.”
“I will act as your herald to Graz’zt. I can make him believe it. Outside of the Infernal
host, few liars approach me in guile or believability.”
“That is quite a boast, Satyr,” Jetheeg hissed. “And even if it were true, so what?
Deceiving a mortal, or even a demon of low rank is one thing. But Graz’zt? I think not.”
“I am capable,” Ortwin replied nonchalantly. “Graz’zt is no different to any other demon,
except that he is less gullible than most. In order to make him believe, one simply needs to
be a better liar. If a mind blank is not adequate to the task, then Nwm will devise a spell to
make my lies undetectable by Graz’zt’s magic…”
“Will he?” The Druid raised an eyebrow.
“But not yet,” Ortwin added quickly. “We need to rile him beyond all rational behaviour
first. And I agree that it would be better if he were not accompanied by a dozen mariliths.
His reaction needs to be so utterly violent and deranged that he immediately translates to
Afqithan in order to kill Eadric.
Overwhelming his forces there and eliminating Ainhorr might be a good start in our
achieving this state of transcendental ire in the Prince – although I would recommend that
we keep our identities hidden again for the meantime.”
“He will obliterate you before you can even deliver the message,” Nhura scoffed, “and if
not, then certainly in response to such a challenge.”
“Perhaps,” Ortwin said, “in which case Nwm will reincarnate me. Although I suspect that
he will not assail me. I will, after all, be in disguise.”
“And what would you be disguised as?” Nwm asked, sighing.
“Not what, but who. As Titivilus, dear Nwm. As Titivilus.”
“You would dare impersonate an Infernal magnate?” Jetheeg asked, incredulous.
“Yes,” Ortwin replied. “Diplomatic immunity would be useful in negotiating with
Graz’zt.”
“That is unwise,” Shomei said quietly. “It would attract displeasure in unwanted quarters.
And the Nuncio of Dis himself might be your least concern.”
“I will weather it,” Ortwin grinned. “The opportunity of executing one of the greatest
counterfeits in
history is difficult to resist. It will be my magnum opus.”
Eadric exhaled sharply. “We have a variety of options, it would seem. Having multiple
redundancies in our plans is no bad thing, however. Nhura – how long before you could
assemble the remaining
Loquai?”
“They are dispersed. Some weeks, in your time. Several days in mine.”
“And the creature you have mentioned, Mostin. Is it reliable?”
“I don’t know,” the Alienist replied. “If Shomei and Nwm were to help me, I believe I
could coerce it. A fourth caster would guarantee success and a reasonable degree of
safety.” Mostin stared meaningfully at Koilimilou.
“Now just wait a minute…” Nwm began.
“It will involve an immense backlash,” Mostin continued.
“Would you gate it?” Koilimilou asked.
Mostin shook his head. “I think with four of us, I would use a planar binding. Holding it
long enough to subject it to a compulsion would be no problem.”
[Nwm]: I am uneasy about involving this cambion in magical concert.
[Mostin]: As am I. She has raw power, however, and is now our ally. Fillein/Jovol was
right:
cooperative casting is where we should focus ourselves, Nwm. The potential is immense.
“Nhura will translate to Faerie,” Soneillon said, “and rally the Loquai. I will send word to
those that have fled to Shadow, or to Rhyxali’s demesne. I will also speak again to Rhyxali
herself, and contact Lehurze in Azzagrat.” Eadric, return with me to Throile. There is
much that I would share with you.
Eadric swallowed. “We should meet again in three weeks. We have some breathing time,
at least.
Nhura, issue a sending and we will translate to your location.”
“We have yet to find a suitable staging ground,” Nhura remarked. “Faerie and Shadow
both entail certain risks.”
“I will leave it to your discretion,” Eadric replied.
“Is that trust I hear, Ahma?”
“It is pragmatism.”
[Soneillon]: Come with me, Eadric…
Eadric closed his eyes, and refocused. “I will go to Morne,” he said.
Mostin nodded, but felt uncomfortable. The connection between Graz’zt and Rhyxali was
the subject of scholarly debate amongst those with more than a passing interest in
demonology. Was their
resemblance to one another merely superficial, or were they cut from the same block? Did
they share a common essence? Was she, somehow, his anima?
His stomach knotted. He desperately needed to consult the web of motes.
**
The Triune met for the second time on the autumn equinox, at Mostin’s manse, in the
woods southwest of Deorham. Orolde – somewhat awed by the presence of the three
powerful mages – nonetheless
ensured an agreeable environment in which they could discuss whatever weighty matters
they needed
to discuss. Unlike Mostin, the apprentice had made peaceable contact with the nearby
sprites, and
several pixies – whom Mostin eyed suspiciously – acted as temporary cooks and waiters.
After a sumptuous repast, the Infernalist, Elementalist and Alienist sat upon the porch in
silent telepathic communion.
[Mulissu]: Here is the spell [Formula] I have avoided any unnecessary squandering of
your valuable reservoir, Mostin.
[Mostin]: (Analyzes) If Nwm can be co-opted, collectively we could do this: [New
Formula]
[Mulissu]: (Eyes widen) That is most impressive.
[Mostin]: (Smiles) That is only the beginning. We could then do this [Formula] and then
this [Formula].
[Mulissu]: (Dumbstruck).
[Shomei]: (Wrily) Effectively, the Green dissipates the backlash. Nwm has set certain
conditions upon his involvement, however.
[Mulissu]: Whatever they are, we should accept them. No-one has ever gone this far
before. Whatever secrets Jovol could unlock from the web of motes will be trivial in
comparison to the insights that we could gain. What does the Druid require?
[Mostin]: That, collectively, we petition the Claviger for an amendment to the Injunction.
And assurances from each of us that while the augmented condition persists, we will only
use its benefits for the purpose of divination.
[Mulissu]: (Ruefully) The latter, I will happily guarantee. But I am not sure that the
Claviger can be so easily persuaded. What is Nwm’s request?
[Shomei]: A tightening of the rules regarding summoning.
[Mulissu]: In response to the actions of the Loquai?
[Mostin]: Partly. And Soneillon. And the devas at Kyrtill’s Burh, amongst others.
[Shomei]: No extraplanar entity should be permitted to enter Wyre. Period. Or the
Claviger will dispatch the Enforcer to eliminate them.
[Mulissu]: I have no objection to approaching the Claviger on this point. I am dubious
about its reaction, however.
[Shomei]: Is a quorum more likely to gain a favourable response?
[Mulissu]: I would say no. The Claviger is the Claviger. It abides by its own rules. Its
motives are unguessable, and its intelligence quite alien.
[Mostin]: I believe that it would compromise the Claviger’s paradigm – which is geared
towards the actions of Wizards. What if the Sela were to gate a solar to Morne? Would
Gihaahia intercept it? It would be a conflict of interests, and would, in fact, throw the
entire Injunction into question: its key tenet is still ‘no intervention in non-arcane politics.’
Moreover, an incident between the Enforcer and a cascade of celestials would be better
avoided.
[Mulissu]: You forget that Rintrah was complicit in the idea of a Second Injunction.
Jovol’s relationship to the Celestial Host and Tramst was – or is, assuming that Jovol’s
essence persists – ambiguous, to say the least.
[Mostin]: It is beyond the Claviger’s purview. However sympathetic I am to Nwm’s
position, I think he is on his own.
[Mulissu]: I am surprised that Nwm doesn’t object to the presence of the Claviger itself.
[Mostin]: (Humourously) He does. I think he regards it as the lesser of two evils, however.
Untrammelled summoning is worse for him. It is amusing to speculate upon an organizing
principle in this regard. Jovol, Rintrah, Nwm – all are working within the same
framework, but to attain different ends.
[Shomei+Mulissu]: !
[Mostin]: I said amusing. I am not suggesting some metacosmic conspiracy.
[Shomei]: In any case, we should approach the Claviger. It can do no harm. And I am
curious to experience it.
[Mostin]: Agreed. Nwm himself also indicated that he would like to join us in the petition.
[Mulissu]: (Sardonically) Then if the Enforcer is unleashed against us, we may, at least
last a few seconds longer.
[Shomei]: I doubt it. When I inspected the web of motes it was quite apparent that the
Claviger possessed significant deific powers. It would likely magnify** the Enforcer
before any encounter with an entity that might otherwise prove a viable threat.
[Mostin]: Are you then suggesting that the four of us acting in concert might present a
‘viable threat’ to the unaugmented Enforcer?
[Shomei]: Certainly. We are, after all, the most potent spellcasters in the world.
[Mostin]: That is worrying. I had simply assumed Gihaahia to be unassailable. If a cabal
of powerful mages were to attack her…I am thinking of posterity, here.
[Mulissu]: (Acidly) The point is moot. The Claviger has great prescience, and is virtually
omniscient with regard to all things magical. It knows we are having this conversation,
and has already
determined its course of action with regard to our petition. It may have reached its
decision ten billion years ago. Things will unfold as they were meant to.
[Mostin]: I expected better from you, Mulissu. I am tired of fatalistic musings – is it a
philosophical fashion that somehow escaped me?
[Mulissu]: Realities are changing faster than I can apprehend them, Mostin. One must find
some kind of calm center. Angst becomes tedious after a while. Should I contact Nwm
now?
[Mostin]: (Nods).
*
Mulissu issued a sending and, shortly thereafter, Nwm stepped from a nearby elm-tree.
“I assume that my proposal received a favourable response?” The Druid asked wrily.
“It is ingenious,” Mulissu agreed. “I should caution you that, even collectively, we cannot
assure a similar reaction from the Claviger. We cannot coerce it – only appeal to its
guiding principles.”
“If it agrees, how will its decision manifest?”
“I don’t know,” the Elementalist replied.
“When can we make the petition?”
“There is no time like the present.”
“Should we forewarn it of our impending visit?” Nwm asked.
Shomei smiled. “Don’t worry Nwm. It already knows.”
Nwm raised an eyebrow.
*
In a small, dry cave in the hills of Mord, a child – with shoulder-length blonde hair and
possessed of an ambiguous gender – suddenly materialized before an upright marble slab
nine feet tall.
The great tablet, engraved with a thousand or more paragraphs of detailed arcane legalese,
seemed to hum inaudibly and pulse invisibly. It had presence of an unusual kind, although
the exact quality of its sentience was difficult to determine – its very inscrutability was the
quality which marked it as far removed from the mundane.
The child watched patiently as, descending into the chamber down a narrow flight of
rough-hewn steps, a trio of Wizards and a Uediian priest shuffled nervously.
Upon seeing the child waiting, Mostin was seized by an almost uncontrollable bout of
panic, and
attempted to push past Mulissu, and back up the staircase.
The Druid scowled at him, blocked his egress, and gestured for him to continue on into the
cave, to which he only reluctantly complied. As the four assembled before the diminutive
figure, Nwm watched the Alienist carefully. The last thing he needed was for Mostin to
suffer one of his ‘episodes.’
“I am…” Nwm began.
“…Nwm,” the child finished for him.
“Are you…”
“…the Claviger, or the Enforcer?” The child completed his sentence again. “We are joined
now. It makes little difference. I am the mostly benign part.”
Mostin relaxed somewhat.
“You know why we are here,” Nwm, Mostin, Mulissu, Shomei and the child said in
perfect synchrony.
“Yes,” the child said.
Mostin swallowed. “Is the…”
“…Injunction immutable, or is it subject to change? Both. You should have read it more
closely. It
contains a clause which ultimately gives the Claviger discretionary power in its
interpretation. A law which is static and unyielding is of limited utility. The answer to your
question, incidentally, is no. The Enforcer will not be deployed against ‘extraplanar’
targets – if you insist on using such naïve
terminology – simply because they are present.”
Mostin grinned smugly, his confidence returning. “I told you…”
“Your analysis is incomplete,” the child interrupted. “Unfortunately, due to your meager
perceptual faculty, you lack the ability to reach a comprehensive understanding.”
Mostin scowled. “Perhaps you could…”
“…enlighten you? It would be a futile exercise to even attempt it. Could you instruct a
rodent meaningfully in the higher magical arts?”
“It could be…”
“… awakened, yes. In which case it would no longer be a rodent per se. The metaphor is
apt – if the Claviger were to change your faculty to be capable of understanding, you
would no longer be Mostin the Metagnostic. Dismiss the possibility from your mind – the
Claviger has no intention of deifying you. You may now ask one question regarding the
web of motes.”
Mostin shook his head, and gestured vaguely in the air. Obviously, vocalizing his question
was an
entirely superfluous act.
“Yes,” the child answered unequivocally, and vanished.
Mulissu gave a quizzical look. Her hair crackled in mild irritation.
*Slaadi blades are almost invariably sapient.
** i.e. bestow one or more divine ranks.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 12-15-2003
An Untitled Update
Eadric stood next to Sercion upon the roof of the Temple in the warm autumn sun, and
gazed out across Morne. Much of the damage caused to a thousand private residences in
the wake of the wave of hate had been repaired, although, in places, clusters of blackened
buildings remained. Industrious craftsmen still busied themselves with numerous minor
projects, and from sunrise until dusk the tap-tapping of stone hammers, and the rasp of
saws echoed across the city. The scaffolding which surrounded the Fane itself, however,
was silent and abandoned – no mason or carpenter had worked there for two weeks.
The Temple coffers were empty. Many of Wyre’s aristocrats – appalled at the fact that the
new Primate had distributed huge quantities of gold to Uediian peasants – had ceased to
pay the now-voluntary tax.
Promissory notes issued some months before had been delayed by church bureaucrats to
such an extent that most of the guilds in Morne now refused to deal with the Temple at all.
Eadric scowled. “What is the debt, Sercion?”
The Templar grimaced. “Around two hundred thousand crowns, Ahma. Or so I am told.”
“I will honour it,” Eadric sighed.
“Good,” the Sela said, ascending onto the roof behind them.
Eadric bowed.
“For long term sponsorship, we need to look to Sihu and Tagur to set the example,”
Sercion said.
“Unfortunately, they are still paying for the war. Wars are expensive.”
“There needs to be a coherent financial strategy,” the Sela remarked wrily. “Alas,
Oronthon chose one with no expertise in this area to be his representative – hence I
depend upon a staff who are more competent in these matters than I.”
“The Temple estates are vast,” Eadric pointed out.
“But undergoing a sweeping monasticization,” Sercion added. “Negotiating their
relationship with the secular order will be a huge challenge. Foide and Skilla are already
grumbling about the tax
differentials.”
“I confess that I am somewhat behind the times,” Eadric said.
“How is your relationship with Skadding?” Sercion asked.
Eadric looked confused.
“Will you be attending the investiture, Ahma?” The Templar continued.
“He will be sworn in as Duke of Trempa in ten days,” the Sela explained. He seemed
rather amused.
Eadric sighed, and shrugged. This was news to him. The mundane affairs of Wyre – even
those which
concerned him directly – seemed a world away.
Tramst gestured for Eadric to follow him. “Come. We need to talk.”
*
The Sela – whose demeanour that particular morning, Eadric noted, seemed more mortal
than divine –
opened a small cabinet, retrieved a bottle of amygdala, and gestured for Eadric to sit in a
wooden chair
with a worn leather cushion. The reception room – once sumptuously furnished during
Cynric’s tenure as Archbishop – was now bright, airy and spartan. Eadric smiled. The Sela
had, after all, achieved his perfection in the company of Urgic Mystics in Ardan,
renowned for their austerity and modesty.
“How is Titivilus?” The Sela asked ironically, handing Eadric a carved wooden goblet
filled with the almond liqueur.
“He is enigmatic and confusing,” Eadric replied.
“And Soneillon?”
“Doubly so. I have yet to comprehend her place in the scheme of things.”
“It will doubtless become clear in due course,” Tramst said opaquely.
“I should like to voice my concerns, and ask some questions, if I might,” Eadric ventured.
“Try to avoid metaphysics,” the Sela smiled.
“I will address them tangentially, if at all,” Eadric replied. “Pharamne’s Urn…” Eadric
began.
The Sela groaned.
“I am not about to ask questions regarding the ‘truth’ in what was previously considered
heretical doctrine, nor am I about to inquire regarding the properties of this thing. But if
such an object were to exist – is there any reason that I should not allow it to fall into the
hands of the Demoness. Actually, I do not seek an answer to that question either, Sela, I
merely wish to impress upon you that it is something which currently preoccupies me.”
“As it should,” Tramst agreed.
“There is also the question of those I number my allies: A demon queen – or possibly two,
if I include Rhyxali – and a variety of umbral fiendish feys and their cohorts. Not to
mention Mostin and Shomei,
who have dubious connections, to say the least.”
“And Nwm?” The Sela inquired.
Eadric laughed. “Once, I considered my friendship with Nwm to be scandalous. Others
felt that it
compromised my faith. These days, we argue little – our philosophical differences are
relatively minor compared to the others with whom I deal.”
“What is your relationship to me, Eadric?” Tramst asked unexpectedly.
“I do not understand…”
“I mean, do you regard me as your confessor? As your teacher? The absolute spiritual
authority whom you follow? Your Archbishop? Or do you regard yourself as my equal in
some ways?”
Eadric looked horrified. “You are the Sela. You are…”
Tramst held up his hand. “Yes, yes. The Infinite Perception of God. No value judgement is
implied in the question, Ahma. What is your function? What is the purpose of the Ahma?”
“To pave the way for you.”
“Well, now I am here. You remain the Ahma, however. What is your purpose now?”
“I think I am still defining it,” Eadric answered carefully.
“I once asked you if vengeance and retribution were within your purview. Have you come
to a
conclusion yet?”
“To define my rôle purely in those terms makes me somewhat uncomfortable.”
“I said nothing about vengeance and retribution being exclusive qualities. They do not
preclude mercy, for instance. But the question remains: is this now the primary purpose of
the Ahma? Is this why he
wages war on Graz’zt?”
Eadric shook his head. “I would bring aid to Nehael. None other will come.”
“For mercy or love then? Perhaps you resent the fact that Enitharmon has not ordered a
host to descend into Azzagrat?”
“I do not resent it – who am I to dictate action to the Celestial Marshal?” Eadric sighed.
“Although, sometimes, I regret it,” he added ruefully.
“But if Oronthon were to appoint a powerful representative in order to expedite Nehael’s
release, and to bring justice to Graz’zt, you would deem it appropriate?”
“Yes, I would.”
“Despite the fact that she turned her back upon Rintrah when he extended Oronthon’s
grace to her?”
“Perhaps because of it,” Eadric answered. “She seeks a higher perspective.”
“Maybe Rintrah was sent to tempt her,” the Sela said, smiling. “To offer her an easy way
out.”
“That is a peculiar inversion of conventional truth.”
“The fact that it can be inverted is the quality which defines it as conventional, Eadric.
And perhaps Enitharmon cannot act, because he relates to that aspect of Oronthon which
is conventional, bounded and finite. It is not within his remit.”
“That is unfortunate for Nehael,” Eadric said grimly.
“I don’t see why. Oronthon has merely opted to use a more unconventional tool.”
Eadric looked confused.
The Sela sighed. “You, Ahma, you. Whilst your humility is an endearing trait, sometimes
it can be painfully difficult to make you understand your own importance. You are a
liminal entity, Eadric. You relate to facets of reality which have no place within the beliefs
of Orthodoxy, or the understanding of celestials. This is why the acceptance of self-
determination is most important to you – perhaps Cynric himself foresaw this. After all,
whatever you do, it is the Will of Oronthon.”
“But I can still Fall.”
“Oh yes,” Tramst nodded. “And harder, faster and with more brilliance than any have
done for a long while. Do not make the mistake of thinking that you have transcended the
paradox, or even that the paradox can be transcended.”
“You give most conflicting lessons, Sela.”
“Thank-you,” Tramst said.
“I have another question,” Eadric said, averting his eyes. “It is somewhat presumptuous.
You may feel the need to chastise me for asking it.”
The Sela smiled. “This should be interesting.”
“It regards your nature – both finite and unbounded. I recognize that this is a necessary
dialectic for the transmission of saizhan: you cannot be purely Man or purely God.”
“I had not perceived it in those terms. It is an interesting speculation. You are also
trespassing dangerously near the province of metaphysics, now.”
“Sometimes, you appear as more mortal than divine to me. At others, you are the Godhead
manifest. Is this merely a reflection of my understanding, or does it have a basis outside of
my own experience?”
“Is there a difference?” Tramst asked.
The Ahma nodded. Saizho. The capacity for the human mind to perceive is also something
which I
frequently meditate upon. I refer to Mostin’s plans…
“You are concerned that his expanded awareness may be dangerous?”
“Yes,” Eadric replied. “Especially with regard to the web of motes. The idea that he can
acquire as much prescience as that offers. And Shomei…”
“Do not concern yourself with Shomei. She has a healthier perspective than Mostin,
although she will soon be confronted with an enormous burden.” Do you wish to know
what it is?
Will the knowledge benefit her, or anyone else?
“It might,” the Sela replied. A look of sympathy briefly crossed his face. “Shomei will
soon die.”
Eadric’s jaw dropped. “But…”
“She will perceive her own demise when she inspects the web of motes, just as Jovol did.”
“It cannot be averted?”
“She can choose to make the manner of her passing meaningful.” Tramst explained.
“But Nwm can…”
“I have opened the door for her, Eadric. Death will be a less unpleasant experience for her,
the second time around. She may be unwilling to give it up. Bliss is not easily
surrendered.”
“Then she will have failed, according to her own philosophy,” Eadric sighed. “When the
struggle
ceases, what then for Shomei? It defines her being. It is the essence of what she is.”
The Sela smiled. “I think that, for Shomei, overcoming her desire to overcome may be the
ultimate antinomian act.”
Eadric grimaced, and nodded.
“That is all, for the moment. Has this conversation helped you?”
“Oddly, yes,” Eadric replied.
“Good. And beware of Soneillon, Eadric.”
“Yes,” the Ahma replied.
He stood, bowed, and exited the reception room, and began to walk down the steps
towards the cloister.
But before he had descended even half-way, he was met by a familiar figure – hooded in
purple,
bearing an ornate rod, and about whom the faintest hint of cinnamon hung. He swallowed,
and his mind span. For a fraction of a second, he wondered what she and Tramst would
talk about. He wondered how often that – since their initial exchange – she had come here
to see the Sela. It was hardly the kind of detail that she would be inclined to share.
“Hello, Ahma,” she said with a wry half-smile.
He nodded in acknowledgement, but did not meet her eyes.
Passing out of the cloister, beneath the scaffolding and across the courtyard, Eadric made
his way to the stable, where three score Temple steeds – many of celestial descent – were
quartered. The place was strangely serene and, aside from the horses and two grooms,
entirely empty. Contundor’s stall, like the others, was open and ungated. The destrier bore
no harness, and stood waiting patiently.
“I will not ask you to come with me…” Eadric began.
I will come.
“Thank-you,” he smiled.
**
Ortwin and Iua – together with the sidhe-cambion, Koilimilou – sped through the twilit
skies of
Afqithan. They were mind blanked, invisible, polymorphed and buoyed by several other
augmentations.
Ortwin was, for once, serious in his attitude and demeanour. There were demons
everywhere: they
could afford to take no risks.
Koilimilou said nothing during their progress. Her face remained impassive. Ortwin found
her presence and demeanour utterly disconcerting.
They were bound for Chaltipeluse, the castle of Ytryn, a Loquai noble who preferred the
style of ‘duke’
rather than ‘king’ – although it reflected nothing on the actual power at his command. His
fortress, carved by indentured dao from the rock of a mountain-peak long ages before,
would – in a more
conventional conflict – have been altogether unassailable. In Afqithan, it was no less
vulnerable than an unwalled village upon an open plain.
Ytryn was, as Irknaan had been, an aristocrat with two demonic sponsors – although
Koilimilou didn’t doubt that he had been one of the first to support Ainhorr when the
Balor had invaded the demiplane.
Loyalty to either Graz’zt or Rhyxali was not so much an issue as the opportunity offered
by service to one, or the other, or both. Ortwin, in order to demonstrate his glibness and
power of persuasion, had volunteered to address Ytryn, and win him on board – or at least
find a way to compromise him
sufficiently to turn Ainhorr’s suspicious eye towards the Duke. If his position became
untenable, he might be forced to rally to Nhura out of desperation.
It was a dirty plan, Ortwin thought, but then again they were hardly observing the niceties
of Wyrish chivalry. Not that anyone really observes them in Wyre, either, the Satyr mused.
If all else failed, Koilimilou would – hopefully – ensorcel Ytryn with a geas*. They would
likely also need to eliminate the Duke’s consort, a hag named Chavrille. And anyone else
present when Ytryn was enchanted.
Ortwin felt his pouch nervously, to check that the two scrolls hastily scribed by Mostin
and Shomei, a
plane shift and a sending – to be used only in emergencies – were still there. It had been a
long time since he had read a spell from a scroll. He hoped they wouldn’t backfire.
“Will there be demons there?” Ortwin asked. “Or has Ainhorr granted a modicum of
autonomy to his
new subjects?”
“There will be demons,” Koilimilou replied stonily.
“Is that speculation, or do you know for a fact?”
“The palace will be crawling with Ainhorr’s agents. Some will be disguised. Others will
be openly
present in the capacity of ‘advisors.’ There may or may not be a garrison – which may be
of a
temporary, permanent or indefinite nature.”
“Then how can we even gain a private audience with Ytryn?” Ortwin groaned. “I mislike
the idea of
attempting to coerce him in the presence of a marilith and half a dozen glabrezu…”
“You work it out,” Koilimilou snapped. “You are the one who claims to be able to talk his
way out of anything. And to think you had the presumption to assert your ability to dupe
Graz’zt himself.”
“Actually, I am more concerned that my innuendo will need to be so subtle, that Ytryn
himself may not understand it.”
Koilimilou scowled. This satyr was a braggart.
Iua sighed. “The real problem is, as Mostin continually points out, that any demon in
Afqithan – and I include Ainhorr himself in that statement – is only two teleports away.
Ten seconds.”
“If we see any demons abruptly vanish, then so should we,” Ortwin replied.
“And if we don’t see them at all?”
“Then we’re screwed,” Ortwin admitted. He groaned. “How can we fight this war? I see
only repeated
guerilla raids of teleporting demons, and umbral sidhe who vanish back to Shadow after
brief forays. Is there nothing which can be likened to a conventional force?” The Satyr
considered Mostin – the Alienist had, amongst other duties, agreed to reflect upon possible
strategies for combating large numbers of demons.
“That is a conventional force,” Koilimilou said irritably. “At least by Loquai standards.
They favour campaigns of bloody, tit-for-tat attrition. Graz’zt knows this, and has
deployed leaping demons as his main troops – they are teleporters. Dretch would be of no
use at all to him, even in vast numbers.
Hence, also, the kelvezu, although no-one knows how many – their services are
exceedingly expensive.
There again, Graz’zt is unfathomably rich. Strike and retreat. Intimidate. But every Loquai
stronghold has areas which are dimensionally locked to prevent precisely this kind of
assault. And many sit on gates to one plane or another. Some are known, some are
jealously guarded secrets.”
“And Ytryn’s fortress?” Ortwin asked.
“Has a portal which leads to Faerie,” Koilimilou answered. “But I do not know its
location, or its appearance.”
“But his inner chambers – wherever his Ducal seat is – will be in a place which is proof
against
extradimensional movement?”
“And scrying,” Koilimilou replied.
“And his sanctum – where he practices magic?”
“Pah,” the Cambion sneered. “Ytryn has no great ability. He is a warrior, nothing more.
Chavrille is a necromancer of some skill, however.”
“And, aside from the Loquai and any demons, is there anything which we should expect?”
“Gargoyles and manticores. Displacer beasts.”
“Of the umbral fiendish variety, no doubt?”
“Naturally,” Koilimilou replied humourlessly.
“Does this…quality…which Afqithan possesses have a source?” Ortwin had been about to
say taint, but decided that it might be undiplomatic. “A wellspring? A locus? Is there a
place where the umbral bleed is strongest?”
“You adequately demonstrate your cosmogonic ignorance with regard to Afqithan,”
Koilimilou
sneered.
“Shomei speculated that it may be a splinter of Faerie which was shivered during the
Fall…”
A look of contempt crossed Koilimilou’s face.
“Pray enlighten me,” Ortwin said drily.
“Afqithan is Afqithan, just as Azzagrat is Azzagrat. Speculate all you like. The umbral
flux ebbs and flows. Sometimes, Shadow is closer, at others it is further away.”
“But the pure malignancy,” Ortwin asked, deciding that diplomacy was wasted on the
Cambion. “That is not a trait native to Shadow.”
Koilimilou smiled darkly. “That is the touch of the Lady Rhyxali.”
“But…”
“She was venerated here long before the name of Graz’zt was known. This place is sacred
to her. And whatever temporary steward takes control, Afqithan is, and always has been,
hers.”
“Ah,” Ortwin nodded dubiously, raising his eyebrows.
**
“There is too much to do,” Mostin grumbled. “And too little time.” Within the
extradimensional space of his manse, his desk – normally immaculate in its organization –
was strewn with books and papers.
Several imps – temporarily compacted – acted as scribes: finding references, bringing
books to Mostin, or taking notes as required. The Alienist’s mind held every title of each
of the nine hundred volumes which Shomei had loaned him. He merely needed to decrypt
them and scan them for relevant
information – during the time that he wasn’t working on the second in the series of spells
designed to interpret the web of motes. His head span.
Pharamne’s Urn. Carasch. The Horror. Rhyxali. Soneillon. Titivilus. Murmuur’s Tower.
Graz’zt. The
Ahma. Nehael. Throile. Afqithan. Azzagrat. Lehurze. Ainhorr. Nhura.
“Perhaps you should retreat to a slower time-stream,” Orolde suggested unhelpfully,
eyeing one of the devils suspiciously. It leered back at him.
“Perhaps you could retrieve Tersimion’s Last Diatribes against Arcanism and insert it into
your fundament,” Mostin replied with uncharacteristic vulgarity. “It would be a fitting
resting place for that tome, in any case.”
“I will make some tea,” the Nixie sniffed.
“That is an excellent idea,” Mostin nodded. “Orolde, in case my attention lapses, do not
allow any imps into the house proper. If I were censured for violating the Injunction at this
time, it would be highly regrettable.”
Orolde nodded, and withdrew.
The Alienist issued a sending to Ortwin:
What progress? Ytryn ally? News of Titivilus? Soneillon? Do we have timeline? Need
viable, secure base of operation.
Patience. No contact made yet. Still considering options. Dimensional Locks in
Chaltipeluse may prove defensible.
Mostin sighed, and idly tapped upon the nigh-indestructible sphere of black crystal which
sat in front of him.
Nufrut’s head appeared. She scowled.
“Your knowledge of strategy and tactics in the sphere of Abyssal warfare is immense,”
Mostin said.
“Yes,” the Marilith sighed.
“And your knowledge of Afqithan itself, not inconsiderable.”
“That is correct. Get to the point, Mostin. You are being boring.”
“I would remind you that you are the disembodied head, and I am the powerful wizard
whose patience has recently been tried overmuch,” Mostin said drily.
“The point is well made,” Nufrut admitted.
“If you had eighteen thousand bar-lgura, a thousand or so chasme, several hundred
nycadaemons, as
many succubi and palrethees, a hundred goristros, and – how many kelvezu do you think
Graz’zt has
had the opportunity to enlist, by the way?”
“Now that is an interesting question, isn’t it?” Nufrut smirked.
“In any case,” Mostin continued, “is there a classical model or scenario for annexing or
invading a demiplane such as Afqithan?”
“I’m sure there are several hundred, at least,” Nufrut answered.
“But their organization – presuming they have any?”
“Do not make the error of assuming that because of their philosophical inclination towards
freedom and satiation, that demons are an undisciplined rabble when gathered en masse,”
Nufrut chided. “Who are the Generals? Captains?”
“Seven mariliths. And more recently arrived – according to Nhura – two dozen
nalfeshnees and a
hundred or so glabrezu.”
“Seven? Graz’zt is taking no chances, it would appear,” Nufrut’s condescending smile was
beginning to irk Mostin. “You should give up now, Mostin. You have no hope at all.”
“Correct me if my analysis is wrong,” Mostin said, ignoring the Marilith’s enjoinment to
despair.
“Goristros are, being largely immobile, confined to the capacity of point-defense and
guarding
important tactical positions; succubi and palrethees act as scouts, messengers and aerial
light cavalry, so to speak…”
“That is correct,” Nufrut replied enthusiastically. “They are seldom deployed in units of
more than six to twelve. Also, the capacity of some succubi to act as infiltrators should not
be underestimated.”
“But the chasme are deployed in larger groups?”
“Squadrons of forty or fifty,” Nufrut replied. “They are extremely effective when massed.
Their
collective drone will be close to irresistible.”
Mostin’s stomach tightened. He hadn’t even begun to consider the implications of that.
“And the heavy-hitters? The nycadaemon mercenaries?”
“Three or four companies are sufficient to use as shock troops,” Nufrut leered, “and
expendable. But I wouldn’t anticipate a pitched battle, in any case.”
The Alienist’s mind was already developing a plan. And the more he thought about it, the
more he liked it. He needed to address the root of the problem. “Let me pose another
question, Nufrut: if I could force
a pitched confrontation. If the ability of these demons to teleport was temporarily
suspended…”
“That is pointless speculation,” the Marilith sneered.
Mostin ignored her. Formulae were flooding through his psyche. He picked up Nufrut’s
sphere, and
handed it to the imps.
“Take a five-minute break,” he said to his compacted scribes. “Do not leave this
extradimensional space.”
As the diminutive fiends gleefully tossed Nufrut’s head to one another, Mostin brushed all
of his
collected books and papers from his desk with a swift sweep of his arm. He retrieved a
single, blank sheet of paper, and with a quill pen which made him feel particularly
dangerous – boldly still bearing its feather – he wrote at the top:
Mostin’s Grand Astral Flux Inhibitor
He sighed, crossed it out, and pondered briefly, before writing:
Mostin’s Quiescence of the Spheres
Much better, he thought. Not that he really had time to begin this. But it couldn’t hurt to
analyze a few formulae. Just to see if it was a plausible idea.
Within five minutes, he had decided that it was plausible, and all thoughts of Pharamne’s
Urn and Carasch had left his mind. He now had seventeen days to develop two transvalent
spells.
Orolde returned shortly thereafter with a large pot of tea, which Mostin liberally fortified
with a variety of alchemical stimulants.
*Koilimilou would use a limited wish to achieve the desired effect. 1 action being better
than 10
minutes.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 02-16-2004
**
Three Webs.
Eadric rode alone from Morne to Trempa upon Contundor, passing by his own keep at
Deorham
without pause late in the afternoon of the second day of the journey.
His decision not to take Tatterbrand, who had been quietly at work within the Temple
apiary, was based in large measure upon the knowledge that his squire – upon learning of
the Ahma‘s intentions – would have insisted upon accompanying his master to Afqithan.
And Afqithan was a place beyond
Tatterbrand’s ability to comprehend and, likely, survive.
Mostin’s message, I can lock part of the demiplane. It will be possible for you to go as
yourself, without duplicity, if you so desire, was a simultaneous cause of both relief and
concern for him, and he considered the implications as he rode.
Somewhat later, when Eadric made camp by the wayside, Mostin himself appeared and
they discussed
the likely unfolding of events. Soneillon was engaged in delicate negotiations with
Rhyxali, and Ortwin made overtures to Duke Ytryn in Afqithan. They waited for Nhura to
rally the remaining Loquai in
Faerie and Shadow, and give the signal. Mostin seemed confident that the spell that he was
devising and – with the aid of Nwm and Shomei – would invoke, was proof against even
Graz’zt’s attempts to
dispel.
“Provided, of course, that he does not enlist a cabal of his own,” Eadric said drily.
“Demons are not renowned for exhibiting a preference for cooperative magic,” Mostin
sniffed.
“Except Soneillon?” Eadric asked.
“She is unusual in that regard, but not unique,” Mostin nodded. “You know her better than
most. In your judgment, will she involve herself personally, or act through others?”
Eadric shrugged. “I’ve no idea. I’m surprised that you trust my ability to read her.”
“I don’t,” Mostin agreed. “But I trust mine less in this regard. And I have not been to
Throile. What did…”
“I’d really prefer not to talk about it, Mostin.”
“Ahh,” the Alienist nodded.
“And Throile itself is under renewed attack.”
“Evidently, she keeps you well informed,” Mostin raised an eyebrow. “When you were
there, did she…”
“Mostin…” Eadric sighed.
“I’ll not ask again. Apparently you feel a little reticent to speak of it.”
“How perceptive of you, Mostin. And when will your spell be ready?”
“Soon enough,” the Alienist answered. “I am somewhat pressed for time, however. And
Shomei is nagging me to complete my part of the cycle which will allow us to interpret the
web of motes. She is ready, and so is Nwm.”
“Then don’t let me keep you,” Eadric said, arranging his blanket meaningfully.
“She is not idle, however,” Mostin continued, ignoring the hint. “I believe she has
approached several Infernal magnates regarding possible support in the Afqithan
endeavour.”
“On whose authority?” Eadric was aghast.
Mostin laughed. “I don’t think that she requires any. Shomei is very well connected. And
she is also making inquiries regarding the presence of Titivilus in the demiplane.”
“This is becoming too complex.” His mind boggled as he considered the connection
between the Sela and the Infernalist. A microcosm of the Irrenite perception of Oronthon
and the Adversary? The Left Hand of the Numinous. Do not start thinking that way. It
leads to madness.
“What do you expect?” Mostin sighed. “The prize is enormous, after all.”
“Afqithan? Hardly.”
“Azzagrat is the prize, Eadric, with its untold wealth. And the fall of Graz’zt. Such events
– or the promise of them – tend to attract attention. Lots of attention.”
“Mmm. Yes. I suppose they do.”
“Are you actually beginning to grasp the full ramifications of this, Eadric?” Mostin asked
sarcastically.
“You realize that the spill-over will be immense, of course? It will be like dropping a
boulder into a puddle.”
“Azzagrat is a puddle?”
“Cosmically speaking, yes. And if we succeed, we create something that Abyssal nature
abhors the most.”
Eadric gave a quizzical look.
“A power vacuum,” Mostin explained.
**
Had Rintrah been mortal, and subject to the vagaries of pride or honour, he might have
rejoiced in the grace bestowed upon him, or experienced ecstasy at his newfound
closeness with the Godhood. As it
was, lacking in such faculties, or even a differentiated sense of self, the temporary
Perfection of the celestial registered as nothing more than a recognition that he was a more
efficient tool for carrying out his Shining Master’s Will. His thoughts reached out to find
an omnipresence which mystics might have regarded as comforting and all-embracing.
Lacking an ego to begin with, the experience was less
profound for the Messenger.
Wreathing himself in flame and darkness, Rintrah descended rapidly into the lowest pit of
Hell. After a brief and unknowable exchange had occurred, the celestial struck out across
the infinities which
stretched toward the Abyss, perceived by his mind’s eye as a spiral which led to
Nothingness.
In Morne, the Sela sat in a state of saizhan, the interaction of entities of tremendous power
appearing merely as facets of the dialectic revealed to consciousness. Whether his mind
reflected reality, or reality responded to his intention was unknown. Causality,
synchronicity and coincidence: all were
meaningless terms.
The Messenger reached an interface. A bubble of separation. Sealed, inviolable; the labour
of centuries of sorcery. Even before he touched it, Rintrah knew that he could not
penetrate it.
Oronthon Magnified him. He passed effortlessly through.
Pain waited beyond. It was as if all the agony in the cosmos had been distilled into this
single space, mere yards across: a perfect sphere, the walls of which were graven with
glyphs and runes of torment.
Their power passed over the celestial, and around him, and through him, but caused less
than the
slightest discomfort. Rintrah’s eyes, incandescent with potency now, glanced upwards to
behold a semblance of a form: wracked, inchoate, stretched and twisted beyond
recognition, its pattern diffuse at its margins. It seemed as if the slightest of breezes would
cause it to evaporate. Its grasp on existence was tenuous.
Under the force of the Planetar’s selfless Will, the quiddity of the sphere began to change,
and reshaped itself according to his direction. Empty space assumed pleasing forms: a
tree, a small pool with lilies, a tiny rock garden. The upper hemisphere gave off a soft,
azure radiance, reminiscent of a cloudless day in late summer.
Rintrah rested briefly: the effort of creation was not insignificant. He glanced at the
artificial sky, still etched with sigils of dreadful power which emanated madness and pain,
before his wings lifted him
gently aloft. As his hand trailed lightly over the runes, each one shattered, disjoined into
its separate components. They fell like a silver dust upon the rockery, or to float upon the
surface of the pool.
The formless thing, still suspended in the centre of the sphere, quivered palpably and then
relaxed. For an instant, Rintrah was concerned that the sudden removal of the tension that
it had experienced might cause it to dissociate. He swiftly grasped the essence and held it
in his hands. Cohesion and perception returned to it. Responsive to the celestial’s
ministrations, it corporeated rapidly.
Rintrah laid her by the bole of the tree, hallowed the sphere, and vanished. Nehael slept
for the first time in her immeasurably long existence.
The Sela shifted his position, and a single bead of sweat trickled from his temple. It had
been a particularly difficult meditation.
**
Ortwin, Iua and Koilimilou waited in an antechamber of blacks and muted greys, the
vague and
insubstantial walls of which were carved with exquisite yet gruesome scenes. They
depicted torture, mutilation, and an erotic exultation in pain and depravity which upset
even the Satyr’s normally liberal sensibilities.
This may be the stupidest thing I have ever done, he thought to himself. Ainhorr must
know of our presence by now. Inwardly, he fretted desperately. His outward appearance
was one of practiced, imperturbable nonchalance.
Ytryn, one of the most powerful of Loquai nobles, had kept the trio waiting for an hour.
What counsel was he taking? Whose orders was he following? Dammit, why hasn’t
anything happened yet?
The Cambion said nothing, her perfect face remained impassive, perhaps bearing the
slightest hint of contempt.
Gods, I hope her name still carries some weight in these parts, Ortwin regarded
Koilimilou. I hope they buy this. And then, He knows I am here. He must. He knows what
I am, who I am. He knows that I was there when we hit Feezuu. He knows it was me – and
Iua – at Khu. Why has he not acted? I should be dead by now, or at least undergoing
painful dismemberment.
A pair of doors opened. Ortwin’s stomach turned over, and bile rose in his throat. He
smiled lazily.
“After you,” he said easily to the Cambion.
Polymorphed and mind-blanked, Ortwin and Iua followed Koilimilou into the great hall.
The Satyr had assumed the shape of a sidhe again. Iua’s form – a death slaad – was
designed to cause maximum
confusion and concern amongst Ytryn’s vassals and his demonic courtiers. Ortwin hoped
that she could pull it off – Iua was a fine liar, but lacked his own finesse.
Koilimilou bowed her head.
Ortwin strode forward, aware of the many gazes upon him, bowed with considerable flair
before
Ytryn’s throne, and spoke in a calm, confident voice. His Sylvan was full of archaic
inflexion, as befitted a representative of the oldest of fae lineages.
“Greetings, your Grace. My thanks for receiving this embassy, and the hospitality of your
court. Queen Nhura sends her regards from her exile in Faerie, and trusts that you
remember your old acquaintance.”
As Ortwin’s head rose, his eyes took on the full scene before him. Ytryn reclined upon a
low seat. To his left, coiled and menacing, a marilith was poised like a viper. Two kelvezu
flanked the Duke, and at least thirty Loquai knights stood about in silent vigil. Umbral
quicklings darted around the periphery of his vision, and a palrethee hovered in the air
nearby.
Sh*t, the Satyr thought.
**
Eadric’s decision to attend the investiture of Skadding, Foide’s’ son, as Duke of Trempa,
had been made quickly. Despite his ambivalence towards the House of Thahan, and his
distrust of the Lord
Chamberlain and his tedious plots, Eadric actually felt a measure of confidence in
Skadding. The boy was naïve and overly trusting – qualities which, in many ways, the
Earl of Deorham regarded as
positive and which his father had, apparently, failed to divest him of.
Besides, one must fulfill one’s feudal obligations, after all.
After a brief detour to visit the Abbey of Osfrith – where he instructed the nuns to arrange
the transport of the insane Urqual to the Fane in Morne – Eadric rode through the open
gates of the castle at Trempa on the evening before the ceremony. The outer courtyards
were crammed with tents and pavillions.
Knights, courtiers, maids and entertainers ate, drank and mingled in the dusk. Heads
turned quickly to regard him, and from somewhere his own ladon – his clarion call – rang
out from a trumpet.
Passing swiftly beneath the Tower of Owls and into the inner bailey, his presence caused
more chaos and hysteria than he was altogether comfortable with. Trempa’s Oronthonians
– the first to embrace the new order when it had swept across Wyre – prostrated
themselves and hailed the Ahma, a virtual
demigod. The Uediians – who comprised most of Trempa’s northern aristocracy –
regarded him as a saviour from Temple taxes and the indentureship of pagan farmers. In
that regard, he had held true to his word. Caur of Har Kumil shouted and greeted him
warmly.
Foide regarded Eadric suspiciously behind a veneer of politeness and civility. The
satisfaction that he had enjoyed for the past month – at his family’s possession of two of
Wyre’s great fiefs – now turned to sourness in his mouth. Foide was reminded of one
simple fact: with the blessing of King Tiuhan or no, this ceremony could only pass with
the support – whether open or implicit – of Eadric of Deorham. He was above the law,
whatever protestations he might make to the contrary. He was invulnerable: mortal
weapons could not touch him, they said. Men would follow him happily to their death,
assured of their place in paradise. And if he had wanted the duchy for himself, he could
have taken it.
And he rides into Trempa, travel-stained and without an entourage, like some errant or
hedge-knight.
Eadric dismounted, and knelt before Skadding, his new liege-lord. Somewhat abashed, the
Duke-to-be ushered him to his feet.
“My sword is yours,” Eadric bowed. “And my counsel and guidance, should you ever
require it.”
Foide of Lang Herath chewed his lip and brooded.
**
Mostin’s lidless green eyes were glazed and his body motionless, as he floated – transfixed
– within an infinite sea of light. A hundred billion motes surrounded him.
His intellect, swollen by magic to titanic proportions, reflected briefly upon the series of
spells which had brought him to this place. Potent dweomers, which only a handful of
Wizards in Wyre’s long
history would have been capable of mastering, seemed – from his new perspective – like
paltry cantrips fit only for neophytes and dabblers.
Cradled in the palm of Mostin’s hand was Graz’zt’s mote: dark, erotic, brooding, and
seething with
potency. The Alienist inspected first one facet, and then another. The fact that he could not
determine the location of Graz’zt – in spatiotemporal terms, at least – was indicative of the
fact that the Prince was mind blanked. But it made no difference: there was another mote,
anchored by a taught radicle, in close proximity. What one could not read directly, one
could infer obliquely with little effort in an expanded state such as this: Lord Kostchtchie
stood before Prince Graz’zt within the great hall of the Iron Palace in Zelatar.
Mostin scowled, and rapidly plotted the trajectories of several hundred possible futures,
scanning each for resonances with Eadric, Nhura, Soneillon, Rhyxali, Ainhorr, Titivilus,
Nehael and himself.
Kostchtchie will move to support Ainhorr in Afqithan, he thought. Fiendish giants, he
mused, and some are powerful sorcerers. His eye caught a new thread of probability. What
is that?
[Inspection. Analysis.] Blightfire, he groaned inwardly. The Lord of the Ice Wastes had
potent allies of his own.
Mostin returned his attention to Graz’zt’s mote, and abstracted his perspective. He noted
the tenuous rapport between himself and the Prince of Azzagrat – alluding to Graz’zt’s
own prescience.
But I see both more clearly and more deeply than you, he thought. For the moment, at
least. Your machinations are transparent to me. Graz’zt could not grasp the entirety of the
Afqithan nodality any more than Mostin could, but the fragments of which Mostin was
aware – scattered and incoherent as
they were – were more complete. He considered the immense dimensional lock that he had
developed, projected the catenary of the pseudonatural Horror onto the lattice of
interconnected points, and then superimposed Shomei’s glooms on top of that. The
nodality rapidly reorganized itself to show a
number of different probable futures.
None showed Graz’zt in Afqithan.
He is afraid, Mostin knew. And rightly so. He is not unassailable. He will not come.
Mostin cursed. One plan at least – to lure the Lord of Azzagrat to Afqithan with the
promise of Eadric’s head – could not be realized. Mostin did not underestimate Graz’zt’s
shrewdness or cunning, but had
hoped that his temper would be sufficiently unstable to betray him.
The Alienist projected a scenario which involved the swift subdual of Afqithan, the
removal of Ainhorr and Kostchtchie – and whatever wights the Ice Lord brought with him
– and an immediate subsequent
assault upon Azzagrat itself. It required Shomei to secure twelve legions of Bathym’s
barbed devils and the commitment of Rhyxali’s main force of babaus in addition to her
shadow demons. But there would be no second dimensional lock and no glooms – Shomei
herself had vanished from the picture, slain by kelvezu before she could articulate her own
power.
He examined a string of possible futures which involved the binding of the Horror, and its
travel through a gate to Azzagrat in order to assassinate Graz’zt. Fourteen of the twenty-
three outcomes resulted in Graz’zt escaping to his sanctum before the Horror could
complete its mission. Five of the remaining futures involved the coercion of the Horror by
Graz’zt and its subsequent redeployment
against its summoner: I’d better make sure it’s adequately buffed, If we go that route,
Mostin thought.
Two futures promised Graz’zt’s demise, and two were ambiguous – depending on the
reaction of the
Arch-fiend’s courtiers.
Mostin meditated upon the interaction between the motes of the Horror and Graz’zt,
seeking tendrils of possibility to exploit. Graz’zt would need to be weakened – divested of
a sizeable portion of his
reservoir – before the Horror could be used efficiently. Of the hundreds of powerful spells
within Graz’zt’s repertoire, one – and the name exquisite domination sprang unbidden to
Mostin’s mind – was sufficiently potent to threaten even the Horror’s virtual immunity to
magic.* If Graz’zt could shoot off two spells – a superb dispelling variant followed by the
compulsion – then the chances were good that the Prince could assert his will upon the
pseudonatural. Graz’zt’s reservoir was immense, and he could absorb an unholy amount of
backlash before being troubled.
Mostin breathed deeply, and focused his mind. He remembered where he was – within the
dome of
Mulissu’s mansion, floating within the web of motes. His thoughts reached out to the
Infernalist.
[Mostin]: [Very complex semiotic pattern] (= The Horror cannot accomplish an
assassination in
Azzagrat without prior softening of the target. And he can dispel your glooms effortlessly,
and still deal with the pseudonatural. And this assumes he is not even within his sanctum.
)
[Shomei]: [Complex semiotic pattern] (= That is inconsequential. If he were, then he could
prevent the gate opening in any case. Come what may, I will send the glooms tomorrow. )
[Mostin]: !
[Shomei]: (Emphatically) [Semiotic pattern] (= It is time that he realized he is vulnerable
in a tangible way. )
[Mostin]: [Semiotic pattern] (= He will quickly overcome them. )
[Shomei]: [Semiotic pattern] (= He will bleed first. And they will cut deep. )
[Mostin]: [Semiotic pattern] (= Have you seen something I have not? If so, please share it.
)
[Shomei]: [Complex semiotic pattern] (= I am walking a narrow line, Mostin. Every
action I take from now onwards must be calculated for maximum effect. )
[Mostin]: [Complex semiotic pattern] (= Please do not sink into a fugue, Shomei. I thought
that you had finally made it through the nihilism. )
Shomei smiled, and shook her head.
*The prime benefit conferred by Mostin’s insanely buffed Intelligence was the bonus
granted to
Knowledge (Arcana) checks. Whilst difficult to rationalize in terms that we might
understand, the
answers to questions such as “what spells does Graz’zt have in his repertoire which might
affect this possible course of action ” would spring into Mostin’s mind at appropriate
times. I had already optimized around twenty ELH spell variants for Graz’zt – i.e.
increased the XP burn and pumped up the backlash to bring them within his ability. I
assumed that he had several hundred more – after all, he is
X billion years old, and it only seemed reasonable. It is unfortunate that it is impossible to
play a character with an Int of 22, much less one with a (temporary) Intelligence of 150.
What does it mean to be that Intelligent? It is impossible to even begin to conceptualize
how thought processes can work on that level. Thankfully, this has been the only time that
such cosmic heights have been reached. It is simply too much of a headache to DM.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 02-22-2004
Untitled Update
[Mostin]: Thus. (Conjure the Horror. Lock area around Irknaan’s palace – two mile radius.
Simultaneous arrival of Rhyxali’s force here. Highest probability of Kostchtchie’s
appearance here.
Portals to Faerie here and here and here will allow Nhura access to Afqithan, although I
estimate thirty minutes before she can order her forces. Soneillon variable too complicated
to calculate because of events in Throile [diagram].)
[Shomei]: Perhaps this. (Chaltipeluse secured as beach-head: already warded against
teleportation.
Ytryn ally/eliminated. Ortwin has a high chance of success in this endeavour.)
[Mostin]: But. (A Feint here [Picture: the stronghold of Queen Menicau] will draw out
Ainhorr’s main force. Then possible to open gates, then lock and assault Irknaan’s palace
directly.)
[Shomei]: Unlikely. (None will assume that role. Too dangerous. Unless you can persuade
a group of demons to sacrifice themselves for the greater good. [Irony])
[Mostin]: We two and Nwm - look. ( Shapechange and multiple conjurations can achieve
the same effect. If you and I each open two gates…)
[Shomei]: My reservoir is close to empty, Mostin…
[Mostin]: Then this. (We should take a short holiday – In fact, I would suggest Afqithan.
Get used to your new form, feel the power course through you again, and wreak some
random havoc. And take the
airs, of course. Nwm will likely come along – he enjoys flying around and destroying
things, however much he denies it. And if we cause enough of a ruckus on our first visit, it
will cause an overreaction on the second one – which is precisely what we want.
[Diagram])
[Shomei]: [Calculating probabilities]. We must be something terrible, that will give
Ainhorr pause for thought. Solars? Klurichirs?
[Mostin]: Hellfire Wyrms. [Diagram]
[Shomei]: Nice. Very nice, Mostin.
[Mostin]: Why, thank-you.
[Shomei]: But this. (Multiple summonings with multiple empowerments and I can pull
around twenty narzugons into the fray and still retain a high enough valence to contribute
to the quiescence of the spheres).
[Mostin]: (Nods). That might be preferable. I will gate a couple of pit fiends in, just to be
sure we’re taken seriously.
[Shomei]: Titivilus, Furcas and Murmuur will likely shoulder the blame.
[Mostin]: Such is life. I believe the augmentation just ended, by the way. My cognitive
faculties have resumed their normal ant-like status.
Shomei sighed, a look of profound relief crossing her face. “I’m weary, Mostin. It has
been insightful, but I’m glad it’s over: my ego was beginning to fray. We should translate
in a couple of days. Flex our muscles with an attack on Samodoquol’s fortress.”
Mostin nodded. “There are three hundred chasme there, and around a dozen glabrezu
enforcers as well as other demonic agents. They are commanded by the nalfeshnee Jamua
– who is something of a
heavy-hitter. Samodoquol is fractious, and Ainhorr needs to keep him in line. But I
suggest that we strike some smaller strongholds first – minor Loquai nobility who have
capitulated with the current regime. It will send the message that the Balor’s grip is less
than ironclad, and won’t give as much of an opportunity for Ainhorr to react. And when
Nhura finally arrives, it may be that she can expect some support.”
“Nhura in the capacity of redeemer and liberator?” Shomei asked ironically. “Now that is
an amusing prospect.”
“It’s all relative,” Mostin replied. “Still, attacking Samodoquol must be undertaken with
the knowledge of the risk involved. Chasme are hardy.”
Shomei shrugged. “Let the flies drone. We will burn them from the sky.”
“Reinforcements will arrive within thirty seconds of our arrival.”
“Then we will depart.” Shomei said easily.
Mostin’s eyes betrayed an excitement which made the Infernalist slightly nervous. “We
could go tomorrow,” he said.
“Two days, Mostin,” she replied. “Tomorrow, I send the glooms to Azzagrat.”
**
The anointment and investiture of Skadding as Duke of Trempa took place on a cold
morning in late
autumn on the Howe, a green hillock outside of the castle gates reserved for such grand
occasions.
In the past, the Abbot of Trempa (or the Bishop of Thahan, had his other duties permitted
it) would have performed the ceremony. As it was, the prior incumbents of each position
had, in the wake of the Sela‘s assumption of the Prelacy, opted for a monastic life: both
had been conservative in their view,
and the Bishop had been one of the Ahma‘s foremost detractors. Neither position had been
since filled, and Tramst was in no hurry to reestablish the episcopacy until the internal
revision of the Temple had been completed. It had therefore been assumed that the
ascension of Skadding to the Ducal seat would be a secular affair, and, given the
disestablishment of the Temple and the general move away from
Church infeudation, that seemed appropriate.
During the feast before the investiture, to Foide’s horror and dismay, the thane Ekkert –
after
consuming large quantities of mead – had suggested that Eadric perform the ceremony.
The idea had
been greeted by rapturous applause by Trempa’s assembled aristocracy, despite the fact
that it was highly irregular for an Earl to anoint a Duke. Trempa’s customs had always
been eccentric, but such a notion verged on the insane.
Eadric had politely declined.
“You would be acting in a religious capacity,” Ekkert had drawled. “I don’t see what the
problem is.”
“I am not empowered to anoint Dukes,” Eadric had said simply. “Besides, a third of
Trempa’s inhabitants are Uediian. I am not about to begin a new round of
disenfranchisement.”
“Then ask Nwm to participate,” Caur had suggested cannily.
“Regrettably, his whereabouts are unknown to me,” Eadric had replied uneasily. It was
true – he had no notion of the Druid’s location, and no means to contact him.
Foide, thinking that the Ahma had closed the subject, had breathed a quiet sigh of relief.
Later that night, however, as Eadric had strolled in the gardens in an attempt to aid his
digestion (he seldom ate rich food, and boar did not agree with him), the soil between two
rose bushes had begun to warp and ripple. Nwm had appeared, rising from the ground in
the shape of a pillar of earth which had rapidly assumed a more recognizable, human
form.
The druid had shaken his head, and dirt had fallen out of his tangled hair.
“I understand that I am to officiate at Skadding’s investiture tomorrow,” he had said in a
matter-of-fact way.
“How did Caur contact you?” Eadric had asked, sighing.
“He didn’t,” Nwm had answered.
“Then how do you know?”
“At this present moment, I know pretty much everything,” Nwm had replied. It was true –
the Druid had been buoyed by the cycle of augmentations devised by Mostin, and in
which he had taken part.
“Although, actually, a wizard of our mutual acquaintance informed me of the probability
that you would be asked to anoint the new Duke, and that you would refuse on the
grounds that it would alienate the Uediian faction.”
“I assume that the interpretation of the web of motes is passing according to plan, then?”
Nwm had shrugged. “I’m leaving it to Mostin to work out.”
“And what have you been doing?”
“Watching birds, mainly,” Nwm had answered.
“And you have discovered…?”
“Nothing that I didn’t already know,” Nwm had admitted. “I’m telling you, Ed:
omniscience isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”
Eadric guffawed.
“In any case, we’ll both perform the ceremony tomorrow.”
“I don’t think so…” Eadric had begun.
“There is actually an eighty-eight percent chance that I will change your mind in that
regard,” Nwm had grinned, “so you may as well just throw in the towel now, and save
yourself the argument.”
Eadric had sighed. “Skadding will…”
“He’ll agree too,” Nwm had interrupted.
“But Foide…”
“Will come around. What choice does he have, Eadric? Vox populi and all that: he is
nothing, if not politically astute. He won’t want his son to begin his tenure in a climate of
apathy and indifference.
You’ll be doing the boy a favour. Trust me, Ed. Press this point now, and save yourself
some grief down the road. Now, I’m hungry. Is there any food left?”
So it was that Nwm the Preceptor placed the coronet – a twisted wreath of ivy, mistletoe
and oak-leaves
– upon the head of Skadding, and Eadric anointed him with holy water.
The company – over a hundred noble families – made a slow procession from the Howe to
the Hall of
the Seat, which had stood empty since Soraine’s death at the hands of Rimilin five months
before.
Skadding assumed his place amidst much panoply, and began his large – and depressingly
administrative – set of duties. He had a huge backlog to contend with. Aristocrats bickered
about land ownership, hunting rights, debts, impending marriages and when the next
tourney should be held.
Commoners waited outside in droves to voice their complaints regarding the bread dole,
the theft of pigs, taxes on beer, and the quantity of devalued coinage in circulation. Several
sought recompense from soldiers for unwanted pregnancies in indiscreet daughters.
Representatives from the Guild of
Clockmakers preened themselves in anticipation of an audience. Entertainers seeking
employment
breathed fire, sang ditties or performed minor tricks of prestidigitation.
Eadric looked at Nwm. “And you wanted me to do this job?” He said in a low voice.
“On reflection, I think maybe you were right.”
As the Ahma took his leave of the new Duke, he bowed, placed his hand upon the marble
floor, incanted, and touched his eagle pendant in what most there assumed was a final
blessing. A feeling of indescribable calm descended upon the Hall of the Seat. Nwm felt a
frisson of power and suppressed a look of astonishment, and questioned Eadric as soon as
they were outside again.
“Did you just do what I think you did?” The Druid asked.
“That is entirely possible,” Eadric nodded.
“And since when could you just do that?”
“I don’t know,” Eadric shrugged. “I’ve never really tried before.”
Nwm nodded. “Good,” he said. “This may save me considerable effort and labour in the
future.”
With a passing thought, Eadric had hallowed the hall, and with his brief invocation had
laid a zone of truth upon the place. No fiend – openly or in possession of another – could
enter there, and, for a year at least, no lie could be spoken there without considerable
effort.
Skadding was young and inexperienced, and already had enough to contend with without
falling prey
to the scheming mendacity of vassals, peers, ambassadors, and family. Or demons, for that
matter.
**
Ortwin sang. Purportedly, a composition in Ytryn’s honour, commissioned by Nhura as a
gift to the
Duke.
Whatever else he does, Iua mused to herself as she listened, lying aside, Ortwin does this
best. He was an arrogant, self-indulgent, narcissistic erotomaniac – to be sure – but he had
an uncanny ability to tap
into the aesthetic sensibilities of his audience. His song was dark, brooding, and
melancholic. It conveyed a lust for blood, it exalted pain, and suggested the promise of a
grim satiation which would be all-fulfilling but transient; and then the birth of the next
desire, which would, in turn, be pursued to its empty and bitter conclusion. Ennui.
Psychosis and apathy. The fleeting release from the curse of immortality.
Iua didn’t even understand the words: Ortwin sang in an archaic dialect of Sylvan.
The duelist watched Koilimilou carefully, but if the cambion was moved by the Bard’s
performance,
she displayed no outward sign of it. But neither Iua, nor Koilimilou, nor the marilith
Sethee were alerted to Ortwin’s true message – directed at Ytryn alone, and concealed
within the song.
[Make no response to this communication – I suspect you lack the subtlety possessed by
yonder
demoness, and she would quickly realize your intention.
Graz’zt’s hegemony here will shortly end. His enemies already mobilize themselves.
Nhura is returning, and her allies will crush Ainhorr. Rhyxali – your other patroness – is
poised to retake her rightful property. Soneillon craves vengeance, and her designs will
soon bear fruit.
Where will your loyalties lie, Duke Ytryn? To whom will you pledge your treacherous
sword? Listen
well, and you will survive the orgy of death and prosper in the aftermath. When the gates
to the other worlds open, and the demons at Chaltipeluse are recalled to the battle before
the walls of Irknaan’s palace, you will slay those that remain here. You will mobilize your
army, and join Queen Nhura in the fray.
In payment, Nhura will grant you Someranth: Menicau will likely not survive the
upcoming conflict
and if, by some strange chance she does, she will not survive long after it. If you fail, then
Nhura’s ire will turn towards you, and like those others who betray her, you will die
painfully.
And Ytryn, in case you forget, I am an ambassador from Faerie and you will guarantee my
safe passage and lend me such aid as custom dictates. Koilimilou and the slaad Qhrsjh are
under my protection. Do not underestimate my influence or my reach. If I am assailed,
then the Hunters will descend upon you, and drag you to a doom which even you cannot
imagine.]
… and of frost
and unrelenting pursuit
and jealous death.
Ortwin finished his song. His innuendo had conveyed information which was – to his
knowledge – at
least partially accurate. Admittedly, he might have been a little liberal with his
interpretation of the facts, and his promises might not have been sanctioned by Nhura. No
matter. He had no doubt that
Ytryn believed him – it was merely a question of how the Duke would react to what he
had heard.*
**
There had been two of them. They had been fast: faster than he was. Their motion was
precise,
calculated and deadly. He had been taking his pleasure when they struck.
His feeling had been one of outrage, coupled with incredulity. How had they reached him
here? There were precious few areas in Zelatar where it was possible to teleport or open a
gate. Places which – by necessity – were not dimensionally locked, and he knew them all
intimately. Most of them were known only to him.
He had been alerted by a blur of shadowy motion, and a feeling of pain which ripped
through his
shoulder, piercing demonic flesh and sinew and spilling his ichor upon the floor of his
own harem. He had been stabbed nine times more before he had reacted.**
Fearing for his very existence, Graz’zt had emanated a shroud of death and destruction
which had
instantly annihilated his assailants, together with three succubi and the marilith Chuschi –
his current favorite.
The glooms had evaporated, returning to whatever shady realm they had issued from.
They had been
summoned creatures, and possessed no final reality.
Immediately afterwards, Graz’zt had locked the whole of Zelatar, except for the gate room
– where the guard was quadrupled. Brutal interrogations of scores of demons – mainly
nalfeshnees in possession of cubic gates who presided over various conquered worlds –
ensued. A wave of tortures, mutilations and assassinations flooded through the citadel and
city as the Prince’s paranoia asserted itself, and his demonic servitors found an
opportunity to settle old scores.
Graz’zt retreated to his sanctum, rapidly healed his wounds, and gave thought to revenge.
*Ortwin – benefitting from a multiply empowered eagle’s splendour comfortably made a
DC 50 Bluff check – enough to 1) convey his innuendo successfully without alerting the
others present; and 2)
simultaneously lie sufficiently well to convince Ytryn that he was an important sidhe of
powerful
connections, and crossing him would result in the Duke’s rapid demise. All was hidden
within the
context of a song which rivalled those composed by the most accomplished of faerie bards
and
minstrels.
**Graz’zt’s DR – 20/Cold Iron and Epic and Good – actually saved his bacon. Still, the
+10 keen daggers used by the glooms filled him full of holes.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 03-02-2004
****
Dragonplay
The tower was a slender, delicate structure, rising some thirty fathoms from a low hillock
and twisting
deliciously before reaching its crest. It was carved in intricate relief and inlayed with
precious metals which seemed to capture and then amplify the perpetual twilight, and stars
glistened softly at its apex.
Around it, arranged in elegant symmetry, five more towers – the hues of which were
subtly different –
rose in close proximity to half the height of the central spire, their shoulders attached by
narrow buttresses of both aesthetic and functional design.
It was the home of Shondipere, a Loquai aristocrat and vassal of Queen Menicau.
Shondipere was a
noble of middling means, who nonetheless boasted an excellent pedigree. His title – if
translated from the Sylvan – might have been ‘baron’ or ‘thane’: in fact, the Loquai
admitted to greater variation within their order of precedence than most human cultures.
Only fifteen Loquai dwelt with Shondipere, and all were related. The remainder of his
household
consisted of a handful of umbral quicklings who acted as messengers and spies, two
charmed fiendish trolls who served as door-wards, a dozen slow-witted gnome slaves, and
the noble’s pet monster – an abyssal basilisk named Turchin. Shondipere kept a stable of
twenty griffons, although he seldom
ventured beyond the confines of his castle, content to busy himself composing morbid
verse, or
indulging his dark and violent fantasies.
Shondipere had spent the last several hours – or was it days? he paid little heed to the
passage of time –
closeted alone in an airy rotunda pondering upon various aspects of the nature of pain. His
reverie had been interrupted when two palrethees and a small troop of bar-lgura – agents
of the balor Ainhorr – had arrived and required that he surrender his daughter as hostage,
together with a large portion of his portable wealth. Shondipere had remained impassive,
and conceded to their demands – he felt no
particular attachment to his offspring, and was anxious to return to his contemplation. His
primary concern regarding his daughter was that, were she to die, he would be without an
heir – precipitating a need to find another mate and to sire further progeny.
Shondipere was therefore vexed when the quickling Khimpa darted into the rotunda and
bowed her tiny head to the glass floor at his feet. Shondipere gestured irritably, a sign that
the sprite should speak.
“Two devils require an audience, Lord,” Khimpa squeaked rapidly, her malevolent face
betraying a certain wicked glee at the discomfort that she knew the news would cause her
master.
Shondipere observed the quickling’s features, and made a mental note to have her
punished for insubordination later. A brief spell with the trolls might encourage her to act
with more civility, or at least hide her emotions better.
“What is their order?” Shondipere inquired coldly.
“A horned devil and an erinyes, Lord,” Khimpa replied.
Shondipere scowled. What was a cornugon doing here? He had been informed of the
presence of the three dukes in Afqithan, of course, but whatever their purpose was, it
didn’t concern him. It seemed likely the arrival of two devils at his own gates was
connected – unless it was a ruse devised by
Menicau, or maybe Ainhorr himself: to test Shondipere’s loyalty, or perhaps out of sheer
perversity.
“Order the household to assemble,” he sighed. “I will receive them in the heptagon in ten
minutes.”
As they approached, Shondipere – cautious of being drawn into some diabolic intrigue
which he had no desire to enmesh himself in – studied the devils carefully.
Something isn’t right, was his last thought.
**
Eadric and Nwm – together with Contundor, Sem and Gheim – wind walked to Deorham.
The Druid intended to dispose of the blackthorn tree which occupied the courtyard of
Kyrtill’s Burh, together with its grizzly fruit – the carcasses of the demons who had
assailed the keep. More than a fortnight had passed since the attack, but Eadric’s servants
had been disinclined to deal with the spectacle, concerned that some taint might infect
them, and generally shunning the northern and western parts of the bailey.
And the Ahma was anxious for things to return to normal – for their usual brief while, at
least.
In the event, Eadric changed his mind. The remains of the demons should probably go, he
suggested
wrily, but the tree itself could stay. It would act as a reminder to himself – and any
potential threats to
him – that he was not without allies, albeit strange ones which he often failed to
understand.
In a businesslike manner, Nwm used his magic to clean up the mess he had made,
removing the flags
which had shattered upon the sudden growth of the tree, and replacing them with a small
garden around the blackthorn’s bole. Concerned that the tree might still appear rather dark
and gloomy, he caused it to flower, and tiny clusters of white and pale yellow appeared on
its spiky twigs. It was out of season, but a justifiable tinkering, given the circumstances.
The spell which Nwm invoked to achieve the effect was, however, of less than pinpoint
accuracy, and the ivy which clung to the Steeple and the keep
burgeoned into a thick cover. Eadric sighed and entered the chapel.
Of the quartet of celestials called by Tahl, the single remaining deva, Saphrez, was
deputed by Eadric to guard the sanctum. The celestial remained near the altar, invisible,
and was enjoined to bestow whatever blessings it might upon those who came to pray
there. The decision was both timely and
unfortunate – it transpired that a group of pilgrims from Ialde were already boarded at The
Twelve Elms, the only inn in the village of Deorham, some two miles distant. When Eadric
– reluctant that his home become a shrine – conveyed his concerns to Nwm, he received
an unsympathetic response.
“I’m surprised it took this long, actually,” the Druid said laconically. “If it troubles you
that much, just ask Mostin to move in. I’m sure he would discourage any pietists from
undertaking the journey here.”
Eadric grumbled. It occurred to him that his intent – to have the deva act as a support for
his staff, and a source of healing for those locals who required it – would rapidly foster a
situation which attracted zealots and fundamentalists. But he could hardly deny succour to
those who came to Kyrtill’s Burh seeking it.
“Keep the gates open,” he wearily instructed his servants, “but allow visitors access to the
well and the chapel only, and encourage them not to linger too long.”
Later that day, after Nwm had retired to his glade, Eadric watched from a window within
the Steeple as a party of twenty pilgrims with travel-stained clothes made a slow
procession up the knoll, across the bridge, through the courtyard and into the chapel.
Hopefully, he mused wrily, none of them were
cursed, diseased or injured, Saphrez could remain inactive, and news of miraculous
goings-on at Kyrtill’s Burh would be delayed for a little while. But it was only a matter of
time. And if any
petitioned him directly for spiritual aid, he was duty-bound to provide it. Whilst he did not
resent it, he could feel no upwelling of generosity or compassion while he still had so
much more to do: first and foremost, he remained a soldier.
As the Ahma leaned upon the sill, gazed down from the tower, and ruminated on his
various
responsibilities, a sudden breeze caused his hackles to rise and the faint scent of death and
lotus reached his nostrils. A pair of slender arms encircled his waist, and a soft face
pressed against his back.
Wings began to fold around him, beckoning him inwards. He swallowed, and pulled
himself away.
The void-that-was-a-demon-who-was-a-girl had returned, apparently seeking reassurance.
**
Mostin rapidly changed his form, shedding his diabolic body and assuming the shape of a
dragon fifty feet long which barely fit into the lofty reception chamber. His scales kindled
to a searing flame, and he breathed a gout of infernal fire over Shondipere, the four
knights who flanked him, and a pair of
unlucky quicklings who happened to be hovering in the wrong place. All were instantly
immolated.
Chaos erupted all around. Gnome slaves and sprites fled for cover, and several of the
remaining Loquai immediately plane shifted to Shadow. Others shakily targeted Mostin
with spells or arrows, none of which affected him. He leapt upwards, smashing his head
through the delicate glass dome, shattering the plinths either side of it, and took to the sky
briefly before settling upon a slender buttress, which began to crack under his weight.
Mostin flapped his wings inexpertly to compensate.
Inside of the heptagon, Shomei had taken the form of another wyrm. Hellfire erupted
again briefly, before she joined Mostin above the castle, perching upon the topmost spire.
“We should give the gnomes a few minutes to escape, and then just flatten the place,” she
called down.
Mostin nodded enthusiastically. Shapechange was rapidly becoming his new favourite
spell.
**
“Are they yours?” Titivilus asked Furcus, smiling.
“No indeed,” Furcas replied, stroking his beard.
Titivilus sighed inwardly. It was a pointless question – the Count of Rhetoric was almost
as good a liar as himself.
“Apparently, they are very large ones.” Titivilus said. “And they have levelled four
strongholds already.
I cannot scry them – they are warded. I am returning to Dis. Duke Allocer should know.”
“Is that wise?” Furcas asked. “They might be his.”
“They may also be rogue,” Titivilus countered, wondering whether Furcas dissembled
and, if so, what his motive was.
“One, perhaps; but two? Unlikely. Murmuur would…”
“I think it best that we do not inform Murmuur,” Titivilus interrupted. “If they are his, it is
better that he doesn’t know that we know.”
“Murmuur’s knights are mandated to intervene in affairs if necessary,” Furcas scowled.
“And he is here.
Are you suggesting that we withhold information from our commander? That is a bold
course to take.”
“Not at all,” Titivilus replied, careful to avoid any possible accusations of insubordination.
“I’m merely saying that, if they are his, then it may be that we are not meant to know. I
would regret upsetting any wider plan because of our over-diligence in information
gathering.”
“It may be related to your former protégée’s petition.”
“Perhaps,” Titivilus nodded, not knowing what it was that Furcas referred to, but
unwilling to make that fact known, “but which petition? Now that another has been made,
it merely complicates things further.” He had to return to the Iron City, to find out what
was going on. He discreetly studied the face of Furcas for a response, but the Count
evinced none.
“And she may have made several others, news of which has not yet reached us,” Furcas
pointed out, curious as to whether Titivilus lied about the second petition and, if not, to
whom it might have been addressed. “On reflection, perhaps you should return to Dis. I
will guard our interests here in the meanwhile.”
The mind of Titivilus twisted, wondering whether that had been Furcas’s intent from the
outset. The Confuser decided to play along with it. “It might be prudent to mobilize some
of your troops,” he suggested, “in the event that an unknown rival Duke is involved. I
could bring a communiqué to Sobel*
to that effect, if you so wish.”
“I would prefer to relay such a message myself, should the need arise,” Furcas said drily.
“I would be embarrassed if the information was somehow misapprehended.”
“That is understandable,” Titivilus agreed. “Perhaps you should appoint an aide whose
mental faculties are more sharply honed.”
Furcas smiled thinly.
“Do you then have no requests?”
“That depends. Are you planning to visit Malbolge as well?” Furcas inquired.
“Only if our Dread Master demands it,” Titivilus replied, the merest hint of sarcasm in his
voice.
Malbolge was a tedious, brutal environment, which lacked any sophistication: a far cry
from the
subtleties and intrigues of Dis.
“It might be prudent to ensure that Murmuur’s troops are adequately prepared.**”
“That is a wise precaution,” Titivilus concurred.
“And give my respects to our Lord, should you see him,” Furcas smiled.
“Naturally,” Titivilus lied.
**
Soneillon appeared in her natural form. She seemed utterly drained, although, at first,
Eadric was nonetheless cautious that it might be a ruse. It was as though, somehow, the
Void had diminished in stature. Ens had polluted her, diluting her with matter and energy.
It had the effect of making her seem more tangible and real than normal.
A faint tracery of scars – wounds which she had recently received, and the vestiges of
which had not yet entirely vanished – covered her arms, neck, wings and torso. Blackness
stained the skin beneath her ears and nostrils, where enormous backlash energies had
caused her demonic body to rupture. Her
hands and fingernails were caked with dried ichor: when she had spent her last spell,
Eadric knew, and they had grappled her within the unlight which surrounded her, she had
torn at them in a frenzy with her claws.
“The Paling*** has been breached,” she smiled wrily. “Adyell disjoined a section of it
before she defected. Janiq’s bar-lgura are pouring through. I am asking for your help.”
Oronthon, he swore silently. She really is vulnerable. He sighed. “Very well. How long do
we have?”
“Helitihai and Chaya patched the defenses with multiple walls of force, but they were
being systematically disintegrated by daemon mercenaries as I left. It is impossible to say.
Throile must not fall, Eadric.”
He nodded. “We need Mostin. Can you issue a sending?”
“I am spent!” Soneillon snapped. “I have magic enough to return us to Throile, that is all.”
“Or to issue a sending?”
The message sped to Afqithan:
The Ahma commands that you attend him in his stronghold. Events are spiralling out of
control in Throile. Your assistance is required.
Mostin raised a draconic eyebrow. He turned to Shomei. “I have just received a sending
from Soneillon
– she is labouring under the impression that I am somehow Eadric’s servant. No matter. It
seems as though the second Throile thread is crystallizing.”
Shomei groaned. “That’s the one with the ultrodaemons.”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
*
The pious were gathered in the courtyard, speaking amongst themselves in hushed voices,
when one of them noticed the Ahma walking towards them from the base of the Steeple.
Excitedly, he pointed out Eadric to his companions.
Their sense of religious awe was replaced by a feeling of confusion as, beneath the
blackthorn,
Soneillon manifested. There was talk of a demoness associated with the Ahma, of course,
but rumour spoke of her being genteel in appearance. This creature was wild, naked,
bloodstained.
Effortlessly reading their thoughts, Soneillon smiled. Despite all that had transpired, the
temptation to charm these hapless mortals was still almost too much to resist. Eadric
stared stonily at her.
Above them, the sky darkened momentarily and a fissure in space ripped open. As two
enormous
wyrms, wreathed in infernal fire thundered through a gate, beyond them a scene from a
dream – or nightmare – was briefly revealed: a twilit sky, streaked with deep indigo,
saffron and vermillion.
The pilgrims fled from Kyrtill’s Burh, adequately instructed, Eadric considered, in the
application of the dialectic.
*Sobel – the lieutenant appointed to Furcas by Dispater – is an advanced erinyes with
considerable tactical savvy. Although Furcas holds wide estates and can muster 29 legions
of devils (primarily
barbazu), he takes little pleasure in martial pursuits. Sobel watches the Duke of Rhetoric
and
communicates his activities to Dis, but Furcas still values her advice and military
expertise.
** i.e. find out exactly who, and what, and how many, and whether any hellfire wyrms had
been
deployed.
*** The enormous magical outer defense which surrounds Soneillon’s citadel in Throile.
It is
impenetrable to normal physical movement, and inside it teleportation is severely
restricted, although gates may open within its confines. Access to the citadel is controlled
through three portals which open or close according to Soneillon’s will.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 03-08-2004
For the record, I use the terms yugoloth and daemon interchangeably, depending on my
whim.
****
More Than You Can Chew: Part 1
“I think that three of these wyrms might arouse a little too much suspicion,” Nwm
groaned, looking up into Mostin’s enormous, sunken, draconic eyes. “It might also cause
an unpleasant escalation – has it occurred to you that the Devils currently in Afqithan will
probably be blamed?”
“Well of course it has,” Mostin sighed. Flames cascaded over his crest irritably. “If you’d
spent your time productively, studying the web of motes…”
“It is a non-issue,” Shomei said to Nwm. “It will cause confusion, certainly, but events are
hardly likely to ‘escalate’ any more than they have already: how can they? Besides, even if
news reaches Graz’zt, what can he do?”
“He will not come himself?” Eadric asked.
“No future that I have observed involves Graz’zt leaving Azzagrat,” Mostin said.
Eadric clenched his jaw. “But the plan…”
“The plan to lure him forth is unworkable,” Mostin hissed. “My apologies – that was more
condescending than I intended. These vocal cords are not equipped for comments that
don’t sound
sarcastic. Graz’zt will remain closeted in Zelatar, irrespective of our actions. We shouldn’t
be surprised:
if his venturing forth entailed even a one in ten thousand chance of his demise, then he
would not do it.
It would be foolhardy, from his perspective. He has not retained an aeons-long regime by
acting
precipitously.”
Eadric scowled, and his eyes bored into Soneillon. “You knew this.”
“I would have guessed it,” she smiled.
“But you allowed us to entertain the possibility, nonetheless?”
“You are the Ahma,” she said simply. “It is reasonable to assume that you possess a degree
of insight that I do not. Our perspectives are complimentary, Eadric, not antagonistic.”
“Then…”
“I have acted already,” Shomei sighed. “Mostin and I deemed it appropriate to increase his
paranoia. I sent two glooms to assassinate him yesterday.”
Eadric gaped. He didn’t know what a gloom was, but they sounded impressive.
“They were unsuccessful,” Shomei added quickly. “But he has locked Zelatar in reaction.
He is currently busying himself with purges.”
Soneillon looked bored, and yawned.
Mostin nodded. “I get the hint. One moment please.” He turned to the Druid. “Nwm, if the
hellfire wyrm is an unappealing form, you might want to try this.*”
The Alienist rapidly shifted into a monstrous, winged, four-armed brute of truly terrifying
aspect. Its hyena-like head was surrounded by a mane of spikes which dripped venom, but
its most unsettling
feature was its torso. In place of a chest and abdomen there gaped a vast, toothed maw and
pincers which twitched rhythmically.
“What would I do?” Nwm asked.
Mostin wiggled his pincers. “You cut their heads off.”
“That doesn’t seem terribly efficient,” Nwm said drily. “Let’s just go with the dragon.”
*
Nothing could have prepared Nwm for the mind-shaking insanity which was Throile at
war. As the rift between the worlds closed behind them, the full spectacle impacted on his
consciousness like a tidal wave. This was likely as far as he would ever be from Wyre: by
Mostin’s reckoning, three hundred
realities – most of them filled with demons – lay between him and the Green.
The sky was a purplish haze – at least, purple was the colour which it most closely
approximated to his draconic eyes. The citadel of Soneillon below him was a colossal
structure, built like a five-sided ziggurat but boasting a thousand towers which sprang
from vast piers of black stone in concentric rings around its circumference. Its topmost
pinnacle soared a mile above the treetops of a plush, verdant jungle which stretched as far
as his eye could see.
The forest stretches to infinity, he thought. In all directions. It was a meaningless
observation. His mind could not grasp the magnitude of it. An infinite jungle. It breathed
malice and death.
Beyond the citadel, encircling it to a distance of a league – until the trees marched upon it
– was a swathe of bedrock, filled with immense shafts from which fear and an agony of
violence erupted like gruesome and intangible tephra. Perhaps the pits were filled with the
damned – undergoing whatever punishment they had condemned themselves to – or
maybe it was some phenomenon peculiar to
Throile, where a cursed earth spewed its evil into the tainted airs, in a supernatural cycle
where evil itself was propagated, and diffused, and finally reabsorbed. For four fifths of its
area, the blasted rock beyond the walls of the fortress was utterly devoid of motion:
neither demon nor monster walked there.
But in one area alone, in a sight that made the Druid’s heart pound in his scale-armoured
chest, the ground and skies seethed with chaos.
Drawn up like two enormous wedges, the apices of which barely touched each other, the
Abyssal armies of Soneillon and Graz’zt – the latter under the command of the marilith
Janiq – faced each other in an orgy of pain, destruction and death. At their interface – the
connecting point between the two spearheads – was the gap within the Paling which the
succubus Adyell had disjoined. The aperture was only eighty feet wide, and demons
seethed through from outside of the invisible magical wall.
Sporadically, blossoming rapidly inside of the barrier, cadres of bar-lgura manifested as
first one, and then hundreds, found purchase within the warded interior where they could
teleport with impunity.
Groups of succubi and palrethees descended upon them, or flew to intercept the units of
yugoloth
mercenaries who had overwhelmed the initial defense of the opening in the perimeter.
Nycadaemons
and yagnodaemons pushed through relentlessly, despite the frenzied resistance offered by
packs of
jariliths and goristros.
The mental static was terrific: thousands of demons screaming telepathic commands,
which spilled
over into Nwm’s thoughts as unconscious urges to commit cruelty and violence. He gaped
as demons
summoned more demons, fell prey to compulsions and switched sides, invoked patches of
darkness, or dispelled them.
Further outside of the Paling, clamouring for the opportunity to press forwards, countless
dretch and hordes of rutterkins, uridezu rat-demons, and jovocs surged in restless waves.
Under the supervision of hezrous, they crawled and clambered over each other, eager to
claw, and bite, and rend. Quasits flitted in black swarms above them.
Emptying her bracelet of power, Shomei had rendered herself, Mostin and Nwm invisible
and had mind blanked the Druid and the Ahma. All had been hasted. None of the
spellcasters, however, were fully prepared to engage in an offensive, and the Infernalist
inwardly lamented the fact that their wards might be woefully inadequate.
In the airs next to them, Soneillon relaxed into the form in which they had first
encountered her in Afqithan – a shape of unbeing, around which an aura of annihilation
began to glower menacingly. She folded her wings – now appearing as gaps in the fabric
of reality – about herself, before invoking the nullity which was her essential nature and
which had, for a brief time, been suppressed. Utter blackness encased her.
Soneillon, Eadric spoke into her mind.
Her thoughts regarded him ironically.
You need to instruct your troops not to assail me.
Naturally, Eadric. The Void vanished, only to reappear an instant later, a thousand feet
below them, and in the thick of the press.
“A prismatic wall would do the trick,” Mostin sighed. “Unfortunately…”
“Nor I,” Shomei nodded.
“Before we can plug the hole we need…” Mostin began.
“To take out the ultroloths,” Shomei finished. “I know, I know. We need to find them
first.”
“How many are there?” Eadric asked, sighing.
“Five,” Mostin replied. “And two arcanadaemons.”
Eadric closed his eyes briefly and concentrated. A holy aura kindled around himself and
his unlikely companions – three hellfire wyrms. Daylight suffused him.
Shomei raised an eyebrow. “That’s a useful trick.”
“Mostin, can you teleport me to a position just inside of the opening?”
The Alienist was about to say something else, but thought better of it and clamped his
jaws shut. He watched as a hundred bar-lgura began manifesting below them. “Yes,” he
replied.
“Good,” Eadric said, drawing Lukarn.
“Hmm,” Mostin replied.
“And Mostin. Nwm.”
“Mmm?” They answered in unison.
“Don’t take too long in getting there. I have a feeling that I may be unduly targeted.”
“You think?” Nwm replied drily.
“And Shomei.”
She looked at him.
“Choose your time wisely. This may not be it.”
She swallowed. He knows. The bastard knows.
Mostin cocked his head.
**
For a brief period of time – which seemed like an altogether unpleasant eternity – the
Ahma was alone.
His appearance on the battlefield was a surreal event, which had even demons – who
routinely dealt with the bizarre and the insane – baffled. The cursed ground at his feet
smoked in revulsion at his presence as he manifested within a knot of bar-lgura. They
reacted rapidly and pounced on him.
Eadric’s shield and armour turned their buffets, and the demons which struck him recoiled,
blinded by celestial light. He swung Lukarn in a great arc, slaying all of those within his
arm’s reach. Scorching rays struck him but fizzled impotently, and he shrugged off a
dispel magic which targeted him.
Darkness would not adhere to him.
A shadow covered him, and a flurry of claws and blows hammered down on him from
above as a
nycaloth lashed at him viciously, but the holy aura flashed brilliantly, blinding the
daemon. Two others
– the source of the magic which had struck him – descended rapidly towards him.
This isn’t so bad, he thought to himself. But now the leaping demons around him seethed
forwards again, clutching at him with powerful hands and attempting to bear him to the
ground. He hewed at
them, felling three of them, and thrusting one away, blinded. Others pummelled him, and
he swung
again, cutting a swathe through them about himself. In his mind, Lukarn sang, exulting in
its potency.
Almost as an afterthought, Eadric slashed upwards, striking the nycadaemon above him
three times. He sidestepped as it crashed to the ground, thrashed its huge wings briefly,
and expired. Another slammed into him, almost bowling him over, and thrusting him
backwards five paces into the waiting clutches of the third: Eadric felt venom-tipped claws
finding gaps in his armour, puncturing flesh and pinning him.
Eight enormous, muscle-bound arms were groping at him in an attempt to overpower him.
From his
left, a disintegrate struck him but failed to overcome his protections.
Above, Mostin grunted to Shomei. There’s one.
Deftly – and impossibly – Eadric twisted Lukarn in his wrist and began to slice at the
creatures
restraining him.** With four, powerful strikes, he slew one of them. The remaining
daemon clung on desperately, screaming telepathically for assistance. Two of its enormous
hands pinned Eadric’s arm while two more pried his weapon from his grip.
The nycadaemon, unaccustomed to bearing a sword of Lukarn’s power and temperament,
gave a look
of astonishment as it began to hack at itself with the captured weapon.
Before the next onslaught could reach him, Eadric spoke a single, quiet, holy word. The
Abyssal rock beneath him shuddered in agony, and around sixty bar-lgura within a broad
circle about him burned
away into vapour. The nycadaemon – and three others who had come to its call – were
stricken
instantly.
Eadric stepped forwards, and retrieved Lukarn from the paralyzed monster’s grasp.
Great Goddess, Nwm thought as he plummeted towards the battlefield. He is made for
this. This is his purpose. He is like a machine. He finally understood just how much
Soneillon needed the Ahma.
The Druid discharged a cone of Infernal fire over the demons below him, simultaneously
becoming
visible. Behind him, Mostin and Shomei thundered over the field, burning bar-lgura
footsoldiers with gouts of fire in the vicinity of where one of the ultroloths was suspected
to be.
Below them, the hordes quaked.
The situation was uncannily familiar to Mostin, and he experienced a profound déjà vu as
he winged away. His eyes widened, as the vision of a future half-remembered flashed
across his mind.
Ainhorr, he thought to Shomei. Ainhorr will come.
She groaned. Are you sure?
Yes. No. Yes. I’m sure.
She swallowed. The vorpal sword was a vague recollection of death for her. But only one
of several.
*
A succubus – a scout named Semhel who exercised no great power and held no particular
responsibilities – appeared before Janiq. The marilith remained in the rearguard of her
force, flanked by glabrezu bodyguards.
Semhel prostrated herself. “There is a mortal here – or a celestial. I cannot tell which.”
Janiq, of quick mind, and wise to at least some of the many schemes in which her dark
master was
embroiled, narrowed her eyes and hissed. Adyell had confirmed that the Ahma had visited
Throile on at least two occasions – in fact, the doubts held by the succubus regarding
Soneillon’s actions had, in large part, been responsible for her defection. She barked an
order at her aide – the arcanaloth Xehez.
“Issue a sending immediately to Azzagrat. Eadric of Deorham is here.”
Knowing that when Janiq said ‘immediately,’ she meant immediately, Xehez used a
limited wish to expedite the message.
In his sanctum, three words resonated in Graz’zt’s mind:
Deorham in Throile.
The Prince’s reply was equally succinct:
Detain him. I will send aid.
Janiq – along with her retinue – teleported to a position which offered a better vantage of
the battle, and watched, incredulous, as three hellfire wyrms – emanating holy auras –
appeared above the vanguard of her army.
She screamed telepathic orders to her aerial heavy cavalry – the nycadaemon mercenaries
–
immediately instructing the entire force to withdraw from the goristros and to intercept the
dragons.
Her orders to the ultroloths – whose loyalty she still doubted – were couched in the
promise of reward.
Capture the mortal, and Graz’zt will lavish gifts upon all of us. Bring the wyrms down.
She dispatched Semhel with instructions to her reserve force of bar-lgura – who waited
several
thousand miles away – to join the fray, and smiled. Drawing six unholy swords from
scabbards across her body, the Marilith prepared for battle.
*
Mostin gyred in the sky, his aura blinding the succubi around him. In his belly, he felt the
fire rising again as dozens of nycadaemons began to take off, or to manifest in the air
around him.
At that point, he was struck by two simultaneous targeted greater dispel magics, and two
quickened unholy blights.
Oops, he thought as most of his wards vanished and he was forced back into his natural
state. He vomited but retained his composure, cast a quickened dimension door and
appeared among a
screeching mob of bar-lgura, sixty feet ahead of Eadric, in the aperture in the Paling.
Shomei screeched. Are you insane? She herself was struck by a greater dispelling but, to
her relief, retained her draconic shape. A horrid wilting failed to affect her. But her mind
blank was gone, and to the demons and daemons present who possessed true seeing, her
real form became apparent.
Mortal! The voice of an Ultroloth echoed in the minds of the lesser daemons.
Gleefully, eight Nycadaemons tore into her. Many more flapped nearby, eager for the
chance to engage an obstacle which now seemed as though it could be overcome. Still,
they could barely penetrate her armour.
Shomei shapechanged. Her scales thickened and brightened, swiftly acquiring a flawless,
mirror-like sheen. Her size doubled to titanic proportions. As her wings powered her
backwards in the air, and daemons lashed at her, she breathed upon those in front of her
head.
Fourteen paralyzed nycaloths dropped like stones to the ground, flattening dozens of bar-
lgura below them.
*
A wave of malice washed over Eadric, attempting to dominate him, and his head turned to
face the source of the compulsion.
It was a faceless creature, whose empty visage swam with tiny pin-points of light, and
whose dark
cloak seemed to blow with unnatural slowness in the gale issuing from above. It stood
seventy feet away, flanked by nycaloths and behind a great, armour-clad yagnodaemon
which bore a huge sword.
He began to run towards it, over the ashes of the bar-lgura and past the stupefied forms of
nycadaemons. Power coursed through him as he invoked as much strength as he could
muster. Hasted time simultaneously slowed to a crawl, and sped to a blur. Nycadaemons
clutched at him as he moved, and the yagnoloth interposed itself fully between Eadric and
his quarry. The armoured fiend’s sword bit deep into him, but he forced his way forwards,
his shield slamming into the bodyguard’s legs and
bowling it over. He smote the ultrodaemon, and blackness poured from it. It emitted a thin,
high-pitched scream.***
As the yagnoloth clambered to its feet, the Ahma turned and smote it. It struck Eadric
again, with enormous force, blinding itself in the backlash from the holy aura. Two
nycaloths moved in, and ripped at him in a frenzy, drawing blood with envenomed claws.
Gambling, the ultroloth spoke a power word. The capture of the Ahma was a prize for
which much should be risked. Eadric’s celestial defense failed, and for a fraction of a
second the daemon exulted.
But still Eadric did not succumb. He struck, and the daemon perished. He stepped
sideways, and the sightless yagnoloth lashed out again, smashing through his armour.
Eadric smote it again. And again.
Eadric struck again, but wearily, and as it crumpled next to him, he knew that his strength
was waning swiftly.
A huge claw snatched him from the battlefield, and carried him aloft.
“Thank-you,” he said to Nwm.
“Hmm,” the Druid replied.
But, struck by a dispelling, the shapechange on Nwm fizzled and vanished, and both he
and Eadric plummeted back to the ground.
*I have retained shapechange on the Druid spell-list.
** This was a potentially dangerous situation – one of the nycadaemons Bull Rushed
Eadric and the
other began a grapple as an AoO – Eadric had already used his AoO for the round when
countering the bar-lgura’s attempted grapple (and Cleaving from it. Sigh.) Lukarn,
however is a sunblade – i.e. it’s treated as a light weapon, and could therefore be used in a
grapple.
I use Pants’s ‘loths, btw. Nice work, Pants.
***This incident is worthy of note. Eadric’s player – Marc – has this annoying habit of
pulling off stunts like this. One would think that sticking a yagnoloth (a 10th level Fighter
yagnoloth, to boot) directly in the path of a size M creature would ensure the ultroloth
some space to either use a few more spell-likes, or to teleport away if things got sticky for
it.
But, no. Eadric invoked the Strength domain and Righteous Might, charged, overran the
yagnoloth,
Power Attacked at +20, smote the ultroloth and scored a critical hit, reducing the daemon
to around 30
hp. :rolleyes:
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 03-14-2004
More Than You Can Chew - Part 2
The bar-lgura pounced on him and attacked.
Mostin considered his options. Quickly. Although his very nature – infused with the
essence of
transcendental insanity – rendered him a degree of protection from their teeth and claws,
he knew that they would still swiftly overpower him.* He cowered, avoiding their blows
as best he could, mumbled, and gestured.
The battle froze around him, as he invoked a time stop. He muttered a brief incantation,
and flew upwards amid the eerie silence, glancing around. Some distance away, the Void
which was Soneillon
was the focus of hundreds of demons, poised eagerly to join the mob which was already
around her.
Near her, the withered husks of those who had basked too long in her aura of nullity lay
strewn around in heaps. In the airs above her, two succubi floated. From one, a streak of
powerful negative energy issued, captured at the moment of discharge. The second was in
the process of evoking a spell –
although it was impossible to tell which one. Two of her three remaining loyal handmaids,
no doubt.
Mostin wondered where the third was.
Closer, Nwm and Eadric were captured in a dynamic pose – the Druid, in draconic form,
had snatched Eadric from next to the steaming remains of one of the ultroloths.
Nycadaemons were attempting to
claw the hellfire wyrm. In the sky above him, Shomei – now transformed into a gigantic
silver wyrm –
hung motionless in the air, with daemons all about her.
Mostin sighed, and took rapid mental note of the positions of various entities within
eyesight. In the stillness, he located two more ultroloths – one inside of the Paling and one
beyond it – and, eighty yards outside of the aperture, an exceedingly vicious looking
marilith surrounded by twenty hulking glabrezu. She was flanked by attendants –
including an arcanaloth and a grossly obese shator.
Knowing that his reservoir was low, the Alienist grunted. He had little time to act, yet he
must act.
Because Ainhorr is coming, he reminded himself.
He swallowed, vacillated for a fraction of a second, emptied himself, and opened a gate –
his last –
next to the marilith Janiq, speaking a terrible name in syllables which caused his mouth to
twist and his stomach to heave.
Tendrils of something, issuing from somewhere – and some when – crept through the
dimensional
interface to Uzzhin, to outside.
It had Vhorzhe’s face – and many others besides. Malice seeped from it like a cloying fog.
It smiled sweetly at him. Mostin screamed, and giggled hysterically.
[Symbol] = Payment
Mostin panicked. How would he bargain with it? What did it want? What currency did it
recognize? No time to answer these questions. No time.
“Mirror,” Mostin said, instantly regretting it.
[Symbol] = More.
Gods, it’s greedy. That’s the most valuable thing I have.
[Symbol] = Faces.
Mostin cackled. “What kind of faces?”
[Symbol] = Faces like you.
Mostin was beginning to hyperventilate. What did it mean? How would he provide it with
faces?
Would he have to bring a line of people for it to devour, so it could assume their likeness?
Did it mean something else? No time. No time. Sh*t.
“Mirror,” Mostin said again. “No faces.”
It communicated nothing more. The Horror slid back silently through the gate to the Far
Realm.
Sh*t. Sh*t. Sh*t. What a waste. A string of expletives and profanities left Mostin’s lips.
Still, he had to do something. Anything.
He flew upwards and quickly invoked a prismatic sphere. Hovering outside of it, he
readied another spell. Time resumed its normal flow.
Mostin pulled a ring from his finger, and blew gently through it.
*
Shomei was beginning to regret her decision to shapechange into the form of a silver
wyrm.
She simply presented too much body for the nycadaemons to attack. There were at least
twenty of them in the air about her now: raking, slashing, finding gaps in her foot-thick
armour. Many were blinded, but they pressed on regardless. Bright blood was dripping
from her scales. Poison was creeping through her veins.
She shapechanged again, this time into a pit fiend – offering a smaller target to her
attackers, whilst preventing the venom from taking hold. Diabolic protections would
render her virtual immunity to their claws. And her taloned hand now bore her rod.
As she flew towards the ground through a gauntlet of daemonic attacks, the Infernalist
scanned the aperture and tried to locate Mostin, but he had vanished from his previous
location. She spied an
ultroloth – the one who had struck her with a potent dispelling – and brought her will,
focussed and augmented through her rod, to bear upon it.
I AM SHOMEI. YOU ARE MY SERVANT. SLAY THE SERVANTS OF GRAZ’ZT: HE
IS YOUR
ENEMY.
She smashed into its mind with her own, and the yugoloth’s immense, ancient ego
crumpled under the force of her compulsion.
*
Eadric and Nwm tumbled sixty feet, headlong into a snarling pack of leaping demons.
They
immediately pounced upon the duo who, shaken by the fall, could do nothing but ward off
their attacks and clumsily stagger to their feet. Holy auras flashed again, but the assault
was determined. Nwm –
unarmoured, unarmed and less skilled in combat – was quickly rent and bruised.
Fearing for the Druid’s life, Eadric stayed his attack and clutched Nwm’s shoulder. Light
and heat poured into him, revitalizing him.
Nwm swore. He needed breathing space. In a circle around them, bar-lgura flew skywards
as he
reversed gravity.
“Watch my back,” he snapped at Eadric. “And heal yourself. You’re going to need it. And
don’t move unless you want to fall upwards.”
But even as he spoke, behind them a powerful wind had started to blow, sucking demons
from the
aperture in the Paling. Outside, a great rift – over two hundred feet wide – had opened in
space,
generating a cyclone around it.
Mostin – now retreated into his prismatic sphere – had invoked a reality maelstrom.
Hundreds of bar-lgura were being pulled through it, screaming, to be deposited in another
dimension – although, which one, even Mostin didn’t know. The Alienist – hidden within
a scintillating globe of power – was not witness to the spectacle, but he would have been
deeply satisfied to know that one of the ultrodaemons had also been dragged away.
The tempest was centered on Janiq, but the marilith weathered the spell and, together with
three
glabrezu, teleported to a position fifty feet from Eadric. Her succubi attendants, the shator,
seventeen glabrezu and the arcanadaemon Xehez had all been drawn into the
maelstrom.**
Janiq was livid. Most of her bodyguard had vanished. Demons were bobbing in the air
nearby,
teleporting to the ground, and falling upwards again. Those that attempted to pounce upon
the two
mortals were likewise rocketing skywards.
Two of the ultroloths – now close by – were targeting Nwm and Eadric with powerful
spells. The Druid barely survived an invoked destruction. Demons all around him tumbled
to the ground as the reverse gravity – together with his mind blank and Eadric’s holy aura
fell to a greater dispel magic. He cursed, knowing that time was running out.***
Glancing at Eadric, Nwm held his orb of storms in his hand.
“This is going to hurt,” he said to himself.
In an instant, the orb shattered, fuelling a spell. His consciousness reached out to the
Green, three hundred worlds away, and seemed to draw on every storm that had ever
echoed within her confines.
Nwm’s voice began as a low roar, which rapidly crescendoed into an ultasonic scream. His
skull shook and his mind twisted as he sought to thrust the energy away from Eadric and
himself, and direct it towards his enemies. The Druid’s body reeled under the backlash.
His skin, lacerated by channeling the power, peeled away in strips.
As Nwm turned his head, they seemed to burn away in front of him and around him, the
sonic reducing them to atoms. Janiq, the glabrezu, the daemons and dozens of bar-lgura
were vaporized under the
force of the sound. The ground shook, and the Paling oscillated along its twenty-mile
circumference in sympathetic vibration. For a millisecond, it was as though the entire
battle had ceased.
The Druid barely retained lucidity, and he grinned inanely. He wondered where Mostin
was, hoping
that the Alienist had witnessed it.
But none of it mattered. The reality maelstrom quickly dissipated, eliminated by more
abjurations.
Thousands more demons – the reserve force called by Janiq – were beginning to manifest.
Inside of the aperture, the vast, armoured form of Ainhorr – flanked by a dozen enormous
nalfeshnees – had arrived through a gate.
Shomei, still in the form of a pit fiend and harangued by nycadaemons, flew towards
Eadric and Nwm and threw the remaining dominated ultroloth desperately at Ainhorr.
Outside of the magical barrier, she
spied the prismatic sphere, and hoped that it was Mostin, and that he was sufficiently
protected. She opened a gate next to the Druid and the Ahma.
“Flee,” she yelled at Eadric. “We cannot win this. This battle is lost.”
Soneillon, he thought. And then, Mostin.
As Nwm pulled him through the portal, Eadric turned his head back, gazing across the
demon-infested wasteland. Time seemed to freeze. His eyes did not rest on Ainhorr, but
looked past the Balor, and through the other gate, to what stood beyond.
Graz’zt.
**
Shomei resumed her normal form in the courtyard at Kyrtill’s Burh. The late evening sun
was pale, and little warmth remained in the day.
Nwm and Eadric, exhausted, looked at her.
“Mostin…” Eadric began.
“If he has his wits about him, he will have opened a gate or plane shifted. If he doesn’t
arrive here soon, we should assume the latter. I will attempt to scry him presently. He had
invoked a prismatic sphere.”
Nwm relaxed.
“Do not be complacent,” Shomei snapped. “If Adyell could disjoin a section of the Paling,
then she could do the same to Mostin’s defense.”
“She wasn’t present at the battle?”
“I didn’t see her,” the Infernalist sighed. “Perhaps she was avoiding Soneillon,” she added
wrily.
Eadric groaned. “How is it that, after millennia of stalemate between Graz’zt and
Soneillon, as soon as I become involved, a decisive victory is scored? By the wrong side.”
Shomei laughed. “Do you think that this is the first time that her citadel has fallen in that
war?”
“I don’t know.”
“No. Nor do I. But holding any kind of Abyssal real estate is tricky, to say the least.
Soneillon will retreat, if she has any sense at all – and I suspect that she does. Graz’zt will
need to garrison Throile.
Ainhorr will be faced with the decision of appointing a deputy – he, himself must return to
Afqithan.
The loss of Janiq will be a grievous blow, in any case.”
“There are other mariliths.”
“True – but there was only one Janiq,” Shomei smiled. “She knew Throile and its
subtleties better than any other of Graz’zt’s generals. And when the Eye of Cheshne
reaches its nadir at Khu – less than two hours away – Soneillon will wax to her full power
again.**** She is a demon queen, Eadric. Never
forget it.”
Unlikely, he thought. He exhaled slowly. “I saw him, you know. Through the other gate.”
Shomei nodded.
*
Two minutes later, Nwm noticed a sensor in the air nearby. Mostin’s head appeared,
seeming to float six feet above the ground in a disconcerting manner.
“Where are you?” The Druid asked.
“I don’t know, but it’s damn cold here,” the Alienist replied.
Mostin had, in fact, plane shifted. And appeared upon the side of an unnamed mountain,
overlooking the plateau of Tun Hartha, at an elevation of twelve thousand feet.
**
“You called the pseudonatural?” Shomei was agog. “Where was it? Why didn’t I see it?”
“I was time stopped,” Mostin replied. “And it declined my offer.”
“Which was?”
“The Looking-glass of Urm-Nahat. Although, in retrospect, I should have offered it
something else.”
“Did it understand what the Mirror was?” Shomei asked.
“I don’t know. I think so. But it wanted faces. I don’t know what it meant. When I’ve
rested, I will go to Uzzhin…”
“Mostin,” Shomei groaned. “That will be the third time. Don’t you think that’s tempting
fate just a little?”
“I don’t subscribe to the theory of Fate,” Mostin said drily. “Any more than you do.” The
jibe was precise and calculated. Mostin didn’t know what the exchange between the
Infernalist and the Ahma –
before they had commenced battle – had signified, but he guessed that they shared some
kind of
prescience.
“Did the web of motes reveal nothing regarding this?” Nwm asked.
“Not to my recollection,” Mostin answered.
“And what will happen now, in Throile?”
“I do not know,” Mostin said irritably. “Events in Throile were not first on my list of
priorities when I examined the nodality. Ainhorr will return to Afqithan, certainly. And
Kostchtchie will move to aid him when Nhura returns and Rhyxali unleashes her legions.
Other future memories will doubtless reveal
themselves to me at apposite moments. Nothing is certain – it remains only a matrix of
possibilities.”
Shomei remained conspicuously silent.
“You and I need to talk,” Mostin said.
“There is nothing else to say,” she replied. She was weary.
“Humour me,” Mostin said acidly.
*I have ruled that the transcended Alienist (like the Monk) has DR 10/magic, and that bar-
lgura have DR 5/good (with chaotic-aligned and evil-aligned natural attacks). This was
good for Mostin. It seemed reasonable to me that their initial attack would be to deliver
lethal damage – demons like rending stuff, after all – but upon realizing the inefficacy of
this tack, they would switch to grappling. And if they grappled him, he had no chance.
Dan realized this too.
**Man, this spell is broken.
***Being a kind-hearted DM (ahem), I left the room and had a beer at this juncture. This
gave Dave
(Nwm’s player) and Dan (Mostin’s player) time to thrash out an epic spell quickly. Dan’s
fingerprints are all over it because a) it’s a sonic and; b) Dave isn’t as good at squeezing
the epic system for all it’s worth. I don’t mind, though – it’s reasonable to assume that
Nwm is good at squeezing the system. Dan was still pissed at me about the Horror, despite
the fact that he knew they didn’t follow the normal
‘rules’ for gated entities – we were playing 3.5 gate by now, and it was 1000xp that
Mostin would never see again.
****This cryptic reference is, in fact, correct. Soneillon’s power is not strictly dependent
upon any astronomical cycle or any geographical area but, like any other spellcaster, she
may only cast a certain number of spells per day. Soneillon’s ‘day’ is reckoned by
demonologists to begin with the
anticulmination of the star which we would call Antares or Cor Scorpionis at Khu. In
Shûth, this star is linked with the Goddess Cheshne and the process of annihilation. Other
demons and devils (and
celestials) have cycles for which the rising, culmination, setting or anticulmination of
various
astronomical bodies can be used as indicators.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 04-18-2004
**
Dream and Demon - Part 1
It had been determined that Rhul – ever a patron of messengers and travellers – would
undertake the journey. He was hardy, quick-witted, and wise in the ways of many worlds.
The decision to send him had been unanimous.
His people were the Nireem, and, besides Rhul, only three of their chiefs remained: Lai,
the goddess of magic; Ninit, who watched over horses; and a god of the forge called
Jaliere. A tribal pantheon, they were aided by ancestral spirits and nature genii tied to
significant locations. Predictably, the goddess of death, Saes, had aligned herself with
Graz’zt: in a world in which the apocalypse had already come and gone, her power alone
was waxing. The Nireem no longer counted her amongst their number.
Their people and worshippers – a clan known as the Werud, who had been finally
eliminated by Graz’zt’s armies some decades before – were the last tribe to walk upon the
doomed earth. Once the inheritors of a proud legacy, they had been condemned at the end
to cower in holes as the creatures –
black-skinned monsters with great hooks upon their skulls – had sought them out and
butchered them.
Ninit had ridden out and hunted down their enemies, and the hooves of her horse – the
stallion called Drût – had kindled the grasslands to fire as she passed over them. She was
an ancient goddess, who had joined the others a thousand years before: assimilated by the
Werud from a conquered culture whose name Ninit no longer cared to remember. She was
fickle and untamed – an atavism who bowed to
neither law nor code. Before the world had turned dark, she had caused others amongst the
Nireem
great consternation by her actions. But now, since the death of Hodh, she was their
greatest champion.
And unlike the other godlings who gathered within their stone hall deep within the
mountain called Mulhuk, Graz’zt feared her.
Lai the Implacable had foreseen the demise of her brother, and many others who had
perished beneath the relentless press of demons. The end was upon them, and there
seemed to be no escaping it. So Lai had dreamed a dream, and passing by roads which
only she could take, she had made her way through
a region of great turbulence, until she had found herself beside a still pool surrounded by
many birch trees. A spirit of unfamiliar type had been waiting for her.
“Have you come to pronounce a final doom?” Lai had asked wrily.
The spirit had smiled easily. “You are not without allies.”
“And are you one of them?”
“There are other worlds, Lai. Sisperi is one small corner in an infinity of infinities.”
“That may be so,” Lai had said through narrowed eyes. “But it is my corner.”
“May I show you something?”
“That, I suspect, is why I am here,” Lai had replied laconically.
The Spirit had gestured briefly, and a vision had appeared before the Goddess. A thick
forest of strange trees which bore poisoned fruit, around which vines and creepers
wrapped themselves, and through
which creatures of evil demeanour stalked and slew, reveling in pain and death. A terrible
haze of heat lay over the place.
“Is this a prophecy?” Lai had asked uneasily. “If so, I think I would prefer to remain
ignorant of the future.”
“It is the abode of one of your allies,” the Spirit said mysteriously.
“I choose my friends carefully,” the Goddess had smiled. “Who would live in such a
place?”
“A demoness,” the Spirit had replied. “But an enemy of the one who currently assails
you.”
“Can she be trusted?” Lai had asked.
“No,” the Spirit had admitted.
“I draw little comfort from the possibility of such an alliance.”
“If you wish to survive long enough to see your world free again,” the Spirit had said
stonily, “then you must look beyond what is comfortable and familiar. The place that you
are looking at is called Throile.
It is a battleground, and one of several keys to defeating your enemy. Do you wish to see
more?”
“I concede that I am intrigued.”
Another scene had appeared before Lai – again, a forest. It was an eerie place, full of deep
shadows. A ruddy gloam hung over it.
“This is Afqithan,” the Spirit had said, in answer to her unvoiced question. “It has become
a fulcrum around which many interests turn.”
“It is scarcely less depressing than the last vista which you showed me.”
“Nonetheless, it is pivotal. Its natives are a race of evil spirits over whom Graz’zt
exercises control. He has powerful vassals here. Would you like to see another?”
Lai had laughed. “No doubt it, too, is a dismal realm filled with haunted trees.”
The Spirit had smiled and nodded. Another forest had appeared – darker and yet more
sinister than those previously seen.
The Goddess had sighed. “I spoke in jest.”
“This place has no name,” the Spirit had said darkly. “Whatever moves there does so in
silence, and in secret. Those who enter it seldom return unmarred. When its mistress acts,
she does so with deadly precision and ruthless conviction. She is preparing to act now –
against Graz’zt.”
“And what intelligence dwells here? A demoness, or an evil shade?”
“A demoness, Lai. A very powerful demoness – a peer of the one who caused the death of
your people.
She is now beginning to exert her Will.”
“You disturb me, Spirit. What can we do in the face of monsters such as these?”
“Let me show you one more,” the Spirit had suggested.
“Your revelations are disturbing. But I suppose one cannot hide one’s head in the sand.”
“No, indeed,” the Spirit had grinned. He gestured again, and another vision manifested: a
fortress of stone with a tall tower, perched upon a sheer-sided outcrop of rock. Lai had
never seen anything like it before. Atop the tower, a blue-and-silver pennant fluttered in
the wind.
“Another ally?”
The Spirit had nodded.
“It looks less foreboding than the previous. Does a god dwell here, or a demon?”
“Neither,” the Spirit had answered. “A mortal. Of sorts. His name is Eadric.”
“And he wars with Graz’zt also?”
“Oh, yes. His obsession is rather single-minded.”
“And his world is threatened?” Lai had asked.
“His world has been stolen from him.”
“It seems peaceful enough,” Lai had observed.
“It is a long story,” the Spirit had replied. “He is embroiled in the politics of the previous
realms that I have shown you. The details are complicated.”
“And he can be trusted?”
“Yes.”
“Then – assuming I can trust you – I suppose we should begin there. Rhul might undertake
the journey
– although his absence will weaken us considerably. He will convince…”
“Do not make the mistake of assuming that this mortal can be either coerced or persuaded
against his better judgment,” the Spirit had warned. “He should be treated as an equal –
even your brother would have been hard pressed to match him in battle.”
Lai had raised an eyebrow. “A mortal?”
“Sisperi is small, Lai.”
A look of anguish had crossed her face. “Even if we prevail – what hope is there for the
Nireem? Our people are dead. We are diminished. We will fade, and disappear.”
“Perhaps,” the Spirit had nodded. “But if you survive, then look to another mortal: not
Eadric, but one of his allies. His name is Nwm. Remember it.”
Nwm, Lai had thought.
**
“I seem to recall your cautioning me against entering these woods,” Mostin said to
Shomei. The two Wizards walked among the looming, twisted trees on Shomei’s
thousand-acre estate outside of Morne.
“Have you dismissed the spirits that dwell in them?”
“Certainly not,” the Infernalist replied. “As far as I know, the Second Injunction is not
retroactive. I still maintain a staff of spined devils as well.”
“How old are you, Shomei?” Mostin asked.
“That is an odd question. Does it matter?”
“I am merely curious,” Mostin replied. “Are you older than me?”
“No,” Shomei answered.
“Are we of a comparable age?”
“I am twenty-five, Mostin,” she sighed. “Are you about to dispense some paternal
advice?”
The Alienist gaped. ” Twenty-five? I knew that you were a prodigy, but…Amon…”
“I was eleven.”
“Titivilus?”
“Fifteen. I compacted him when I was seventeen. I have three children, all cambions –
none were sired by Titivilus, incidentally. Devils are notoriously fertile, so I count myself
fortunate in that regard. I left the bastards outside of the Abbey just south of here, before
you ask. I have no idea what happened to them subsequently.”
“I am forty-two,” Mostin groaned.
“I know. Evidently you have only sixty percent of my talent,” Shomei said drily.
“Why do you think that you are going to die, Shomei?”
She smiled thinly. It hadn’t taken him long to figure it out. “I know that I am going to die,
Mostin. That doesn’t concern me. It is the fact that, apparently, I will show no desire to
return when Nwm attempts to reincarnate me that has me worried.”
“That is paradoxical,” Mostin scratched his head. “Given the fact that – presently, at least
– you do not seem particularly enthused by the prospect of remaining dead.”
“Tramst…” She began.
“Pah!” Mostin interjected. “He is merely a demigod, Shomei.”
“He is also an intrinsic part of my paradigm, Mostin – I would prefer not to embarrass you
in a philosophical debate on this point.”
The Alienist was about to offer a retort, but thought better of it, and closed his mouth.
“I assume that the exact moment of your death is not known to you?” He asked instead.
“That is correct,” Shomei nodded. “The web of motes was suitably vague as to the
details.”
“At least Nwm is safe,” Mostin pointed out. “Or he would not be able to attempt to
reincarnate you.”
“That is some small comfort,” she nodded. “I am rather fond of Nwm. The revelation has
not been conducive to my good humour, however – as you can probably appreciate. Given
the fact that I am
inclined towards depression and nihilism in any case, news of my impending, final death
has been
rather a strain on my psyche.”
Mostin didn’t know what to say. Every argument – defy fate, Shomei or assert your Will,
choose to remain or do not let this become a self-fulfilling prophecy or even change your
paradigm, Shomei seemed trite and contrived. She was his intellectual peer – and a
superior rhetorician. She would strike down any case that he could make in seconds.
“Ngaahh!” He threw up his hands in frustration at the logical impasse in his mind. “Listen
to me, Shomei: you do not exist in a vacuum. Frankly, I don’t give a f*ck whether you
give into this or not. I will not. My ego is more important than anything else, and I will not
let this happen. It is not my paradigm.”
“Thus we come to the Dialectic,” Shomei said wrily.
“F*ck the Dialectic,” Mostin said. ” Saizhan is a viewpoint, like any other.”
She sighed.
“And f*ck Tramst and his mystical posturing. I’m tempted to blast him for his
interference.”
“I think the Claviger might have something to say about that.”
“Mmm. Good point.” Mostin suddenly grinned and his eyes bulged. He knew he was
right. “Anyway. It doesn’t matter. My infinity is bigger than yours.”
She shook her head in amazement at his words. And wondered whether he was right.
**
Ortwin reclined into a leather chair within the study of Mostin’s comfortable retreat, and
swigged upon a decanter of expensive firewine, eliciting a look of mild distaste from the
Alienist. Orolde, as always, doted on the Satyr.
“Well?” Eadric asked. “Are you going to share your findings, or just get drunk?”
“I had planned to do both – although the latter concerns me more at present. Has Nhura
contacted you yet?”
Eadric shook his head.
“Ytryn is on board – at least as far as I can determine. Am I right, Koi?”
Koilimilou maintained her demeanour of serene malice, and gave no intimation that every
time Ortwin used the diminutive, it was stored within her memory as a shallow cut she
would inflict upon the Satyr when the opportunity arose.
“I think that Koilimilou would prefer if you used her full name,” Eadric said wrily.
“Perhaps she dislikes your over familiarity?”
Ortwin shrugged. “There are two kelvezu within Ytryn’s court – their names were never
revealed to me.
But there is also a marilith – Sethee. She pulls the strings.”
“The name is unfamiliar,” Mostin grunted. “She may have been recently co-opted by
Graz’zt. And the hag?”
“Chavrille is dead,” Koilimilou said calmly. “She was assassinated shortly after Ainhorr
annexed Afqithan. Her absence caused me no lament.”
“Naturally, Sethee was intrigued by me,” Ortwin said glibly, “despite her attempts to
appear unmoved.
It is also telling that she ceded to Ytryn’s decision that the protocol of parley be enforced –
the Loquai are very traditional when it comes to observing diplomatic niceties.”
“With the sidhe, at least,” Koilimilou said bitterly, glaring at Mostin. She would never
forget that the Alienist had violated a similar truce and slain Shupthul and a dozen knights,
humiliating her in the process.
“In any case,” Ortwin continued quickly, “I promised to Ytryn – in front of the demons –
that I would relay my satisfaction to Nhura, whom I described as ‘anxious to return to
Afqithan, and make amends for any past indiscretions.’”
“You what?” Eadric asked incredulously. “Nhura is currently less than popular, to say the
least.”
“We needed to get out of there, Ed. And the only way of convincing Sethee to let us go
was to promise that a bigger fish was within reach if she did so. Appealing to Sethee’s
own ambition was the obvious course – Nhura has a high price on her head.”
“That is reasonable,” Mostin nodded, “although I don’t doubt that if Graz’zt turned his
mind to it, then he could liquidate Nhura even on Faerie.”
Koilimilou sneered. “He wouldn’t dare send demons there in numbers. There are far older
and far more potent creatures than sidhe who would not tolerate such an intrusion. He
would be squashed like a fly for his presumption!”
The Cambion’s sudden passion made Ortwin smile inwardly. He had become accustomed
to her moods
– the way that her languor would abruptly change into aggression, or her impassive gaze
could fill with venom or desire in an instant. The fusion of fey and demon made for a
heady wine…
“Where is Iua, Ortwin?” Eadric interrupted his reverie.
“She has returned to Fumaril for a while,” Ortwin replied. “Which is fine. She was getting
boring, in any case.”
Eadric raised an eyebrow, but let it pass. “We can talk about this tomorrow. I am in no
mood to deal with you when you’re drunk. I’m going back to the Burgh.”
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 04-18-2004
**
Dream and Demon - Part 2
The Ahma dreamed.
A peculiar lucidity informed him that it was a significant dream. One to which attention
should be shown. Either an insight of some kind was about to be revealed, or Soneillon
was manipulating his
unconscious.
In his dreamscape, Eadric sat upon a rock and smiled wrily, wondering which it was.
He watched as a slender fey – a sprite perhaps four feet tall, and approximately male –
approached and sat on a similar rock which had appeared nearby. Eadric spoke first.
“If I asked you who you were, you would, no doubt, give me an oblique paradox in return.
Have I met you before?”
“Not precisely, no,” the Sprite answered opaquely.
“Do you serve Oronthon?” Eadric asked.
“I serve the Dialectic,” the Sprite replied.
“Is there a difference?”
“In my mind, yes,” the Sprite answered, “although perhaps not in yours.”
“I do not trust you.”
“That may be wise,” the Sprite nodded. “But you once dreamed of who I was. You trusted
him.”
“You were Jovol, before…” Eadric realized in a flash.
“You are correct. I have, however, adopted the form of a fey for my current manifestation:
the significance of this may be revealed in due course. But you should not confuse Jovol’s
character with my own – our perceptions are quite different.”
“And the Claviger?”
“That particular strand of doubt is now resolved. It no longer interests me.”
“It reassures me that you are still active…” Eadric began.
“It shouldn’t. I serve the Dialectic, not Oronthon.”
“Why are you speaking to me now?” Eadric asked.
“Because complexity must increase,” the Sprite answered.
“Suddenly, I mislike your agenda,” Eadric scowled.
“That is because you cannot hope to comprehend it.”
“Are you benign?” The question was incisive in its naïveté.
“Presently, yes. But I am a fey, and you will find your ethical standards somewhat
inadequate to the task of describing me.”
“What is your name?” Eadric asked.
“I haven’t decided yet.”
Eadric woke up and groaned.
After he had brooded for an hour, Eadric returned to sleep. He dreamed again.
*
He sat upon a lichen-covered stone bench within a shady arbour. A flower garden lay
before him, and the blooming rhododendrons within it alerted Eadric to the fact that it was
late spring, or early summer.
Somewhere in the distance – although from which direction he could not tell – cheers and
laughter
could be heard: swords struck shields, and hooves galloped to and fro. A tourney, or a
joust, most likely. The sound of a lyre drifted over the other noises: the tune was unknown,
and, although played in a major key, bore a subtle melancholic undertone.
Eadric watched as a girl in a white dress approached, turned, and sat next to him. Her
presence was comforting. Her smell, familiar and intoxicating. She smiled.
“I was unsure of what your reaction would be,” Eadric said, “after we fled from Throile.”
“Guilt and regret are futile emotions,” Soneillon said easily. “Assuming you feel either in
any measure.
Do you, Eadric?”
Eadric sighed. “You utterly confound me,” he said.
“How did the prospect of my demise make you feel?” She asked. “You must have
considered the
possibility.”
He groaned. “Why do you ask such questions? And why did you evoke this particular
scenario? I suppose it is somehow for my benefit – I doubt that such gardens grow in the
Abyss, or that
tournaments are routinely held there.”
“There are an immeasurable number of delights for those who know where to look,”
Soneillon replied.
“Can you say with certainty that nothing like this could be found there?”
“For a brief while in some place, maybe. Before entropy caused another random scene to
appear, and then it too was swallowed by baseness and depravity.”
“You cling to transience in the hope that it will be eternal,” she shrugged. “I admit to the
inevitability of change, and embrace it. Which of us is more authentic?”
He shook his head. “Your rhetoric does not move me.”
“That is because you are secure in the knowledge that you are right, irrespective of any
ideas offered to the contrary. If you were truly interested in results, rather than abstract
ethical concerns, then you would embrace me and what I have to offer you. I could show
you the secret path, Eadric. I believe you have integrity enough to withstand the void. To
overcome unbeing…”
A look of horror crossed his face as the magnitude of what she was suggesting sank into
his
consciousness. “I am sure that if I were to fall in the process of defeating Graz’zt, then few
things would make you happier.”
“Unlike Titivilus, I have no desire to see you fall, Eadric,” Soneillon replied with
surprising earnestness. “Nor would I push you. But if you were to seize your potential
with both hands – if you were to jump – then I would say that you had done the right
thing.”
“No doubt you would find me more tractable in such circumstances.”
“Far less so, in fact. You have no concept of the power and dominion that you could
wield.”
“Power holds no attraction for me.”
“That is because you have never truly exercised it,” Soneillon whispered.
“If it came at the price of eternal madness and self-loathing, then I think that I would do
better without it.”
Soneillon reached out to touch his face, and he recoiled. She sighed. “If I evinced these
qualities, then I would admit that your argument is valid. The offer remains open, Eadric,
if at any stage you should change your mind – not that I expect you to.”
“You are very, very dangerous.”
“You are afraid.”
“Of an eternity shackled to you in a pit of despair?” Eadric laughed. “I think that is a
reasonable fear.”
“There are no shackles. I offer only self-determination, and an end to anguish.”
“No doubt,” he said wrily, “you think that I would come willingly to you after this
‘liberation.’”
“I think you would,” Soneillon half-smiled. “And I know nothing of ‘eternity’ – which is
your construction, not mine. A millennium, maybe. Or an epoch. Or an aeon.”
“Put the possibility from your mind, Soneillon.”
“As you wish, Ahma.” The religious epithet was not lost on Eadric, although he was
unsure of why she chose to use it now. But it would be a good aeon.
He smiled and shook his head. She just couldn’t resist.
Soneillon stretched, and her manner became more practical. “Shall we stroll? The sun is
warm, and we
can watch the joust while we iron out the details of how to proceed. We have much to
discuss.”
He nodded. “At least I can tolerate this scene – you could have chosen a far darker one.”
“This is your dreamscape, Eadric, not mine. I am an interloper – although I think perhaps I
should maintain this dream’s cohesion, to appease your misplaced sense of continuity.”
*
They sat in a small booth. Eadric winced as he watched a knight fall to the ground,
expertly unhorsed by a cavalier who wore armour enamelled with intricate motifs in gold
and green. Every detail was so precise that it was impossible to label the experience as
anything other than completely real.
A pixie appeared and poured him a large glass of iced tea. Eadric raised an eyebrow.
“Forgive the inconsistency,” Soneillon apologized. “I stole the fey from Ortwin’s dream.
He won’t miss it.”
Eadric said nothing of the sprite who had visited him previously.
“Abyssal politics are complex, Eadric,” the Demoness sighed. “And the more power one
possesses, the more complex they become – with a few notable exceptions, such as
Carasch, of whom I believe Nufrut already informed you.”
As the knight in gold and green trotted in a slow circuit, Soneillon languidly raised a silk
scarf.
“Graz’zt,” she continued, “being very powerful, is enmeshed in a web of interlocking
interests of enormous subtlety. In order to hold Throile, he needs to divert resources from
other areas – such as his war with Orcus – or risk losing it back to me in short order.”
The knight rode up and lowered his lance, and Soneillon pinned the scarf to it. She tossed
a garland of black lotuses towards him.
“Thus, conquering Throile is one thing, but holding it is entirely another. There is no
defense that he can erect which I cannot overcome – unless he comes there personally.
Even then, given sufficient time and preparation, I can probably circumvent it. Moreover,
the Paling is my construction: it responds to my commands – not his. And there are
interconnected wrinkles within the fabric of the plane which his servants cannot
penetrate.”
“Wrinkles?” Eadric asked.
“Nondimensional spaces. Demiplanes. Pockets of time and space which abut Throile
itself.”
“And Adyell? How close was she in your confidence? How many of your secrets does she
know?”
“Less than she would like to think. Nonetheless, I have underestimated her ability. The
disjunctions that she used to bring down the defense were something of a surprise – I
thought I had siphoned her power more effectively.* She must have hidden a little from
me.”
“Where is she now?”
“In Azzagrat,” the Demoness replied. “No doubt she is petitioning Graz’zt for suzerainty
of Throile, and using every wile within her means to persuade him.”
Soneillon clapped politely as her chosen knight unhorsed another rival.
“Your forces have been overwhelmed, Soneillon. I wonder if you are really this
unperturbed, or whether this demonstration of calm indifference is for my benefit?”
“Scattered is not overwhelmed,” she replied smoothly, “although it’s true that my goristroi
and my jariliths have been all but eliminated, and that is a sore loss. Or maybe not: I am
no longer fighting a defensive action.”
“Mostin had hoped that you would deploy them in Afqithan – if he carries off his
dimensional lock, then they would have proven useful. He fears Kostchtchie’s giants.”
“Mostin exhibits an unusual degree of prescience,” Soneillon smiled, turning to Eadric. “It
is enough to cause me to wonder where he gets his information. I have myself only
recently heard news that
Kostchtchie is mobilizing for certain.”
“Mostin is…”
“You are a terrible liar, Eadric, so I will not press the point: I suspect that it would make
you uncomfortable. As to Afqithan, I will still commit what I can when Nhura has
gathered her rabble
together. I feel somewhat responsible – after all, it was I who made her queen in the first
place.”
Eadric refocused. The Demoness’s manner was so natural, so effortless, that it was easy to
forget who she was. Responsible? Hardly, he thought. “And Throile?”
“Throile can wait,” she answered. “It will be there when the current crisis has passed. And
Graz’zt expects some kind of counter-offensive there. Helitihai will lead a group of
insurgents – which should occupy whoever Graz’zt or Ainhorr appoints as despot. But I
will reserve a sizable force for Afqithan.”
Eadric sighed. “What of Rhyxali, Soneillon? She remains only a name to me.”
Soneillon laughed. “I think that is the way that she prefers it. She is very furtive.”
“I still don’t understand what her interest in this is.”
“Nor am I entirely sure,” Soneillon admitted. “I suspect that it goes beyond reclaiming
Afqithan –
maybe even beyond taking Azzagrat for herself. I am not privy to her wider schemes.”
“Is her manner as disarming as yours?”
“I’m sure it could be, if she so chose.”
He groaned. “Fiends are so indirect. I often feel that it would be better if I could simply
deal with them as they are. You spoke of authenticity before – but I have yet to see you
display that quality. You play games, and hide behind masques and personae in order to
achieve your ends.”
“I am authentic in that regard – that is my nature. And although I understand your
grievance, you need to comprehend that, even amongst the Fallen, I am a rarity. I have
tasted oblivion Eadric, and it is sweet.”
“Still you dissemble.”
Her wings unfurled. Suddenly, the malignity in Soneillon seemed palpable. It was so
profound that
Eadric shook. His head span. Even in Throile, she had never evinced it to him, hiding it
behind a
veneer of lightness and courtesy. Here was an abomination, with a billion lifetimes of
wickedness and hatred to its name.
“Is this what you want?” She asked.
The dreamscape around them melted into a scene of agony and madness. His limbs
atrophied, and his
mind screamed as her claws sank into him, sapping his strength. She straddled him, and
consumed him.
Reeling, Eadric strove to regain consciousness, and a hundred false awakenings dragged
him yet
further into a mire of despair. Her release was so sudden – and so violent – that he feared
he would be annihilated. Her Will – which seemed irresistible – drew him with her.
Like one who has dived too far, he gasped as he broke the surface of the nightmare, only
to find
himself within the booth again, watching the tourney. Soneillon sat next to him. She
seemed unfazed, and poured another glass of iced tea.
“Dreams within dreams,” she smiled. “Shall I show you more?”
He turned his face away from her.
She vanished and reappeared in an instant, kneeling on his left side with her face inches
from his. Her eyes bored into him.
“It is merely another facet, Eadric. A persona. It is part of me, but I am more complex than
that.
Nothing becomes – you know this. Jump, Eadric. I will catch you.”
**
The raven watched as the heavy torc dropped from its talons and turned three times in the
air, before landing in the still water below with a plop.
Gone. The torc was gone. A feeling of liberation mixed with sadness and loss washed over
the bird. In order to do what he had to do, the raven needed to sever his connection with
the thing he wanted to be closest to. The irony was not lost on him. Centuries before,
worshippers in the nascent cult of Uedii had tossed gold into lakes in supplication, or to
appease the dangerous moods of their Goddess. The raven wondered whether they had felt
the same wrench that he did now. But if the sacrifice did not diminish the devotee, then
how could it be genuine?
In due course, perhaps the nereid who dwelt in the lake would find the torc. Nwm hoped
that, if so, she would put its magic to good use.
A spell, he thought to himself. I must make a spell, to reestablish the connection. Some
day.
As he winged away northwards, towards the mountains and the encroaching winter snow,
Nwm exulted
in the feeling of wind on his wings. Perhaps he would stay as a bird for a week or two.
The perspective might be good for him.
Over Iald – not too far from Hullu’s former abode – he spotted a group of crows and
ravens circling above the treetops.
A wolf kill, he knew.
Nwm descended to feed.
*
“He’s just gone?” Eadric groaned. “Why didn’t he speak to me about it?”
“Probably because he thought you would talk him out of it,” Ortwin said. He handed a
letter to the Ahma. Eadric grunted, and read it:
I’m going on retreat for three months or so. Don’t disturb me, please. I’ll see you when the
thaw begins.
Nwm.
“This is inconvenient,” Eadric remarked.
“It’s a damned pain in the arse, that’s what it is,” Mostin grumbled bitterly. “I need Nwm
for the quiescence of the spheres. Now I’ll need to tweak it, and Koilimilou will have to
participate. We’ve just lost a third of our firepower.”
But as he sat later in reflection, Eadric felt numb and listless. His dreams – if they could
be called dreams – of the previous night lay heavily upon him. He had spoken to no-one of
them. The only
person whose perspective he really valued had decided to disappear for a season. And Iua
had gone –
was she coming back? What was Ortwin doing? Attempting to seduce Koilimilou?
His stomach turned. A pall of corruption seemed to be settling over them – not entirely
unexpected, given their allies, but no less unwelcome. He wondered if Nwm was getting
out for precisely that
reason.
**
Mulissu exited the extradimensional space – a variation of Mostin’s permanent
magnificent mansion
where she spent much time – and stepped into the courtyard of the small palace in her
pocket demiplane.
She was expecting a visit from a djinn called Rauot, a messenger from Magathei who
brought Mulissu a stipend every six months: her fifty-pound alimony of gold from the
estranged Ulao. Typically – and ironically – Mulissu would fritter the money when she
made her occasional secret visits to the
marketplaces of Magathei itself.
She flew past screens and archways into a comfortable reception chamber – an open and
well-lit
conservatory. A variety of exotic foliage bloomed in clay tubs and crept up slender pillars
which
supported the enamelled ceiling. As she floated – absorbed in aery thought – she became
alerted to another presence in the chamber. Suddenly, the world felt dead.
She froze.
“Please sit,” a voice said from behind her.
Without word or gesture, in a moment’s thought, Mulissu exited the time stream. The
Elementalist,
although no coward, was no fool either. And more time was always better than less.
She turned to observe a demon sitting comfortably in one of her large wicker chairs.
Beautiful was a woefully inadequate description of him: his skin was a deep, bluish-black;
his musculature, perfect. He possessed features which were somehow both bestial and
refined, as though infinite barbarity and utter sophistication had been distilled into a single
face. The force of his presence was staggering, and even within the stasis of the spell, his
stillness seemed impossible or unreal: here was an entity of utter dynamism. Mulissu – no
expert in demonology – was immediately aware of his identity. The fact that Graz’zt had
made no effort to disguise himself was also significant, although Mulissu wrily observed
that there were any number of possible reasons for his apparent lack of subterfuge.
Mulissu attempted to make a passage of lightning**: her destination was Morne in Wyre.
The translation failed, and she realized that Graz’zt had already placed some kind of ward
which prevented the use of the spell. And, no doubt, teleport, gate and any number of
other transportation spells.
She could not flee, nor could she realistically assault her uninvited guest. She stood small
chance of penetrating his defenses with anything other than an electrical evocation –
which might tickle him at best.
She invoked a limited wish in order to issue a sending to Mostin. It failed.
Calling upon the power in the sapphire which hung around her neck, Mulissu tried to erect
a prismatic sphere around herself. Somehow, the force of her amulet was subdued, and the
defensive spell did not manifest.
In fact, nothing which was not a transvalent spell would work, it seemed.
She fled away at breakneck speed. The restricted area could not be big – even for Graz’zt,
such an act would surely require a monumental effort. She would retreat back into the
magnificent mansion.
As she approached the portal to the extradimensional space, a breeze stirred from a bound
elemental, alerting Mulissu to the fact that time had resumed its normal flow. To the
Elementalist’s utter confusion, a gate was already open within her courtyard. The scene
through the new portal was of another courtyard, in which Mostin stood, beckoning to her.
Guessing correctly that the Alienist had had some presentiment regarding her straits,
Mulissu sped through the gate into the bailey of Kyrtill’s Burh.
*
Mostin had been walking from the Steeple to the library in the main building of the keep
when the
prolepsis had overwhelmed him: the sum total of events within Mulissu’s demiplane
revealed to him in an instant, together with several dozen possible outcomes. He had also
known that he only had around six seconds to act – an uncomfortably brief period.
He had invoked a time stop, plane shifted and passed through into the courtyard of
Mulissu’s palace with a quickened dimension door. He had swallowed as he saw her,
suspended in the air next to a fountain, the flow of which was frozen in time and space.
Behind her, half-manifested from a
teleportation, Graz’zt was an insubstantial haze. Mostin knew that the demon had
dismissed whatever ward he had set upon the place in order to intercept the fleeing
Elementalist. He knew that Mulissu was incapable of invoking another transportation
spell. And he also knew that she must not enter her own extradimensional retreat: it was
not safe. He had quickly interposed a wall of force between Mulissu and Graz’zt, blocking
the demon’s line of effect – opened a gate and retreated back to Wyre.
*
Mulissu appeared next to Mostin.
“You have the web of motes, am I correct?” Mostin asked. He knew that she did, but he
still sought a verbal confirmation.
Mulissu nodded dumbly. She turned and looked back through the gate. Graz’zt
disintegrated the wall of force and walked calmly towards the portal.
“Dammit Mostin, shut that thing down. Stop screwing around.” Like the Alienist, Mulissu
knew that the Demon could not pass through – the gate was not for him, and the Interdict
forbade his entry. It was, nonetheless, a disquieting scene.
Mostin ignored her. He was taking the chance to study his enemy – knowing that such an
opportunity was unlikely to arise again. The membrane which separated the two realities
seemed uncomfortably
thin.
“Mostin!” Mulissu screamed.
He closed the gate abruptly.
*
Eadric was confused. “You said that he would not leave Azzagrat.”
“Technically, he didn’t,” Mostin replied, smiling. “He corporeated a body from the Astral
Plane. He was
projecting.”
“Does that make any difference?” Ortwin asked.
“In practical terms, no,” Mostin admitted. “Except that this is a tactic which he will start to
employ against us routinely, and we are in trouble. Even if we kill him, it won’t kill him –
if you know what I mean.”
“Why didn’t he simply eliminate Mulissu?”
“The most likely explanation is that he wished to interrogate her – I foresaw that she
might be taken to Azzagrat and subjected to scrutiny within his sanctum.”
Mulissu looked horrified. “This is your fault, Mostin. Gods, I should blast you for
involving me in this.
My work. My books. I must retrieve my scrolls…”
“You most certainly will not,” Mostin snapped. “Forget your pocket paradise, Mulissu – it
will never be safe again. Nor will the extradimensional space. And be thankful that he
underestimated your power –
you’re lucky that he didn’t anticipate that you might have a transvalent temporal escape
plan.”
“And your retreat, Mostin?” Eadric asked. “Is it safe?”
“No,” Mostin replied sadly. “I suppose not.”
“Was it ever?” Eadric grumbled. “What has changed, which makes it vulnerable now?”
“He is bending his mind upon us now, Eadric. In earnest. He glimpses possibilities which
disturb him.
He is laying intricate plans. I suspect that things will start to get very messy. Very soon.
Mulissu, we could use you – will you…”
“Where is Iua?” She hissed.
“Fumaril,” Ortwin said.
” Scry her, and take me there now, Mostin.”
The Alienist nodded.
“And Mostin, after you have done that, I never want to see you again. Are we clear on
that?”
“Yes, Mulissu. Quite clear.” Mostin exhaled sharply, unsure of whether she really meant it
this time.
* In game terms, Soneillon ensures that her chief servants (who are sorceresses) never
advance beyond a certain level (17th) by drawing on their xp reserves to fuel her own epic
spells.
**A kind of plane shift – teleport combo.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 04-26-2004
****
****
Mésalliance
BREY: Sela, what does it mean, to ‘Fall?’
TRAMST: To Fall is to reject that which you have experienced to be true, in favour of that
which you know, in your heart, to be false.
BREY: And what is truth?
TRAMST: That, unfortunately, is subjective.
BREY: Is it therefore possible for two people who share similar experiences, to have
different destinies in this regard? By virtue of their different perspectives, may one Fall,
and another not?
TRAMST: That is more common than one may at first think.
BREY: And when two irrefutable truths come into conflict? How does one then decide?
TRAMST: That, Brey, is why we practice Saizhan.
BREY: Hence Saizhan always reveals the correct truth.
TRAMST: No, Brey. Saizhan always determines the correct truth. The distinction is
crucial.
BREY: Should one always choose the harder truth?
TRAMST: Often this transpires to be the case, but to adopt it as a premise leads to the
Adversarial paradigm, which Saizhan teaches us is incomplete. Evidently, this is so, or the
Adversary himself would not have Fallen.
BREY: I understand.
TRAMST: No, Brey, you do not. Which is why I am the master, and you are the student.
**
The Sprite materialized within the deepest reaches of the Forest of Nizkur, picked an acorn
from the
ground, and examined it briefly.
Pressing the seed with its thumb into the soft earth, the Sprite waved his hand casually.
A sapling shot forth, and began to grow rapidly. The Sprite watched in satisfaction as a
trunk fattened, boughs twisted, and leaflets unfurled from twigs. Bark became pitted,
cracked and thick. Mistletoe and ivy appeared around the bole, and moss burgeoned inside
of damp recesses. Within twenty seconds, the tree matured. It could have been there for
five hundred years. The leaves turned a deep gold, and began to fall, as if in an effort to
catch up with the surrounding forest.
The Sprite’s legs bent, and he sprang upwards, leaping eighty feet into the air and
alighting softly below the crown of the tree. He sat and waited.
Presently, he heard laughter. A nymph capered by, pursued by two lusty wood-gnomes
with ruddy
noses. Plucking an oak-apple from a nearby branch, the Sprite hurled it with considerable
force,
striking the nymph soundly on her rump.
She stopped abruptly and glared upwards. “How dare you interrupt my frolicking?” The
nymph looked suspiciously at the tree – she didn’t remember it being there, the last time
she had passed through this part of the forest.
“Hlioth, it is I,” the Sprite called down. “I’m back. Come, we need to talk!”
Hlioth, the Green Witch, squealed in delight and abandoned her would-be suitors with
looks of
disappointment on their faces. She appeared immediately on the branch next to the Sprite
and embraced him.
“Back so soon, Fillein? I was expecting a longer absence.”
“I am no longer Fillein,” the Sprite sighed. “Nor was I last time, if you recall. I barely
even remember who Fillein was.”
Hlioth shrugged. “No matter. What is your name now?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
Hlioth clapped. “Splendid. I will choose one for you.”
“Very well,” the Sprite seemed amused.
“Will you be a fey now?” Hlioth asked archly.
“Yes, Hlioth.”
“What is your genus? I don’t recognize it.”
“I am unique,” the Sprite replied.
“Then your name is Huhip. ”
“That is somewhat too aspirated for my tastes.”
“Then Gudge,” Hlioth replied.
“It sounds like an affliction of the bowels,” the Sprite observed.
“May I choose or not?” Hlioth grumbled.
“Only if you choose correctly,” the Sprite laughed.
“Then your name is Teppu.”
“That will do nicely,” Teppu nodded.
Hlioth smiled. “I must say, I think you have made an excellent choice with regard to your
form –
although I admit I may be a little biased. Are you still a wizard?”
“No,” Teppu replied. ” I have chosen an instinctive, blended form,* in order to avoid the
Injunction.
Besides, I find wizardry dull.”
Hlioth laughed. “I came to a similar conclusion some time ago. Can you show me?”
Teppu smiled, and quickly clapped his hands three times. A supernova of magic exploded
outwards
from him. It seemed as though, suddenly, sapience was everywhere.
Hlioth laughed and cried in happiness. “That is beautiful. How many did you awaken?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Hundreds. Thousands, maybe.”
“You are Green, Teppu.”
“I am Green,” he nodded.
“Do you still dream?”
“Of course I still dream, Hlioth.”
A look of concern crossed her face briefly. “And the web of motes? Will you seek its
return?”
“Why, Hlioth? Who cares about the future?”
She kissed him fondly on the forehead. The trees around him regarded him with warmth.
**
Eadric stood on the roof of the Steeple, wrapped in a thick fur, and stared blankly
northwards towards the gathering clouds of winter. The cloak was superfluous – he no
longer felt the cold – and he
wondered whether wearing it would remain an affectation on days when the wind blew
from Tomur, down from the mountains.
He brooded upon Nhura. When would she be ready? For every day which passed in
Faerie, a week dragged by in the World of Men: the delay was becoming unbearable,
sapping his focus and resolve.
He remembered the long period of uncertainty before he had marched on Morne, and this
seemed a
thousand times worse – a bleakness and desperation which he had never before
experienced surrounded this venture. And constantly, he forced his thoughts away from
dwelling upon his dream: the black
ecstasy which Soneillon had forced upon him, and a foretaste of what could be if he so
chose it. She had dominated him utterly, and to a large extent he felt the blame was his: he
had all but insisted that she reveal her most malign and brutal face to him. So she had
demonstrated. But he had dreamed it, and he didn’t know how real it had really been.
Five more nights had passed since then, and, although his sleep was troubled, the Ahma
had received no visitation – either from Soneillon or the Sprite. Now he was mind blanked
– Mostin said that, henceforth, they must always be mind blanked, to prevent covert
observation from afar by Graz’zt. The Alienist had also warned that it might not be an
effective defense, but it was the best that he could do.
Mostin had closeted himself within his study, and begun to work half-heartedly on yet
another spell in the absence of news from Faerie: Eadric had seen little of him, and the
interaction between them had been tense and uncomfortable.
The Alienist was preoccupied with his own troubles and his strained friendship with
Mulissu – he had issued a number of sendings to the Elementalist, none of which received
a reply. His insistence that she was safer near him – where she could be warded – had
fallen of deaf ears. And Mostin was vexed by
another dilemma: he could not enter the extradimensional portion of his retreat and
summon anything there for fear of direct assault from Graz’zt; nor could he conjure
anything outside of it, without violating the Injunction. The loophole outside of the
Claviger’s domain had been effectively closed to him, because the Celestial Interdict did
not apply there either. In the times when his head was not full of esoteric formulae, Mostin
ruminated upon the Horror, and whether to make another translation to the Far Realm or
not. Or complained about his house-guests: both Ortwin and Koilimilou were lodged with
the Alienist. Eadric received the distinct impression that the Satyr was avoiding him.
Nonetheless, at precisely eight o’clock every evening, Mostin would arrive and renew the
ward upon Eadric. And for that, the Ahma was thankful. He groaned. He desperately
wanted to confide in Nwm.
He descended from the tower and into the courtyard where a trio of supplicants waited –
pilgrims from Trempa who sought his blessing. One suffered from a blight which had
caused her skin to crack with sores and pustules, and a rheum had settled upon her eyes.
Eadric performed a brief, perfunctory rite, did his best to smile, entered the keep, and
bolted the door behind him. Within, it seemed cold and unwelcoming.
He furrowed his brow, strode into the Great Hall – which seemed particularly damp – and
picked up a wooden mallet. He began striking a large, iron bell, and did not desist until all
eleven of his servants stood before him.**
He turned to his clerk. “Bocere, bring me the ledgers.”
Bocere, who managed the finances of three estates – Deorham, Hernath and Droming – on
a day-to-day basis, and seldom left his small office, looked sceptical. “Are you sure,
Ahma? It will take several weeks to go over them. It has been a long time, after all…”
Eadric grunted. “Then bring me a summary. The rest of you – except Hawi – open every
shutter and every window, light every fire. Remove dust, dirt and debris – including from
the library. This place is beginning to depress me.”
He tossed a purse to the stablehand. Hawi caught it, opened it and gawked – it contained
more gold than he would earn in five years.
“Go into Deorham,” Eadric instructed, “and find some more help. Start at the Twelve
Elms. Do not return until you have secured the services of another maid, two lackeys, two
linkboys and a minstrel –
not a juggler. Offer them twice what they ask for, and give them a month’s advance.”
The boy nodded enthusiastically.
“Try to find a good minstrel, Hawi,” Eadric sighed. Although he didn’t hold much hope,
the village of
Deorham was on the route from Morne to Trempa, and Hawi might get lucky. “You have
two days. You may stay at the inn. Eat well, but do not consume too much ale – every
penny should be accounted for.”
“Why, Ahma, I…”
Eadric raised his hand. “You will also post a notice that I am seeking permanent retainers
of quality.
Including a castellan.”
The announcement was greeted by a stunned silence.
“I realize this may be upsetting,” Eadric said, although he felt unusually unsympathetic,
“but it may be that presently I will leave for some time. In the event that I do not return –
which is entirely possible – I would like my affairs set in order. Be assured that I will
appoint someone of gentle birth and fair mind to guard your interests in the meanwhile.”
He knew that, as soon the news of his intentions became known, the younger brothers and
second sons of dozens of nobles would clamour for the position.
Gossip spread like wildfire amongst Trempa’s aristocracy.
He turned again to Bocere. “How much of the endowment to the Temple remains to be
paid?***”
Bocere coughed. “One hundred and thirty-thousand crowns.”
“I will sign over the deeds to Hernath.”
” Ahma…”
Eadric raised an eyebrow.
“Yes, Ahma.”
**
Ninit charged.
The red haze was upon her again, and she swung the spear Rengh around her head like a
flail, whilst guiding Drût effortlessly with her knees. Her copper hair blazed in the wan
sunlight, and her
bloodstained form rippled with power and restless purpose. The stallion’s hooves – bright
with white fire – flashed to momentary incandescence as it reared and hammered down
upon the creatures which
assailed her. As usual, she was alone: seeking alone, stalking alone, slaying alone. And in
her madness, none of those who considered her an ally could approach her in any event:
her anger was elemental, and best avoided by those who purposed to live.
The demons recoiled.
The goddess pressed forwards, and slew. And slew. And slew. And when she had slain
them all, and
their grizzled, muscled forms lay in stinking, steaming heaps around her, the frenzy finally
passed.
She spat, and cursed them. The ground shuddered, ripped open briefly, and swallowed
their already
festering remains.
Ninit whispered to Drût, and they rode north across the plains to find more. The hairy ones
which
jumped were easy prey – although not as easy as the fat, squat ones which drooled. The
toad-like ones, and the ones with four arms were trickier – although they seemed
comparatively rare. The ones with the hooks on their heads were sly and vicious, and she
hated them most of all: they always seemed to slip away at the last minute. But however
many she killed, there always seemed to be more. She
squinted.
Somewhat later, from the corner of her eye, she spied a bird winging towards her at great
speed: a kestrel or falcon, although at a distance of more than a mile it was hard for the
goddess to be sure. She wheeled Drût about, and waited for it to reach her: she saw that it
was a peregrine. Which meant that it was Lai.
Ninit groaned, and swore. The goddess of magic assumed her natural shape nearby.
“What do you want?” Ninit grunted.
“Rhul has departed for the place called Wyre.”
“What do I care?”
“He seeks allies, Ninit.”
Ninit shrugged.
“Where are you riding?” Lai asked.
“North,” Ninit said through narrowed eyes.
“May I join you?”
“If you must,” Ninit sighed. “But stay out of my way, Lai.”
“If you were to return to Mulhuk…” Lai began.
“And shut up,” Ninit said.
**
Titivilus waited.
He was becoming impatient – he had been kept for five days in an antechamber of black
steel high in the north face of the Iron Tower. A single aperture, three feet square, offered a
restricted view of the endless city of Dis two miles below – in the rare moments when the
infernal haze and acrid fog lifted sufficiently to permit it. Thousands of erinyes constantly
patrolled the airs outside – their vectors changing on every pass which they made.
When his summons finally came, a mixture of relief and foreboding replaced a feeling of
paranoia and anxiety, and he followed a silent, scarred pit fiend through a tortuous maze of
interconnecting chambers and corridors into a reception room of unfathomable height.
A conclave of powerful devils, arrayed in awful forms, awaited him. They sat grimly on
carved iron sieges around an iron table etched with scenes which portrayed the Great
Revolt.
Titivilus bowed suavely, whilst taking in their number, political allegiances, and relative
dispositions in an instant. The fact that Neabaz, the Herald of Baalzebul, was present
caused the convoluted mind of Titivilus to twist in a hundred new ways.
“Sit,” Dispater smiled.
Titivilus sat.
“Our objectives have changed,” Dispater said calmly.
Titivilus nodded. His mind raced. What objectives? By ‘our’ does he mean ‘our’ or ‘my?’
Or maybe
‘his?’
“The Chief Protagonist of our Cause has ordered that the status quo must be maintained,”
Dispater said opaquely.
“Sire?” Titivilus asked. Evidently, he meant ‘his.’
“The force currently under Murmuur’s command will move to support Graz’zt in
Afqithan,” Dispater explained. “Shomei’s petition to Bathym was quashed.”
Titivilus resisted the urge to allow a look of amazement to cross his face.
“You will bring seals to Azzagrat, and then return to Afqithan,” Dispater continued. “Take
a group as suits your needs. When you do return to the demiplane, you will find that your
precedence has been diminished. I advise that you do not attempt to undermine or subvert
those who have been appointed to
the task: you will find them less lenient than I.”
“Who has been given this responsibility, Sire?” Titivilus inquired.
“Azazel,” Dispater smiled. “He will have three Akesoli with him.”
The Nuncio’s eyes flickered.
Dispater gave an inquisitive look. “Never before have I seen you evince genuine surprise,
Titivilus.”
“Nor I, Sire,” Titivilus agreed.
“That is all.”
The Nuncio of Dis stood, bowed, and made to depart. But as he reached the doors to the
chamber, his master spoke again.
“And Titivilus?”
He turned around.
“Your mandate for the temptation of Eadric of Deorham is hereby revoked.”
He bowed again, but showed no sign of his irritation. Inwardly he was livid.
“May I inquire why?” He asked.
“No,” Dispater smiled.
Titivilus departed in a calm fury.
**
A light dusting of snow – the first of that winter – lay upon the ground when Soneillon
visited Eadric again: he sat alone in his library, reading by the light of an oil-lamp. It was
late in the evening, and her appearance was foreshadowed by a feeling of darker anxiety
which played across the Ahma‘s already troubled thoughts. Her façade was, as always,
entirely convincing: the demoness tilted her head, and began scanning the spines of books
upon the shelves. She walked slowly, her footfall quieter than a cat.
He scowled. “Is there some purpose to your presence here, or are you merely making a
social visit?”
“Does everything have to have a purpose?” She asked in response.
“Yes,” he answered.
“In that case,” Soneillon smiled, “I am merely making a social visit. You have an
impressive library.
How many tomes do you possess?”
Eadric sighed. “Are you attempting to engage me in small-talk, Soneillon?”
“I thought you might appreciate some company, as your friends are otherwise occupied.”
She walked towards him, and sat lightly upon the arm of his chair.
“And the Queen of Throile has no better way to spend her time?”
“Than seducing the Breath of God?” Soneillon laughed. “I think not. Some of the more
interesting volumes in your collection are charred. Why?”
“Certain members of the Inquisition were over-zealous in their hunt for heretical books
and
manuscripts.”
“Ahh. Before the notion of heresy was itself deemed heretical. What were you reading,
before I interrupted you?”
He silently handed her the book. Its cover, of heavy leather, was cracked and worn; the
vellum pages, soft and well-thumbed:
Estates and Minor Houses of Trempa
“How dreary,” Soneillon sighed. “Do you occupy yourself with mundane affairs such as
these, to avoid brooding on your experience of me?”
“In part. It is not a memory which I enjoy to recall.” He stood up.
She held out a soft hand. Her talons were conspicuously absent. “Come, Eadric. Dream
with me. I will show you something sweeter. Gentle. Tender.”
“You are foul,” he said bitterly.
She raised an eyebrow. “I think perhaps you need lessons in the art of courtship.”
“When will you desist from this charade?” He hissed. “How can I speak more plainly?
You are repellant. You disgust me. Everything that you are is antithetical to all that I value
and hold true. You are an ally of circumstance: there is no commonality in our purpose,
save by unhappy chance. You are base, vile, obscene. You are nothing but a manifestation
of corruption.”
“No,” she said softly. “I am Soneillon. And you cannot see past a dogma which is
outmoded in the philosophy which you purport to espouse. You do Saizhan a disservice.”
“That word has no place in your vocabulary. You degrade it by speaking it.”
She laughed. “You are a sanctimonious fool. Your moralism merely reveals your
ignorance of the Truth. Tell me, Eadric, what does it really mean – Demogorgon? What
use is Saizhan if it cannot reconcile Oronthon with that truth?”
Reality seemed to momentarily darken as she invoked the name of the Ancient – its
power, when
spoken by her, was profound.
“Get out,” he said through gritted teeth.
“You close your eyes and ears, Eadric. You shrink in fear from the Real as much as you
crave it.”
He cursed her. Power coursed through him, as he spoke a holy word.
She smiled, and pressed a finger to his lips.
Groping, Eadric drew Lukarn from where it hung in its scabbard on the back of the chair.
Reality and memory collapsed to a single point in time, and he recalled another demoness
standing in a similar position. Paradox and déjà vu almost overwhelmed him.
“Your desire for me has unbalanced you,” Soneillon scoffed. “You are wracked with guilt
and confusion.”
“I will strike you down if you persist in this.”
“I am your kius, Eadric: your enlightenment lies in me.” She did not relent. “I am that
which you are not. The Void shines, and you will not accept it: for do I not bring you
closer to your God, Ahma?”
He smote her three times with all of his strength. Lukarn bit deep into her neck and
shoulders, opening wounds which smoked and caused space to contort. Agony gripped her
visage as the blade burned
through her. Ichor poured from her, evaporating into nothingness as it struck the wooden
floor of the library. She seemed to stagger uncertainly.
She did not beg, or cajole or threaten. She did not flee, and spoke no spell, although Eadric
knew that she could have extinguished him with a thought. Instead, she assumed her most
malevolent aspect –
winged, naked, dark and terrible. Taint issued from her in potent waves.
“Remain ignorant then, Eadric. Finish me. I’ll make it easy for you,” her smile was that of
a creature which exulted in evil and destruction.
He wavered.
“You are a coward,” she screamed, spitting black blood. “Slay me or bed me, Eadric: you
will need to choose sooner or later, in any case. Do so now. Do I consume your every
waking thought, or no? Do I remind you of her, Ahma, or did she maybe presage me?
Which do you think it is? Can you even recollect her face?” Her words were cruel and
barbed.
Barely, he thought. He felt nauseous: grief and remorse briefly threatened to overcome
him. He swallowed, breathed, lowered his sword, and held out his hand to her.
“Come,” he said shakily. “You cannot mend those wounds.”
“Compassion is wasted on me, Ahma.” Her manner was ironic.
“I know. It is for my benefit, not yours.”
“You have quite a temper, Eadric. Perhaps you should meditate more often.”
The Demoness drew close, and he placed his hands on her neck. She hissed in pain and
pleasure as his fingers probed the trauma.
“Do you never cease?” He sighed.
“I am what I am.”
He gingerly released a little of his power, uncertain of the effect that it might have, before
flooding her with light and warmth. She seemed infinitely passive.
“The scars will remain,” Eadric said.
“I will bear them as a token of your high esteem,” she said drily.
“We have a very unhealthy relationship, Soneillon.”
“Do we? I can’t say that I’ve noticed. May I stay?”
He nodded.
*The basic, mechanical premise for Fillein-Jovol-Teppu was one of a self-incarnating
entity with only one restriction: the ECL of its new incarnation could be no higher than the
ECL of its previous
incarnation at death. All other variables are chosen by the incarnating entity as befits its
new role and purpose.
**At this point in time, Eadric employed only eleven servants in Kyrtill’s Burh: two
cooks, three maids, a stablehand, a butler, a mason/carpenter, a gatekeeper, a clerk, and a
valet. Although there was no shortage of potential employees seeking work at the Burh,
Eadric was conscious of the fact that –
between Inquisitorial burnings and demonic incursions – working for the Ahma entailed a
certain risk.
***Eadric had made a commitment to pay a 200,000 gp donation to the Temple coffers in
order to
cover the debts incurred after the war.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 05-02-2004
****
Innocence
Shomei reclined into an enormous leather chair, and tilted her head inquisitively. She
sipped slowly from a large silver goblet, imbibing a volatile liquid of unknown potency.
The Infernalist seemed
unusually calm and languorous.
“Your dwelling is…beautiful,” Eadric said with surprise and genuine feeling. He was sat
upon the edge of a similar chair, absorbing his surroundings. The room was exquisite – if
somewhat bizarre – in its décor and furnishings. Purples and midnight blues
predominated, and things hung upon walls or rested upon shelves. Crystal lamps emanated
a soft, diffuse light, and a faint hint of incense hung within the air.
“Thank-you,” she smiled.
A spined devil flew past quietly, and glowered at Eadric.
Shomei gestured, and it flapped away, closing a door silently as it exited.
“Would you care for a drink?” She offered, refilling the goblet from a huge crystal
decanter.
“What is it?” He asked.
“It is called kschiff,” she replied. “Do not consume too much – it will stupefy you. A little
will relax you, however.”
“How much is too much?” Eadric had the impression that Shomei was fast approaching
that point.
“I will tell you when to stop.”
The goblet floated gently towards him, and he caught it uncertainly. Its contents smelled
faintly of orange blossoms, and the taste was astringent. But curiously agreeable.
‘Thank-you for receiving me at such short notice,” Eadric said. “I know that the time of a
wizard is precious.”
“That is particularly true in my case,” she half-smiled.
He swallowed. “Shomei, I…”
She held up a hand. “We will not speak of it.”
He sank back into the chair.
“You are here to talk about Soneillon,” Shomei said.
He nodded, wondering whether she had foreseen it, guessed it, or determined it through
some other
means.
“Am I being asked in the capacity of friend, spiritual advisor, or advocate for the
antinomian perspective?” She asked.
“I’m not sure,” Eadric furrowed his brow. “Although the idea of you as a spiritual advisor
is disturbing.
You are something of an authority on fiends, however, and I thought your perspective
might be useful.”
“Have you considered speaking to the Sela?”
Eadric smiled. “I consider speaking to the Sela approximately once every three seconds.”
“That is probably a good thing,” Shomei ventured. “It would indicate that you are in touch
with the source of your Truth. Your internal dialogue has not been compromised. May I
ask a number of
difficult questions?”
“Er, yes,” he said dubiously.
“If Nehael’s release is achieved, how do you think Soneillon will react to a rival?”
He shifted uncomfortably.
“Perhaps it would be better for you if somehow Soneillon were conveniently destroyed
prior to liberating Nehael?”
“Shomei, that is most unfair.”
“These are practical considerations, Eadric.” She gestured, and the goblet floated back
towards him again. He hadn’t noticed that, at some point, she had refilled it. “May I ask
you another question?”
He nodded. He felt that he was beginning to relax.
“Have you entertained the possibility that Soneillon may be fertile? Succubi can enter the
equivalent of oestrus at will, and the gestation is extremely fast – days, if I recall correctly.
She may use this to exert leverage over you. How would you react if this transpired to be
the case?”
His mind span.
“Let me posit another scenario,” Shomei said, reaching out as the goblet returned to her.
Eadric found that he was watching her lips move. Her voice seemed to drift slowly
through his head.
“What if Nehael perishes? I am assuming that she is presently alive, of course – the web of
motes indicated as much. Can you retain your integrity of purpose under those
circumstances? If Soneillon were to – for example – offer you a way out, would you
accept it?”
He groaned.
“Because you could endure the Void, Eadric. I have no doubt on that count. I have seen the
tendril of possibility.”
“It will not happen,” he said.
“Nor will Shomei the Infernal ever embrace Saizhan,” Shomei smiled ironically.
The goblet seemed to appear from nowhere, hovering in front of Eadric’s face. He grasped
it, and set it down.
There was a brief silence.
“Why is the darkness so compelling, Shomei?” He asked.
She smiled. “Because it is dark, of course.”
“Do you think Ortwin was correct – when he suggested that my desire to overcome duality
through any means is the source of my fascination? That it might prove my undoing?”
“The hierosgamos? Maybe. But I think there was no such moral judgment implicit in
Ortwin’s words, merely that you inferred one. Are you inclined to symbolic microcosmic
speculation?”
“I might be, if I knew what it was,” the goblet had appeared in front of him again. He
sighed, and drank. He found his eyes resting on the curve of Shomei’s neck, and tore them
away.
She raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps I should have warned you that kschiff also possesses
aphrodisiac qualities. Don’t worry – I have no intention of seducing you. Your life is
complicated enough already.”
She sighed. “I think you are teetering on the edge of oblivion, Eadric – this is a place rife
with temptation, but it also possesses infinite spiritual possibility. Everything will become
a paradox, and you will be forced to redefine who you are on a continual basis.”
” Now you begin to sound like an advocate for the short, steep path,” he said grimly.
“I think your role is ultimately Adversarial, Eadric.”
“The Sela once said something similar to me, regarding my place in the downfall of
Orthodoxy.”
“Perhaps you should have listened to him,” she remarked wrily. “To avoid falling, all you
must do is remain grounded in Saizhan. Everything else is superfluous.”
A longer silence followed.
“In the past I have misjudged you, Shomei,” Eadric sighed. “I’m sorry.”
She shrugged, and looked away.
“You are very defensive.”
“Yes,” she replied.
“I feel I’ve missed the opportunity of a good friendship.”
She swallowed, unwilling to meet his gaze.
“Bliss is not so bad, Shomei. If the weight of becoming is so heavy…”
She raised a hand, her eyes filling with tears. “There is no possibility that I have not
considered, Ahma.”
He held her hand gently. It seemed tiny.
She wept.
*
After Eadric had returned to Deorham through the portal which Mostin had opened,
Shomei sat alone
in reflection.
Somewhat before midnight, she renewed her mind blank, protected herself with other,
sundry wards, grasped her rod, and opened a gate to Phlegethos. Soon thereafter she met
with Bathym for their third –
and Shomei hoped last – series of negotiations.
She was furious to discover that the Duke of Hell had reneged on their agreement utterly,
and would no longer be committing a single devil to the ‘situation’ in Afqithan. Nor would
he explain why.
It made no sense. The reason for Shomei’s initial involvement in Afqithan had been
because certain powerful devils had expressed a desire that Graz’zt be removed from the
cosmic scheme of things. She wondered what had changed.
She returned to Wyre.
Mostin was awakened at two in the morning – from his usual bizarre dreams – by an
incessant banging on his door.
*
The Alienist appeared in his robe of eyes. Shomei glared at him, and wondered whether he
wore it to bed like a night-gown, to avoid being surprised by things which might otherwise
surprise him.
“I’ve been f*cked over,” the Infernalist spat, barging in.
“I see the kschiff has worn off,” Mostin remarked.
“Bathym has backed out.”
Orolde arrived from his room in order to answer the door. Mostin sighed.
The two Wizards repaired to Mostin’s study, and the Alienist instructed that the Sprite
bring them cakes and hot buttered firewine. He kindled a fire, and spent several moments
adjusting the illumination such that it was just so.
Shomei fidgeted. She glanced around. Mostin’s workplace was uncharacteristically
cluttered and
disorganized.
“What are you working on?” She asked suspiciously.
“A pseudonatural summons,” he grumbled. “When I have the time and inclination – which
seems seldom at present. What is happening, Shomei?”
“Bathym was on the verge of committing five legions of his devils. Belial had already
sanctioned it.”
Mostin gaped. “Five legions? Shomei, how do you do it?”
“Well, I don’t – evidently. Support has been withdrawn. Presumably the interest has
changed.”
“Have you considered petitioning Belial directly?”
“I suspect that he is responsible for the about-face.”
“Do you have any indication why?” Mostin inquired.
She shrugged. “Who knows, Mostin? Perhaps because of Rhyxali? Soneillon? Graz’zt?
Tramst?
Kostchtchie? Eadric? Me? Nehael? A perceived pseudonatural threat? A celestial
conspiracy? The
motives of a devil of Belial’s stature are too convoluted to even begin to penetrate.”
“I had not considered a sizable force of devils crucial to success,” Mostin said. “The web
of motes offered a number of other scenarios.”
“Maybe not,” Shomei conceded. “But thirty thousand barbazu would have guaranteed it,
and acted as a balance on Rhyxali at the very least.”
“I think that your perspective in this is flawed, Shomei – you are assuming that we can
somehow retain sufficient control of this situation to actually direct the course of events. I
have come to the conclusion that, at best, we can invoke a storm and let it blow as it will.”
“Mostin…”
“It is realistic,” he said. “We are dealing with entities of enormous power, any one of
which can turn on us in an instant. We should be thinking in terms of self-preservation.
You should be, at the very least.”
“I am not getting into this argument again,” she groaned.
“What other options remain open to you?”
“The glooms. Other Dukes. Possibly Murmuur: he is influential, commands a large force,
and is –
importantly – present. Time is running out to make such arrangements, however. And I
have no relationship with Malbolge, other than vicariously through Belial – and he hardly
seems reliable in this at present. Besides, I mistrust the involvement of Titivilus.”
“You are still trying to control the situation,” Mostin sighed. “Our first goal is the
obliteration of Ainhorr’s force in Afqithan – there is no need to be methodical about it. We
can worry about Azzagrat afterwards.”
“What exactly are you saying, Mostin?”
“I can dimensionally lock an area two miles across, Shomei. Outside of the quiescence –
where demons will be forced to manifest – I can invoke a total of seventeen – seventeen –
reality maelstroms if necessary. Afqithan is not my world, Shomei. There are no holds
barred there. If I rip the spatial fabric of the demiplane to shreds, I don’t care. If I can call
the Horror, and bind it – as long as I can get away before the spell ends, I don’t care.
Shomei, even if I gate in Carasch and invoke an apocalypse I don’t care. Are we on the
same page here, Shomei?”
She looked at him. “Thank-you, Mostin. For a while, I was beginning to lose my
perspective. I think you may have restored it to me.”
“We are as gods, Shomei. Never forget it.”
“You truly are at your best when you’re at your craziest,” she smiled.
**
She stood, and looked again at the tree for a long while.
It had an oddly compelling quality, which drew one’s eyes to it and evoked a desire to run
hands over soft, smooth bark. Its height and girth suggested that it was old, but it
possessed a quality which seemed… youthful. Strange for a tree.
Around its base, bright flowers sprang between rocks and trailed into a pool fed by a small
spring. The water moved, but she couldn’t determine where it went, after it left the pool.
Curious, she thought. She looked at the tree again.
Sometimes, she felt that it was watching her.
She gazed around, and wondered what else there was out there. Away from the tree. More
than once, she had determined to leave – to walk away from the tree. To explore. But she
never did.
Why leave the tree, after all? Whatever else there was, it couldn’t be better than the tree.
She lay down against its warm bole, and it seemed to embrace her. She watched thoughts
and memories pass through her mind, and wondered who had experienced them.
Bathe, she thought.
She vaguely recalled the fact that she liked to bathe. It seemed like a good idea – although
she was unsure whether it had risen unbidden in her mind, or the tree had prompted the
desire. She rose, walked the short distance over to the pool, and slid into the water. It was
the perfect depth, and the perfect temperature. She immersed her head briefly – as that
seemed the right thing to do – before leaning back and relaxing against a rock, which
seemed to fit her head and neck very comfortably.
She suddenly noticed a small figure – maybe two thirds her own height – sitting on a
branch of the tree, with its legs dangling freely. It wore grey hose and a leaf-green
waistcoat.
“Hello,” she said.
“Hello,” the other replied. “Are you happy?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Good,” the other smiled.
“Where did you come from?” She asked. “I haven’t seen you before.”
“I came from the tree.”
“Ahh,” she nodded. She hauled herself easily from the water, and walked back towards the
tree. She noticed that now she was covered in tiny flecks of silver – she rubbed them
gently, but they seemed somehow part of her skin.
“They will not come off,” the other said.
“What are they?’ She asked.
The other smiled sadly. “The memory of a great injustice.”
She cocked her head inquisitively.
“It would take too long to explain,” the other said. “Nor does it matter – the injustice never
really happened now. Your transition is passed at last, and you have been finally
surrendered: from one Truth to another. This place is two things: a prison hallowed by an
angel, and a womb which has always been here. If sometimes the Truth that you chose
seems cold and indifferent, then it is Her nature. Maybe She forgot you for a while. Don’t
blame Her: She doesn’t love you any less.”
“You think too much,” she laughed. “What will happen now?”
“Something nobody expects,” the other replied.
“And what is that?” She asked.
“A Viridity,” the other said, his eyes blazing.
**
Nwm felt the snow and pine cones beneath his feet as he ran. The air was frigid, his
breathing deep but measured. The smell of resin permeated everything, and his eyes
streamed in the cold. His pulse was audible to him, above the noise of his passage,
thumping through his skull.
His focus was perfect: he was meditating. No symbolism moved through his mind. No
recollection of
memory, nor thought for the future. No expectation of revelation, nor seeking for
something other than moment in its fullness. There was reflection, but it was dynamic and
engaged – not introspective and divorced. Each moment was precious – but Nwm did not
cherish it. He merely experienced it.
He ran until he finally dropped from exhaustion, and collapsed gasping. Still, he
meditated. Whilst he slept naked in the snow, he meditated, and when he woke again with
the pale winter sun, he meditated.
He came to a rock under an icy waterfall, and sat. Water cascaded over him as he gazed
over a frozen pond for nine days. He neither ate, nor drank; nor did he crave warmth nor
comfort. He needed nothing.
He meditated. He began to run again, and meditated.
After a week, he rested, and allowed himself to engage in discursive thought. After an
hour, he got bored.
He meditated again.
In the tuerns of the Linna, Tunthi shamans said that some primaeval spirit had awakened,
and come from the forests which nestled in the deep vales, south of the Heaped Thunders.
**
Several rumours – substantiated by more or less reliable evidence and witnesses – were
current among the inhabitants of western Trempa and southern Tomur, and spreading
rapidly through the rest of Wyre.
First, a group of twenty pilgrims to Kyrtill’s Burh had, purportedly, undergone a terrifying
ordeal wherein demonic or diabolic forces had manifested to them within the castle. The
significance of this event was interpreted according to the various inclinations of those for
whom it held an interest: a test of faith; a sign of the Ahma‘s eccentricity, madness or evil;
a cryptic revelation couched in terms which lesser mortals must strive to understand; or
religious hysteria induced by too much privation and self-mortification – or perhaps the
consumption of ergotized rye bread.
Second, Eadric, Earl of Deorham sought a steward for his castle and estates. This aroused
much interest among various landless nobles, former church grandees who had
surrendered estates at the end of the infeudation, as well as numerous unusual characters
of mystical bent.
Third, in the face of the expectations of those who considered chastity a necessary
prerequisite for the successful cultivation of saizhan – and there were many – the Ahma
had taken a lover. She was seldom seen but was, by all accounts, beautiful and magnetic.
Her lineage and credentials were unknown, and it was suspected that she was a peasant-
girl. Or a foreigner. Or a celestial companion. Or a demoness. It depended on who you
asked.
The drip-drip of pilgrims and mendicants to Kyrtill’s Burh rapidly became a steady
stream, and then a rushing torrent. It expanded to include potential retainers, philosophers
eager to engage the Ahma in conversation and debate, Urgic and Irrenite ex-heretics who
no longer felt the need to practice in secret, atoning Templars, and the merely curious.
They lodged in Deorham – which had never seen so many
new faces – and occupied barns, fields and rooms in farmsteads for miles about. The
Innkeeper of the Twelve Elms quickly became very rich.
Eadric closed the gates to the Burh, and returned to his impossibly circular, self-referential
kius:
What is Soneillon, if both Saizhan and extinction are not unattainable?
But even as he sat in contemplation, she would come to him and any insight that he
thought he might have gleaned would be dispelled. She would purposely arouse him, or
drive him to distraction by her presence. Her heat never abated. There was no indication of
artifice in her desire, only the need for continual and infinitely varied sensation: taboo did
not exist, or existed only to be broken, and when they coupled violently on the shattered
altar of the chapel, Eadric didn’t know whether they had
profaned it, or sanctified it.
Constructed reality was overturned so swiftly, so thoroughly, that it seemed as though the
cosmos
disintegrated into its component atoms and they, in turn, evaporated into a Nothingness
from which they were never unidentical.
This was the ‘Path of Lightning’ to which, he knew, Titivilus had referred – hard as a
diamond, sharp as a razor, upon which only the mad could walk. But the Nuncio of Dis
knew it by name only, and any
formulation that Titivilus had posited regarding its nature was shallow and vacuous. The
Abyss loomed on both sides of Eadric, and if he missed a single step, it would claim him.
On the night of the full moon before the winter solstice, Mostin arrived with Ortwin,
Shomei, and
Koilimilou at Kyrtill’s Burh. Eadric ushered them into the great hall, and Ortwin raised an
eyebrow: the place was as he had never before seen it.
A fire roared in the hearth, and wolf-hounds lounged before it. Lanterns hung from chains
and torches burned in sconces: light was everywhere. Servants moved about busily. The
smell of roasted game,
wine and fresh bread filled the air. The sound of a lute carried over the hubbub.
Music? Ortwin was incredulous. At Kyrtill’s Burh? Played poorly, to be sure, but music
nonetheless.
The tune faltered as the Satyr, sidhe-cambion, Mostin – with his lidless eyes – and Shomei
the Infernal entered the hall. Silence and uncertainty descended upon those present.
Eadric clapped his hands. “Go about your business,” he smiled. “These people may appear
odd, but
there is no need for concern.”
They went about their business, and soon the volume resumed its previous levels.*
The Satyr turned to Eadric. “So the rumours are true. You really have gone nuts. Where’s
the Queen of Darkness? Lurking in the crypt? Or embroidering a quilt in the drawing
room?”
“I believe she Dreams. Why are you here?”
“You mean this is normal?” Ortwin gestured around. “I thought that you’d put it on for
our benefit.
Who’s that boy over there?” The Satyr pointed to a handsome nobleman in a fashionable
doublet.
“His name is Canec. He is my steward.”
“A Uediian?”
“He is Caur’s maternal uncle. He marched on Morne with us. Do you not remember?”
“I have a poor memory for aristocrats,” Ortwin said drily, pouring himself a cup of wine.
“Is everything alright, Ed? You’re not schizo are you?”
“Yes. No. In that order.”
“Is it true? Are you screwing her?”
Eadric groaned. “You have a foul mouth, Ortwin.”
“Man, you’re in big trouble,” the Satyr grinned. “Let’s get drunk.”
“Will you always be a hedonist, Ortwin?”
“I hope so. But there again, I can. I have a supreme advantage over you.”
“And what might that be?” Eadric sighed.
“I’m a fey, Ed. Sh*t doesn’t stick to me.”
Eadric smiled and shook his head. “Why are you here?” He asked.
“Mostin said something important is about to happen. A ‘convergence of tendrils,’
apparently. He had some flashback of a possible future that he’d seen. A kind of mini-
nodality.”
“Should I be nervous?” Eadric asked.
“Probably,” Ortwin replied.
Within fifteen minutes, Soneillon returned: she had located the balor Irzho in an
abandoned temple in the mountains of Bedesh, together with several succubi and the
demonist Rimilin of the Skin. They
were willing to aid the cause against Ainhorr in Afqithan, provided that a price could be
agreed.
Before the information had sunk in, the gate-ward entered, with news that a traveller stood
outside who would not be turned away.
“What is his name?” Eadric asked.
“He says he is called Rhul. He…er…forgive me, Ahma. He claims to be a god.”
Moments later, the hag Jetheeg and two Loquai knights arrived. Nhura was finally ready.
* This is one of the minor social advantages of possessing a +39 Diplomacy score.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 07-11-2004
**
AFQITHAN: PROLOGUE (Part 1)
[Soneillon]: If you should happen to slay Ainhorr today, you should grieve for him.
[Eadric]: (Contempt.)
[Soneillon]: Arrogance! You, at least, should lament his passing. A great warrior. Ever
loyal to the master he loves and despises.
[Eadric]: Loves? Love is never that ugly.
[Soneillon]: Love is often that ugly, Eadric.
[Eadric]: And if you should perish today? How should I then react?
[Soneillon]: Exult in your memory, Eadric. Because nothing will ever again compare to
me.
[Eadric]: For that, at least, I will be thankful.
[Soneillon]: You will be diminished.
*
[Eadric]: What does Hell have to do with this?
[Shomei]: I don’t know.
[Eadric]: I fear its agenda.
[Shomei]: That is wise. Many forget the single, overarching truth.
[Eadric] (Wrily): And what might that be?
[Shomei]: Hell is merely a vehicle for expressing the Will of the Nameless Fiend. Despite
all
appearances, it acts with one purpose.
[Eadric]: I had not forgotten.
[Shomei]: Do you believe the Will of Oronthon and the Will of the Adversary to be one
and the same, Ahma?
[Eadric]: They are not unidentical.
[Shomei]: Do you believe that you are a focus through which the Will of the Adversary is
expressed?
[Eadric]: Perhaps.
[Shomei]: Do you trust the Will of the Adversary?
[Eadric]: No.
[Shomei]: How do you resolve this paradox?
[Eadric]: I meditate to realize Saizhan.
[Shomei] (Exasperated): Must you always proselytize?
[Eadric] (Laughing): Do I? Good.
*
[Eadric]: Will you exercise restraint?
[Mostin]: I doubt it.
[Eadric]: Can you exercise restraint? Is it within your nature?
[Mostin]: I don’t know. I’ve never tried, and have no plans to.
[Eadric]: Your lack of moral responsibility concerns me.
[Mostin]: A surfeit of it would concern me more. I abide by certain…axioms…Eadric,
which you
cannot hope to comprehend. You can rest assured that within your own framework, I am
completely
mad.
[Eadric]: And within yours?
[Mostin]: I am utterly pedestrian. There are things far madder than I.
*
[Eadric]: What of Iua?
[Ortwin]: She can look after herself.
[Eadric]: You have betrayed her.
[Ortwin]: Not so! Our arrangement made provision for outside interests.
[Eadric]: I am referring to how you went about this. Flaunting a lover in front of her is not
discreet. You could have been more sensitive.
[Ortwin]: I have not lied to her. Are you suggesting that I should have?
[Eadric]: She is eighteen years old.
[Ortwin]: Life is full of hard lessons, Ed.
[Eadric]: That is facile. You have a duty towards her.
[Ortwin]: What can I say? I’m selfish.
[Eadric]: Koilimilou is a sidhe and a cambion, Ortwin. She venerates Rhyxali. She is
without remorse or compassion. What can she offer you?
[Ortwin]: Inventiveness, and insatiability. Relief from the boredom of existence.
[Eadric]: Once you had principles, as much as you pretended not to.
[Ortwin]: Once, I was mortal. My perspective has changed.
[Eadric]: Your essential nature has changed.
[Ortwin]: No more than yours. And Eadric of Deorham is the one f*cking the Demon
Queen of Throile.
[Eadric]: I remain conflicted in my actions, Ortwin. I am neither complacent nor fixated
on sensation. I do what I must.
[Ortwin]: Oh, bullsh*t Ed. Grow up. You’re just doing what we all have to do. It’s
biological. It’s just been a long time coming for you, and you’ve decided to take an
unconventional route. Guilt is an
outdated emotion.
[Eadric]: Why are you even here, Ortwin?
[Ortwin]: I feel it in my blood, Eadric. I can smell it. Every tree whispers it to me.
[Eadric]: ?
[Ortwin]: Good things, Ed. Good things. Something stirs.
**
Why the Nameless Adversary acts in the way he does is a cosmic imponderable. His
reasonings are so complex, his plots so byzantine, his vision so broad in its imagining, that
no real hope exists in penetrating his motives.
The Irrenites – who had been generally sympathetic to the Adversarial paradigm –
maintained the
position that if the Oronthon beyond Oronthon was utterly ineffable, then the Adversary
was the
distillation of pure rationality. Every move that he made – to augment one
incomprehensible factor, or to reduce another – was calculated with the utmost precision
and played out within the framework of eternal potentiality. He nurtured tendrils of
possibility which might not yield fruit for a billion years.
The nodality in Afqithan – although complex and multi-faceted – was itself only a minor
aspect of a larger process of change: or so it could be interpreted, if one was inclined
towards such speculation.
The mind of God – which, from an Urgic perspective, included every iota of
consciousness in existence at any time and every possible combination thereof – was
engaged in a reorganization of its own,
internal structure. This manifested in the World of Men in a number of ways: a resurgence
in the cult of Cheshne, as concepts of Nothingness were articulated within the physical
plane; long periods during which the Sela was engaged in intense meditation; and finally,
the beginnings of a schism regarding the interpretation of the best way to implement and
realize Saizhan itself.
Because Cheshne – who, if the cosmos possessed an objective truth, might be identical
with
Demogorgon, and might not – had stirred. Or maybe she shifted slightly in her sleep. In
any event, a torrent of contradictory truths were suddenly unleashed upon an already
strained Dialectic, forcing an explosion of insights to occur. Cheshne was real again, and
always had been.
The liaison between the Ahma and Soneillon – it was suspected – was merely a physical
symptom of the articulation of Nothingness within the Ideal realm. Eadric did not know it,
but his relationship with the demoness was to have profound and far-reaching
consequences for Oronthonian mysticism. Not
with respect to the definition of Saizhan – after all, how can a state devoid of all qualities
be rendered in sensible terms? But as far as praxis was concerned – the method by which
one came to the final realization which Saizhan claimed to be – the Ahma was blazing a
path which would appeal to a particular minority: those of antinomian bent within the
broad and complex set of perspectives which comprised Oronthonian religion.
Many who had been Irrenites – before such labels became superfluous – immediately
understood what
Eadric of Deorham was attempting to do. They applauded his revolutionary vision, his
rejection of
conventional mores, and his apparent transcendence of notions such as good and evil –
although the matter was far from resolved within the Ahma‘s own mind. Several adepts –
including the thaumaturges Sineig and Wrohs* – went as far as to compact succubi in their
exploration of Saizhan. Not so much in emulation of the Ahma, but in recognition that
rapid deconstruction of conventional reality required radical tools, and demons were about
as radical as it got.
The subschool which arose, Skôhsldaúr – the gate of demons – would produce works of
extraordinary
genius and subtlety. Its validity as an authentic vehicle for Saizhan was doubted by few,
but its suitability as a universal tool – which many of its proponents advocated – was
regarded with dubiety by more conservative elements. It was too controversial. Too
hazardous. Too Adversarial for the tastes of many. It was beyond even the most
questionable of Goetic practices. It should be reserved only for those whom the Sela
deemed ready.
Of course, the Sela himself declined to make such judgments.
It was in foreknowledge and anticipation of these events – and others beside – that the
schemes of Hell were set into motion. To the amazement of the nobles Furcas and
Murmuur, Azazel – and the Infernal Standard – arrived in Afqithan, together with three
other devils of unusually wicked temperament.
Sachir, Zaare and Nahuzihis were Akesoli, serving the arch-fiend Amaimon, and
dispensing pain upon powerful and intractable thralls both mortal and diabolic. There was
no question of challenging
Azazel’s authority in the demiplane by either of the entrenched Dukes. He needed neither
seals nor letters of precedence to validate his assumption of command: he was Azazel.
That was enough.
The presence of the Akesoli caused fearful speculation amongst Murmuur and his various
captains and lieutenants – decorated narzugons high in the Order of the Fly. Murmuur was
a straightforward soldier, and although subtle in the way that all Infernal aristocrats are
subtle, he lacked the calculated finesse of intellectuals such as Furcas and Titivilus. He
was not privy to the machinations of his liege in
Malbolge, nor of his liege’s liege in Maladomini. It was evident that the Akesoli‘s
presence must have been authorized at the highest level: sanctioned by the Adversary
himself, the Quatriumvirate, and possibly the silent council of the thirteen great
Antagonists.**
Murmuur was, however, relieved that Azazel had been appointed the task of commanding
the effort.
Azazel was – like himself – a warrior, with little interest in devious schemes. Although a
harsh
taskmaster, Hell’s standard-bearer recognized accomplishment upon the battlefield above
all else, and Murmuur excelled in battle and deeds of martial prowess. The Duke mused
drily whether Azazel’s
arrival had been a strategic decision designed to make Murmuur himself more tractable, or
whether it in some way reflected the involvement of the Ahma: although Agalierept might
have been a more obvious choice, he would possess less gravitas as far as mortals were
concerned.***
Murmuur waited impatiently, eager to simultaneously align the nine gates within his tower
to
Malbolge, in order to permit his troops through: thirty legions, plus their auxiliaries. There
were bearded devils, malebranche, horned devils and erinyes. And his knights, who
numbered several
thousand, would lead the narzugon charge – if and when it came.
If it came. Murmuur realized that he still had no idea what was really happening. But
unlike Furcus or Titivilus, his political ignorance was a source of comfort rather than
distress.
He grunted. Spined devils flapped silently around him, strapping his breastplate and
vambraces –
constructed of an unknown, greenish metal – over a fine mesh of infernal steel.
**
The galley – a vast, ponderous quadrieme from Shûth – lumbered at dusk into the bustling
port of
Jashat, and moored close to the weathered marble of an ancient wharf, fast by a sleek
Thalassine
jabeque. Her timbers groaned as she eclipsed the smaller ship, blotting out the sunset and
irritating the dozen or so sailors who smoked and relaxed upon the jabeque’s deck after a
hard week’s work. The
quayside – stretching below a vast plaza crammed with temples to a hundred gods – was a
riot of
colour and activity.
The Gentleman from Thond – whose own preference for colour in his clothing was
understated at best, and muted at worst – stood in the cool evening air upon wide steps,
below a timeworn shrine to the god Pe’ahj. Six retainers attended him. He squinted
through the scented clouds exuded by temple censers in an effort to suppress the effect
upon his humours. His humours exhibited a particularly delicate
balance. He was nervous, and agitated.
He watched impatiently as pulleys span and counterweights soared upon two great
derricks near the
stern, and the galley lowered a gangway half as wide as the road to Fumaril. She began to
unload
dozens of crates, chests and boxes from her hold, lugged by huge slaves who bore intricate
brands upon their arms and shoulders: the Gentleman from Thond wondered they were a
giant-breed from some
distant corner of Shûth. Before them, a company of guards – of similar type, but clad in
dull
breastplates and wearing cloaks of sombre red – marched silently down the walkway and
arrayed
themselves in a wide semicircle, blocking half the quayside and causing merchants and
vendors to curse and grumble. Long, sharp glaives pointed outwards like a thicket,
oblivious to the laws and
customs of Jashat.
A second gangplank – less massive than the first – was hauled into place and dropped by a
hundred
muscled arms.
The Gentleman from Thond licked his lips apprehensively. A slow procession of magi
began to issue
from the galley. Some were cowled and hooded, others bare-headed, yet more bore hair
arranged in
long, intricate braids – all according to their station and function, at which the Gentleman
could only guess. In the rear, a number of veiled palanquins – attended by servants or
neophytes – swayed
rhythmically, in time with the steady footsteps of their muscled bearers.
He swallowed, and strode forwards. Several of the guards – each a cubit taller than
himself –
immediately brought their weapons to bear on him. He smiled uncertainly, and coughed.
Before he had the chance to speak, he heard another voice issue from behind them.
The wall of steel parted, to reveal a slender man with a terse manner dressed in a loose,
silk robe of greenish-black.
“I have made the necessary arrangements, but…” the Gentleman from Thond began.
“Good,” the other interrupted. “I am Anumid. You will address me – and me only. Here is
a list of our requirements.”
Anumid handed a long scroll to the Gentleman, who raised his eyes in surprise.
“The temple precinct has been cleared,” the Gentleman from Thond said. “Vagrants
were…”
“The details are irrelevant,” Anumid interrupted again. “The site will be reconsecrated, in
any case.”
“I have had to call in many favours and line many purses, to make this happen, Anumid. I
have had numerous unforeseen expenses.”
“You will be recompensed,” Anumid smiled. “Do you wish to continue in the capacity of
our agent?”
“Yes, but…”
“Will fifty thousand be sufficient to begin with?”
“Yes.” The Gentleman from Thond bowed perfunctorily.
As the train made its winding progress through the city of Jashat, they passed by two
Wizards of
middling power: a local enchantress named Luthlul, and her recent acquaintance Menniz,
a conjurer
who originally hailed from Lang Herath in Wyre.**** Luthlul gave Menniz a meaningful
look.
“This is an unexpected development,” Menniz said uncomfortably, scratching his neck.
“Do you think they’re genuine?”
Luthlul invoked her arcane sight and gaped.
“I assume from your expression that the answer is an unqualified yes,” Menniz said
laconically.
“The four in the palanquins are off the scale,” Luthlul whispered. “I’m not getting
anything from half a dozen others – they’re probably mind blanked.”
“Why aren’t they using a more conventional mode of transport? Is it a ritual thing?”
“Probably,” Luthlul nodded. “What should we do?”
“We can’t do anything, Luthlul. But I’ll issue a sending to Daunton in a while: he should
probably know. Frankly, if they’re staying here, I’m inclined to return to Wyre. At least
it’s safer there.”
“From less than half of them,” Luthlul grimaced. “I wonder if any more are coming.”
“I doubt it. I’m surprised that there are that many in the whole of Shûth. What have they
been doing for the past eight hundred years?”
“Preserving the tradition, apparently.”
After Daunton received the sending in Gibirazen, news quickly became current among
those mages he knew – and subsequently, through his friend Prince Tagur, passed into
both temporal and spiritual
circles.
When it reached the ears of the Sela, Tramst evinced neither surprise nor concern.
Within a day more rumours were circulating, and Daunton determined to visit Jashat
himself – none of his divinations were proving effective in the matter.
Three miles outside of the city, the temple of Cheshne – abandoned and overgrown for a
millennium –
had risen again from its crumbling ruins. By their arts the magi – and now none doubted
their
authenticity – had restored the compound overnight.
Towers soared skywards to giddying heights, icons and statues of tormented spirits – the
ugras or
‘fierce protectors’ of the faith – adorned walls and bastions: they bore an uncanny
resemblance to figures which, in the faith of Oronthon, were understood to be fallen
celestials. In the beliefs of Shûth, however, their rôle was subtler and more complex. And
far older. Embodiments of fear, lust or violence which must be both placated and
overcome in order for reconciliation with Nothingness to be achieved.
Mostin – who had been inwardly concerned about the missing tendril in his convergence –
received a sending from Daunton while he sat at the table in the Great Hall at Kyrtill’s
Burh. His face remained impassive.
Queen Soneillon, who rested across from him in contemplative pose, looked into his eyes.
**
Iua’s defiance of her mother’s wishes was rooted in her need to refamiliarize herself with
Fumaril –
from which she had been absent for a year – almost as much as her obstinacy when it
came to obeying Mulissu’s commands. Despite her mother’s insistence that Iua remain
inconspicuous and protected by the wards of faith, the Duelist’s own curiosity and
wanderlust – traits for which Mulissu herself had once been renowned – found her in any
number of dubious locales. She took to the streets with a mind to finding anything which
might distract her from brooding upon her brief, eccentric and ultimately empty
relationship with Ortwin.
Mulissu herself was cloistered within one of several small temples to Jeshi – into whose
cult, in her youth, she had been initiated.***** Whilst the Savant had maintained a
relatively low profile amongst wizardly circles in Wyre and beyond, her reputation
amongst the clergy of Jeshi – who shared many of the same aerial contacts as the
Elementalist – was somewhat different. Her progress had been watched: lauded by some,
criticized by others, and, by more than a few, recognized as a potential source of
revivification for the cult’s flagging fortunes.
Mulissu, who abhorred politics almost as much as organized religion, avoided all attempts
to convince her to renew her vows to Jeshi. But the hallowed ground of the temple was –
from her perspective – too useful a defense to ignore, so she grudgingly acquiesced to the
demands of the High Priestess to attend revels held in Jeshi’s name. In return, the
Elementalist was granted several perquisites: the use of the roof-space above the Chamber
of Chimes, a feigned ignorance of any magic that she might work, and
assurances that she would be otherwise left alone.
Mulissu’s unique spirituality – cerebral in the extreme – had developed to regard
devotional practices as bizarre and inexplicable. There was no reconnection with a deeper
source, no feeling of unity or
succour, no camaraderie, and no appreciation of a symbolism which might – to an initiate
– possess profound revelatory significance: to Mulissu, it appeared as an alphabet
inaccurately scrawled by a toddler.
But in Fumaril – which lay beyond the purview of the Claviger – Mulissu could summon.
She haggled ad nauseum with powerful djinns in an effort to replenish her diminished
supply of spells, and co-opted the services of a novice called Naimha to act in the capacity
of a broker. Naimha scoured every
marketplace and every hidden shop which dealt in oddities in an attempt to procure
magical
paraphernalia – mostly without success. Mulissu opened lines of communication with
Tozinak, whom she liked; with Jalael, whom she distrusted; and with Waide, whom she
found intolerable. She also
began to cultivate the friendship of Ehieu, a sorcerer from Pandicule whose flightiness
made Mulissu seem positively stable. Ehieu roamed the seas south of Fumaril and – when
not alternately vexing or aiding sailors – made infrequent visits to the Temple.
She pointedly – and somewhat petulantly – snubbed Shomei, who by virtue of close
association with
Mostin, was considered an undesirable acquaintance. Shomei was, to some degree at least,
responsible for the Elementalist’s decline in fortunes.
She sighed. She should have known better than to deal with Alienists and Infernalists,
even if they were among the handful of people whose intellects she actually respected.
When Mulissu therefore received a sending from Daunton – who had been apprised of her
presence on the Prime – her heart sunk:
Cult of Cheshne resurfaced in Jashat. Powerful necromancers and blood-magi. Suspect at
least six first-order wizards and four transvalent hierophants. Will advise further.
Daunton.
Mulissu groaned, and wondered if it was related to the nonsense that Mostin had involved
himself in.
She would keep all of her possessions on hand, in case a speedy exit from Fumaril proved
necessary.
Jashat, after all, was only forty miles away.
She brooded briefly, and wondered whether relaying the information to Iua would be wise.
He daughter was brilliant, but her judgment frequently poor.
Iua herself did not return until the early hours of the next morning. She was flushed from a
number of encounters – some involving crossed blades, others not – and moderately
inebriated.
Mulissu sighed. Parenting was not her strong suit. She chided Iua inexpertly and gestured,
vaguely conscious that this might be the correct way to address a child.
Iua ignored her, and her eyes widened: she seemed to be looking at something behind
Mulissu. The Elementalist’s hackles rose, and she wheeled about, prepared to unleash a
powerful necromancy.
I see nothing
The thought passed through Mulissu’s mind a fraction of a second before she experienced
an acute,
stabbing agony, rapidly followed by a succession of further intense pains. Her eyes glazed
over, and she glanced down to notice that around a foot of cold, slender steel was
protruding from her stomach, and that blood was flowing freely from her. She felt Iua’s
blade withdraw from her, and as she collapsed and died, she idly wondered why her own
daughter had slain her.
Thus passed Mulissu: counted among the greatest of evokers in Wyre’s history, although
she was not herself a native of that place. And this time, Mostin the Metagnostic
experienced no feeling of
foreboding prior to the danger in which the Savant found herself, no presentiment of her
demise. Not even the faintest inkling of prescience remained to him now, and some time
would pass before news of her death reached him. Mulissu, whom he had loved in his
own, strange fashion.
Her spirit fled, and was dispersed upon the winds.
Iua screamed silently from within the prison which her body had become, and watched,
helpless, as her hands began to rifle her mother’s still-warm corpse for items beyond
worth. She grabbed rings from Mulissu’s fingers, ripped an amulet from her breast, and
pulled the sapphire of mutable coruscations from its collar around her throat. She smiled
wickedly as she delved into a glove of storing and felt the web of motes, and something
else. She pulled forth a small lump of obsidian, shaped like a horse.
How fortuitous, the thought manifested with savage irony within Iua’s mind, although it
was not her own.
Iua, and her possessor – a demon named Surab – plane shifted to the Abyss upon a
fantastic steed.
*Although Orthodoxy had boasted few magically potent priests in its heyday – and many
had been slain during the war with Trempa – the heretical Irrenite fringe sheltered a
number of competent
thaumaturges.
**Hell’s hierarchy is, of course, immensely complex, and various devils exercise varying
degrees of power in different areas. Governance is executed through Asmodeus, Astaroth,
Baalzebul and Belial –
amongst whom precedence is hotly contested. The Thirteen Great Antagonists are fallen
seraphs who
have no place in the day-to-day administration of Hell, and concern themselves entirely
with the war against Heaven. Many scholars of diabolic politics insist that the arrangement
is purposely tense and ambiguous – a dynamism in the hierarchy enforced by the
Adversary to prevent stagnation.
***Agalierept is the commander of Hell’s second legion and Grand General of Hell.
Among Hell’s
foremost soldiers, his cruelty and vindictiveness are legendary. The armoured cornugons
who serve him are likewise renowned for their ruthless brutality.
****After the Claviger’s Injunction in Wyre, many wizards of more independent mind
moved outside
of the magically proscribed area. Of them, most found their way south to the Thalassine.
*****Mulissu’s initial vocation – that of a priestess – had been quickly rejected. Jeshi is a
Thalassine goddess of the winds, with a widespread but uninfluential following. The
names Jeshi and Jashat are etymologically connected.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 07-11-2004
AFQITHAN: PROLOGUE (Part 2)
At least five infinities clashed in Afqithan. When forces collide in the metaphysical realm,
it is only natural that this is reflected in our own.
- Orolde.
Rhul’s case had been delivered with such eloquence and such poignancy that all those who
listened to him, excepting perhaps Jetheeg – the lamia cum hag who possessed neither a
moral conscience nor artistic sensibilities – had been moved.
He had spoken of Sisperi: its clans, and history and traditions; its wide grasslands and
virgin forests; its towns and villages; the customs and the temperament of its peoples. He
had evoked scenes of soaring mountains riven with deep canyons, and sun shining on a
rolling surf, and mists rising over cold, still lakes. His speech had possessed a natural
rhythm which made all constructed meter seem crass and
childish; his tone was mellifluous and enchanting.
And then he had spoken of death, and ruin, and the end of the world. Of the blight which
consumed all things and turned them to filth and desolation. Of the razing of civilization,
and the final extinction of sapience. Rhul’s words had become a soft-spoken lament; there
was no compromise in his description of the horror which had occurred, even until the
bitter end. He had spoken of Mulhuk, and of Saes, and Lai, and the death of Hodh and
other godlings besides. He had spoken of Ninit, and her wild,
unquenchable fury.
Ortwin had sat silently, his head in his hands. Mostin had stared blankly. Bile and anger
had arisen in Eadric’s throat.
And then Rhul had begged for aid. Eadric had felt as though his soul had been cut in half.
*
After he had left – and Rhul’s message and entreaty had taken more than two hours to
deliver – Eadric resumed his seat uncomfortably. He poured himself a large goblet of
wine, and sat back in his chair.
The fire in the hearth had dwindled to a dull glow, and moonlight illuminated the Great
Hall through the windows high in its south wall. The servants – disturbed by the company
which the Ahma chose to keep – had long since retired.
“You cannot waver now,” Mostin groaned. “We are so close. How many other worlds
could tell a
similar tale?”
“The Wizard is right,” Jetheeg scoffed. “Do not let your weakness and susceptibility to a
well-spun story dictate your course of action in this. You have taken vows, and made
assurances, Ahma. Would you add oathbreaking to your tally of crimes against your deity?
The list gets longer every day, I hear.”
The innuendo was hardly subtle.
Eadric sighed. “How many has Nhura gathered?”
“A thousand Loquai knights – virtually all of those who were exiled. Some few sidhe.
Compactees.
More than a few slaadi may involve themselves.”
“Slaadi?” Shomei gaped. “Is Nhura insane?” She furrowed her brow, and glanced at
Mostin – who shrugged and scowled. Neither had foreseen the possibility.
“They are not waiting with her in Faerie or Shadow,” Jetheeg snapped. “But several
Anarchs have become aware of the situation. They have a vested interest, after all.”
Realization crossed Mostin’s face. ” Heedless,” he said.
Jetheeg nodded curtly.
Eadric swallowed. “Mostin, you’ve said many times that this will be no conventional war.
That I need to think far beyond anything with which I am familiar. Do you have any idea
how long this will take to resolve? Are we talking in terms of days? Weeks?”
Mostin laughed. “Eadric, if the situation in Afqithan is not decided within fifteen minutes,
I will be surprised.”
The Ahma nodded grimly. “Then I would ask you to issue a sending to Rhul: if I’m not in
Sisperi in two days, it means I’m dead, and I’m not coming.”
“You mean to go otherwise, then?”
“Yes.”
Mostin turned to Soneillon, who had thus far only observed. “You have been
conspicuously silent. I am surprised that you have had nothing to contribute. What of your
own force? And what of Rhyxali,
Soneillon? What is she sending?”
“Demons, dear Mostin. She is sending demons.”
“How many?” He asked irritably.
“Rhyxali is not predisposed to act often,” Soneillon smiled, “but when she does, she acts
decisively.
She is sending nearly all of them, Mostin.”
Mostin’s jaw dropped.
Koilimilou smiled.
“I smell a rat,” Ortwin remarked.
**
Mostin dreamed of devils.
Powerful devils. Terrible devils. One bore a chain with many barbed hooks which dripped
a black
venom; another had claws like scythes which clicked together as it flexed its fingers; a
third wore a great hood, but Mostin knew that it was faceless beneath its cowl. The fourth
devil was still an angel –
a Virtue, of sorts. It was tall and beautiful, and wore a breastplate which had been forged
before the beginning of time. Strength and power and wisdom were in its hand – but so
were lust and greed and evil. It stood beneath a vast banner which depicted a meteor
streaking through oblivion.
When he awoke, the details eluded him, and he was left with a vague feeling of dread.
Dream had claimed his last precognition, and Mostin, who was no Dreamer, could not
recall it.
**
Magic coursed again through Mostin’s veins as he flew. Afqithan was wild, dark and
potent.
This place, he thought. Out of a quintillion possible worlds, why had they chosen this one?
What forces had conspired to make this time and place what it was? Mostin was no
fatalist, but nor was he quite so arrogant to think that he had entirely mastered the cosmos.
He pondered whether Graz’zt would project himself to Afqithan, or whether he would
choose to
exercise restraint – the latter seemed more likely, according to Mostin’s understanding of
Graz’zt’s paranoia. A combination of the terms silver cord and Heedless had sprung to the
Alienist’s mind –
Graz’zt would not be safe from a vorpal sword, even if he was otherwise warded or
fortified. Snip, and it would all be over. Even if Graz’zt knew a spell which specifically
protected his cord from dangerous slaadi blades – entirely possible given his age and
dedication to sorcery – then it was one less death impulse or desperate summons that he
would be casting. And Graz’zt had no doubt considered the unlikely possibility that one of
his enemies acquire the sword. Or if Ainhorr lost control…
Gods, Mostin thought. What happens if Ainhorr loses control of the sword? Who will he
chop? What was the Sword’s agenda?
Kostchtchie was already in Afqithan: a ‘visiting dignitary’ who, in terms of power, was
more-or-less matched with Ainhorr – certainly as long as Heedless remained in the Balor’s
possession. Kostchtchie’s entourage was hardly diplomatic, however – armoured fiendish
giant huscarls and sorcerers, white
wyrms, a winter-wight and countless bar-lgura. Except for the wight, they were, at present,
situated some six hundred miles from their current position, near the fortress of Irknaan.
But many could also move instantly across any distance, so it barely mattered. The undead
monster was harrowing large
tracts of forest with no apparent rhyme or reason – the Alienist wondered whether it was
even vaguely reliable as an ally of the Demon Lord.
According to Jetheeg, who had received news from Nhura, Graz’zt had opened a number
of portals –
most likely of a limited duration than of permanent nature – between the planes. Afqithan
was now
linked directly with Azzagrat in at least two other locations besides Irknaan’s fortress, and
also with the Ice Waste – presumably in the vicinity of Kostchtchie’s force. The exact
whereabouts of the new gates were uncertain: this was problematic.
The Alienist knew that most of Soneillon’s faction would arrive the same way: through a
portal opened by the demoness from one of Throile’s “wrinkles,” and assumed that
Rhyxali’s force would be similarly deployed. The little that Mostin did know about
Rhyxali included the importance of the marilith Viractuth within the Shadow Princess’s
camp. Viractuth was a powerful sorceress who served in the
capacity of general and confidante. She would be capable of a magical feat which could
transport an army.
Mostin fervently hoped that his quiescence of the spheres would not be anticipated. He
cursed, because Nwm would have been an invaluable ally. He made a brief, unfelt prayer
to any benign deities who
might be listening that Shomei should not die today – she was one of the few people with
the wit to understand him. And he adjusted his hat – a huge affair, resembling a mortar-
board, made from crimson silk, and boasting two-hundred cloth-of-gold tassles.
They had made the decision to split into two groups. The first contained Shomei, her
conjured minions, Eadric and the succubus Chaya – one of Soneillon’s ‘handmaidens.’
Chaya had a penchant for powerful necromantic spells. The second trio – Ortwin,
Koilimilou, and the Alienist himself – was less of a concern for Mostin. As long as
Rhyxali was on their side, then Koilimilou was not a tangible threat. If Rhyxali were to
become their enemy, however – not entirely impossible, given the whims of powerful
demonesses – then Koilimilou would be a dangerous adversary, with considerable tactical
information useful to the Princess. Prompt elimination of the sidhe-cambion would be
necessary.
Chaya, however, was a completely unknown factor. She was wild, bloodthirsty and crazy
– even for a demon, Mostin ruefully considered. She had been instructed by Soneillon to
guard the Queen of Throile’s current favourite – namely, Eadric – and to make her
reservoir available to Shomei on
demand. Chaya was less than pleased. But she feared Soneillon.
A third group would consist of Soneillon herself (she had elected to become personally
involved), the balor Irzho (who, by Soneillon’s magic, would be augmented to terrifying
power), and Rimilin ( won’t it be delightful to see him again, Mostin thought caustically).
Rimilin’s craft had reportedly increased to the extent that Mostin wondered if he might be
on the verge of transvalency, or even if he had already achieved it. Rimilin had mastered
Irzho. How? Mostin thought. Irzho had a mind blanking ring. How does one master a mind
blanked balor?* The price for their involvement? For Irzho, Heedless – what balor
wouldn’t like a huge, intelligent anarchic vorpal sword? For Rimilin, sinister pacts struck
with Soneillon, and possibly Rhyxali. Mostin shuddered. The direct sponsorship of a
wizard of Rimilin’s prestige by a demoness of Rhyxali’s power would place him on a par
with Shomei in terms of fiendish clout. And Rimilin lacked Shomei’s – admittedly
idiosyncratic – principles.
The Alienist smiled. Despite his loathing of the Acolyte of the Skin, it was not without a
certain degree of pride that he recognized that Rimilin was part of one of the most
formidable generation of
spellcasters that Wyre had yet produced. Although, for a golden age of magic, it seems
strangely dark and bleak.
Mostin, Shomei, Ortwin and Eadric were all telepathically bonded, magically bolstered,
and smothered with various wards. The Alienist lamented Nwm’s absence again: more
would have been better. Mostin was charged up with reality maelstroms as well as various
sonics, conjurations and auxiliary spells.
Shomei was loaded with necromancies, enchantments and conjurations.
Their greatest assets, however, were two spells: a protective dweomer devised by Shomei,
and an
abjuration invoked by Soneillon herself prior to their arrival in Afqithan – Mostin had
later learned that Rimilin, Irzho, Nhura and several others had been similarly warded by
the Queen of Throile. They were virtually invulnerable to magic, and unless struck by
multiple disjunctions, or unless Graz’zt himself were to come and target them with his
superb dispelling, all were safe from an unfortunate evaporation of magical protections at
the hands of other spellcasters. Mostin knew that the succubus Adyell was capable of
bringing down their wards, and hoped that Soneillon was correct in her assertion that her
former handmaiden would not be present.
The Alienist circled nervously, and glanced downwards towards Shomei. He sighed. She is
glorious, he had to admit to himself.
The Infernalist was flanked by four pit fiends, conjured via planar bindings and then
subjected to the power of her Will, focused through her rod. And they were Belial’s pit
fiends – bound in deliberate defiance of the Lord of Hell’s Fourth Circle. She was clad in
her robe of stars, and while – as always –
she bore her rod, a globe now hung from her belt: a sphere of transparent adamant from
which Nufrut’s head leered. The marilith had passed into Shomei’s possession, as
previously agreed with Mostin.
Eadric sat nearby upon Contundor, and both steed and rider appeared impassive. The
celestial charger had acquired a pair of huge feathery wings, which caused Mostin to feel
nauseous every time he saw them: Mostin was profoundly thankful that he and the Ahma
were not in the same team. Next to Eadric, in dark antiparallel, the succubus Chaya waited
with her mount – a foul-tempered cauchemar which
champed restlessly. Mostin studied her briefly: the demoness was naked and scarred,
almost bestial in appearance. She bore no weapon, and carried but a single item – a
smoking black diamond the size of a fist which oozed necromantic power.
Somewhat removed, displaying his characteristic nonchalance, Ortwin laughed and
twirled his scimitar confidently. Koilimilou, perched upon an ecalypse and surrounded by
jariliths, ignored him. She
seemed even more introspective than normal, and Mostin watched her nervously: was she
privy to
Rhyxali’s plans (which were certain to be other than had been revealed)? Did she possess
a measure of genuine affection for Ortwin? It seemed unlikely – neither demons nor sidhe
were renowned for
warmth in their relations. Could Ortwin be trusted, anyway?
Except for Eadric, we are a gruesome, conceited and selfish bunch. Perhaps he is the
moral glue which binds the feys, sociopaths and fiends together.
The Alienist shrugged, and descended. His thoughts reached out to Shomei.
[Mostin]: My fingers itch! How much longer?
[Shomei]: Three minutes, by my reckoning.
[Mostin]: Aren’t your bodyguards restless?
[Shomei]: Devils are notoriously patient.
[Mostin]: I am having reservations.
[Shomei]: Good. Apparently your psychosis has limits.
[Mostin]: I am dubious about the quiescence of the spheres. I like retaining the option of
instantaneous
retreat.
[Shomei]: Mostin…
[Mostin]: Don’t worry. I still intend to cast it.
[Shomei]: You’d damn well better, Mostin. Quite a lot hinges upon it. Still, you may have
been better contriving the spell with yourself as a mobile locus, rather than designating a
static one.
[Mostin]: And lose the opportunity to invoke reality maelstroms? Not bloody likely.
[Shomei]: I suspect that you won’t get the chance in any case – you need to physically
remove yourself two miles from your casting point.
[Mostin] (Grins): I’ve already thought of that. I will summon a pseudodjinn. We will wind
walk together.
Shomei laughed. “You are ingenious.” Then her manner suddenly became serious. “If I
should die, Mostin…”
[Mostin]: Do not start this again.
[Shomei]: There are two simulacra at my mansion…
[Mostin]: !
[Shomei]: Together, they comprise most of what I am.
[Mostin]: They are lumps of ice, Shomei.
[Shomei]: You will need to find a way to reify them.
[Mostin]: That is not possible.
[Shomei]: Nonsense. It has merely never been accomplished before. It will be a task
commensurate
with your ability.
[Mostin]: They lack a Self, Shomei.
[Shomei]: I didn’t say it would be easy. One is of me as I was – before Nwm reincarnated
me. The other is of me as I am now. (Ironically) They are called Sho and Mei. You will tell
them apart by their hair colour.
[Mostin]: This is distasteful!
[Shomei]: It will be your magnum opus, Mostin. The last challenge I set you. I would not
leave the world bereft of my acquired knowledge.
[Mostin]: You are more than the sum of your learning. I wish you’d said something about
this before.
[Shomei]: Do all creatures have multiple pseudonatural analogues, Mostin? If so, I would
start with that premise.
[Mostin]: (Astonishment).
[Shomei]: I have left each with two contradictory impulses: preserve thyself and transcend
thyself.
Hopefully, the seeds of dialectical consciousness have already been sown. They will aid
you in your research – both are familiar with my library. Everything I have is yours,
Mostin.
[Mostin]: (Utter amazement). Shomei…
[Shomei]: Sho possesses the key to my astral retreat. I have not used it in some time, for
fear of assault.
If the current crisis is resolved favorably, it should be safe again. And try to establish a
second Triune: three is a good number for productive magical inquiry. Consider Rimilin…
[Mostin]: You cannot be serious!
[Shomei]: You are the most powerful living wizard in Wyre, Mostin. You have a
responsibility to act as a check on him.
[Mostin]: That is the Claviger’s purpose.
[Shomei]: The Claviger acts within its own circumscribed limits.
[Mostin]: Mulissu…
[Shomei] (Sadly): Look no more to Mulissu for aid.
[SONEILLON]: NOW
Shomei smiled, unrolled a scroll, and opened a teleportation circle to a location previously
scried.
Beneath a screen, in a small glade within sight of both the steep tor upon which Irknaan’s
palace stood, and of Murmuur’s diabolic tower, Mostin – together with Shomei and
Koilimilou – began to invoke the quiescence of the spheres.
A thought flickered through Mostin’s mind: Murmuur’s tower is outside of the quiescence.
Had it moved? He couldn’t recall its exact previous location.
Mere seconds before the spell was completed, tens of thousands of shadow demons began
to manifest
as Viractuth – Rhyxali’s lieutenant – folded a huge area of a distant Abyssal layer, and
brought it into vibrational congruence with Afqithan; a massive gate opened to a
demiplane abutting Throile, spewing forth Soneillon’s horde; and Nhura and her knights
and sorcerers – along with compactees and sidhe mercenaries – simultaneously translated
en masse from the Plane of Shadow.
The keen-eyed spined devils who circled Murmuur’s tower relayed the information to
Azazel – their commander-in-chief. Hell’s standard-bearer issued an immediate telepathic
command to Murmuur:
Open the gates.
Titivilus – whose presence never failed to irk Azazel – now stood nearby. Dispater’s
Nuncio betrayed no sign of emotion
Azazel scowled, and his knights and captains quailed before him. He entered a brief, silent
reverie, and communed with his master. He did not doubt that all contingencies had been
anticipated.
[Azazel]: What is your command?
[………..]: We will not intervene yet: a measure of uncertainty still exists. Wait. Hold
your position until instructed otherwise.
[Azazel]: Yes, Majesty.
*Mostin had originally assumed that Rimilin was Irzho’s slave, rather than vice-versa.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 11-28-2004
**
AFQITHAN - Part One
“Mulissu is dead,” Daunton the Diviner announced to the assembled wizards.*
His words were greeted by a variety of reactions: by Troap, a look of stunned disbelief; by
Tozinak – in the form of a sylph – with tears and a dramatic posture; by Waide, a smug
grimace which conveyed the
words ‘I told you so – it was inevitable.’ Jalael and Idro exhibited calm insouciance. A
dozen other mages – and several of these were formidable in their own right – showed
expressions which ranged
from anguish, through curiosity, to total ignorance of the reclusive Savant’s identity.
“Thank-you, Daunton,” Waide said with nasal condescension. “Although…”
“There is more,” Daunton interrupted, shooting the transmuter a look of barely concealed
contempt.
Waide surpassed him in terms of power, but Daunton enjoyed the respect of the entire
magical
community and the friendship of several influential personages – including Prince Tagur –
outside of it.
“An artifact bestowed upon her by Jovol has been stolen, along with other powerful
items.”
“She and Mostin were feuding, I hear,” Waide ventured.
“Waide!” Daunton snapped. “There will be no rumourmongering and innuendo.”
“It is hardly an idle thought,” Waide persisted. “Mostin’s assault upon Griel outside of the
Claviger’s domain is well known. Which artifact do you speak of?” Waide licked his lips.
“It is called the web of motes. It is potent.”
“I have never heard of it,” Waide sniffed.
“Nor I,” Jalael agreed. “What is its purpose?”
Daunton sighed. “Divination,” he said.
Waide laughed openly. “I think we can discern the purpose of your insistence upon this
meeting, Daunton: you desire this item. And try telling me now that Mostin has no part in
this.”
“I make no such claim,” the Diviner said dismissively. “But neither do I make the
assertion that Mostin murdered Mulissu: he did not. Her own daughter, Iua, slew her. The
priestesses of Jeshi confirm as much.”
“Matricide?” Jalael said drily. “This gets more interesting. Where is Iua now?”
“I do not know. I suspect she is mind blanked. I have tried to discern her whereabouts
twice.”
“An accomplice?” Troap asked.
“Or a device,” Daunton nodded. “Naturally, you suspect the former, Waide, and you
suspect that it is Mostin.”
“It is not his style,” Tozinak sobbed. “He would have killed her with much more panache.
Was Iua under a compulsion?”
“Perhaps. Graz’zt certainly bore Mulissu a grudge. He may have dominated Iua, although
it would have been a potent compound spell to circumvent the temple wards – especially
from Azzagrat. But the
Prince had already personally assailed the Savant in her demiplane: hence her retreat to
the Prime.”
Waide’s jaw dropped. “And she survived?”
Daunton nodded. “She was well prepared. Furthermore, Mostin anticipated the attack and
provided a safe exit for her.”
Waide swallowed nervously. Once he and the Alienist had been peers. But now he realized
– and the
knowledge caused him to grit his teeth in envy and frustration – that Mostin had utterly
surpassed him.
“Had she other enemies?” Troap asked.
“Not to my knowledge – she carefully avoided making them, as a rule.”
“How kind of Mostin to lend her one of his,” Waide said snidely.
“It was Mulissu who invoked the cascade at Khu,” Troap said drily, “not Mostin. I think
that is enough to warrant the enmity of any number of powerful fiends.”
“It was no doubt in response to Mostin’s nagging,” Waide replied.
“Because Mulissu was so weak-willed and impressionable, and Mostin so likes the
company of celestials,” Troap retorted acidly. The Goblin turned to Daunton. “Do you
think the emerging Cheshne faction may have had a hand? They are in geographical
proximity.”
“The possibility had occurred to me,” Daunton nodded. “Although a motive is harder to
fathom.”
“Mulissu could have crystallized magical resistance in Wyrish and Thalassine spellcasters,
if it became required,” Jalael suggested. “It may have been a preemptive strike.”
“The Cult of Cheshne has never exhibited an historical desire to dominate in that manner,”
Daunton sighed. “Besides, why wait to remove her until after their arrival? And I am
reluctant to pin every unfortunate event which transpires upon them – we do not know
their agenda.”
” Not good,” Waide grumbled. “We know that much, at least. The Claviger may prove to
be an aegis which we did not anticipate. Although maybe Jovol did.”
“Jovol was not omniscient,” Jalael grunted. “And his legacy has already stymied magical
activity. It may yet deny us the ability to muster an effective defense.”
“You seem fixated on some impending conflict, Jalael,” Daunton scowled. “If it occurs –
and I doubt that – it will likely be religious in nature, and will not concern us.”
“If the ugras are invoked, I doubt they will make the distinction,” Jalael smiled. “But the
question remains: why now?”
“Nothing becomes,” Daunton said grimly. “We cannot know why or where. Which brings
me to events in the demiplane of Afqithan. I trust that we are all aware of what passes
there?”
Jalael groaned. Tozinak fidgeted nervously. The other wizards evinced either blank stares
or, in the case of Waide – ever reluctant to reveal his ignorance in such matters – an
expression which could be
interpreted as either inquisitiveness, or quiet understanding.
Daunton sighed. “I will tell you what I know – which is all that Mulissu related to me. Her
information was, I don’t doubt, incomplete. And I think that even those who are embroiled
in its troubles have only a partial perspective.”
“Mostin,” Tozinak sighed.
“And Shomei,” Daunton nodded. “But one could probably have inferred as much by their
conspicuous absence from this meeting.”
“The great luminaries of our magical brotherhood,” Waide said snidely. “Do they even
know of what has happened?”
“I issued a sending to Shomei,” Daunton replied, “and instructed her to inform Mostin.”
The Diviner then proceeded to relate the tale of the Ahma, Graz’zt, Soneillon, and
Afqithan.
After Daunton had completed his account, Tozinak – overly moved by the story –
punctuated the
silence with a long sigh.
“And the web of motes?” The Illusionist asked. “What exactly does it do?”
“It illuminates connections,” Daunton explained. “Between people, places, thoughts,
dreams, futures, and truths. It is the most potent object I have ever heard of.”
“If Mulissu wasn’t wildly exaggerating its power,” Waide quipped.
“Why Mulissu?” The Necromancer Creq inquired. “She wasn’t even Wyrish. Why did
Jovol choose her?”
“Perhaps he liked her,” Daunton snapped. He relaxed before continuing. “She was not
alone. Shomei received something, as did Mostin, and Hlioth, and you, Waide. And you,
Tozinak. All of those who
took part in binding the Enforcer.”
“And you?” Waide asked archly.
“A minor curio,” Daunton answered. “I was the junior member, if you recall. Which,
incidentally, leads me to another point: Jovol dwelt in the Thrumohars for fifty years, but
where was his sanctum? There must still be a cache somewhere; a repository of
knowledge and power.”
“I have pondered this question,” Jalael admitted. “And what else, Daunton. Have you
heard what I have? I am apt to converse with demons, but I wonder what your sources tell
you?”
“Rimilin,” he nodded.
**
Nwm’s eyes flashed open. He had been sitting beneath a fir-tree, listening to the soft pad,
pad of an arctic fox, when he heard its pattern change in response to a new stimulus.
Something else was close by. He waited.
The Druid inhaled sharply as she approached. She was beautiful. And curiously familiar.
She sat down in the snow before him, unabashed by her own nakedness, and smiled. Her
skin
possessed a soft, silver sheen, and her eyes – no longer demonic – were green within
green.
“This is an unexpected pleasure,” Nwm said wrily. “I should warn you: if my conversation
seems stilted or awkward, it’s because I haven’t spoken for several months.”
“Your social ineptitude was never much of a concern,” she laughed.
“Can I assume that Eadric was successful in his efforts?” Nwm asked.
“Not yet.” She raised an eyebrow.
“I am unsure as to whether I should worship you or not.”
“That is your choice. It makes no difference to me. What were you doing?”
“You know, Nehael, I don’t really know. Waiting for you, I suppose. I don’t imagine that
there’s a rational explanation for your presence here?”
“Certainly not.”
“And what happens now?” Nwm asked.
Nehael laughed. “I asked that very question myself.”
“And what answer did you receive?”
“‘A Viridity,’” she replied.
“That is suitably vague,” Nwm sighed.
“Strange,” Nehael said drily. “I had the same reaction. There is something that I would
like to share with you, Nwm. A place.”
“What sort of place?” Nwm asked suspiciously.
“A sanctuary. An island of Green. An unassailable bastion. A womb.”
Nwm felt a frisson of excitement as she spoke, but his voice was sceptical. “In my
experience, nowhere is unassailable.”
“Prepare to change your mind,” Nehael smiled. She held out her hand, and he took it.
Stretching forwards, she lightly touched the bark of the tree.
“Step into the tree,” she said.
They dissolved into an ocean of jade, emerald and celadon. Another Tree, which was the
same tree – it was, in fact, all trees – appeared.
*
Nwm quaked. His mind screamed in fear, and soared in awe. His breath became rapid and
shallow. He
was dumbstruck, unwilling to believe, but knowing that it was there.
“Eadric’s forebears would have referred to it as the Tree- ludja,” Nehael said softly,
touching the Tree.
“Yours would have called it Derv.**”
“What have you become?” Nwm asked her.
“You know what I am,” Nehael smiled. “I am merely Nehael. But now the way is open.
You first showed it to me. She remembers. That is why it is Tree, and not Lake or Storm.”
Nwm swallowed. She alluded to things which made him feel distinctly uncomfortable.
Gingerly, he
reached out.
Tree, he knew.
He looked out from the blackthorn in the courtyard of Kyrtill’s Burh; from a huge banyan
in Afqithan, around which demons clashed furiously; from a hornbeam with white bark
and silver leaves, beneath
which a goddess meditated; from a viper-tree amid a grove in Azzagrat, where acid rained
and fire
burned; from a lonely olive-tree on a deserted island in Pandicule; from a celestial oak
which rose, impossibly perfect, upon the Blessed Plain.
Nwm withdrew his perception, and looked at Nehael.
“How?” He asked.
This Way, she showed him.***
“Is there more?”
“Oh, yes. There is much more.”
“But to look into Hell? Oronthon’s Heaven? These places are not…”
“Of the Green?” She offered. “I think you need to revise your understanding, Nwm. The
Viridity is a transcendental principle: it does not care for conventional labels. Green just
became a lot bigger.”
“Who was the goddess beneath the tree?” He asked.
“Her name is Lai,” Nehael smiled. “You will meet her in due course.”
“What is her rôle?” He asked dubiously.
“She is a student. Of magic. Of nature. Her world is all but dead. You will like her – which
is all to the good.”
Nwm gave a quizzical look.
“A student needs a teacher,” Nehael explained, “and a goddess needs a priest.”
**
The quiescence of the spheres began exactly five seconds after the Eye of Cheshne – a
large, reddish star linked with ill-fortune, miscarriage and death – anticulminated at the
necropolis of Khu in the World of Men.
Thus, when Soneillon and her host arrived in Afqithan – together with the Balor Irzho and
the demonist Rimilin of the Skin – a mortal would have breathed but once, before she
waxed to her full power again.
Her first act – before even Ainhorr had issued the telepathic command for his minions to
descend upon the hordes of interlopers – was to utter an incantation which caused a
shimmering wave to issue from her. Soneillon poured forth the void, transforming it, and
buoying those hundreds who were closest to her with an ecstasy of negation.
The palrethees, succubi and other monsters – the half-fiendish lamias, medusae, harpies
and hags
which swarmed in the sky around the Demoness – greedily drank of the essence which
their mistress
lavished on them. Irzho and Rimilin – already bloated with Soneillon’s unlight – swelled
yet further.
Koilimilou inhaled sharply as power coursed through her and her Will was sharpened and
intensified, before she abruptly disappeared to sight. And Eadric watched in trepidation as
Chaya – the succubus appointed to him – threw back her head and exulted.
As the impulse washed through the Ahma, visions of unbeing passed through his tortured
consciousness. A sweet, lingering taste, heavy with the promise of annihilation. He
glanced at Shomei’s devils, borne upon the invocation’s wind and magnified. They
terrified him. He terrifed himself. And in his heart, he knew he was as potent as he had
ever before been – save perhaps when he had fought at the Nund, where Grace had
descended upon him. Now the darkest wards protected him. Blasphemy
sustained him.
He drew his sword. At the limit of his vision, issuing in streams from Irknaan’s citadel –
unable to manifest closer, within the quiescence of the spheres – Ainhorr’s demons were
beginning to appear in ghastly flights and packs.
Fifteen minutes, Mostin had said. It would all be resolved within fifteen minutes. The
mental clamour of the demons was already threatening to overwhelm him.
Mostin vanished. A bound pseudodjinn – a grotesque parody which made Eadric grateful
that Iua was not there – bore the Alienist on a course which, for the sake of convenience,
they had arbitrarily determined as ‘west’: in Afqithan, there were no cardinal directions.
He sped towards a second
materializing force – Kostchtchie, mounted upon his wyrm, together with his bar-lgura.
Mostin
purposed to eliminate the demon as quickly as possible. Ortwin and Koilimilou were with
him. The
three were invisible and mind blanked.
The Alienist scowled. The air was rapidly becoming thick with varrangoin above
Kostchtchie, pouring through a teleportation circle: they were a group whose presence he
had not foreseen. Nhura and Jetheeg, together with hundreds of Loquai aristocrats and
sidhe mercenaries mounted upon umbral
griffons, moved towards the Demon Lord. A vast, black cloud of shadow demons
followed them. The
Alienist, Satyr and Cambion swiftly overtook them all.
[Ortwin]: How long, before we intercept?
[Mostin]: Ninety seconds, give or take. We need to be patient. We must stay wind walking
until we reach the boundary of the quiescence. I will be far more effective at the interface.
Momentarily, he doubted. He feared that by the time they reached the invocation’s limit,
most of
Kostchtchie’s force would already be inside the dimensionally locked area – many of the
leaping demons were pressing forwards restlessly. More teleportation circles were
opening outside of the quiescence. Abyssal giants – some riding white dragons – were
arriving from wherever Kostchtchie’s main force had been concentrated.
Mostin cursed. One of the sorcerers in the Demon Lord’s train must possess an extremely
potent device
– there was no way that the spell could have been repeatedly cast in such short time.
Doubtless, one of the varrangoin: they were not natural teleporters, and moving large
numbers of them effectively would otherwise prove problematic.
As they sped onwards, the Alienist grinned: Kostchtchie himself was not moving inside
the quiescence.
Evidently, the Ice Lord was reluctant to surrender his ability to instantly retreat.
[Mostin]: We must achieve the perfect position before the wind walk is dismissed. We
should strike the Demon with everything we’ve got.
[Koilimilou]: Watch for the dragons. Their noses will catch us, even if their eyes can’t.
*The assembly of wizards, called by Daunton in his manse in Gibilrazen consisted of
Daunton himself (diviner 10/loremaster 5), an accomplished facilitator whose impartiality
was renowned; Waide
(transmuter 17), generally conceded to be a supercilious pedant; Tozinak (illusionist 18),
often hysterical, and in a semi-volitional state of morphic flux; the green hag Jalael
(evoker 13/archmage 2), known to have devoured her lovers on several occasions; Sarpin
(illusionist 5/shadow adept 7), a Shade, and Jalael’s current concubine; the goblin Troap
(enchanter 14); Gholu (generalist 8/loremaster 4), a pompous eunuch and hoarder of
useless magical curios; Muthollo (abjurer 12), a Bedeshi newcomer regarded with
suspicion by the other wizards; Tullifer (transmuter 7/master alchemist 5), who evidenced
a vulgar interest in commerce; the sprite Shuk (illusionist 10); Droom of Morne (evoker
12), who stood in minor contempt of the Injunction, and had had his lips magically sealed
for one year; Creq (necromancer 11), who helped to perpetrate the worst stereotypes
regarding his magical lineage; Idro (generalist 12), intellectually stunted and now verging
on senile; Wigdryt (transmuter 9/plane shifter4) – a smoke mephit who had recently
reappeared from a thirty-year retreat; and Poylu
(enchantress 11), who dwelt in a well near the town of Banda in Ialde.
Ehieu (sorcerer 10/air savant 8), introduced to Daunton by Mulissu, was also present –
although he found the proceedings tedious at best.
**The Tree probably deserves some explanation. Before the rise of Oronthonianism, the
migrant
Borchian tribes (from whom Eadric and his kin are descended) venerated nature spirits of
various
kinds, manifestations of different aspects of the Hahio (“Interwoven [Green]”). These
facets (” ludjas“) were numerous and diverse, and never fully systematized: for example
there was a ludja for Stream, for Valley, for Gorse-bush, for Snow etc. etc. etc. Larger
ludjas also subsumed smaller ones – e.g. the Stone- ludja superseded the Pebble- ludja,
the Boulder- ludja etc. The three principal ludjas were considered to be Stone, Water and
Tree.
Derv is a Crixi word meaning “[prototypical or archetypal] Tree.” There was considerable
overlap and syncretism between early beliefs in the peoples who predated the foundation
of Wyre, and certain
concepts were held to be parallels of one another – Derv and the Tree- ludja possessed an
obvious identity. For Derv to be an actual tree however was almost nonsensical from
Nwm’s perspective: it is like being shown the Platonic ideal of “Tree”, manifested and
fully real.
***Several new spells would be revealed to Nwm by Nehael.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 11-28-2004
AFQITHAN - Part Two
“Show me more,” Hlioth, the Green Witch demanded.
Teppu laughed, and stroked the ash-tree which they stood next to. It seemed to croon
lovingly to him.
“It will involve a certain loss of individuality,” he smiled. “Are you jealous of your
discrete existence?
Your autonomy of perception and Will?”
“Certainly not,” Hlioth answered. “If I hadn’t determined all arguments regarding Will to
be specious, then I would never have abandoned wizardry.”
“You should blend all elements into a harmonious whole,” Teppu said. “And your song
will be different to mine. Give me your hand.”
The Green Witch complied, and Teppu pressed it to the trunk of the tree. Within moments,
a cascade of new impressions flooded into her mind. Multiple realities became apparent.
Her breathing became
rapid and shallow.
“How many layers are there visible?” She gasped.
“They cannot be measured in numbers,” Teppu laughed.
“I can see Faerie.”
“I am surprised that you can distinguish it so readily. Although it is less sleepy than many
of the others.”
“Perhaps I am predisposed to easily apprehend it. One other seems close – within reach.
What is it?”
“It is the half-hidden world of the Tunthi. Were you to go to Tun Hartha, you would see it
more clearly.
It is closer there than here.”
“It has recently stirred?” Hlioth asked.
“Twice. Great spirits were awakened. Echoes remain within the visible Green. It was
roused from its torpor near Hrim Eorth, then again at Groba.”
“I recall hearing of Hrim Eorth – the river became a dragon. But Groba?”
“Groba is more ancient than most know. Mesikämmi woke its genius loci.”
“To what purpose?”
Teppu smiled. “To swallow a sword, and keep it safe.”
Hlioth’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You have been following her activities?”
“Amongst others,” his eyes twinkled.
” Which others?”
“Nehael. Nwm.”
“What does the demoness have to do with this?”
Teppu threw back his head, and laughed. “Nehael is no demoness, nor was she ever one.
The past is not immutable.”
Hlioth scowled. “What are you plotting, Teppu?”
“I do not plot,” Teppu replied sincerely. “I merely act according to need. There is a
splinter of reality
which must be realigned: purged of its umbral infestation. In order to accomplish this, I
will need the concerted effort of several selfless individuals.”
“I think perhaps you might explain a little more.”
“I mean to eradicate the seeds of taint from the demiplane of Afqithan: it will be the first
manifestation of the burgeoning Viridity. Faerie must reclaim its own.”
Hlioth shrugged. “What is Afqithan, and why is it significant?”
Teppu sighed. “Your knowledge of current events is lamentably scant, Hlioth. This does
not surprise me, but you cannot continue to view Green within the limited terms that you
have previously described to yourself. Afqithan is a finite reality where demons, devils,
tainted sidhe and various other monsters struggle to assert themselves: Oronthon’s Ahma
is embroiled in its troubles, as is the creature Soneillon
– a demoness who has transcended her ontic state.
“I am dubious of your ability to manage such an act.”
“It will be simple: trust me.”
“And how do you propose to accomplish this?”
“Why,” Teppu laughed, “with magic, of course.”
“You are Jovol,” Hlioth sighed. ” And Fillein.”
“Yes – and no,” Teppu replied.
“I understand neither you nor your motives,” Hlioth groaned.
“Nor do I,” Teppu admitted.
**
Eadric and Shomei rode in the blazing trail carved by Irzho through the purple skies of
Afqithan.
Before them, Rimilin – whose grotesque, sexless form rippled black and oily – and
Soneillon – into whom all light vanished – flew within the great fume of smoke and fire
which emanated from the balor.
Contundor was buffeted by the gale which issued from the pit fiends – invisible but the
source of a palpable malice – who flanked them both. Demons, half-fiends and evil
monsters of every conceivable hue surrounded them, jostling for space.
Ahead of the Ahma, Ainhorr’s forces filled immensity, blackening the skies, their numbers
still swelling as demons from across Afqithan heard the summons, and teleported to the
unlocked areas beyond the quiescence of the spheres. From the towers of Irknaan’s palace
they gushed forth in a never-ending torrent, and below the flights of chasme, succubi and
palrethees, the ground and treetops seethed with bar-lgura. Eadric scowled as the standards
of the Mariliths in thrall to Ainhorr were being raised beyond the spell’s limit. More
demons flocked around them, and those Loquai who had thrown in their lot with Graz’zt.
[Eadric]: How so quickly?
[Shomei] (ruefully): I suspect that Ainhorr has my stone of sendings. He issues a
command to a subordinate, they instantly relay the message to their subordinates, and
within a few minutes nearly every demon in Afqithan will be here. Redeployment is
seldom a problem for fiends.
[Eadric]: And Graz’zt?
[Shomei]: I don’t doubt that he was the first to know.
[Eadric]: We should climb. How long will the invisibility last?
[Shomei]: We have time yet, but avoid any conflict for the moment. We need to retain the
element of surprise for as long as possible. We must find Ainhorr.
[Eadric]: Within the palace.
[Shomei]: Doubtless. He will not commit himself personally yet. You will also notice that
no
Nalfeshnees have appeared – they remain close by their master. There were thirty, at last
count.
[Eadric]: Thirty is too many, Shomei.
[Shomei]: It is not. Just watch out for the sword.
[Eadric] (pointing with his mind): What is that? You didn’t mention a dragon. I thought
Mostin got the dragons.
A grotesque shape, the wings of which beat slowly and rhythmically, was moving through
the demons
of Ainhorr’s force towards them.
[Shomei]: That is Ilistet’s Steed. Graz’zt’s herald.
[Eadric]: His herald? Is he here himself?
[Shomei]: Not according to Mostin.
As if to punctuate the realization, a long, sonorous blast issued from Ilistet’s horn, causing
the ancient, twisted trees to shake, and the Ahma‘s chest cavity to resonate.
Eadric, Chaya, Shomei and her quartet of devils peeled away from the main spearhead of
demons, and began to climb rapidly. They were not alone: other fiends from both factions
were attempting to assume positions which offered a higher vantage point.
Climb, he urged his mount.
Within one minute, they had reached nearly two thousand feet. Still, they needed to climb
– flights of succubi and chasme, issuing from the tallest of the towers, had already reached
that altitude. Eadric glanced downward and ahead of himself, and watched in fascination
as Irzho ploughed into a mob of
invisible nycadaemons which slowly revealed themselves to his sight.
**
[Mostin]: We must finish him as quickly as possible. His focus lies upon Nhura, at present,
although no doubt the probability of invisible, mind-blanked assailants has occurred to
him. I’m hoping that the wind-walking hasn’t. We have a chance, here: it is the nature of
demonic enthusiasm for a cause to crumple if the Lord or Prince who binds them – in this
case Kostchtchie – is eliminated. It’s all
personality.
[Ortwin] (Drily): No doubt this is about us preventing him reaching you.
[Mostin]: In a nutshell, yes. The Djinn will remain nearby, wind-walking, in case you need
to make a quick exit.
[Ortwin]: ” You” need to make a quick exit? What’s with the “You”? How will you
escape?
[Mostin]: I will teleport. We will be outside of the quiescence.
[Ortwin]: So we’re relying on some bitter, reluctant pseudoelemental?
[Mostin]: I have offered it suitable inducements. Do not be concerned.
[Orwtin]: Gods, Mostin. It’s not just Kostchtchie. It’s the dragon. And the other demons.
And the other dragons. And that thing.
Mostin peered ahead. Close by the Demon Lord, shunned by demons but around whom
fiendish giants
grouped clumsily, a gaunt figure stood. It was clearly visible between the warriors’ legs:
the trio were closing rapidly, now.
[Mostin]: Sh*t. The winterwight. It’s not supposed to be here.
[Ortwin]: Feeling nervous yet?
[Mostin]: You may have a point. Keep flying.
Varrangoin were all about them – although oblivious to their presence - when they
materialized outside the quiescence. Hovering five hundred feet from the limit of the
locked area, Mostin invoked a reality maelstrom. It was centered around Kostchtchie, the
wight, and the teleportation circles. The dimensional tempest raged incoherently,
stretching away from the quiescence in a sphere from which a section had been cut: along
the interface between the two spells, a null-space suffused with paradoxical magical
energy crackled. For a fraction of a second, Mostin became visible before hiding himself
again with another spell.
[Ortwin] (Grinning): That’s more like it.
[Mostin]: Brace yourself.
The magical response to the Alienist’s assault was immediate and would have
overwhelmed them all,
had it not been for Soneillon’s ward. Horrid wiltings, fireballs, a meteor swarm and
numerous sonics blasted into them. The djinn was instantly vaporized, and Mostin’s brief
appearance had been sufficient to make him the target of three attempted disintegrations
and numerous enervations. Rager varrangoin were all about him, attempting to rend his
invisible form.
Centered on himself this time, as yet more spells struck them ineffectually, Mostin
invoked a second reality maelstrom, content that their own wards would prevent their
succumbing to it. This time, the Alienist remained invisible.
Ortwin swallowed as he stood poised on the verge of another reality. Mostin cackled,
looking through the rent in space: a rift into Limbo.
[Mostin] (Madly): We’re safe here.
[Ortwin]: Are you quite nuts?
Flying through the dimensional storm – and through hundreds of varrangoin being pulled
helplessly to their fate – a huge white dragon powered its way purposefully towards them.
It bore an ugly, squat, bandy-legged demon brandishing a great hammer.
Clinging to the flank of the dragon, of whose presence the wyrm seemed entirely
oblivious, an arcanist varrangoin clung, drooling like a dog. It stretched out its hand, and
delivered an empowered sonic meteor swarm to them.
Bad, Mostin thought, as several creatures nearby were disintegrated by the sound. The
tassles on his hat swayed slightly. Two more dragons appeared behind the first: mounted
upon each were giants wielding enormous axes.
Abruptly, the reality maelstrom vanished, struck by a greater dispelling. From the
dragon’s jaws a terrible cold washed over them, numbing them despite their wards.
Koilimilou, buoyant with Soneillon’s power, retaliated with a soundless gaze. Black fire
coursed over the wyrm, and it bellowed in agony for a second, before silently vanishing in
a cloud of dark ash. The varrangoin sorcerer took to the air with its own wings, but
Kostchtchie himself began to tumble
towards the ground.
[Ortwin] (Gaping): What the…?
[Mostin]: Kostchtchie can’t fly.
[Ortwin]: (Hysterical laughter).
But in response to its master’s telepathic command, one of the other dragons wheeled
about and its rider climbed from his harness, and carelessly launched himself into the air.
Mostin anticipated that Kostchtchie would attempt to teleport into the vacant saddle. He
opened a gate.
Koilimilou – a sidhe-cambion seldom prone to uncontrollable outbursts – screamed. The
pseudonatural
Horror – simultaneously both a daemon, and a writhing thing possessed of appendages
with an unknown purpose – slid through the portal.
[Symbol] = Faces.
[Mostin] (Pointing mentally at Kostchtchie): His face (and then at the dragons), their
faces.
With a gusto which surprised Mostin, the Horror launched itself from the gate towards
their enemies.
There had to be a catch, Mostin knew. There was always a catch. It was never that easy.
**
The demon Surab, together with his host – a half-mortal named Iua – rode upon an
obsidian steed across a blasted Abyssal landscape. A great, flat, plain – riven by yawning
chasms which led to the domains of a thousand different demonic magnates – stretched as
far as the eye could see. Surab
relaxed into his new form – young, athletic, deadlier with the blade than any of the
succubi mercenaries who served Graz’zt. He might keep her for a while – she seemed
quiescent enough.
Through her eyes, he scanned the terrain ahead of him, eagerly seeking a familiar portal to
Azzagrat where, he knew, its Lord would shower him with favour for his success in
eliminating the Savant.
Although the plan had been swiftly devised, it had been flawless in its execution. Pure
simplicity.
Surab congratulated himself upon his ingenuity.
After riding hard for around an hour, the Demon nudged his steed towards a pit filled with
lurid green flames, entered it, and, within seconds, emerged from a gate oven in the midst
of Zelatar.
The scene which greeted him was violent, chaotic, brutal and filled with seething hatred.
In that regard, Azzagrat was entirely normal.
What marked the Triple Realm as changed, however, was the nature of many of the
creatures present. A frenzied pack of Abyssal ghouls were feeding nearby, and a cadre of
death knights – mounted upon
cauchemars – thundered past with some dire purpose.
Because, acutely conscious of Graz’zt’s denuded power and overextended forces, and
perceiving the
chink in his usually impenetrable armour, Prince Orcus – acting on the gentle promptings
of Rhyxali –
had determined to invest Azzagrat and test his rival’s defenses with a lightning-quick
assault.
Surab panicked. The Argent palace, under normal circumstances visible from all parts of
Zelatar, had vanished: the demon guessed that Graz’zt had obscured it with a spell.
Commanding his steed to plane shift, Surab, his host and his mount vanished. Any
forsaken realm between Hell and the Abyss was preferable to Azzagrat at that moment.
Upon his throne, Graz’zt himself reflected. The purpose of the embassy delivered by
Titivilus now
seemed clear to him: the Nameless Adversary had, no doubt, known of the impending
situation, and
chosen to maintain the existing balance of Abyssal politics by reinforcing the Prince’s
armies in
Afqithan. It had to be Afqithan: a diabolic presence in the Abyss would have caused
outrage among the other Princes. Afqithan, because of the concentration of Graz’zt’s force
there; because that was where the Ahma had determined to start the war; because to hold
Afqithan was yet another opportunity to defy the will of Oronthon. Afqithan had become
an unlikely trophy in the Great Game. New impulses were
revealing themselves.
Graz’zt spat venom, and cursed. He knew he would have been overwhelmed in Afqithan.
He needed the devils: in order to secure Azzagrat he was being forced to withdraw from
dozens of worlds – including Yutuf, Tirche, Sisperi and Saraf – and redeploy tens of
thousands of demons. And now he doubted that he held Throile: the sweet prize dearly
bought with the life of one of his favourite generals. And bitterest of all, he realized that,
despite all appearances to the contrary, he himself was still the pawn of the one who had
sparked the Great Revolt.
VIRIDITY AND SAIZHAN
Mostin the Metagnostic walked slowly through the hallway, the sound of his passage
muted by a thick, crimson carpet which possessed a texture akin to fine velvet. He was not
alone: his arcane sight revealed several unseen servants as they went about their chores,
and a spined devil – one of a dozen compacted by the mansion’s former mistress years
before – flapped silently past. Its contract with Mostin had been renewed for a further
three decades, and it was cautious to avoid irritating the Alienist.
He entered a study, the curious furnishings of which – upon his explicit instruction – had
remained unaltered since the Alienist had taken possession of the place. Closing the door
behind him, he walked to a ornate cabinet, opened its door, and removed a crystal
decanter. Carefully, he poured himself a large goblet of kschiff. Taking a single sip – and
briefly savouring its potency – Mostin sank into a large leather chair and introspected for
an hour.
Thoughts of Shomei, the simulacra and Vhorzhe preoccupied him.
Finally, he stirred himself, removed a small stone from his robe, and issued a sending to
his apprentice, Orolde: No change, I assume? .
None.
Mostin sighed. After so long, he would have expected at least some kind of revelation to
be
forthcoming. Some kind of reaction. A threat. An assault. Anything.
Set a fire. I am coming.
Mostin stood, exited the study by another door, and passed through several reception
chambers into an echoing corridor carved in intricate relief. Traversing its length, he
reached a small wooden portal bound with polished brass. The door opened smoothly, and
Mostin entered a huge library by way of an opening concealed behind heavy purple
drapes. Purposefully, he retrieved an ancient tome from a pile of books stacked neatly
upon a small desk, muttered, and teleported into the parlour of a rustic manse
several hundred miles to the south.
In the hills of Scir Cellod on the borders of Wyre, twenty yards outside of the limit
circumscribed by the Claviger – an entity of deific power which curbed the excesses of
Wyrish arcanists through an
Enforcer of terrible power – Mostin had erected his comfortable retreat. His choice of
locale – a wooded dell, through which an icy stream chattered noisily – had been inspired
primarily by its
proximity to the intangible border, although it also offered a certain secluded charm which
was not entirely lost on the Wizard.
Mostin wordlessly handed his cloak to Orolde – a maimed sprite who served the Alienist
with eccentric devotion – sighed, and descended into his cellar. The area was replete with
potent wards, the continual renewal of which occupied a not inconsiderable portion of
Mostin’s time and resources. A dim green light – testament to a dimensional lock –
suffused the place.
“Greetings gentlemen. I trust you are all well?”
From thaumatugic diagrams etched in precious metals upon the floor of the summoning
room, three
devils gazed impassively upon the Wizard: Titivilus, Murmuur and Furcas – Infernal
magnates of high bearing, wielding wide dominion. None answered him. Malice flowed
from them all.
“Are any of you feeling talkative?” The Alienist asked.
None replied. A great irony, Mostin thought to himself: both Furcus and Titivilus were
renowned for their loquacity.
“Let me know when you are,” Mostin said smoothly.
Silence penetrated the summoning room.
Mostin repaired to his study, and issued a number of sendings.
**
The Sidhe leaned upon a balcony of Irknaan’s Fortress in self-reflection. She considered
her fortune with emotional detachment and cold, sharp precision. She could not rationalize
her change: in previous transmigrations she had been bawdy; licentious almost without
limit. Now, she was frigid, and
possessed of an eerie clarity which was so inherently magickal that reality itself had
shifted, and become a dream in which she was the calm protagonist. Everything had
become fey.
Ahead, to the horizon, there stretched a bubble of Otherworld: pure, uncontaminated, as
fresh as when the first flower had bloomed, and the first sprite had sprung into being.
Beyond, for uncounted miles, lay a Shadow which was slowly receding. But behind,
hidden by the towering mass of the castle, in the space once occupied by Jetheeg’s range,
potent magic had attached the bubble of Afqithan to Faerie proper. Many of the realm’s
inhabitants were either stirring again, or – in the case of those whom the taint had
overwhelmed – fleeing to safer, darker places. Others, entirely new to the former
demiplane, had migrated in small numbers to what was – for them – an undiscovered
corner of the world. It was a phenomenon that had occurred before: such intrusions were
not uncommon in the scheme of things,
and Faerie continually spawned bastard demiplanes, or silently absorbed them. Troops of
fauns, sprites and pucks of various persuasions – but with shared curiosity – found places
beneath the great banyans.
Afqithan was a mezzanine between two worlds, and the Sidhe’s stronghold – although it
had proven not unassailable – was a powerful bastion which straddled realities.
She had styled herself Queen of Afqithan like many before her had, and, no doubt, many
after her would. She entertained great heroes, and ancient spirits, and minor gods of
various kinds. She brooded on the deaths of past lovers, but wondered how she could have
actually felt what she had once felt. At other times, musical invention obsessed her, and
she would spend an hour composing a symphony, or a day contemplating a single
cadence. Time froze, and raced past at breakneck speed.
Her subjects were, for the most part, accepting of her rule. To many, she had appeared in
person, simply announcing “I am the Queen, now.” Those who had found this a difficult
prospect – and there had been a few – she had roundly bested, either in combat, or magic,
or in some artistic contest. Some had
become enamoured of her, others had been duped by her promises and intimations. But
most had
simply acquiesced to her claim: it was obvious that no other could rival her, and what
would Afqithan be without a tyrant? In the event, she transpired to be less than despotic,
and made no particular
demand from her subjects at all, other than to be called your majesty.
She stood, and adjusted her harness: a soft leather coat with heavy studs, and a belt which
bore a delicately curved blade. She wore a travel-stained cloak and boots – vestiges of her
former self – and bore a light diadem cut from a gemstone. Her sudden self-awareness
erupted as a cascade of chords
seeking to escape from her mind and into her harp. She grimaced, and began to play. It
was bitter, brutal, and poignant; full of anger and loathing, tinged with a wry self-mockery
which embraced the absurd. The irresistable fate of the fey: a timeless childhood, or a
perpetual decline; the knowledge that what was is always better than what is to come.
Her music became dark and ominous. Below the throne room, in a deep chamber etched
with powerful
runes, a gate to Azzagrat slumbered. It had been sealed at both ends: by Graz’zt himself,
as he sabotaged a hundred portals into the Argent Palace from planes where he perceived a
possible threat; and by Mostin the Metagnostic in the aftermath of the Great
Confrontation. Its very presence troubled her: she seldom enjoyed a peace of mind. Most
of the Castle’s inhabitants – sprites of low stature –
were oblivious to its existence, although a few were not: gnomes and goblins who had
eavesdropped on their former masters’ conversations; or quickling spies, lulled into
obedience by the new Queen’s
glamoury.
The tune ceased. She turned, and entered the cavernous throne-room from the balcony.
Great crystal lamps illuminated the hall, and hundreds of feys danced, sang and capered
about. Gifts and curses were freely exchanged. Her mood lightened somewhat: association
with her own kind, she observed, was
reassuring and gave her a sense of identity. And, as always, she was the focus of all
attention. She ascended a dais of carved onyx, and relaxed into a small siege cast from
precious metal and adorned with opals.
As she sat upon her throne, a feeling of deep satiation and langour overcame her.
It’s good to be Queen, she thought.
She greeted the sending from the wizard with an expression of mild annoyance.
Not now, she thought. You are interrupting a pavanne.
I need you to pull the wool over my Dukes’ eyes. Are you up to it?
Her interest was piqued, much to her annoyance, but her manner remained insouciant.
Let me think on it, she thought.
I think I may eliminate Murmuur in front of the other two. They might be more apt to talk.
Don’t be a fool. I’ll come in the morning.
Pay close heed to time. A year might pass before you realize it.
Enough! I will come. Now go.
The Queen sat briefly, but found further enjoyment of the revel impossible. She stood in
irritation, cursed, and exited abruptly.
**
The Sela was clad in the armour once worn by Lord Rede of Dramore, a martial paragon
from a previous era, when war had been the business of the Temple. At his waist, he bore
a six-flanged mace, forged by the same celestial smiths who had hammered Enitharmon’s
sword from a shard of thought.
He was, at once, a perfect, unified consciousness, an awareness of everything that was, or
is, or could be; but frail, mortal, imperfect. There was no ‘he;’ no observer, and nothing
observed. There was a moving stillness. The potentiality of infinite bifurcation. An
Adversary taunting him with a Green Void.
He sighed.
He knew little of the arts of war. Even when he had served the Temple, rather than been it,
his role had been mainly oracular. The peculiar blending of the conventional and the
Absolute – which Tramst
embodied – did not seem to preclude gaps in his knowledge of mundane things. Strategy
in war –
amongst other things, such as royal tax protocols and the latest fashion in headwear – was
one of those gaps.
For his captains he had picked Brey and Sercion – toward whom, since his ascension, he
had payed
particular notice. Neither were ready for the task that he had appointed them: their training
was far from complete, and each still expected and presumed more than either would
admit, even to
themselves. Expectation and presumption were qualities which the Sela had striven to
eliminate from those who had accepted him as their teacher. Nonetheless, Tramst was
satisfied that their role was what it must be: he observed all action with calm
understanding. Fatalism and free will were, to him, an empty duality, the refutation of
which was amply testified by his very existence – at least for those who saw the truth.
The Sela observed ideas and emotions move through his mind: an unending torrent of
desire, fear, concern, humour, regret and hope. He placed the tortuous ramblings of
conventional thought to one
side – whilst still honouring them – and embraced his ground of being; and saw once
again, that they were no different. Insight and compassion welled up within him. But, even
there, his Adversary was with him: tempting him in that moment to mould reality, to shuck
off his mortality, and with a passing thought reorder things as he knew they should be.
Any limitation which the Sela possessed was self-imposed.
Consciously, he hung his mace upon a weapon stand and began to cast off his armour.
Tramst struck a light, the dull glow of an oil-lamp suffused his tent, and he turned to
observe a slender young man with olive skin sitting on his pallet. He had a tangled mass of
hair, a face which rested with an impudent expression, and held a tray of candied chestnuts
in his hand. He offered one to the Sela with a boyish grin.
“Want one?” He asked. “They’re from Bedesh. They’re good.”
The Sela sat next to the youth, took one of the sweets, and chewed thoughtfully.
“Another?”
“No, thank-you,” the Sela smiled. “One is enough. I’m glad you came: I miss you.”
The youth shrugged. “One has to make one’s own way. I don’t regret anything, you
know.”
“I know,” the Sela laughed, “and I know that you aren’t here for the reason that I wish you
were. You are merely curious. You wanted to see, rather than See.”
The youth nodded, and popped another chestnut into his mouth.
“You are feeling insecure?” Tramst asked.
“Somewhat,” the youth smiled.
“Your place in the scheme of things is assured. Do not be concerned. Although why I
flatter your ego so is beyond me: it hardly needs inflating.”
“I seem to have caught you in a happy mood,” the youth grinned. “Which is all to the
good. I was wondering if you might tell me..?”
“Ahh,” the Sela said drily. “Your name. Unfortunately, that information is still
confidential. It can be bought, but I fear that the price might be too high for you.”
“I guessed as much, although I had to ask.”
“Of course you did, dear boy.”
The youth stood, and bowed rakishly. “I will take my leave, then. I look forward to events
with great anticipation.”
“As do I,” Tramst smiled. “Remember that I love you.”
“I will try my hardest to forget,” the youth sighed. He vanished.
*
When the Ahma entered the tent an hour later, the taint was still so profound that it
threatened to overwhelm him. His head reeled. Fear and concern possessed him.
“What happened here?” Eadric asked.
“I wavered for a moment,” Tramst smiled. “There can be no truth without doubt.”
Eadric scowled.
“You have my permission to go. Return within a fortnight.”
The Ahma cocked his head. “I don’t…”
Then he received the sending from Mostin.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 05-07-05
Bluff, Diplomacy, Intimidate and Sense Motive. Mostin still hadn’t developed an epic
spell to penetrate a mind blank. These skills enjoy a brief renaissance.
***
Execution and Parley.
“We should try again,” Eadric groaned. He was exhausted: interrogating devils was
tedious,
unrewarding work. He stared hard at Ortwin – now Ortwine – and shifted uncomfortably.
His
adjustment to his ( former?) friend’s recent femininity continued to be difficult, and had
proceeded in an intermittent fashion as revelations spasmodically shaped his perception.
Her hauteur seemed genuine, even when directed towards him. Although prior
manifestations of Ortwin had seldom been prone to
honestly emote, and had never revealed the true extent of his feelings on any matter, to the
Ahma’s recollection. Coupled with the scant contact that he and the Sidhe had had with
one another, Eadric knew that he did not know this creature. At all.
She seemed asexual, which was the most bizarre and implausible change from Eadric’s
view. Overt
sexuality was not, apparently, Ortwin/e’s defining characteristic. The essence was
something else. An expression of some other truth, which Eadric could not grasp.
And her wit, Eadric quailed internally. A little caustic, perhaps, as Nwm had drily
remarked. It was a snare; a wire with vicious hooks, which dripped contempt. So precise.
So erudite. She seemed to know everything. She was tapped in to something much bigger,
with which in every successive incarnation, Ortwine had become more identified. What
would she become next? He wondered. What was more Fae than a Sidhe-Queen? He
shuddered.
Ortwin had craved a kingdom, and Ortwine – now in possession of one – enjoyed her
spoils with an
easy display of ancient majesty. A quality which might take half-a-century for a mortal
ruler to develop, seemed to be her natural demeanour. It was impossible to determine
whether it was an affectation, or not.
Every time she died, she returned with increasing potency. Nwm brought her back. He
would always
bring her back. And if Nwm died, who would bring the Druid back? Teppu? Nehael?
Mesikämmi? If
any of them died, would they come back stronger? It was a truth, an aspect of the Viridity.
Absorb and transform. Deify the mundane. Death into life. The perfect expression of the
Green, which arose – or such was Nwm’s contention – in inevitable response to other
influences. For Saizhan, it presented neither a conflict nor a congruence.
“Are the trolls of mysticism mustering for another attack on your enfeebled
preconceptions, Ahma?”
Ortwine read his mood accurately. “Should we banish them with fly-swats?”
“I like you better as a goat,” Eadric replied.
“Then we must be grateful that you are not consulted in the matter,” Ortwine smiled.
“Time is precious to me, Ahma. I would prefer that dreary obligations are resolved
quickly. We should simply kill one.”
Eadric nodded.
*
Eadric leaned on Lukarn, his gauntleted fists gripping the crosspiece, resting his whole
weight upon the point of the blade. He stretched up onto his toes.
Next to him, Ortwine sat on a low wooden stool. She looked only mildly interested.
“Which paradigm will prove the ascendant, I wonder?” The Ahma mused.
Titivilus said nothing.
Eadric raised an eyebrow. “Your silence is unnerving. It seems to run counter to the
natural order of things.”
“Which one?” Ortwine asked. “I confess that Titivilus is my favourite – his manner is
smooth, and I appreciate the efforts he makes towards presenting an agreeable social face.
Furcus is haughty, but I respect his mind. Murmuur is somewhat dull, and lacks any
feature which deserves to be preserved; but he is a soldier, and the least conniving and
manipulative. Is he the most good, do you think?”
Silence.
“I could cut you down,” Eadric sighed. He turned to Murmuur and Furcas. “Each of you in
turn. It would bring the wards down, but still, none of you would survive long enough to
react before your
deaths. Nor could you intervene in each other’s demise.”
Eadric stared at Murmuur: of the Dukes he alone, the Ahma knew, could be read. The
glibness possessed by Furcas and Titivilus was impenetrable.
The possibility of an emotion passed across the devil’s eyes. Murmuur immediately knew
that his
thought had been perceived. And he knew that Eadric was not lying.
“And it would be a just punishment,” Eadric continued. “I have the right to administer it.”
Murmuur sneered.
Ortwine sat, apparently nonplussed. “What happens to the estate of an Infernal Duke,
while he is in captivity? Are his possessions redistributed amongst other devils in his
absence, or held in fief by his master until his return? How much fear do you each feel,
now? Does the prospect of annihilation fill you with dread, or do you anticipate a blessed
release from your miserable lot? Perhaps an iota of your essence will remain, tormented in
some yet deeper Hell by fiends to whom you appear the merest of
shadows. Perhaps Oronthon will welcome the memory and remnant of your spirits back
into his bosom.
Or will the ancient, formless evil of the Abyss swallow you in unbeing? These are
questions which
intrigue me, and I have never before had the opportunity to voice them to any who might
know.”
Murmuur’s spittle fizzled against the invisible barrier.
“You doubt my sincerity?” Eadric asked.
The Ahma turned, and with two swift strokes felled Furcas, advisor to the Archfiend
Dispater, and respected for aeons as one of Hell’s most effective intellectual weapons. As
the Duke crumpled,
Ortwine leapt forward with blinding speed and seized him by the neck. She quickly drew a
dagger of purified silver, and thrust deep into the devil’s waiting throat. Ichor spilled over
her. She tossed the corpse to the ground in a perfunctory manner.
“We are at war,” Eadric grimaced, ignoring Murmuur and turning to the Nuncio of Dis.
“This is no longer a parlour game, Titivilus. Archetypes are slain in our times, and new
ones born. And I am not benign, Titivilus. I am wrathful. I am the Ahma. Do you
understand?”
“Given the circumstances, a certain degree of cooperation might prove sensible,” Titivilus
conceded.
“But I require guarantee of my release after I have testified, and assurances that you will
not subsequently harass me.”
Eadric furrowed his brow and stared hard at Titivilus. But his consciousness was turned
towards
Murmuur, alert to signs which could be read.
“If I were to allow anything other than self-interest to inform my behaviour when my
existence is threatened, I would be a traitor to my principles,” Titivilus smiled. “In the
final analysis, survival is the preferable route, and the court of Pazuzu is quite welcoming,
I hear. Do not be alarmed – I have fallen out of favour before; a millennium or two passes,
and I wheedle my way back in again. My
eccentricities are forgiven in the face of my scheming brilliance.”
” Forgiven?” Eadric asked.
” Overlooked might be a better word for you,” Titivilus smiled. “Although, from my
perspective, they amount to the same thing. I must also insist that you slay Murmuur
before I co-operate. I can allow no witnesses to our exchange.”
Eadric shook his head. “I will retain Murmuur as a safeguard against your duplicity. If you
prove faithless, I will release him to inform your masters of your conduct, and to seek
whatever revenge he deems appropriate.”
“You have grown cruel, Eadric,” Titivilus smirked. “There is hope for you yet.”
“Your attempts at badinage bore me, devil,” the Ahma sighed.
“The fiend has a point,” Ortwin said. “Or half-a-point.”
**
“This is intolerable,” Waide snapped. “You would abide beyond the Claviger’s purview,
but seek aid therein when it is convenient for you? Any one of us could establish ourselves
outside of Wyre, but by choosing not to, we demonstrate our solidarity. But you persist in
your conjurations on the very borders.”
“I reside in Shomei’s former home…” Mostin began.
“Infrequently,” Waide objected.
“For once, I concur with Waide,” Daunton sighed. “Your contribution is greatly missed.
Commit yourself to a shared enterprise, Mostin. Information is beginning to flow freely
between us, for the first time in ten generations.”
“My present undertaking makes this an unlikely prospect,” Mostin glared. “The Enforcer
would terminate me.”
“Your right to call an Assembly will not be universally recognized,” Daunton observed.
“Many will not come, if only to irritate you.” He looked pointedly at Waide.
“Then I will speak to the Wyrish Wizards as an outsider,” Mostin said sourly. “An
embassy, if you will.
You will issue the call, Daunton.”
“Do not indulge him,” Waide hissed. “Such an act would force me – and many others – to
ignore you.
You would cause a rift, Daunton.”
“Waide,” Mostin almost screeched, “if you were anywhere else, anywhere within a billion
other cosmoi, then I would blast you for your pig-ignorance and show you what
transmutation really means.”
“But you cannot,” Daunton smiled. “Isn’t that, in itself, worth something to you?”
“Yes,” Mostin said, gesturing irritably, “but it is not worth everything to me. You must be
reflexive, or what you have built will atrophy and die. I will make a concession, however,
to demonstrate my
commitment to the Wyrish experiment.”
“I doubt there is anything which would impress,” Waide said.
“I will make Shomei’s library freely available,” Mostin replied. “On a reference-only
basis, of course.
No tomes will be removed from the property. And I believe there is a clause regarding
theft between
wizards in the Injunction.”
“You are outrageous!” Waide said indignantly. “Your right to that inheritance is contested,
in any case.”
“The library is mine, and I will vigorously defend it against any claim to the contrary,”
Mostin said with narrowed eyes. “So it’s settled then? The bribe is sufficiently large?”
“From my perspective, more than adequate,” Daunton sighed pragmatically. “And I doubt
any Wizard would decline your request in light of such an offer.”
“Waide?” Mostin asked drily. “I hope you don’t intend to abandon your magical peers on
such a momentous occasion?”
“No,” Waide replied, “any more than you would seek to exclude Rimilin from such a
gathering. I believe he also maintains a temporary residence in Morne.”
“Quite,” Mostin said through gritted teeth.
“Do I detect the stench of another rivalry, Mostin?” Waide asked sarcastically.
At that moment, Mostin considered whether to disintegrate Waide, although it would have
meant his own, inevitable demise at the hands of the Enforcer. Turning red, he mastered
himself with difficulty.
“Perhaps you are not the heir apparent, after all,” Waide added.
Mostin twitched, and smiled madly. “We can accomplish great things together Waide…”
” NO! ” Waide spat. “What you mean to say is ‘I, Mostin the Metagnostic can accomplish
great things with your aid.’ You would attempt to corral every Wizard in Wyre into some
ritual for your edification, not for the elevation of magic or understanding. I will not be
your lackey in a cabal which serves your own, deranged agenda. Don’t think that I don’t
understand your motive in this. You wish to bind
Graz’zt.”
“Amongst other things. And if we don’t do it first, he will be invoked by the Cult of
Cheshne.”
“I will not be drawn into a religious conflict.”
“The distinction you seek to make is irrelevant,” Mostin retorted.
“It is the Law of the Injunction.”
“Within Wyre, yes. I do not suggest that we act within Wyre.”
“You would be a magical dictator, who acts without restraint beyond a sanctuary, and
would cower in it when threatened? This is not acceptable to me.”
Mostin paused. Waide had a good point, although he didn’t see the bigger picture. He
breathed slowly.
“If assurances were made – inviolable contracts which protected the interests of every
wizard involved
– would you be philosophically opposed to participating in a ritual which could be
demonstrated to…”
“With you at the helm? Never.”
“You are ignorant, Waide.”
“I suggest arbitration,” Daunton said slyly. “We could appeal to the Claviger.”
“This is beyond the Claviger’s purview,” Waide and Mostin said in chorus.
“Exactly,” Daunton smiled. “The Claviger has no interest in the outcome of this dispute.
Hence, it would be the ideal arbiter.”
“You suggest asking for advice from the Claviger?” Waide laughed.
“In a manner of speaking,” Daunton nodded. “But its judgment would have to be
binding.”
“But it could not use the Enforcer in pursuance of such an arrangement.”
“I am suggesting that you abide by its decision,” Daunton replied. “Nothing else. Or have
we all forgotten the ability to act with civility unless threatened with annihilation?”
“It has been a long time since I have not been threatened with annihilation,” Mostin said
sourly. “But I’m unsure if we could present a case in intelligible terms. Most of my
conflict with Waide stems from the fact that he is loathsome.”
“Our mutual hatred transcends any rational compromise,” Waide nodded. “However, I will
not be branded as the one who refused the advice of the Claviger. I will agree to its
decision.”
“As will I,” Mostin quickly backtracked.
“It may demand certain concessions,” Daunton said carefully. “Are you sure that you are
prepared to accept that possibility?”
“Naturally,” Mostin answered. Concessions? He thought. “But I would like to address the
Assembly first, to see if some other route cannot be found.”
“Good luck,” Waide said snidely.
“Where, and when?” Daunton asked.
“In three days, at my manse outside of Morne,” Mostin replied smoothly. “In my library.”
Waide bristled silently.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 05-15-05
A shorter update. I’m trying to keep things to 1000 words or so.
Mostly backstory.
***
ORTWINE
Some millennia before – at a time when most of Wyre sat beneath hundreds of feet of ice
– a sidhe-
cambion named Suoninguhol had ruled the demiplane of Afqithan.
His succession had been swift and brutal, and accompanied by all manner of atrocious acts
– as was common in the history of the place. The previous tyrant – the Loquai sorceress
Mileze – escaped to Azzagrat where, in Graz’zt’s court, she plotted revenge. Mileze had
enjoyed several powerful Abyssal sponsors – a fact which, in itself, testified to her ability
– but was, at that time, sworn to Zelatar.
When Graz’zt inevitably moved demons into Afqithan – the Prince was notoriously
possessive of
worlds he had annexed – most observers were shocked by the fact that Suoninguhol
resisted all
attempts to displace him from his fortress. Over the course of a year, Graz’zt attempted in
various ways to wrest the castle – which contained a strategically vital gate to Azzagrat* –
from Suoninguhol’s grasp.
Balors and mariliths were thrown against the stronghold, teams of kelvezu were
dispatched to eliminate Suoninguhol, and powerful magics were invoked: the Prince even
went so far as to manifest a body
within Afqithan in an effort to directly assail the barrier which the cambion had erected.
Nothing was effective. To make matters worse, Mileze was ambushed and slain by
Suoninguhol’s sister, Koilimilou, forcing Graz’zt to identify a new instrument of his will.
Frustrated, Graz’zt retreated his spirit to the Argent Palace, and contrived a spell which
would peel Suoninguhol’s fortress away from Afqithan and fling it into some nameless
Abyssal plane wracked by negative energy. Despite his prognostications to the contrary,
Graz’zt’s spell failed, sending the Prince into a violent rage.
When he finally emerged from his tirade, Graz’zt swallowed his immense pride and
negotiated a
settlement with Suoninguhol – content to wait and extract his revenge at a more opportune
time. He occupied himself with attempting to learn the identity the cambion’s sponsor (the
Prince had no doubt that Suoninguhol possessed one), and to groom his own chosen
candidate – a Loquai named Irknaan –
in the duties expected of a loyal subject of Azzagrat.
Time passed. Graz’zt became distracted in wars with Orcus, Soneillon and Fraz Urb’luu.
Suoninguhol entrenched himself yet further, tightening his grip on Afqithan and
compacting hundreds of fiends from a variety of interested demonic parties. His
ascendancy seemed assured until, abruptly and without warning, Suoninguhol vanished.
News quickly found its way to Zelatar, prompting Graz’zt to again
invest the demiplane and, this time, successfully install Irknaan as king. Koilimilou was
captured, but Irknaan chose to humiliate rather than eliminate her.
The gate was reopened and, for a while, Graz’zt was content. Afqithan’s status was
monitored by the Prince’s demons, and Irknaan paid a hefty tribute for which he gained
recognition in Azzagrat. Graz’zt’s minions became favoured compactees of Loquai
sorcerers; Loquai mercenaries found themselves
fighting in wars from Yutuf to Throile. Suoninguhol’s abode became known as Irknaan’s
Fortress, and the new king was left to explore and expand the nineteen sub-levels below it.
*
When Irknaan’s Fortress passed into Ortwine’s possession, the Sidhe inherited something
of a mixed fortune.
The castle was established upon a precipitous bastion of rock, unscalable from three sides,
and reached by a narrow path cut into the sheer wall of the fourth; although assault from
the ground was as an afterthought to its real defense. Its highest towers, which soared
many hundreds of feet into the purple skies, were linked with bridges less than a foot
wide: each hung like a strand of silk which glistened in the dusk. All of the fortress –
except for a reception chamber to which a previous queen had
pactbonded a dozen of the largest jariliths – was dimensionally locked against unwanted
intrusion, but demons could still be conjured and bound within. Its interior could not be
scried. The outcrop itself was reinforced by a spell of tremendous power, wrought long
before by a goddess named Shuae.
The art of the Loquai suffused the place, with moving murals and columns of shadow,
fashioned by
magic over long centuries. The air whispered as one walked through the lofty and
insubstantial upper halls, but the deep chambers seemed to have walls of impossible
density: here all sound was muted, and light subdued. Carven reliefs, which displayed
scenes of glorious hunts – or grotesque tortures –
writhed as their stories unfolded to the observer. Broad stairs led to a wide platform upon
which were roosted the four remaining tenebrous griffons, and the evil specimen once
owned by Duke Ytryn – a
chimaeric monster of unique form and singular foul disposition. Ortwine had tried,
without success, to subdue the beast; it remained tethered by a two-hundred pound chain
of adamant to a plinth of
unbreakable marble.
At its deepest point, in a cleft which had been hewn into the bedrock by some unknown
force, lay the now-sealed gate to Azzagrat; above it lay the summoning rooms, with a
jackal-headed arcanadaemon confined in a circle of binding by Mileze long before. There
was a cavern in which eerie shades moved across still waters; a repository of tomes
written in dead and forgotten languages; a forge, where Ainhorr had maintained a team of
Azer smiths; quickling warrens, and chambers filled with torture
devices. An armory of Faerie weapons, in a vault which was guarded by a symbol of
insanity placed by Mostin, now housed the ten-foot vorpal sword Heedless.
Gnome thralls moved silently and efficiently throughout the castle, and a handful of
quicklings –
enchanted to obey Ortwine’s desires – were still retained by the Queen. Gaggles of minor
sprites
hovered and chattered continually, and bearded feys with cudgels and pipes sang and
caroused with
nymphs and sylphs in the many small courtyards. Walled gardens, once home to
bloodthorns and viper trees, now also contained more benign shrubbery – although
Ortwine had allowed a few demonic
saplings to remain, mainly as a curiosity.
The Queen knew that Irknaan’s Fortress sat upon a crossroad of realities, and for her, the
World of Men was never more than a step away. Yet if one rode beyond the limit of
burgeoning Faerie, the umbral taint of Afqithan still clung.** Invoked at the climax of the
incident, as Mostin had wrily dubbed it, the planar rift was a growing at an exceptional
rate: it would take a mere two millennia for Afqithan to be entirely subsumed by Faerie.
Understanding the cartography of the place had been Ortwine’s first task to herself:
mentally cataloging every gate and portal (there were many); identifying areas where
other worlds were closest; understanding each nuance in Afqithan’s planar symmetry.
Knowing which paths
led to sylvan glades, and which led to haunted copses.
Her hegemony stretched into Faerie, across wide tracts of forest and heath-covered
moorlands, within which were hidden deep, wooded ravines. Beyond them lay mountains,
a wide river, and the courts of noble sidhe in realms which stretched through space and
time. In Afqithan itself – where the remnants
of the Loquai numbered a few hundred – her rule was uncontested. Menicau, three times a
turncoat, still dwelt in her citadel, but even she presented no threat, and had bowed her
head in deference. A dozen other families retained estates with Ortwine’s permission. But
the Queen herself kept no Loquai, demon or cambion in her train.
Ortwine surveyed the land south of her walls. Trees which had sprung over the heaped
corpses of
fiends; the great contusions in the ground – caused when Azazel smote Irzho from the sky,
and the
balor had fallen like a black comet – now covered with green creepers. The chasm, caused
by
Soneillon’s final realization of nonexistence, become a deep pool to which mist clung,
with an air only of deep sorrow. Nwm’s hand, at work.
The Sidhe-Queen pulled a pair of leather gloves over her hands, shifted her scimitar, and
tied her hair back. Her perception changed momentarily as she walked between worlds:
from Afqithan, to an area of grassy knolls in Methelhar, near the borders of Nizkur Forest.
She retrieved a small, ornate box from her belt pouch, performed a complex manual
operation, and whispered nine syllables of power.
A shadow avenue opened to Deorham. There, she would meet with Nwm, who would bear
her to
Sisperi: the Goddess Lai had requested an audience with her, and Ortwine had grudgingly
agreed.
*The gate to Azzagrat is of ancient origin. It is constructed, not natural: the result of an
immensely potent spell. It cannot be freely disjoined, and the ward protecting it would
require a large and powerful cabal to penetrate. It can be sealed – presumably the intention
is to allow it to function as a door which can be locked from either side.
**The initial bubble of Faerie invoked by Teppu was four virtual miles in diameter, with
Irknaan’s Fortress at the dead centre.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 01-29-06, 12:51 AM
Recollection
Soneillon.
The name echoed in his mind, and caused his stomach to turn.
The Ahma stood alone upon the porch of Mostin’s manse in the cold pre-dawn, mist rising
from his mouth and nostrils. A waning moon, riding high in the West, illuminated the
grassy hills of Scir Cellod on the borders of Wyre with a silver-blue sheen, and cast long,
violet shadows.
Eadric brooded: he had dreamed of her again. Her shadow clung to him like an
insubstantial mist,
gnawing at the corners of his awareness. For the hundredth time, he reenacted the events
in Afqithan in his mind, searching for clues which may have eluded him, attempting to
gain new perspectives.
“Her vestige remains in Dream,” Teppu had assured him in the aftermath of the
Confrontation. “She
will fade, if you allow it. If you permit her echo to intrude upon your consciousness, it will
lend her memory substance. A semblance of ens will crystallize. Remember – Nothing
Becomes. And you are the Ahma: your thought will become manifest before most others.
Let her go. Let her remain cradled in the bosom of the Ancient.”
Eadric’s throat and chest tightened with the memory of what had gone before. A single,
tiny, corner of reality, subject to the strain of so many competing Infinities. Graz’zt’s main
force crumpling under the assault of Soneillon and her horde of augmented monsters. The
Horror, unleashed by Mostin, and its frenzy of destruction in the West, abruptly ended by
a swift stroke of Kostchtchie’s hammer. The
untimely evaporation of the Quiescence of the Spheres, and the onslaught of devils which
had followed, sweeping everything before them. Gates opening, and rifts appearing, space
buckling as demons fled to Azzagrat at their master’s behest: Graz’zt working desperate
magic in his sanctum as the greater threat of Orcus overrode all other concerns.
Eadric had sought relentlessly for Ainhorr within Irknaan’s Fortress, and as Chaya had
invoked
gruesome necromancies, Shomei had hurled compacted devils at their foes and burned the
lesser
demons away with a celestial fire which had caused him to gape in wonder. The Ahma had
hewn his way through Nalfeshnee bodyguards to reach the Balor. But even in his moment
of triumph, as he had struck Ainhorr down, an ecstatic scream of extinction had echoed in
his mind, rushing in a wave across the battlefield. Soneillon had fallen.
His mind had darkened as a spell of terrific force settled upon them. Impotent, Eadric had
watched as the Akesoli had descended upon Shomei, and, in a trice, flayed her body –
stripping her essence away and binding it in a subtle net of Amaimon’s devising. Infernal
justice – for her numerous
misdemeanours – swiftly served upon she who had broken compacts, and flouted the iron
law of Dis.
The Ahma, burned and bloody, with armour rent and shield shivered, his strength all but
spent, had nonetheless brandished Lukarn defiantly. But the devil Nahuzihis had raised a
clawed hand.
“Stay,” the word had issued like a foul breeze. “You have no authority here.”
Despite his wards, their power had washed over him, and Lukarn had fallen limp at his
side. The devils vanished, and as the glamour lifted, he had turned to face Chaya. She
stood naked and scarred, her black gem smoking with the spirits of the fiends it had
consumed. Her mistress vanquished, her hatred for him had suddenly become palpable.
Still, she was no match for him. She had withdrawn.
Briefly, the Ahma had stood alone in the wreck of the throne room, the mangled corpses of
demons –
and Shomei’s diabolic servitors – all about him. He had made his way uncertainly to a
balcony, and gazed upon the blasted landscape below. Narzugon cavalry thundered
through the glades, slaying at
will, their stained pennants bearing flies and mantises. Legions of bearded devils bearing
hooked
glaives followed. Ahead of them, unassailable, the standard of Hell had moved with
ruthless purpose.
And then, suddenly and without warning, the declamation issued by Nwm, within whose
titanic mental voice were overlaid the soft tones of Nehael – Nehael – and Teppu, and
Hlioth, and Mesikämmi, and Lai and her handmaidens. The voice which penetrated into
every corner of Afqithan, stirring sprites in their tumps; buckawns and quicklings in dark
places; and the genii of trees, pools, rocks and glades from their languor. Within the
awareness of every woodland spirit in Afqithan, was conjured a vision of what could be.
The Druid had forged an empathic continuum, embracing everything which contained a
vestige of Green, allowing energy to flow freely like water. Consciousness had unified and
Goddess manifested.
If you be Fae, lend us now your strength.
It was both a command and a plea. The ancient inhabitants of the demiplane had
answered. Teppu had gathered their power into himself, and a viridescent nova had purged
Afqithan of interlopers, sealing every rip and fracture in the fabric of space.
As uncounted varieties of fiend and monster were expelled, so too were Eadric and
Mostin: forced
violently and abruptly away from Afqithan and into the sphere of Man. A nightmare was
suddenly
replaced with a cold, sick, wakefulness.
Alone, in the neatly tended fields of Hethio in Wyre, anger and frustration had utterly
consumed the Ahma. He had screamed, and cursed Graz’zt, and Rhyxali, and the
Adversary, and Soneillon.
“You are bewildered,” the voice, soft and familiar, had spoken to him from the very soil.
The blood had hammered in his temples. “Show yourself,” he had said, trembling.
A sapling had broken through the earth nearby, and quickly gained height and girth: it
grew into a young ash, with black buds cracking with fresh, delicate leaves. She had
stepped out of the tree, and stood before him. There had been a lightness and ease about
her that he did not remember; and a
confidence rooted in some other power which he could not know. No vestige of angel or
demon
remained, and an aura of deep jade surrounded her. Her eroticism – free and guiltless and
profound –
had somehow shamed him with its purity.
Madness had threatened to seize him.
“You teeter uncertainly,” she had said softly.
He had nodded, and hung his head.
Gently, she had embraced him, caressing hair caked with venom, blood and ichor. As he
wept, she had sung quietly.
But the voice – the voice of the other demoness – had stayed in his mind. Soft, seductive
syllables which repeated in a circle without end.
Exult in your memory, Eadric. Because Nothing will ever again compare to me.
*
Eadric turned to see Orolde patiently standing close by, mindful to avoid intrusion upon
his reverie.
The sprite, aware of the other’s sudden perception of him, offered Eadric a goblet of
mulled firewine.
The Ahma nodded briefly and quickly drained it. In the East, the sky was brightening.
“Is Mostin abroad yet?” Eadric inquired.
“Yes,” Orolde replied. “But he is in his study. He finds the mornings most conducive to
work. I will inform him, if you wish to speak?”
“It can wait.” They can wait. Titivilus and Murmuur were still bound with magic below, as
the painful process of extracting information from the – now former – Nuncio of Dis
continued.
“Can you feel it, Orolde?” Eadric asked the Sprite.
“What would that be, Ahma?”
“This… Viridity. ”
“Ah. Yes.” Orolde nodded.
“What is it like?”
“For me? I suppose it is like jumping into a lake, and then suddenly remembering that I
can breathe underwater.”
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 02-01-06, 03:53 PM
She is magnificent, Nwm observed as the goddess rode down the babau. Drengh was a
bloody blur, flashing red about her head. The Druid was in a state of perfect, dynamic
meditation: they had honed their rapport to the point of a wordless, instinctive knowledge
of intent, where Nwm had become the agent of her thought.
Their quarry were diminishing in numbers: their leaders, and the most war-hardened
among them, had been redeployed to another arena – a distant, violent conflict between
two old enemies. Those that remained were diminished, and lacking the discipline
enforced by the direct agents of Graz’zt’s will, they had disintegrated into a violent rabble
of clans, ruled by the most ruthless and cunning amongst them. They became easy prey for
the bands of godlings and ancestors who rode forth to engage them.
Of the Nireem, Ninit had proven the most difficult to relate to. She seemed oblivious to
the needs of Mulhuk, and countenanced no argument which conflicted with her desire. She
was utterly impervious
to reason. Her passion was only to ride, and to hunt.
Immediately, Nwm had adored her.
He had allowed himself to become subsumed in her, and relinquished himself utterly. An
act of
devotion inevitable, he wrily observed, when any aspect of Goddess presented itself to
him. But the communion which Ninit provided for Nwm led to a reciprocity which The
Rider had not anticipated.
She needed him in order to slay more effectively, and now she guarded and protected him.
Ninit had grown accustomed to a lack of worship – her cult had been extinct for centuries.
Nwm’s adoration –
when directed towards her – had stirred certain deific needs which had been suppressed
for too long.
Ninit craved worship, once again. And the details of Nwm’s broader henotheism were
irrelevant to the goddess.
Nwm’s mind reached out, connecting with the soil of Sisperi, and energy coursed through
him. A
profound agony – familiar and reassuring – fired every nerve in his body. His skin cracked
like the bark of an ancient tree and began to bleed, green fire coursed over him, and a
necromantic impulse of
terrible potency exploded outwards from him in all directions. Demons dropped like flies.
In his thoughts, Ninit smiled savagely.
As the few remaining monsters winked out, Nwm healed himself of his self-inflicted
trauma and mustered his strength again.
You are weary, Ninit’s voice echoed in his mind. Return to Mulhuk.
Nwm bowed. He might have continued, but one did not gainsay The Rider. He would
return to Mulhuk,
and then make his way to Wyre and his appointed meeting with Ortwine.
*
When not hunting, Nwm would spend long hours instructing Lai and her handmaidens in
the arts he
had mastered. His favoured location was a courtyard graced with crystal trees, where a
warm sun
always shone in the afternoon; demonstration was his preferred method. And the
knowledge with
which Nehael had imbued him, he eagely disseminated. His role was paradoxical: both
mentor and
worshipper; teacher and priest.
At other times, he and Lai would leave Mulhuk, and walk beneath the trees in the region
of Sisperi which had been called Soan, where the Werud – a confederation of tribes who
had venerated the
Nireem – had once dwelt. The desolation was absolute, as all sapience had been
extinguished by the tide of demons which had ravaged the world.
One cold morning, not far from where Eadric had slain the babau Uort,* Druid and
Goddess had come
across the remains of a settlement, its inhabitants driven off or butchered a century before.
The stench of death and decay still clung to the place; a pall of Abyssal misery, which
might take millennia to clear. Nwm sat upon a moss-covered outcrop – all that remained
of an ancient granary.
“What of Saes?” He had sighed. “Little can proceed without her.”
“I have tried. She will not respond. The gate to Ruk is closed. She is mad. Bloated on
Death.**”
“You must persist. She may, in time, be persuaded,”
Lai laughed drily. “You do not know her as I do. Another way must be found. But
something else has occurred to you.”
“There may be alternatives,” Nwm said carefully. “There are tribes in the North of my
world. Some
may be willing to undertake the journey here. To begin afresh. But I will not decieve them:
demons lurk around every corner, and I suspect Sisperi will never be rid of them entirely.
How would they even understand an entreaty made by you or Rhul? And they would bring
their own gods with them, Lai. It might serve only to speed your demise.”
“A chance I am willing to take.”
Nwm shrugged. “Others can come, and when they die, Saes will claim them. Trees can be
awakened, and when they die, Saes will claim them too. Saes is the key – all other
solutions are merely
temporary.”
“If another could be persuaded to go and speak with her. Eadric perhaps?”
Nwm shook his head. “It is unlikely. He has discharged his vow, and other matters concern
him. And Saes might entrap him: Graz’zt would trade a whole world for the Ahma. I lack
the necessary tact – or guile. No, I think Ortwine might be the answer.”
Lai’s lip curled, and the sky darkened momentarily. “I will return to Afqithan, if I must.
But I mistrust her.”
“And she, you. But her mendacity may be your ally.” He smiled grimly, and became
serious. “She is no pawn, Lai. If she condescends to aid you, it will be on her terms.”
“I will send her a dream. It will be neutral territory.”
“It might be preferable if I speak to her,” Nwm suggested. “We have a bond that endures
across four lifetimes, and she knows I will not decieve her.”
“If you deem it best,” the Goddess reluctantly agreed.
**
“I would like to extend my gratitude to the Assembly for allowing me to speak,” the
Alienist began.
“My particular thanks to Daunton, for acting as my sponsor in this matter.”
They had convened at Mostin’s – formerly Shomei’s – estate outside of Morne: thirty-one
mages
gathered in an audience hall around a great, oval table, carved from ebony and inlayed
with scenes from Irrenite myth. Some sat. Some stood, or leaned on staves. Most were
human. Rimilin of the Skin was there: he sat alone, shunned by all others.
Even Waide remained silent, aware that an untimely display of sarcasm might earn the ire
of many of those present. Mostin – it was rumoured – was about to make some grand
philanthropic gesture, and
most were concerned that the Alienist was sufficiently eccentric to change his mind for no
other reason than mild annoyance. Nothing should jeopardize this improbable event.
Mostin’s lidless eyes scanned those present as he fondled Mogus, the obscene, fist-sized
pseudonatural which lived in a nondimensional space within his tunic. In sympathy, the
orbs on his robe of eyes rotated in a disturbing fashion, fixing first one, and then another
of those present.
“Mulissu and Shomei are gone,” Mostin continued. “Two great lights have left us – to
whichever fates they have chosen for themselves. We are diminished. I am left with the
burden of being the greatest living Wizard in Wyre, although perhaps not on this plane -
something I will come to in due course.
Many of you consider me both aloof and deranged, and I will deny neither. I am, however,
indisputably, a genius.”
Waide sighed.
Mostin ignored him. “Jovol’s legacy remains with us, and if we dwell within the borders
of Wyre, we must abide by it. For those of us with the resources – and I count myself
fortunate in this regard – the option of continuing our conjurations is open, if we have
another base from which to operate. I have erected my portable manse outside of Wyre’s
borders in order to facilitate this. This has proven controversial amongst some of you
gathered here, as it might be claimed that it circumvents the spirit –
if not the letter – of the Second Injunction. I am not alone in this regard, however.”
Mostin stared pointedly at the Hag Jalael, Rimilin, and Wigdryt – a smoke mephit.
“This is a testing time for us,” Mostin continued, “but we must not waver in our faith in
Jovol’s
wisdom. His vision was more complete than we can appreciate, and he had access to
methods which
are now lost to us.”
A murmur rippled through the gathered mages. Rumour of the web of motes had been
heard by all, although only a few knew of its true significance.
“I am about to make several assertions which may, on the surface, appear contradictory or
paradoxical.
Let me posit a scenario,” Mostin sighed. “As one who has experienced the power of the
web of motes first-hand, this is not as improbable as it might sound. Jovol knew of the
explosion of religious power which Tramst – the so-called Sela – exemplifies. He knew of
an impending conflict with the Cult of Cheshne. Furthermore, he chose death – in
violation of his own Injunction – as a course preferable to allowing a second conjuration of
Graz’zt. He knew that a renaissance in Uediian power would act as the best balance on all
other concerns. The entity who was Fillein, then Jovol, has self-incarnated again, in the
guise of a fey named Teppu.”
The revelation left all of those present – except for Rimilin – dumbstruck. The brief
silence was quickly replaced by thirty chattering voices.
Mostin held up his hand, and a gong sounded.
“Please allow me to continue,” he smirked despite himself. An uneasy silence returned to
the room.
“There will be time for questions after I have spoken, but there are a number of other
issues I would like to address first.
“Most importantly, Teppu is not Jovol, at least in any meaningful sense, any more than
Jovol was Fillein. I am unsure of the extent to which even his memories are retained.
Teppu’s agenda is not Jovol’s agenda. He is driven by a different set of desires and
philosophies, although there is, somehow –
perhaps hyperconsciously – a commonality of purpose. This higher purpose is related
somehow to
Dream, and was partially illuminated by the oblique references that Jovol made to his
understanding of the dialectical process.
“If we deal with Teppu – and I suspect we must – we should not expect to enjoy any kind
of special rapport. Teppu is Green. His concern is a complex of energies involving feys,
nature spirits, the goddess Uedii, and the natural world – something which he refers to as
the Viridity: a burgeoning node of elemental power centered around these principles. The
Viridity may be arising as some kind of
mediating effect to resolve the polarization of Oronthonian belief and the Cult of Nihilism
from Shûth.
“Its effect in Afqithan superseded the designs of Oronthon’s Adversary. Accordingly, I
have designated it a Greater Infinity. Its relationship with Oronthon himself is unclear, as
is the relationship between the two foci – the Sela on one hand, and Nehael on the other.
When I inspected the web of motes the sympathetic energy between the two was
astounding, which leads me to suspect that a higher order of Intelligence is at work –
perhaps the same order which drives Teppu, perhaps not. In any event, the final turn of the
wheel in Afqithan revealed the Adversary as nothing more than a cog in some
transcendental purpose. He had no inkling of the Viridity, and knowledge of it was – or is
still –
shrouded from him.”
Waide could no longer contain himself. “Nehael is the succubus who started all this mess
in the first place, am I correct?”
“Not exactly,” Mostin said smugly. “Nehael is no longer what she was. In fact, she may
have never
been what she formerly was – the Viridity is concerned primarily with the Now, the
Moment. As such, what is past, and what is yet to come are in large measure irrelevant.
According to that paradigm, all history is vacuous – and mutable.”
“This is mystical babble,” Jalael interjected. “I had expected more from you, Mostin.”
“Indulge me!” Mostin snapped. “And Waide, kindly allow me to speak without further
interruption. I am trying to contextualize my actions, not justify current trends in religious
thought.”
Daunton coughed. “Perhaps you might be a little more succinct, Mostin.”
“Oh very well,” the Alienist grumbled. He inhaled deeply, and thought for a moment.
“Let me speak of artifacts,” Mostin clearly enunciated the last word, and was not
disappointed by the effect that it had on all of those present. “You have, doubtless, heard
rumours regarding the web of motes. Its whereabouts is currently undetermined: its last
known guardian was the demon Surab, who possessed Mulissu’s daughter, Iua, and was
responsible for the death of the Savant. The web of motes itself is unlocatable by any
means available to me. Surab is mind blanked by some device. It is of paramount
importance that we retrieve this object. There is hope: I have made a metagnostic inquiry
of a Pseudonatural entity named Ghom which dwells beyond the middle region. I believe
that Surab is unaware of the true nature of the web of motes. I also believe that Iua is still
alive – her form, which is young and nubile, may be pleasing to the demon. Surab may be
unwilling – or unable – to reenter
Azzagrat, and has retreated to the unnamed regions between Hell and the Abyss.
“Also, the chthonic demoness Soneillon spoke of something named Pharamne’s Urn – an
object of which she claimed ownership, but which had been appropriated by Prince
Graz’zt at some point in the past. This item is of Aeonic potency: one in full possession of
its powers – something which the Prince of Azzagrat is not – can create universes.
Naturally, Graz’zt guards it jealously. Queen Soneillon could unlock it to a greater degree
although, I suspect, she could not manifest its ultimate power: she was unusual for a
demon in her command of ritual magic, something which is antithetical to the Abyssal
mindset. She was also unique in many other ways.” An ironic smile crossed the Alienist’s
face.
Mostin paused to take a sip of tea, and was mildly surprised – and gratified – to find his
audience utterly enrapt.
“We are delicately poised,” Mostin continued. “Currently, as I am sure even the most
politically
ignorant of you are aware, the Sela, Oronthon’s proxy, is on the field of battle, south of
Wyre’s borders.
Whilst Prince Tagur attempts to rally support for the campaign in secular circles, the
Temple – and I trust we all recall that particular monolith – has effectively reformed,
albeit with a more thoughtful perspective and without the stigma attached to the name
Temple. I’ll say the name again, for those of you who didn’t hear me: Temple. It is the
same band of lance-waving zealots as it was three years ago, and we must trust that
Tramst has inculcated some measure of insight and tolerance in those involved.
“This war is magical. The initial skirmishes – which have proven inconclusive – have
demonstrated that the Sela is fallible in this arena. His purview is enlightenment –
whatever that means to an Oronthonian – and not conflict. We must decide – collectively –
a policy in this matter. We are, of course, bound by the Injunction, although we can act
beyond Wyre’s borders. But of the three main sects within the Cult of Cheshne, only one is
technically subject to the law of the Claviger, and this has yet to be tested in practice.
“A friend once described such a conflict as arcanoreligious and I scoffed at the term. I am,
however, beginning to think he – now she – was correct. It is fraught with legalistic
complexity, which the Injunction must adapt to – although I have no doubt that the
Claviger itself can anticipate many of the vagaries. If I am a theurge, and I conjure a
demon within Wyre’s borders using arcane power, am I
subject to the same set of laws as I would be if I used a divinely granted boon to do the
same? And we should not doubt that the devotees of Cheshne are both willing and able to
do these things. Their vision is apocalyptic, in the extreme.
“This rather circuitous speech – and I apologize, Daunton, if I was less succinct than you
had hoped, brings me to the main thrust of my argument today: there are mages and
hierophants within the Order of Cheshne who wield considerable power. Possibly more
than me, even. Their exact names, numbers
and dispositions are hidden from us, but there are undoubtedly transvalent casters amongst
them. We know only Anumid, who is their mouthpiece, and with whom Daunton was
granted a brief audience.
“Their veneration of Cheshne is absolute. They regard demons – even demonic nobility –
in an entirely different light to those of us exposed to Oronthonian dogma. Ugras – fierce
protectors – of ancient methods and teachings. This is their Truth, and who are we to
gainsay it?
“We cannot hide from this. We must adopt a position – even if it is one of
noninvolvement: something, incidentally, which I most emphatically discourage. I am not
asking you to submit to my whim in this
matter, but I do request that my counsel is acknowledged, if nothing else. Waide distrusts
and despises me – and the feeling is entirely mutual. But we have agreed to go to the
Claviger for direction in our antipathy for one another, because both of us realize that our
personal feelings for one another cannot be allowed to interfere with the larger picture.
“My appeal today is complex. First, I ask for help in recovering the web of motes. It is a
tool which we can use to great effect – let me finish, Waide. Furthermore – as unlikely as
this might seem – I owe it to Mulissu to see her daughter returned safely: I am rather fond
of Iua.
“Second – and I will preempt cries of ‘foul’ before they are issued – I believe, for a variety
of reasons, that it is within our mutual interest to confine the Demon Prince Graz’zt. He is
one of the chief Ugras and we run the risk of him being conjured by our enemies and sent
against us. The prize, if we can accomplish this, is Pharamne’s Urn – if we can get to it
before anyone else. I am in the possession of a transvalent spell bequeathed to me by Jovol
which I believe can accomplish this infallibly if I have the unqualified support of the
Assembly in this matter. The spell – which is outmoded, and I suspect against which
Graz’zt has developed defenses – can be modified. Even a demon of Graz’zt’s stature
cannot
withstand our combined power.
“Third, we must develop a coherent strategy to counter the threat from the Cult of
Cheshne. We cannot be sidelined in this matter; neither can we allow ourselves to be
overcome piecemeal, one-by-one. We must unite to address this danger. This runs counter
to a thousand years of tradition, I know, but change is upon us. We live in a new world.
We must adapt, or we will be broken. I have considered various possibilities as to how this
can be accomplished, and I am willing to discuss them at length when the debate begins.”
Mostin took another sip of tea – which had gone cold – before continuing, He swallowed
reflexively, as if in great doubt, and closed his eyes.
“Word has probably already spread that I am willing to make Shomei’s library available to
the arcane community. This is so. But, in case any of you have doubts as to my
earnestness in regard to the matters of which I have spoken – and my sense of urgency – I
would like to go further. I have a well-deserved reputation for miserliness, I know, and this
may come as something of a shock. So consider this as a display of enlightened self-
interest.
“I would like to turn over Shomei’s entire estate in perpetuity to the Wizards of Wyre, as
the starting point of a collective endeavour. I will donate my own library to the enterprise,
and urge you all to do the same. I propose a repository of learning, and a testing ground
for intellects as yet undiscovered. An Academy, if you will. We should embrace the
Injunction, and display it above our gates as our Law, but also recognize it as our guiding
principle. And I should like to nominate Daunton to be elected as our first President.”
Thirty-one jaws, including that of Rimilin of the Skin, dropped.
When Waide had recovered his composure, he smiled bitterly. He knew that Mostin had
finally won,
and left his indelible mark on history.
* This story may have to wait for some time.
** Saes, the Nireem goddess concerned with death, had allied herself with Graz’zt when
the demon
invested the plane, seeing an opportunity to augment her own power when the inevitable
tide of
slaughter followed. She gathered the spirits of all dead things to herself, swelling her
strength, and guarded her prizes jealously. When Graz’zt withdrew his main force to
defend Azzagrat, Saes sealed the entrance to Ruk, the underworld. Nwm’s efforts to use
remains he had discovered to reincarnate some of those who had died in the conflict, in
order to repopulate Sisperi, were foiled: Saes refused to relinquish their souls.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 05-09-06
THE PROSPECT OF EMBASSIES
In the aftermath of the Confrontation in Afqithan, Nwm the Preceptor assumed the form of
a great raven and took to the skies. He surveyed the scene below: had it been any ordinary
battle, a glut of flesh would have been his for the taking. But amongst the heaped corpses
of demons and monsters, all carrion was foul. Ichor, not blood, stained the glades beneath
the towering trees.
Purposefully, he winged his way to where I lay dead upon the field: foes whom I had felled
were scattered around. His pinions cracked once, and his talons came to rest upon a heap
of varrangoin. I beheld him through lifeless eyes as he approached: my spirit lingered,
unwilling to abandon my body.
“A third time will I restore you,” he cawed. “And a fourth and a fifth, if need be. We are in
need of every ally which we can find. The seed must sprout. The shoot must be tended.”
Gently, he lifted me upwards, and screeched, invoking ancient goddesses who had
slumbered for
millennia, and whose names he alone knew. With a violent passion, life returned to me
again.
“How was death?” He asked.
“Cold,” I replied. I smiled, and exulted in my new form, relishing its power and subtlety. I
cast my sight about, perceiving the interwoven lattice of life and magic which suffused the
place. “This is your doing?” I asked.
“In part,” he answered, winging his way toward Irknaan’s Fortress. “What now?”
“I will remain here,” I answered. “Afqithan is mine, now.”
He cocked his head. “That is a bold claim. How will you enforce it?”
“With ruthless charm,” I replied.
*
Nwm stood beneath the sagging boughs of a great deodar, a tree not native to Trempa, but
rather one of a dozen imported generations earlier, by an aristocrat with a taste for the
exotic; some forebear of Eadric of Deorham, whose name the Druid could not recollect.
The late afternoon sun shone warm
through the deep green of its canopy. He watched her approach, studying her carefully.
Her poise and grace were effortless, and her natural footfall, silent. She wore the same,
tattered cloak and stained jerkin that she always had, but bore a buckler of sidhe metal
strapped to her arm, won in Afqithan from one of the thousands who had perished there.
Her face – breathtaking in its beauty –
displayed only the slightest hint of contempt.
“Will this take long?” She asked as she drew near.
“It may,” Nwm replied. “Lai has a favour to ask you.”
Ortwine’s eyes narrowed. “And what does your deific protégé require of me?”
“To embark upon a series of negotiations, with a goddess named Saes.” Nwm replied. He
attempted to sound casual. “It is better if I say nothing else. I am merely the courier.”
“Somehow, I doubt that,” Ortwine replied. “Perhaps you think I might be less apt to view
an old friend with suspicion?”
“There is no joy left in you, Ortwine.”
“Let’s just get this over with,” Ortwine sighed.
**
As Nwm and Ortwine travelled to Sisperi, and Mostin addressed the largest gathering of
mages for a
century, Eadric sat confined with the devils Titivilus and Murmuur in the summoning
room. It was the third day of the interrogation.
Mostin had been irked by the fact that Ortwine and the Ahma had caused Titivilus to
crumple so quickly: the Alienist had expected a more protracted negotiation. He had
attempted for months to
wheedle information from the confined Dukes, but had had neither the time nor the
resources to
develop a spell which would reliably subdue them: if an unprepared magick were to have
failed, and a Duke were to break free, things would have become very messy, very
quickly. One free would have
become three free, and three of them together would have overwhelmed him. But the
Wizard was
relieved that he could – for a while, at least – avoid the two remaining Devils. He was
implicated in the assassination of an Infernal magnate, and would enjoy the enmity of Dis
until the end of his days.
The Ahma and Titivilus had spoken of the Adversary’s role in Afqithan, of the deployment
of Devils under Azazel, of Murmuur’s Tower – now abandoned on the demiplane and,
apparently, inert. Titivilus had speculated at length regarding the Infernal decision made to
support Azzagrat – a subtle balancing act, to prevent Orcus gaining supremacy in his war
with Graz’zt in the Abyss itself.
Many of Graz’zt’s champions had perished, nonetheless, either in the Confrontation or
shortly
thereafter. Ainhorr, Cemdrei, Uort and a slew of others were no more. Melihaen had
abandoned her
master and fled to Throile, throwing in her lot with Adyell and the battered remnants of
Soneillon’s horde. Others had joined with Rhyxali, or Kostchtchie, or slunk away to Yutuf
or Terkunuteng to lick their wounds, as their individual whim or interest dictated.
In Zelatar itself, Ilistet had rallied Graz’zt’s army and led a savage counterattack against
the undead host of Orcus. The war ebbed and flowed, but a stagnant impasse – which
suited Hell’s designs – seemed
inevitable. The Prince of Azzagrat was fighting a defensive war which might last for
millennia. His power had been curbed, and his ambition thwarted. Nehael was no longer
captive. The Ahma had won, though the victory was bitter and empty.
Throughout the exchange with Titivilus, Murmuur had remained silent. Eadric regarded
him with a
mixed feeling, which included a grudging admiration. Here was a soldier, pure and simple.
Loyal,
steadfast, unwavering in his devotion to his beliefs, and utterly, irredeemably evil.
The Ahma sat, and laid Lukarn unsheathed across his knees.
“We have a few loose ends to tie up,” Eadric sighed. “You may use surmise, but I will be
alert to any attempted falsehood. If you try to mislead or prevaricate, I will annihilate you.
Am I clear?”
“Yes,” Titivilus grinned.
Eadric raised an eyebrow. The Devil already seemed cooperative. Did he think that
Mostin’s absence would make the Ahma more pliable, or was the prospect of his freedom
causing him to be less opaque than normal? He grunted, and shifted his position.
“Tell me of Shomei. From your skewed perspective.”
“Her soul is in a self-induced state of perdition. By rejecting Saizhan she made a
conscious decision to consign herself to Hell. You have no authority in acts of individual
volition.”
“I have as much authority as I choose to assume,” Eadric grimaced, “but I agree that it
would be pointless to try to rectify the situation.” He remembered his own conversation
with Shomei too well, as well as the words and actions of the Akesoli.
“If you say so, Ahma.”
“Is she in Dis?” Eadric asked, irritated.
“In Cania. Astaroth purchased her from the Akesoli. Perhaps neither Dispater nor Belial
could meet their price: that is surmise, for the record.”
“For what purpose?”
“She is a valuable prize,” Titivilus smirked. “And the Grand Duke has an eye for the
spirits of powerful mages.”
“As currency?”
“To gloat over. Perhaps he will offer her unlife, for her immortal service. Pacts can extend
beyond death, Ahma. Before you smite me, I should tell you that that is also surmise.”
Eadric suppressed a shiver.
The Infernal Duke smiled. “The inducements offered by a Devil such as Astaroth are hard
to resist,” he persisted.
“And the web of motes, Titivilus?” Eadric asked, ignoring the goad. “Where might that
be?”
“Frankly, I’m disappointed that Mostin has not contrived a spell to locate it. Find Surab,
and you’ll find the web. I do not know its location.”
Eadric thought for a moment.
Titivilus spoke. “There is other information that I would like to impart to you. It is freely
given.”
“Or rather, the price is invisible,” Eadric said stonily.
“Quite. Do you wish to hear it or no?” Titivilus gloated.
“I suppose I must.”
“My mandate as your tempter was revoked some time ago. Before my embassy to
Azzagrat, in fact.”
“Why?” Eadric was suspicious.
“I do not know.”
” Surmise! ” Eadric snapped.
.
“To make way for one whom my superiors felt more suited, I assume. Or perhaps it was
an
abandonment of the task altogether.”
“You failed, then?”
“I thought I was doing rather well. No matter. Are we finished, now? Will you kindly
release me?”
“I regret not. I fear that I have mislead you.”
The Ahma prayed briefly, buoying himself with Oronthon’s power. Unholy auras flickered
in response within the thaumaturgic diagrams as the devils anticipated Eadric’s intention.
Lukarn gained a silver sheen, and then the Ahma spoke a holy word. The devils’ confining
circles were shattered under the assault. Titivilus screamed silently, transfixed, as light
overwhelmed him, but Murmuur withstood the barrage.
Incoherently, Titivilus struck Eadric with a quickened feeblemind and attempted to dispel
the dimensional lock placed by Mostin on the chamber, but failed. Murmuur lashed out
with a rapid meteor swarm and leapt at Eadric, smiting him with as much vile power as he
could muster.
Titivilus, paralyzed, fell quickly to a series of brutal strokes from Lukarn.
Eadric stared at Murmuur, who remained defiant. Unexpectedly, compassion welled up
within the
Ahma. He had no choice but to act upon it.
“Yield!” Eadric’s voice thundered in the confines of the summoning room. “Submit to my
mercy. You are no match for me.”
More blows were exchanged, and each hewed through the armour of the other. Murmuur
staggered
uncertainly.
“Yield!” Eadric demanded.
“I cannot,” Murmuur smiled sadly. “We are forever lost, Ahma. Do you not yet
understand?”
Lukarn fell three times, and the duke dropped to the floor.
Eadric closed his eyes as his mind contained the magnitude of his deed. The line had
finally been
drawn. There would be no more negotiation.
**
Lai sat cross-legged before a fire pit, in which a ruddy flame flickered. Runes lay cast
about her, and her handmaidens fussed nearby, pouring nectar into bowls of exquisitely
carved wood. She regarded
Ortwine carefully, anxious to avoid a conflict.
Nwm, who stood nearby, was clad only in a simple green robe tied about his waist with a
length of
rough hemp. He scratched the dirt at his feet with slender staff cut from a young
hornbeam, and
avoided Ortwine’s glare. His beard and hair seemed inordinately long to the sidhe, as
though their cultivation might somehow hold the key to the mysteries into which the
Druid had been initiated. A faint aura of Green surrounded Nwm – the dwimmerhame
which protected him from hostile magicks.
His hands and forearms were scarred from the massive backlash energies he routinely
employed.
“You are welcome here as an honoured guest,” Lai said smoothly, “and what is ours, is
yours. Please sit.”
Ortwine scowled, and lounged casually, resting on her left arm. Nwm coughed, and
kneeled next to the goddess.
“Let’s get straight to the point,” Ortwine smiled coldly. “Nwm tells me that you wish me
to act as your messenger. You wish me to enter the abode of the Goddess of Death – I have
not forgotten who Saes is, Nwm – in order to strike some kind of bargain.”
“Yes,” Lai nodded. “To secure the release of the spirits which she has hoarded.”
“This is no small task.”
“Indeed,” Lai admitted.
“If I were to agree, it would require sizeable recompense. What do you think that such an
endeavour –
if successful – is worth, Nwm?”
“I am gratified that you retain your mercenary tendencies,” Nwm said drily.
“Do you have a price in mind?” Lai inquired.
“Divinity is acceptable to me.”
Nwm guffawed. His expression changed to one of incredulity, when he saw that Ortwine
was serious.
“You are a sidhe-queen, Ortwine! What more can you require?”
“Homage is pleasant, Nwm, but I think you’d agree that worship would be preferable.”
“It is not within the power of the Nireem to grant you what you seek…” Lai began.
“Then you’d better find a way, goddess, because until you do, there will be no deal.”
**
Eadric felt edgy. He looked from the highest window of the Steeple, casting his gaze south
and east in the direction of the Sela‘s forces – although they were two hundred leagues
beyond the limit of his vision. Below, lights and campfires were kindling amid a sea of
tents – not warriors and soldiers, but pilgrims who had made their way to Deorham in the
hope of catching a glimpse of the Ahma, and to walk in holy places. He turned to Mostin,
who sat preoccupied in thought. They had touched briefly upon the topic of the Cult of
Cheshne, towards whom both now earnestly bent their will.
“What are they doing? Why do they not act?”
“The Hierophants are devising and casting spells,” Mostin grimaced. “Very potent spells.
This takes time.”
“And then?”
“They unleash the storm.”
“Could you perhaps be a little more specific?” Eadric inquired.
“Opening a gate is child’s play to these mages, Eadric. They compact demonic nobility.
Bhítis and Ugras.”
“How long do we have? Who will they send?”
“I don’t know. If it were me, I’d start with a few balors. Just to get things warmed up –
pardon the pun.
When that happens, you’ll know that the big spells are ready – they won’t begin before
they’re prepared.
I think we have a month or two, at least.”
“Can we counter it?”
“If we pool our resources. A grand alliance, so to speak.”
“And the Injunction?” Eadric looked sceptical.
“Only applies within Wyre’s borders.” Mostin’s eyes suddenly narrowed. “Which is why
the Assembly
– which is demonstrating as much inertia as I expected – needs to come up with some
solid offensive strategies. Fast. I would like to speak with your Sela. Can you arrange it?
“Er…yes,” the Ahma looked surprised. “I had intended to leave for the South in two days.
Can you wait?
“No,” Mostin shook his head vigorously. “How about now?”
“There is áuda tonight and tomorrow – blessings which I am duty-bound to bestow, when
I can. And I’d like to speak to the thaumaturge, Sineig – Canec informed me earlier that he
has made the journey here from Gibilrazen on foot.”
“The Irrenite? He is rather controversial, I hear.” Mostin seemed amused.
“And becoming increasingly popular. He has quite the following.”
“People like sex,” Mostin shrugged. “If you include it in your praxis, it’s bound to
generate a lot of interest. And if you make intercourse with demons a central tenet, you
will attract a certain kind of devotee.”
“He is treading a dangerous path,” Eadric sighed.
“But one not without precedent,” Mostin replied drily.
“My religion has been transformed beyond all recognition,” Eadric groaned. “And I am
responsible for much of it. Most cannot grasp the teachings which Sineig presents. Many
of those who follow his
example will be broken.”
“But a few will shine,” Mostin insisted. “They choose, Eadric.”
“Choice is overrated,” Eadric sighed.
“It is preferable to spiritual despotism.”
“Is that an ethical stance I detect, Mostin?”
“Only insofar as it applies to me. Now, can we leave?” Mostin nagged. “I’ll have you back
within an hour.”
Eadric nodded.
**
“I require celestial sponsorship,” Mostin sniffed, looking at Tramst. “My pseudonatural
servitors are not suited for routine defense, and require a great deal of effort to summon
and control. I have alienated many fiendish allies, and lack a versatile pool of potential
compactees. I also suspect that Dispater may have placed a sizeable contract on my head,
or will shortly. Can you help?
Eadric gaped. The Sela seemed amused.
“How do you propose that I might do that?”
Mostin sighed. “Obviously, to sanction my gating of celestials and to waive any normal
fees that I would otherwise incur for planar bindings. I don’t see what the problem is.
We’re on the same side, here. I would stipulate only that celestials who serve me refrain
from displaying their wings, or change them to something less offensive – those of bats or
insects are acceptable.”
“It is not within my remit to make compacts.”
“That’s absurd,” Mostin waved a hand. “You’re Oronthon as well as Tramst, aren’t you?
Just expand your remit.”
Eadric groaned. ” Sela…”
Tramst held up a hand. “I know.” He turned to Mostin. “I appreciate any agency that you
might provide, Mostin, despite your motivation. But you need to adopt a more
conventional approach in this.
I cannot ease your path to power, can I? How would that be of benefit to you? Perhaps
you should speak to a celestial?”
“It is precisely in order to avoid their blinkered perspective that I am talking to you,”
Mostin groaned.
“I do not require moral instruction.”
The Ahma coughed politely.
“Oh shut up, Eadric. So the answer is ‘no,’ then? Must I look to another source because
the Sela is unwilling to help me help him?”
Eadric turned beet red, and opened his mouth to deliver an angry admonishment. Once
again, the Sela raised his hand, staying his words.
We teach according to the wisdom of those who hear.
“I do not deal with the conventional, Mostin,” the Sela was imperturbable. “But allow me
to speak for Enitharmon: if you demonstrate your commitment, I have no doubt that it will
be regarded favourably by those high in the celestial host. I believe that Jovol and Rintrah
enjoyed good relations.”
“Commitment?” Mostin asked suspiciously.
“You would need to refrain from routinely invoking fiends.”
“And their pseudonatural analogues?”
“The host would not recognize such a distinction,” Tramst smiled.
“And other pseudonaturals?”
“They would make no distinction there, either. As such, these entities would be
acceptable.”
“I will abide by these terms for the nonce,” Mostin said grudgingly, “although giving up
the daemons will be a wrench.”
“They are not terms, Mostin, and I am in no means acting as guarantor. But if you are
seeking to curry
celestial support, it is traditional that one show willing in certain areas. You might also aid
the Ahma in his coming task.”
Eadric cocked his head. “I have a task? That will be a refreshing change to determining
my own fate.
What is it?”
“On Nehael’s initiative there will be a nonpartisan embassy which represents all Wyrish
interests, spiritual and secular. You must parley with Anumid: we must attempt to resolve
this peaceably, even if is doomed to fail. Both Prince Tagur and Daunton have agreed to
the effort.”
The Ahma swallowed reflexively. “And is my role to be religious or mundane?”
“Both. You are the Ahma and the Earl of Deorham.”
“One high in the Order – a former Templar – would be of aid to me. Sercion or Brey.”
“I can spare neither,” the Sela said simply. “Nor would I, if I could. They are too unformed
for such a task.”
“There are no others,” Eadric grimaced.
“Amongst the living.”
Eadric was dumbstruck. Must I break every rule?
You are the Ahma. You do what needs to be done. If you cling to outdated dogma, then
what hope do we have?
Must I slay you, as well?
Time will tell. The Sela smiled.
“And you also expect me to embark on this futile mission?” Mostin asked.
“Your presence would demonstrate a degree of cohesion; a unity of purpose.”
“Which we do not possess,” Mostin snapped.
“Yet,” Tramst replied. “I remain optimistic, however. I think it is fair to suggest that all
desire it, but none are quite sure about how to realize it.”
**
The tomb and reliquary of Saint Tahl the Incorruptible were situated in a small chapel
adjoining the Great Temple of Morne, and were reached from the main transept through a
wrought iron gate which
always remained open: the faithful, who sought Tahl’s intercession, could at any time offer
prayer to him.
When Eadric arrived, only a single petitioner kneeled in quiet contemplation. By her
ascetic appearance
– she wore little more than rags, and her hair and nails were long and filthy – the Ahma
judged her to be an Urgic pilgrim from eastern Trempa or Ardan. Or rather, she would
have been one, before such
distinctions had become irrelevant. The air of the chapel was thick with incense, and
slender candles burned steadily upon a small altar.
She gaped as Eadric lit a taper and kneeled next to her. ” Ahma, I…” she began to whisper.
“I’m sorry for disturbing you,” Eadric bowed. “What is your name?”
“Beka, Ahma.”
“I would have you be a witness, Beka. If the later interpretation of events becomes fraught
with untruths and idle speculation, you will remember what happened here. You are
charged with preserving an accurate account. Will you accept this responsibility?”
” Ahma, I…”
“If you wish to leave, you may. I would prefer that you stayed, however. Will you indulge
me?”
The pilgrim nodded dumbly.
Eadric stood, and removed his gauntlets. Reaching out, he ran his hand over the face of the
marble effigy of Tahl: a figure lying in quiet repose, hands clasped upon the quillons of a
greatsword, upon the lid of a sarcophagus. He mustered as much strength as he could.
Eadric hefted the lid, pushed it sideways, and lowered it carefully, so that it rested against
the side of the tomb. Inside were a scourge, a sword, and a wooden casket, almost pristine.
Eadric prised it open, gagging at the stench which rose up to greet him.
Beka turned her head away, aghast, and held her breath.
“In these days, even the dead will have no rest,” he intoned.
There was a momentary flash, and Tahl’s decayed form changed abruptly. His eyes
opened.
” Ahma?”
“My apologies for interrupting your bliss, Tahl. There is much to be done, and I need your
help.”
“Of course,” Tahl smiled. “Where is my armour?”
“Sercion wears it,” Eadric laughed. Tears streamed down his face.
“Is the Sela here?”
“No. That meeting will have to wait.”
“I am the first?”

“You will not be the last.” Eadric nodded.

“Who is next?”
“Rede,” the Ahma looked pained.
“He has become wrathful. A spirit of vengeance.”
“So much the better,” Eadric smiled grimly.
**
She was waiting quietly for the Alienist when he returned to his manse. When he saw her,
blood
hammered in his temples, and he briefly contemplated whether or not to flee. His arcane
sight revealed no detail about her, impenetrable as she was to divination. Nonetheless, he
knew her. Power radiated from her. The Claviger had magnified her.
“Am I to be arraigned?” He asked. “Eliminated?”
“You will make some tea,” Gihaahia said with a wicked smile. “And then we will discuss
the finer points of the Injunction.”
“Do you take milk?” Mostin breathed a sigh of relief.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 05-23-06 at 2:25 am.
****
Untitled Update
Iua paced back and forth. Violent impulses crowded within her mind, and the recollection
of fell deeds felt sweet in her mouth. But huge gaps remained in her memory.
She touched the pommel of her rapier lightly, feeling reassured by its presence. Through
her gloved hand, a frisson of power from the weapon made her head spin, as though she
had consumed too much
kschiff.
Egress from the chamber was impossible. As opulent as it might be, she was a prisoner
there. The door to the place – if it was a door – showed no sign of lock or handle, and was
constructed of some kind of adamant. She had attempted to plane shift without success,
and even in a gaseous form she had been unable to pass through the embrasure – a spell
prevented passage, and Iua lacked the means to counter it. Looking out, all she saw was a
smoking slope which extended below her as far as she could see. At irregular intervals, the
ground was wracked by convulsions and liquid fire erupted.
I am Iua. I am in some Hell or other. I have had an enchantment laid on me: my memory
has been selectively erased. I am not dead. I don’t think I am.
She knew that there were significant people and places in her life – Mulissu, Ortwin, Ulao,
Fumaril, Magathei, Trempa – but she could not clearly remember any events connected
with them. When she
tried to construct any memory associated with them, it would elude her, and remain
tantalizingly
beyond her grasp.
She sat upon the bed and waited. She opened her bag – which contained a number of
apparently potent items – and laid the contents before her again, as if they might hold the
key to her past. A sapphire, rings, amulets, a tiny boat, a lump of dark stone, a sphere, a
flat panel of curious design. She gazed at them for a long while, but became frustrated.
She replaced them in her bag.
Time passed.
A sound – a low click – finally reached her ears. Iua leapt silently to the side of the portal,
drawing her blade. As the door slid open, she dashed forth, intent on escape and slaying
any in her way.
None stood there, but as her foot passed over the threshold to the chamber, her memory
was suddenly restored to her in full.
She screamed.
**
It was the first time that the Ahma and Nehael had met since their brief exchange during
the aftermath of Afqithan. Eadric had not so much purposefully shunned her, he told
himself as he walked to meet her, as been occupied with other, more pressing duties. As
had she.
That must be why I feel like vomiting, he sighed.
She was sitting in a wicker chair in the same spot which Cynric had favoured; the place
where Feezuu had blasted the Prelate into oblivion. The same place where Graz’zt himself
had stood and spoken the dreadful syllables which had resulted in the greatest carnage in
Morne’s long history. Her presence seemed like a potent salve applied to an open wound.
She smiled when she saw him, causing his head to spin yet further. He sat shakily next to
her, and noticed that she smelled like summer rain. He thought briefly.
“Do you retain a sense of irony?” He asked.
She raised an eyebrow.
“That’s a good sign,” he breathed tensely. “I’m sorry for avoiding you. Too much has
passed. I didn’t know where to begin. We are not what we were. Other clichés to that
effect. I’m now being facetious to cover my discomfort.”
Relax.
He relaxed a little.
“I would learn everything that has passed for you,” Nehael said softly. “The totality of
your experience.
It will help me understand better.”
“That may take some time.”
“You need not speak. You need not even articulate thoughts and memories that are too
uncomfortable for you. First, I would share myself with you in the same manner. It is the
only way to heal the trauma.
A perfect communion.”
“Nehael, I…”
“Do not reject me now, Ahma.”
He clenched his jaw, and nodded. “How?”
“Consider Saizhan, and what it teaches. Can you adopt a Sophist perspective for a
moment? Allow that truth to assert itself?”
“How will that help?”
“It will contextualize your perceptions. Place them within a framework which is familiar.”
Eadric groaned. “Others seem to alternate between religious truths far easier than I. My
transitions are more fraught. But I will do as you ask.”
“Are you ready?”
” Now?”
“Exactly,” she smiled. ” NOW.”
A soft hand reached out, and gently touched his face. His eyelids became heavy.
“Do not close your eyes!” Nehael laughed.
Reality shattered into a billion fragments, and was replaced by Itself.
*
Eadric was possessed of a piercing clarity, in which the world astounded him with its
vibrancy and beauty. He looked at Nehael. She was perfect. The oranges hanging nearby –
yet to come to full
ripeness – were perfect. He listened to the conversation of Temple guards by the gates of
the
compound, smelled the incense which burned upon the high altar, felt the breeze upon his
face on the roof of the Great Fane. He tasted the salt on his lips which blew on the wind
from the marshes to the south of Morne. He beheld an ant climbing a rose-bush in a
garden in the Bevel. All was perfect.
Beyond all – or beneath all – was a vibration which was inaudible, invisible, and without
form. Infinite, yet apprehended in its entirety.
Viridity, he knew. His breath was quick and shallow.
Nehael smiled. “Know me.”
The Ahma turned his consciousness – which had become all-encompassing – towards her.
In the space of a fleeting moment, he realized everything about her. Every thought, every
memory,
every feeling she had ever experienced within her life since her rebirth through the Tree,
and a myriad of other lives in cycles within cycles. But stretching back uncounted aeons to
the beginning of time itself were another set of memories: impressions which were like
dreams, and belonged to one who was no more. Past the Fall, until the Nehael who never
was existed only as an unmanifest thought within the Mind of Oronthon. A gnostic ecstasy
swept over him.
Abruptly, it ended as she withdrew her power from him. He quaked at the separation from
the source.
As his ego emerged from the reverie and his persona recrystallized, his breathing slowed
again. He focused his mind.
” Saizho,” he bowed.
He looked at her as her mind absorbed his own experience in its fullness. A single tear ran
down her cheek: he watched, and as it fell and struck the floor of the orangery, a thousand
tiny flowers erupted from the flagstones.
“You loved her,” she smiled.
“Very much,” he nodded.
“I am sorry for your loss.”
He sighed. “She was my kius. The shadow which brought the Good into sharp relief.”
“And now?”
“I see the light with clear eyes. Much doubt has passed.”
“But the dreams persist, Ahma. Her vestige has not abandoned you, and clings yet to your
memories.
She exists in you most of all.”
**
Mostin fidgeted nervously, waiting for the tea to steep. He glanced sidelong at the
Enforcer, who was examining a collection of infernal curios upon one of the shelves in his
study. She had assumed a
black-clad humanoid shape, approximately female, with impossibly red hair. She turned to
face him, and her eyes bored into him. Mostin quickly looked away, jerked his hand
spasmodically, and promptly spilled the sugar.
“Sh*t,” he muttered.
“I relish the rare moments in which I am permitted to manifest a body,” Gihaahia said,
smiling.
Gods, don’t smile. It’s too unnerving.
“And a discrete consciousness,” the Enforcer added, almost as an afterthought. She sat.
“Two sugars, please.”
Mostin poured the tea shakily. Most of it found its way into the cup.
“You purport to champion the philosophical tenets which underpin the Injunction,”
Gihaahia took the cup from the Alienist’s uncertain grasp. “Yet you evince a grudging
literalism in your approach. As though it were a matter of convenience – or inconvenience
– for you. I refer specifically, of course, to the fact that you have chosen to erect your
abode here – less than a bowshot from the bounds of Wyre as defined in the nineteenth
article. Some might view such a decision as purposely defiant and
inflammatory.”
“I think…”
“Shut up, Mostin. I haven’t finished, yet. You are forgiven for this quasi-infraction. The
Claviger loves all of her children, even the wayward ones.”
Her? Children? Uedii’s teats. She’s deranged.
“You remain embroiled in political maneuvering – shut your mouth, Mostin. I’m still
talking. Before you accuse me of arbitrariness, I have already determined to visit Daunton
with the same warning. He’s as bad as you are. Your Académie will sink before it has a
chance to establish itself if you persist in this attitude. You are inciting other mages to
violence. You are conspiring to conjure a demon prince – yes, I know you don’t plan to
bind him in Wyre. You are a rabble-rouser, and a danger to the body magickal.
And as for Astaroth…”
Mostin gaped. Only hours before, a fleeting thought had passed through his mind
regarding the Lord of Caina. The Alienist had mused – for all of two seconds – upon the
possibility of binding the archdevil and forcing him to relinquish Shomei to him.
She has made her choice, Mostin.
Mostin scowled.
“I am sadistic and vindictive, Mostin,” Gihaahia’s eyes narrowed to burning slits. “And
nothing would give me greater pleasure than to rend your body and hurl it into the
Phlegethon. The Claviger is more reasonable, however – which is fortunate for you. You
will desist forthwith from all political activity when you are within Wyre’s confines. This
includes plotting to assault the Cult of Cheshne; associating in councils of war with the
Ahma, the Sela or any other representative of Oronthon; offering advice to any of Wyre’s
temporal leaders; or conspiring with other mages to summon demons. If you choose to
engage in any of these activities, let it be outside of Wyre. If you violate these terms, you
will be exiled for a period of one hundred years upon pain of obliteration if you re-enter
the proscribed area. Am I clear?”
Mostin nodded dumbly.
“You would be well advised to reflect upon the spirit of the Injunction when making
choices regarding these matters. Conjuring Graz’zt ten yards from Wyre’s borders will be
regarded as insolent, at the very least. Continuing your plots and machinations in a
magnificent mansion which abuts Shomei’s estate would be considered scandalous. Whilst
neither would draw direct retribution, they would predispose the Claviger to a less lenient
position if you were arraigned in the future. You may now speak. Be swift.
Do you have any questions?”
“Many. Does the Injunction apply to arcanists from Shûth?”
“Of course.”
“If I am assailed by a hierophant within Wyre, may I defend myself with impunity?”
” Defend, yes,” Gihaahia sighed.
“If I open a permanent portal from Shomei’s earthly demesne to her astral retreat and
convene a council whose agenda is at odds with the Injunction, will it be held against me
in the future?”
The threat of the Enforcer’s titanic mental grip loomed over Mostin. He knew that she
could squash his psyche with a passing thought.
“These are practical considerations,” Mostin wailed. “Our existence is threatened.”
“Adhere to the Injunction, Mostin. In letter and spirit. The Claviger looks after her own.
You will not be abandoned.”
“What do you mean?” Mostin asked.
“Precisely that,” Gihaahia smiled her evil smile.
“I need to…” Mostin began.
But the Enforcer had vanished, without warning. The Alienist cursed, and hurled the
teapot against a bookcase in a fury. What was happening? What was this talk of gender
and maternity in relation to the Claviger? It was grossly inappropriate.
Still, somehow, he felt oddly reassured.
He issued a sending to Daunton: We need to talk. Where are you?
The reply was laden with fear and apprehension: Later, Mostin. I have an unexpected
guest.
Mostin frowned. His hands were still shaking. He stood, walked to a small cabinet,
retrieved an antique bottle, and poured himself a generous draught of vintage firewine.
The liquor burned his throat and made him sneeze.
He fondled the stone of sendings briefly, swallowed, and then sent a message to Rimilin.
**
“Will she not compromise?” Lai asked, her voice evincing as much irritation as Nwm had
ever before heard.
“Perhaps,” the Druid replied. “She may have stated an unreasonably high bargaining
position to begin with, with the intention of accepting other terms. But I think that she is
genuine. Although it’s
impossible to tell.”
“One of us could relinquish our power,” Rhul suggested. “Although she would be bound
to Mulhuk, much as we are.”
“Would you make such a concession?” Jaliere asked. Smoke bellowed from his nostrils.
“To ensure our survival? Certainly.”
“I suspect that Ortwine would find such a proposal unacceptable,” Nwm smiled drily.
“She wishes to take her divinity with her. Back to Afqithan.*”
“I find this entire conversation absurd,” Jaliere grunted. “There must be another way.”
” There is not,” Lai sighed emphatically. “We cannot assault Saes. We cannot coerce her.
This fey – who
is unknown to her – may be able to achieve what we are incapable of.”
“I don’t see how.” The God of the Forge was becoming agitated, and his beard began to
kindle.
“Please remain calm,” Lai’s tone changed as she tried to placate Jaliere. “Ortwine is a
greater liar than any I have met. She is conniving and duplicitous to an extreme degree.
Moreover, if she is motivated sufficiently – if the prize is great enough – she will find a
way.”
“What of the Ahma?” Jaliere asked.
“His debt is paid to you,” Nwm shook his head. “Three times over. And he is preoccupied
with other matters – which I am neglecting in order to be here.”
“But you had intended to accompany Ortwine?”
“Yes,” Nwm nodded.
Lai looked shocked. “Why have you said nothing of this to me?”
Nwm shrugged. “I cannot let Ortwine do this alone. I thought you understood that.”
“But this is…”
“Madness? Suicide?” Nwm suddenly became angry. “Then perhaps you should ask
yourselves whether it is reasonable to ask this of her at all! Decide which this is Lai,
because it was my impression that there was a possibility of success.”
“Watch your tone, mortal,” Jaliere threatened.
“Peace!” Lai raised her hand.
“All of this is moot,” Rhul observed, “if we cannot find a way to grant Ortwine what she
demands.”
” Ngaarh! ” Jaliere slammed a gauntleted fist upon the stone table. He barked at two
spectral warriors –
ancestral spirits who guarded the doors to the hallway.
“Bring in the Fey. This discussion is pointless without her presence.”
**
The island – which rose from the ocean west of Pandicule like a jagged tooth – had been
chosen by the mage Kothchori for its isolation and its peculiar aesthetic. Mostin wondered
whether, at some time in the distant past, some wind-sorcerer had raised it from the sea
bed in order to serve as a base – although the Alienist had no evidence to support such a
theory. It was too eccentric, he observed, to be altogether natural.
Rimilin had claimed it as his own and – with a characteristic panache which Mostin
grudgingly
acknowledged – replaced the crumbling remains of Kothchori’s abode with a three-
hundred foot tall
tower of red iron which pierced the sky like a great, bloody spearhead. The Alienist turned
to Orolde.
“He has a certain style,” Mostin admitted. “Don’t you think?”
“I preferred it as it was,” Orolde replied sadly. “Kothchori felt no need for such phallic
ostentation.”
“An interesting observation,” Mostin nodded. “Which may have some merit. The Ritual of
Bonding requires certain sacrifices which most would be unable to endure. Come, Orolde!
We shall see whether Rimilin observes those niceties of conduct which transcend even the
forced peace of the Claviger. It would be wise to omit any references to genitalia,
however. Even after so long, that may still be a sensitive subject.”
The duo ascended a hundred or so stone steps to arrive at the base of the tower, and stood
before an intricate portal of black adamant, inlayed with precious metals and carved with
dire warnings. It ground open to reveal a narrow staircase, lit by lurid green smokeless
flambeaux. Mostin sighed, and strode in.
Orolde scuttled in nervously behind. There was a brief sensation of dimension at once
both stretching
and contracting, and Mostin found himself in an echoing hall of great height. He glanced
behind quickly to observe Orolde, who still followed him.
The chamber was circular, and was illuminated by a firepit which sat in its dead centre, as
well as by seven immense bronze sconces which jutted out of its walls at regular intervals
in its periphery. It tapered to an apex perhaps thirty fathoms above, and around the walls a
staircase wound, reaching
balconies and doors beyond which, presumably, other chambers lay.
“Welcome,” a foul voice issued from above the Alienist. Rimilin stood upon a wide
mezzanine which extended for three quarters of the chamber’s circumference.
Mostin cleared his throat. “Thank-you. Should I come up, or will you come down?” His
voice was louder than he had anticipated, as though some enchantment magnified the
sound in the tower’s interior.
“Ascend if you dare,” Rimilin’s voice taunted him. “I promise to be good.”
Mostin scowled, and slowly climbed the staircase.
“Ahh, the hero of the hour,” Rimilin said acidly as Mostin gained the balcony. The walls
were lined with bookcases crammed with thousands of ancient tomes. “Your coup with the
Assembly will merit discussion ten generations hence – if it survives at all.”
Mostin stared hard at him. His hairless head and naked torso glistened with an oily black
secretion, and he smelled rank.
“I have come to take counsel,” Mostin said simply. “Aside from Daunton and Jalael, you
are the only mage who openly advocates a proactive stance in our dealings with Shûth.”
“The inertia of Wyre’s wizards will be their undoing,” Rimilin spat. “They all deserve to
perish.”
“It is incumbent upon us that we convince them to act in concert,” Mostin sighed.
Rimilin snorted, and sat in a siege of wrought Abyssal bronze. He motioned to Mostin to
do the same.
Orolde fumbled nervously and produced a ledger and a quill pen – from which the feathers
had been judiciously removed.
“Why did you insist to bring your scribe with you?” Rimilin’s brow furrowed. “Did you
think that it would cause me to moderate my tone?”
“Not at all,” Mostin sat stiffly. He wasn’t even sure himself why he had commanded
Orolde to attend him. Perhaps he needed the unqualified moral support. Perhaps he felt
that it was high time that the Sprite was exposed to the inner counsels of Wyre’s most
accomplished mages: Orolde’s aptitude for
magic was beginning to assert itself, and soon he would be faced with the choice of
whether or not to remain with the Alienist. Mostin grimaced. Such was the way of things.
“Has the Enforcer paid you a visit, yet?” Mostin inquired.
Rimilin’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“There are those among us, myself and Daunton included, who tread close to the legal
boundaries –
both physically and metaphorically – of the Injunction. Gihaahia was kind enough to point
out the fact that sometimes my actions are questionable.”
“I have received no such warning. Perhaps you are more controversial than I,” Rimilin
smiled.
Perhaps physical proximity to Wyre is more important than I suspected, Mostin thought.
“I have recently succoured the Sela for celestial aid,” Mostin tapped his fingers on the arm
of his chair.
“You? An Enochian?” Rimilin’s voice oozed with contempt. “You have been reduced to a
lowly estate, Mostin!”
“I am exploring every option!” Mostin hissed. “And I preclude nothing at this stage. I
need reliable allies, not fickle compactees. Devils are out of the question.”
“I heard of Furcas,” Rimilin smiled. “That may prove a costly mistake.”
“I take it then that word has not yet reached you of Titivilus and Murmuur? They are also
destroyed.”
” Three Infernal Dukes? ” Rimilin was visibly impressed. “That must be some kind of
record.”
“It was Eadric, not I, who slew them.”
“I doubt that Dispater – or the Fly-Lords – will differentiate your complicity.”
“Indeed,” Mostin acknowledged.
“You might petition Belial for aid,” Rimilin suggested. “If you care to walk Shomei’s
path.”
“I do not. And I do not have the resources to pursue pseudonatural servitors at this stage. I
am in danger of further exhausting my reservoir if I do. My options are limited. And in the
field of rapidly polarizing allegiances, I must side against Cheshne. That is the biggest
threat to me, and to Wyre.”
“You risk a great deal in telling me this,” Rimilin was suspicious. “Why?”
“Because, despite your depravity, you are no nihilist, and you understand necessity.”
“You seek to act as the catalyst for a Cascade,” Rimilin realized. “You think that you can
force the hand of the celestial host, if Enitharmon perceives a large enough threat? Those
days are over, Mostin. The demise of the Temple ended that paradigm, and both the Ahma
and the Sela sealed that door when they chose mysticism over Orthodoxy.”
“For themselves, maybe. Personally, I will use whatever tools I need to. Think on that.”
**
Ortwine strode slowly into the council chamber in Mulhuk. Rhul gazed at her in wonder
as she
approached: her beauty was undeniable, though cold, and her very presence seemed more
profound than any there – who bore the title of god or goddess – could claim.
“Have you found a way?” She asked calmly.
“No,” Lai admitted.
The Sidhe turned, and began to walk away.
“Ortwine, please,” Rhul implored. “We are at a loss. If we could grant this freely, we
would. We are but little gods,” his voice was ironic. “You know this. You ask the
impossible.”
She turned to face them, and thought for a long moment.
“Very well,” she finally said. “The payment can wait. As it depends upon my success in
any event, here are the terms that I propose: Upon release of the spirits of the dead –
assuming that such a deed can be accomplished – you will admit me nominally to your
ranks. When Lai and Nwm reincarnate the disembodied en masse, my worship will be
actively encouraged by your agents. As your power begins to wax again, as surely it will;
you will, after all, have a monopoly on religion,” sarcasm dripped from Ortwine’s tongue,
“then I will claim my divinity along with an equal – which is to say twenty percent –
share of the veneration from Sisperi’s burgeoning population. Which brings me to my
portfolio.”
Nwm gaped. Ortwine had some truly outrageous ideas.
“I choose lies and trickery. I have observed that you lack a suitable exemplar in these
areas. But – and here is where you make a concession to me now, before we begin –
Jaliere must first perform a task for me.”
“Must he indeed?” Jaliere thundered.
Ortwine drew Githla, and handed it to the God of the Forge. “This blade was forged by the
Azer Jodrumu, before he went mad.”
Jaliere brandished it, feeling its balance and judging its temper with his mind’s eye. “This
is a fine weapon. Jodrumu – whoever he was – was a gifted smith.”
“Just so,” Ortwine agreed.
“You wish it reforged by Jaliere?” Lai asked.
“Not exactly,” Ortwine smiled slowly. “I wish it married with another blade. If such a task
is within his abilities.”
Jaliere guffawed. “If not I, then who? Which is this other weapon?”
But Nwm already knew. Just as he knew that Ortwine alone was most likely to succeed in
deceiving
Saes, because the Sidhe had played him – and the Nireem – already.
The Druid grimaced. “The sword is named Heedless. And I strongly advise against this
course of action, Ortwine.”
“Your concern is duly noted,” Ortwine nodded. “And ignored. If I am to be a goddess,
Nwm, I must have a blade worthy of me.”
* The Chiefs of the Nireem (except Ninit) retain a divine rank of 1 only when within
Mulhuk, the
minor heaven which abuts Sisperi. Outside of its confines, they are treated as DR0 quasi-
deities.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II at 12:25 pm on 06-25-06
Tahl was first, and Rede was second.
When the Ahma brought the former Master of the Temple back, he found that Tahl’s
assessment had been correct: a righteous wrath had been Oronthon’s gift to Rede of
Dramore, whose realization of the truth had come too late.
Eadric had descended together with Tahl into the catacombs, and they had smashed
sarcophagi open.
Saint Tahl prayed as the Ahma, who alone of Oronthon’s mortal servants possessed the
power,* had called them back, breathing life into them: Tuan Muat, an Inquisitor of
singular determination; Kustus of Mord; Wurz, the founder of the Mission; Moda the
Exorcist; Tarpion the Rash; Anaqiss Twice-Apostate, who had briefly supported both the
Irrenites and the Sophics before recanting his heresies; Haubi of Thahan. Former grandees
and luminaries in the Magistratum, some of whom had been dead
for two centuries or more. All had perished violently: in war, or at the hands of demons or
assassins, or through acts of betrayal by those who sought to supplant them. Unquiet
spirits who – gifted with new life and vigour – pledged themselves both to Eadric and to
the teachings of Saizhan, body and soul.
Tahl called steeds to serve them: a brood of ancient celestial griffons of prodigious size,
whose names were buried in forgotten temple tomes.** Eadric took Hauthuts, hot-
tempered and proud, whose
feathered mane bore a silver sheen. He knew that before the Fall, Murmuur’s steed had
been kin to
them, and mused how many had descended with their masters into damnation: their
adherence to virtue seemed already precarious. Within a week, there were twenty of them.
They consumed horses more
quickly than Eadric could have imagined possible.
The date of the embassy drew near, and Eadric considered his possibilities. After
agonizing over the choices, he opted to retain Rede and Tarpion, deploying the others –
including Kustus, who possessed great strategic insight – to order the Sela‘s position south
of Wyre. Tuan Muat, Wurz, Moda and Anaqiss were powerful spellcasters whose presence
was sorely needed in the Temple camp; Tahl, he
would not spare.
Nehael’s initiative would be formally ratified by the Small Council in the august presence
of King Tiuhan, a political move organized by Prince Tagur: Tiuhan approached his
fourteenth birthday, and his majority. But Mostin and Daunton would join the party later,
beyond Wyre’s borders. Mostin had
indicated that there were diplomatic considerations that should not be overlooked which
prevented his official involvement.
Ugh. Politics, Eadric thought.
“Will you seize power, if a time comes where it seems necessary?” Tahl inquired archly of
him. “There are rules you have yet to break.”
The Ahma sighed. “Probably, knowing my luck.”
“Do you think if they get us all in one place, they will try to overwhelm us with one, swift
stroke?”
“Maybe,” Eadric nodded. “But I think they’ll fail if they do. They are not yet prepared.
And we aren’t so helpless. Now uncertainty vexes them, and it may be we can force their
hand. Time is no longer on
their side.”
Tahl nodded. There were nine hundred sarcophagi in the Temple catacombs.
**
The fortress, which perched upon an island of matter, drifted in a haphazard fashion
through a grey, featureless astral planescape.
Sho stood in the courtyard and gazed up at the expanses above her. She felt no desire. No
fear. No joy.
But neither did she feel nothing: oblivion was a state denied to her. She experienced only a
perpetual, mild discomfort, as her incomplete psyche attempted to balance two
irreconcilable commands:
Preserve what you are. Become other than what you are.
Her creator’s gift to her – other than a semblance of life – had been a perpetual existential
malaise. She sighed – because that is what she understood was appropriate – and entered
the keep: a round bastion pierced with narrow windows, from which issued the bluish-
green light of a dimensional lock. She made her way by a narrow staircase into a chamber
in the bedrock, where the Alienist was closeted.
Potent wards protected the place. Mostin paced back and forth, irritated. Within a
thaumaturgic diagram, a solar – Taruz – stood in glorious, radiant, blissful meditation.
Captured by a superior planar binding – a spell developed by Shomei – the celestial had
refused point-blank to deal with Mostin until it was released. Events were not transpiring
as the Alienist had hoped.
Mostin glanced sidelong at Sho, but refused to meet her gaze. He would not look at her
directly –
something which Sho knew should make her feel upset. She decided to pout, but the
expression was
lost on Mostin.
Orolde – who sat on a low stool – smiled at her, and raised his stump. He hopped down,
and scurried over.
“The celestial is being less than accommodating,” the Sprite whispered. “Where is Mei?”
“She still reads,” Sho answered. Orolde was kind to her. She felt that she should like him.
She coughed, in an effort to attract Mostin’s attention.
The Alienist scowled.
“I should like to explore,” Sho asserted. “May I leave the keep?”
Mostin raised an eyebrow. “I think you might find the landscape hereabouts rather dull –
although I would advise caution nonetheless. But I am not your master. Do what you will.
Perhaps Orolde will
accompany you.”
The Alienist watched as they departed. His clumsy efforts to nudge the simulacra towards
self-
realization had, thus far, had negligible results; they had demonstrated nothing which
could be
described as genuine individuation. It would take time, and magic of a magnitude he could
barely begin to comprehend, to effect that change. And there was never enough time.
He dwelt briefly on the possibilities offered by Shomei’s infinity of pseudoanalogues,
before dismissing them from his mind.
After invoking powerful protections, Mostin turned to Taruz. “Don’t try any funny
business. Don’t try to intimidate me – it won’t work. And spare me your moralizing.”
He waved his hand, and a little of the powdered silver which formed the protective circle
around the celestial blew away. Taruz stepped forth.
“I know you have a very good reason for this, Mostin,” the Solar’s eyes bored into him.
**
The Arcanaloth, Tholhaluk, gazed into the scrying mirror, observing Iua’s endless
progress through the maze within his basalt fortress with an expression of malicious
curiosity. At whiles, she would stop to regain her bearings; or, alternatively collapse for an
hour in uncontrolled bursts of tears as memories cascaded through her mind. She was
perched precariously on the edge of sanity. The Daemon smiled –
it was important that she not be pushed too far if she were to be effectively harnessed, and
not utterly broken.
Surab, who had moved into her rapier, prompted her as necessary. Always in proximity to
Iua, he could reinhabit her at need – should her actions become too suspicious or
threatening. He played masterfully on her wild, impulsive nature; the instinctual chaos
which was her elemental self. She had taken to the corruption which he lavished on her,
greedily absorbing the taint whilst simultaneously rejecting it in disgust. Angst raged
through her: she was empowered and violated; stripped of her will, yet granted boons
which no mortal could hope for. She found it increasingly difficult to separate her own
identity from the evil which drove a dark desire to maim, rape and kill.
Sensing her own damnation, she wept spasmodically in despair, all the while exulting.
Within the shifting walls of the maze – from which, it was becoming apparent to Iua, there
was no real exit – Tholhaluk had placed a number of conundrums. Perverse scenarios
wrought of shadowstuff, in
which Iua was forced to act as the protagonist in a play whose choices always dealt
misery, pain and
death – but, for her, granted an ecstatic release which left her calm and sated. But only for
a little while.
Eadric – the Ahma – might have fared better, she mused as she watched fiendish trolls idly
butcher children and gorge on their flesh. Her spirits soared as her body heaved in
revulsion.
But I am not Eadric. What hope do I have? They are breaking me.
She laughed maniacally. She knew that the pain would finally end, when she could recall
her own
mother’s murder with delicious satisfaction.
*
Even after abandoning Graz’zt – a decision which Tholhaluk wrily observed he might
later come to
regret – the daemon remained on favorable terms with a number of Azzagrat’s proxies.
The initial
assault upon Zelatar by death knights, blood fiends and Abyssal ghouls had seemed, at
first,
overwhelming. Tholhaluk had panicked; bursting free from the sealed palace with a
powerful
disjunction which had ripped a hole through defenses erected by Graz’zt; for which, the
Arcanaloth knew, he had gained the everlasting enmity of the Dark Prince. However,
Tholhaluk believed –
correctly – that he was low on the list of Graz’zt’s priorities as far as potential targets for
revenge were concerned. He would have a few centuries, at least, before his former
sponsor’s eye was turned towards him: if Azzagrat endured at all through the current
crisis.
Yaugot – the fearsome king of Terkenutung – still paid for the services of thugs provided
by Tholhaluk, and the daemon had seized upon the vacuum of opportunity left by the
withdrawal Graz’zt’s troops
from that world. Mazikreen – one of the few succubi to have successfully disentangled
herself from the webs of Queen Alrunes to forge a kingdom of her own – had graced him
with a visit in his citadel soon after Orcus had invested Azzagrat. Suudjut – a balor who
rivalled Ainhorr in his power – had also made overtures to Tholhaluk; apparently eager for
trade in souls but, in fact, the daemon knew, anxious to procure the sword Heedless, which
was reported to be still in Afqithan. Tholhaluk, who had lost a veritable host of
mercenaries in the Confrontation, was understandably reluctant to pursue any
enterprise there. And now the heart of Afqithan was in Faerie: woe betide any fiend who
roused the Sidhe-Lords from their languor.
Tholhaluk was, as always, treading carefully. But Iua was an opportunity. He would work
with Surab for as long as it took for one of them to destroy the other. With grim
appreciation, Tholhaluk knew that he wouldn’t be the corpse at the end of it.
**
“What would you require of me, in order to secure unqualified celestial aid?” Mostin
asked bluntly. “If, for example, I needed a handful of cherubs to aid me in casting a
spell?”
The solar’s eyes went blank for a moment.
The bastard is communing with his superiors, Mostin knew. Don’t they ever think for
themselves?
“A genuine recantation of your prior crimes,” Taruz smiled beatifically. “That you
wholeheartedly embrace Oronthon, and demonstrate – through your deeds and words – a
dedication to His cause. If
you achieved such a state of grace, however, I suspect that the likelihood of you wanting
to cast such a spell would be zero.”
Mostin groaned. “Who are you speaking with? Enitharmon? You’re certainly towing the
Orthodox line, aren’t you?”
“Your dealings with fiends have not endeared you to the celestial host.”
Mostin held his tongue, as mentioning the name Soneillon would have merely elicited
rhetoric from Taruz regarding the mission of the Ahma which the Alienist was in no mood
to hear.
“The fact that I am in a position to defend Wyre – and the faithful – from an inevitable
demonic assault, and that you show reluctance in aiding me in my efforts might be
construed as rather short-sighted, don’t you agree?”
“Your lack of faith in the vision of the Sela merely demonstrates your unworthiness in this
area,” Taruz
observed.
“It was the Sela who suggested that I contact the host!” Mostin was becoming increasingly
frustrated.
“That is known,” Taruz nodded. “As is your participation in the coming mission to the
Cheshnite sect.
Hence, I am demonstrating a greater tolerance of your binding me than I might
otherwise.”
Oh, for Shomei’s rod, Mostin lamented, and cursed the Akesoli. He thought deeply for a
long while.
“I need allies, Taruz. Powerful, effective allies who can be trusted, and who will not bleed
me dry in the coming months. Allies whose agendas are not entirely at odds with my own.
But my spirit is mine, and you may not lay claim to it: I have transcended, and I am
beyond your grasp. I will not recant my sins, for in my judgment – the only judgment to
which I am beholden – I have committed none. I propose a mutually beneficial
arrangement. Is that so hard to wrap your feathery head around?”
“The thought of looking to the obvious has come late to you.”
“Don’t be so damned smug!”
“There will be no cascade,” Taruz said firmly, “unless Enitharmon so decrees it. Nor will
the celestial host aid or in any way condone your efforts to bind Graz’zt – or any other
fiend for that matter. You will not subject celestials to bindings: it is inappropriate.”
” Inappropriate? And why no cascade? You were willing enough at Khu.”
“Why does Oronthon choose to incarnate himself? Why does he not reorder creation so
that it is more to his liking?”
“Trust me,” Mostin scowled. “You do not want to have this conversation with me. Go on.”
“If you open a gate to call archons or devas you will find them well-disposed towards you.
Payment will be waived and reciprocal service will be considered rendered if they are
deployed in a manner consonant with the will of the Ahma and the Sela. I should also
point out that your options are running
out.”
“Thank-you for your keen observation. I accept the terms – with one caveat. Under no
circumstances are celestials called by me to trespass within the borders of Wyre as defined
under article nineteen-point-zero of the Injunction. The Enforcer would have my head on a
stick for such an infringement.”
“That is understood.”
“I also reserve the right to summon any fiend, in the knowledge that our agreement will
expire at the moment that I do. I expect no retribution if this occurs.”
“I can make no such promise.”
“I’ll take my chances,” Mostin said drily.
**
The sword Heedless was brought to Jaliere – the smith of the gods – with great pomp and
ceremony, as befitted Ortwine’s whimsy. Nwm had opened a doorway between two great
trees – a banyan in
Afqithan and a fir in Sisperi – through which a procession of gnomes bearing the weapon
appeared
with great solemnity. They were followed by dancing nymphs and flights of portunes – the
tiniest of sprites, each no bigger than a thumbnail. Satyrs blew copper horns. Sundry
minor feys capered and
applauded.
Ortwine signalled for quiet, and an excited hush fell upon the assembled throng. As
Heedless was rendered to Jaliere’s apprentices, one satyr could restrain himself no longer,
and began blowing a raucous note on his horn. Ortwine quickly silenced the offender, and
smiled benignly. Her expression changed to a scowl as the doors to the smithy were closed
and locked tight; Jaliere would admit his secrets to none.
As the feys cavorted through the roads and courtyards of Mulhuk, Nwm turned to
Ortwine.
“How did you make the sword quiescent?”
“I charmed it, of course. I have utterly seduced it. It adores me.”
“It may come to resent its bondage.”
“I predict an uneasy relationship,” Ortwine agreed. “Nonetheless, at present, Heedless and
I are newlyweds. We should bask in the first flush of romance.”
“I suspect that it may harbor less good feeling towards you after its shape has been
contorted and bound to another blade.”
“Love is pain, Nwm.”
“How long will you be remaining?” Nwm asked. “Jaliere may take a month to complete
his work.”
“How long does the gate remain open?”
“The portal is permanent,” Nwm replied calmly.
” What? ” Ortwine screamed. A fury crossed her face.
“It is not the first.”
” How dare you! ” She was still screaming. Evidently, Ortwine valued her isolation more
than Nwm had anticipated.
“Not just to Afqithan, but to other areas in Faerie, to Nizkur, to places which you are not
worthy to behold. I forge connections, Ortwine. It is my fee to you and the Nireem. Call it
a finder’s fee.”
“Contact me in a month, or whenever the thing is ready,” Ortwine hissed.
“Trust my foresight!” Nwm snapped. “I do what I must; that includes squeezing my
friends for their debts: if you think you can unravel yourself from your past deeds, you
may not find it so easy.”
“I will have it dispelled.”
“Afqithan is in Faerie now, and you do not own Faerie,” Nwm sighed. “Your direct
hegemony is limited, whatever title you choose to assume. Do not thwart me, Ortwine, but
accept that my vision is sound. Return with me to Wyre. Events transpire in which we
should be part.”
“Wyre bores me.”
“Annihilation threatens.”
“So what? You tell me this when I have no weapon?”
“I’m sure Eadric has a spare.”
Ortwine glowered.
**
Anumid, the mouthpiece of Cheshne, knelt in supplication before his eleven masters –
hierophants,
necromancers and blood magi. Some were living, some were dead. Some were human – or
had once
been. All were immortal. His voice sounded as a dirge, as he recounted the disposition of
the Wyrish embassy.
“The Ahma, and three of those whom he has resurrected – Tahl the Incorruptible, Rede
and Tarpion; also Nwm the Preceptor, Mesikammi the Shamaness and the witch Hlioth;
Prince Tagur of Einir, and
twelve of the finest knights in Wyre; Ortwine the Sidhe, usurper of the throne of Afqithan;
Daunton and Mostin, champions of Wyre’s fledgeling collegiate system of wizardry.”
“Ahh, the heralds of the new order,” Sibud spoke. His inflection was two thousand years
old, but well-known to those there: Sibud was a primal vampire of ancient pedigree, the
sire of many masters.
“Daunton insists upon a dimensional lock. Mostin has enough magical support to invoke
his quiescence of the spheres, and will likely do so.”
“So be it,” Yeshe the Binder nodded. “Let them spend their strength thus. I will go: I
should like to meet the Ahma.”
“And I,” Naatha purred.
“As would I,” Sibud smiled. “Set the meeting for midnight.”
“At Galda?” Anumid inquired.
“If Mostin requires that it be outside of Wyre’s borders, we should indulge him,” the lich
Choach rasped. “I will also attend.”
“Anumid will accompany us, and Visuit,” Yeshe decreed. “Let the remainder of the
company, to the number of two dozen, be chosen as each of we four see fit.”
*Long ago I house-ruled raise dead to be a 7th-level spell and (true) resurrection to be
9th-level. In the Temple’s history, raise dead has only been cast a handful of times. Before
Eadric, no resurrection had ever been made. Prior to the advent of Saizhan, there was a
necromantic taboo associated with both
spells.
**The griffons are advanced (10 HD) celestial monsters of legend with the haste and
spell-turning
special abilities. I rule that when templated creatures are called with planar ally spells,
each +1CR of a template counts as 2HD for purposes of determining whether a creature is
subject to it.
N.B.: Contundor got smushed by Nalfeshnees in Afqithan, something which I neglected to
mention
previously.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 12-24-06
The Letter
They are not nameless, Eadric thought, although the fact provided no measure of comfort
to him.
He had requested that Tahl divine the information; a direct communion with the Source
would reveal their purpose and number. There were ancient names amongst them, to
which rumours in only the
earliest of temple chronicles alluded. Tahl issued a sending to Mostin.
Unsurprisingly, the Alienist knew of their identities, and the myths associated with them.
Orolde
teleported to see Eadric in Morne; the Ahma was in temporary residence in the Temple
compound, and it was uncharacteristically quiet: many of the devoted had taken up arms
again, and accompanied the Sela to Wyre’s Southern march.
Orolde appeared bearing a scroll: he was nervous, his head twitching and his eyes
flickering restlessly, as though every shadow might prove a lurking place for the Enforcer
or one of her agents. The sprite was sure that he was trespassing in an area of dubious
legality regarding the Injunction, and Eadric smiled benignly, in a vain effort to assauge
Orolde’s paranoia. The fey quickly handed the letter over, teleported back to Mostin’s
manse, and breathed a sigh of relief when he realized that all of his faculties remained to
him.
Eadric immediately broke the seal, and read the letter. Mostin had adopted an elegant
script: evidently,
the Alienist had been experimenting with a new calligraphic style.
To the Ahma in Morne, greetings:
The names with which you have furnished me are a source of some concern. I have
arranged them in what I deem the most likely order of precedence, although I should make
it clear that my information is likely outmoded: note, then, a certain amount of conjecture
follows.
Temenun is a demonic spirit of primeval strain, native to the jungles of Utter Shuth. His
form is feline.
He was master of a wide dominion before the Sleeping Gods withdrew from the World of
Men; a reign of sacrifice and terror, the memory of which still endures in the occult lore of
nomadic wise-women.
Wyre was still beneath two hundred feet of ice when Temenun was deposed and –
purportedly – slain. I suspect Temenun may, in fact, have been subject to some form of
imprisonment – only to have been recently freed (the same may be true of others amongst
the Cheshnite sect). Temenun’s prophetic ability is said to be unrivalled.
Yeshe the Binder is at least five thousand years old; she is mentioned in cryptograms from
the era of Shuth’s First Empire, preserved in Siir Traag. Twenty-one centuries ago, Yeshe
conjured Pazuzu at Khu and unleashed the demon upon the desert kingdom of Durjan,
destroying it. Fifty years later, she razed the port of Triptah through the depredations of a
demon named Narake – possibly a Chthonic. In times past, she built massive edifices –
sites of profane power – the wrecks of which still litter the ancient erg. Her bloodline – or
those who boast descent from her – still exercise power in Shuth. It is of note that both
Kothchori and Feezuu were scions of her house, or at least made claim to be. The source
of her immortality is unknown, but she lacks the pretensions typical of divinity, and has no
cult.
Idyam exists now in mostly unmanifest form; his consciousness was transferred to his
remains, which were preserved in the Temple of Tejobih – a somnolent Power who
absented himself even before the rest of Shuth’s gods entered hibernation. Idyam was held
to have ascended to godhood, although his contempt for those who supplicated him was
well-known. Idyam is no deity, I suggest, but a demilich.
This may prove the worse for us.
Sibud is a vampire – a progenitor from outside the World of Man; an abomination, birthed
in some
other cycle of being – he arrived in Shuth two millennia ago. His countless spawn have
infested the deep desert for centuries, and have visited ruin upon many tribes. Sibud’s
mastery of the necromantic arts was once usurpassed, and his bloodlust insatiable: his
downfall is recorded in a document known as the Kash-haya (Shomei possessed a copy; if
you wish to inspect her library, I can arrange it). His command of ritual magic was
legendary; for a while, Urm-Nahat was his apprentice. Together they devised a spell
known as the storm of blood , which slew the armies of a rival warlord, Kumaari.
It is highly likely that Sibud can still convoke a respectable assembly of spellcasters; we
can hope that he has not yet fully returned to his former power. If he can manifest his
storm of blood , then we may be in trouble: I would advise against deploying any temple
troops en masse until we find out – a fragment recounts that ‘sixty thousand warriors of
renown perished’ when it was last invoked.
Jahi is a demigoddess, who appears as a marasmic child. Little is known of her, save her
sparktheft –
she is credited with stealing the divinity from a number of minor godlings in order to swell
her own potency; some accounts refer to her as Jeshi’s half-sister, who, unlike her sibling,
‘suckled at Cheshne’s teat’. The lack of other information is worrying; I advise utmost
caution in any dealings with this entity.
Although such advice is hardly necessary.
Naatha is a succubus of bestial mien, kin to Chaya and Chepez (but not Nathi). Ironically,
she is likely to be one of our most direct antagonists. Naatha was once an Ugra – a fierce
protector – but she misliked any form of contractual obligation, preferring to bind rather
than be bound. What else I can write on the subject of succubi which is not already known
to you?
Dhatri was once human – she appears now in the form of a bloated mass of undead flesh.
She is gluttonous, and rumoured to savour the corpses of those she has slain. Her title
translates as ‘nurse’ or
‘midwife’ – it is safe to assume that her nurturing urge is not directed toward the living.
She has mastery over ghouls, ghasts, and other necrophages. She is venerated by several
death-cults in Analah in southern Shuth.
Prahar is a great warrior, an Ur-Priest, and a undead psychotic. He ruled in Danhaan
before his elevation by Orcus to the stewardship of another world – a lush plane known as
Veddekeh. After several centuries as the incumbent despot – a dark age overwhelmed
Veddekeh, if accounts are correct
– Prahar rebelled against Orcus and shrugged off his yoke. This part is important:
Prahar bound Orcus with a spell, and forced the Prince to meet his demands.
This is no small accomplishment. Knowledge of this event is obscure – Orcus made a great
effort to eliminate any witnesses and records after his quick release. I believe Orcus made
an immediate, absolute concession to Prahar’s demands – whatever they were. Veddekeh
became unreachable
thereafter, and it’s reasonable to assume the events are connected.
Rishih is a Theurge and a Thaumaturge. He specializes in compacting middle-ranking
demonic nobility – powerful mariliths and balors, and lords such as Ahazu and Munkir
have submitted to him in the past.
Guho Is an aberrant, festering heap of corruption – even by my liberal standards. She is a
worm that walks . This is such a grubby method of transcendence. She was a Blood-Mage
of high credentials before seizing her immortality – I’m sure she’s considerably more
dangerous after a thousand years.
Choach – favoured by the dark gods – embraced unlife some eight centuries ago. He
might be considered the ‘junior member’ of the sect’s leadership, although doubtless none
amongst Wyre’s wizards – excepting possibly myself – can rival his power. Choach was
renowned for his unbridled sadism, his perverse sense of humour, and, like Feezuu –
according to the literature upon the subject –
a preference for acid evocations.
These are the eleven leaders, according to Tahl’s information. All equal or exceed me in
their command of magic. Teppu may be more powerful than any of them, or he may not –
the sprite’s potency is hard to gauge, and focussed in a narrow area. His exact agenda is
not known in any case, so he cannot be considered a reliable ally.
If my calculations are correct, a spell synergy by these eleven alone – not including the
cabals and priesthood – could achieve a result in the region of the three-thousandth order.
I appreciate that this number means little to you, but it might help if I tell you that the
wave of hate – from which Morne will likely never recover – was approximately a two-
hundredth order effect.
I will expect you in two days.
Mostin.
*
The four of them – Eadric, Ortwine, Mostin and Nwm – finally met at the Alienist’s
retreat. Orolde had absented himself. Sho languished on the porch in a manner which
made Eadric feel uncomfortable:
some of her mannerisms were uncannily similar to her maker’s.
Mostin immediately grabbed Nwm’s arm, and drew him aside. The Alienist whispered in
an agitated
manner.
“So what exactly do you know about Hlioth. Is she safe? What’s her agenda? Did she say
anything about releasing Graz’zt after Fillein bound him?”
Nwm groaned. “I know as much about her as you do, Mostin. She does what she does. At
present, she is an ally. I don’t know if that relationship will persist. And no, she made no
comment regarding Graz’zt
– although I am sympathetic to her action. It must have been a hard choice, but Fillein’s
behaviour was arrogant in the extreme.”
“What have they been doing? Her and Teppu and Nehael? And you? What have you been
doing?”
“It would take too long to explain,” Nwm sighed.
“Then summarize,” Mostin hissed.
“I making gates,” Nwm smiled. “Teppu mysterious. Mesikammi rousing earth spirits.
Hlioth weaving powerful magic in Nizkur. Nehael facilitates. Understand?”
Mostin twitched. “What magic?”
“I’m not entirely sure,” Nwm confessed. “I suspect nothing too controversial. Hlioth is
bound – at least in part – by the Injunction.”
“Actually, Nizkur is beyond the Wyrish border – as far as the Claviger is concerned, at any
rate.
Besides, everything that Hlioth does is controversial. Tell me of the gates.”
“I have opened a number of tree portals,” Nwm nodded. “Connecting Afqithan, Sisperi,
Nizkur, Groba, the receding Tunthi realm of spirit, the Shrine of Three Storrs in Ialde,
Deorham, and several discrete regions of Faerie. They pass through the primordial Tree-
ludja.”
“You have been busy,” Mostin remarked drily. He raised his eyebrows. “From Deorham to
Sisperi? You don’t seem afraid of stepping on your friends’ toes. Aren’t you concerned
about unwanted traffic?”
“Any traffic is good. That is the purpose. To enable the movement of energy within the
matrix of the Interwoven Green.”
“Your concepts are curiously archaic.” Mostin observed. “I predict that your gates will
become bottlenecks. Petty lords will try to control them.”
“These are feys and nature spirits we’re talking about,” Nwm sighed. “Not demons – or
men for that matter. You can’t ascribe such emotions as desire to rule to most of them.”
“To most of them, maybe not. But to enough of them to cause a problem, I say yes. Ten
thousand gold says that you have an incident within a month. Where something, maybe a
wicked greedy fey – such things exist, you know – tries to take strategic control of one of
your gates. It’s a resource. Trust me.”
“I have no money, Mostin. Alas, I cannot meet your wager.”
“I’ll take a reincarnation on credit.”
Nwm laughed. “Really? I would think you already have some unspeakable contingency.”
“That was my big plan,” Mostin nodded. He sighed. “Unfortunately, it never seems to get
any closer. I
also had the notion to spellwarp myself. And bind Graz’zt. And locate the web of motes.
And to evolve the consciousnesses of the simulacra. Frankly, there is too much to do, and
too little time. I’m bogged down.”
“If you were to look to a more natural solution to the simulacra, I might help…”
“Shomei directed me to her pseudoanalogues.”
“For what? You think you can attempt some kind of synthesis? Why? Do you really want
two pseudo-Shomeis running loose? Besides, you would need the most powerful cabal
ever assembled in Wyre.
You do not command that kind of respect – consider your efforts to gather even a half-
dozen mages to aid you: they aren’t interested in your desire to capture the Demon, and
ascribe your idea to
megalomania. Although I hardly blame them. Can you even honestly say that it’s relevant
to the current situation?”
Mostin stared hard at Nwm. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “It’s mostly so that I can gloat.
What do you suggest with regard to the simulacra?”
“A natural solution, naturally. Or Dream-vestiges. Shomei has echoes in other places. ”
“I am no Dreamer,” Mostin sniffed dismissively.
“Nor am I,” Nwm smiled. “You would have to learn. Is that so abhorrent to you? Ask
Teppu. He might advise you.”
“And he might not,” Mostin scowled.
Nwm sighed. “Whatever they become, the simulacra will not be Shomei, Mostin.”
“I know that,” Mostin snapped. “This is no adolescent fixation, Nwm. I am merely trying
to find a solution within the terms Shomei asserted.”
“Did she specify a pseudonatural synthesis?”
“Not exactly,” Mostin said. “Or at least, I don’t think so.”
“What precisely did she say?”
“‘Begin with the premise that all creatures have multiple pseudonatural analogues.’”
Nwm laughed loudly, causing Ortwine – who stood nearby in conversation with Eadric –
to glare at
him.
Mostin seemed mildly offended. “I fail to see what is funny.”
“What other premise would Mostin the Metagnostic bring to bear upon any problem?”
“You may have a point,” the Alienist shrugged. “But she said that it would be my magnum
opus. I can’t see what other direction it could take.”
“Just reify them with a wish, and let them develop in whichever direction they choose to
go, Mostin.
Surely she would have wanted that? To have you determine their course of unfolding
would surely be antithetical to everything she believed. Besides, Shomei never exhibited
any particular aptitude in the prescient arts – what makes you think that she possessed any
special insight into the subsequent
evolution of her simulacra?”
“The web of motes, you dummy. She saw it in the web of motes.”
“You are overanalyzing an off-hand comment made by someone you cared about and
affording it too much significance,” Nwm sighed.
“Shomei never made off-hand comments.”
“And you are idealizing her in your memory,” Nwm continued relentlessly. “She was no
less fallible than you or I. Goddess, Mostin. How old was she? Twenty-five? How much
wisdom and experience
can one of her age really have acquired?”
“More than most,” Mostin snapped, his nostrils flaring. “And more than I, certainly. I was
still chasing sylphs when I was twenty-five, and Vhorzhe had only recently apprenticed
me. Shomei was
summoning glooms and compacting with Belial. We are talking orders of magnitude here,
Nwm.”
“Fine. Have it your way. But you can’t break Hell open, Mostin. If you meet her again, she
will likely be your enemy: I assume Eadric spoke to you of Titivilus’s veiled threats? That
Astaroth could offer her some kind of deal?”
“Titivilus was full of sh*t,” Mostin snorted. “And if Ed hadn’t killed him, I think I
probably would have by now. I’ve had it with fiends. They’re too much work to keep in
line. I’ve gone Enochian – for a while, at least.”
“Celestials are no better,” Nwm grumbled.
“Agreed,” Mostin smiled. “But they’re cheaper. The Host cut me a special deal, based on
my connections.”
*
“Aid me in this,” Ortwine pleaded. “I need you.”
“There are other matters, far more pressing.” Eadric was unyielding.
She seized him by his pauldrons, pushed him backwards, and stared him in the face.
Eadric noticed that she was as tall as he was.
“I’m coming out of this a goddess, Eadric. I can bring a lot of weight to bear on a situation
if that happens. In the idiom of my former self: when I get my newly divine ass on the
battlefield and I’ve got a vorpal sword in my hand, who’s gonna try it on, eh? Right – no-
one.”
“Gods are plentiful, these days.” Eadric smiled.
“True. And they’re not all on your side,” Ortwine retorted. ” I will be. If you help me. You
know it makes sense.” She flashed a smile.
“I think not,” the Ahma sighed. “Your apotheosis is not my first concern. Did you just use
a suggestion on me?”
“Certainly not. The defense of Wyre and the Temple is a complex strategy, Eadric,”
Ortwine changed tack. “Consider your moves carefully. At least hear me out.”
“Go on,” he grumbled. “Try to be quick.”
“I have to convince an insane death-goddess to relinquish a million or so souls so that life
can begin again in Sisperi. As lunatic an enterprise as this might sound, I think I have a
good chance of doing it. If I can get to her. That’s where you come in.”
“I have no desire to fight my way through some pagan underworld at present.”
“Gaining entrance will be the tricky part. The entrance – Saivo – is a double-bottomed
lake. It’s…
upside-down on the other side…for want of a better description.”
“I assume it’s guarded?”
“Naturally.”
“A dragon? A huge dog?”
“No,” Ortwine said brightly. “Neither of those. Demons left by Graz’zt, in fact. If you
recall, Saes was allied with him for some time. His minions have…gone native…if you
catch my meaning.”
“I’m not sure that I do.”
“Saes has changed them.”
“How do you mean, changed?”
“Augmented. Infused.”
“With what?”
“Well, with death of course. That is her portfolio, after all.”
“Which means what, exactly?”
“The details are hazy,” Ortwine admitted. “After we pass the vestibule, we enter Ruk
proper. If the reports are correct.”
” If. ” The Ahma said acidly. “Whose reports are these, Ortwine?”
“You know. Rumours. Speculation.”
Eadric looked exasperated. “Is there any concrete information?”
“No.”
“Why do you think that is, Ortwine? Perhaps because nobody has ever returned from this
underworld alive?”
“That is the consensus amongst the Nireem. I plan to be the first, however.”
“Let’s assume that you get to Saes,” Eadric sighed, “but your powers of persuasion fail to
move her: I would deem this likely, if she is insane. What then? Do you plan to kill her?”
“I would prefer not to. Admittedly, she is a minor goddess in the grand scheme of things,
but her role in the natural balance of Sisperi must be respected. Eadric we are talking
about returning life to a world
raped by Graz’zt. However selfish my interest is, yours should not be. Remember your
vow to Rhul…”
“Aye,” the Ahma glowered. “I remember it, and it is discharged. Uort is slain; the babau
purged from Soan. I cannot leave Wyre at present.”
“Rhul and Lai won’t ask you. I am less reticent, however. In a month or so, when my
weapon is complete. A queen begs you, Eadric. Forty-eight hours: that’s all I ask of you.”
“You are optimistic.”
“I am motivated.”
“If anything happens in my absence; if I get stuck there: by Oronthon I will make you pay,
Ortwine.”
Ortwine bowed her head. “I will take your oath as testament to your seriousness.”
“I will consider the terms of service which I would require from you in return,” Eadric
gazed stonily at her.
Ortwine stepped back. “I am no man’s vassal.”
“You will do what is necessary, Ortwine. Like you said, you need me.”
“I can shower you with gifts. Would you care for some gnomes?
“I do not want your slaves.”
“They adore me!”
“Service in kind, Ortwine.”
*
“Mostin mentioned the enemy using big spells,” Eadric looked at Nwm. “He seemed
reluctant to expand on the topic – other than make mention of an invocation known as the
storm of blood, which seems worrying enough. And numbers which seemed distressingly
large, if somewhat unfathomable.”
“He was probably sparing you the stress that would ensue.”
“You think he has an idea of what might be involved?”
“I’m sure he does. Or has at least speculated. I have. The names that Tahl divined, Eadric
– suffice to say that Mostin is more concerned than I have seen him before.”
“And you are not?”
“The names themselves mean little to me,” Nwm shrugged. “But the fact that it has
Mostin worried has me worried. ‘Eleven transvalent casters,’ he keeps mumbling.”
“And what do you think they can do?”
“If they can bring a large group of spellcasters to bear in invoking a single spell, I’d say
pretty much anything. They could waste a few hundred square miles with a single
dweomer.”
“Is that likely?”
“I don’t know,” Nwm admitted. “I’m hoping that enough distrust exists amongst the
leadership that they wouldn’t be willing to pool their resources thus.”
“I think their unity of purpose is apparent,” Eadric sighed.
“And it’s only ‘apparent.’ We, in fact, know nothing of their purpose.”
“It is malign,” Eadric grunted. “Let me rephrase. What would you do if you were
assaulting Wyre.”
“Why is their purpose to assault Wyre?”
“Perhaps some kind of divine edict?”
“Let me posit another theory,” Nwm grimaced. “What has arisen in Shuth, and
subsequently established itself in the Thalassine, has done so in direct response to the
principle of Annihilation being invoked in the World of Men. By the Ahma. In other
words, your sin caused this. Understand that I am framing this concept within terms
familiar to you: I do not personally subscribe to the notion of sin.”
“Are you serious?”
“Why have you not fallen? Because you are the Ahma. The rules are different for you. But
what you do
– how you act – this is reflected in the world around you.”
“That’s something of a stretch,” Eadric was dubious.
“I would think that it was manifestly true, from a certain point of view: such truth is the
cause of your veneration by thousands of people. I am not the first to take this
perspective.”
Eadric raised an eyebrow.
Nwm smiled, and assumed a voice of mock piety. “‘The Ahma has invoked the
apocalypse. He has fornicated with demons, and betrayed us.’”
“They’re saying that?”
“Some of them,” Nwm nodded.
“I am the Breath of God, not the body of the world. It sounds like misunderstood Irrenite
dogma.”
“Even your flaws are perfect, Eadric. You need not worry.”
“What an odd thing to say.”
“Perhaps God can breathe darkness would suit better.”
“That is brutal, Nwm.”
“Are you the chief agent of the Adversary, Eadric?”
“Perhaps,” the Ahma slowly exhaled. “The thought had occurred to me.”
**
At midnight, Eadric received a sending from Tahl. He looked nervously at Mostin.
“What now?” The Alienist sighed.
“I will be invested as Earl Marshal by King Tiuhan tomorrow. All of the Small Council
have ratified it.
It will consolidate the Temple battalions and secular armies under my leadership. I fought
a war in pursuit of disestablishment, and what do they do?”
“Can you refuse?” Nwm asked.
“No,” Eadric said simply. “Nor would I, if I could. At least I won’t step on any toes this
way – Tahl intimated that I might have to take command at some point otherwise. I
imagine that he leaned on
Tagur.”
“It’s just a formality, then?”
“Right.” The Ahma seemed unconvinced.
“Believe it,” Mostin scoffed. “Ten thousand knights will do you about as much good as
ten thousand
monkeys with sticks at present.”
“Every little helps,” Nwm stroked his beard. “And don’t knock the monkeys.”
Eadric’s face went blank as another sending reached him.
“What now?” Mostin sighed.
The Ahma was unsure whether to laugh.
“It was from Tahl: Sela informs Mostin that Mulissu has reincarnated. ”
“Is she Green?” Mostin looked horrified at the prospect.
Eadric shrugged.
Mostin fussed, and drew his robe of eyes about himself. Lids opened, and orbs rotated in
woven sockets in a disconcerting manner. Mogus emerged briefly from a dimensional
pocket.
“You still have that thing, then,” Ortwine’s expression was one of mild distaste.
Mostin ignored her, and unrolled a scroll.
“Mostin?” Eadric asked nervously.
Potent syllables rolled from the Alienist’s lips. A gate opened. Madness flowed from it.
“I am journeying to the middle region of Uzzhin and beyond,” Mostin announced. “to
confer with the entity Ghom. If any of you wish to accompany me, you may; it might
entail certain risks, for the…”
“Sane?” Ortwine offered. “No, thank-you.”
Mostin stepped through the gate, and reappeared a split second later.
“Were you gone long?” Ortwine inquired. “I see you have a new hat.”
But the length and colour of Mostin’s beard – which seemed strangely animated – and the
appendage
which issued from his robe of eyes in place of an arm, testified to the duration of his stay
Outside.
“Longer than I expected,” he nodded.
“What did you uncover?” Eadric asked with trepidation.
“Many things,” the Alienist evinced a sage madness. “Including the location of the web of
motes – and Iua. We have to go immediately. There is no choice, and no time for
preparation. Do you understand?”
“Mostin…” Eadric began.
Mostin opened another gate. “Follow me,” he said, stepping through.
“But I want my vorpal sword,” Ortwine complained.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 12-28-06
Given his oft-voiced concerns, Cheiromancer will appreciate the irony of two particular
spells. The double-whammy of Mostin casting a disjunction and Eadric speaking a holy
word would become a staple opening gambit in combat. Nwm preferred spontaneous epic
[death] effects, or to shapechange into a dragon or phoenix.
*
Mostin’s Moment in Time was devised by the Alienist during his tutelage under the entity
Ghom , who dwells beyond the middle-region.
Its premise is simple – to look inside when one is Outside is to observe the bounded
cosmos transfixed in time, as though one were under the effect of a time stop . Or it can
be, which is all that matters for the type of magic that Mostin practices.
In any event, imagine, for a moment, that you are Outside. You turn your consciousness
inside to observe the Moment, while you perceive time passing normally for you – or as
normally as it does when one is Outside.
Your target – Surab-Iua – is warded by a mind blank , the web of motes is undetectable by
any magic, and the only other name with which you have been furnished by your
metagnostic inquiry – a daemon named Tholhaluk – is likewise impenetrable to your
divination.
But you have your Moment. You use a limited wish to commune with pseudodeities of
terrible knowledge, and invoke visions . You determine the location of Tholhaluk’s
stronghold, and discover that he has severed his link with the Demon Graz’zt. The fact
that Tholhaluk’s chief henchman is the arcanadaemon Xufu is also revealed to you. You
learn of the garden of mind – a magical locus which is controlled by Tholhaluk.
You scry Xufu and are delighted to find that your spell penetrates his ward. Moreover, he
is in an audience chamber, kneeling before an empty throne – whoever sits upon it is
doubtless mind blanked , and hence cannot be perceived by you. Daemonic mercenaries
throng about. You inspect their gazes, and the hidden messages which lie behind them:
with your insight you infer the location of another presence in the room, also invisible to
your spell.
With successive divinations, you determine the protections which ward the chamber, and
the areas which abut it. A hundred feet below, you locate an abandoned cyst once home to
a pack of barghests. It is outside of the dimensional lock .
You meditate, and gather your strength. Once you are inside again, you must act quickly.
Your Moment will have passed.
- Orolde’s Third Temporal Treatise.
**
That they were in some kind of Hell was immediately apparent.
The evil was palpable, seeping from the floors and walls of a hewn chamber. Distant
screams from
damned souls echoed disturbingly. The air seemed ruddy.
The Ahma invoked a holy aura, and Lukarn kindled. As he watched Mostin mumble
spells, Eadric was aghast at the transformation that the Alienist had undergone.
“I understand your awe at my beauty,” Mostin said earnestly. His visage resumed its more
familiar cast, and his organ became a hand. “I will spare you the spiritual conflict that it
must evoke in you.”
“Indeed,” Eadric agreed diplomatically.
Mostin scowled sharply, and pointed. ‘What is she doing here?”
Sho stood behind Nwm. She had followed him through the gate.
“I am here for my edification,” Sho remarked calmly.
“You are a blank slate, begging to be possessed,” Mostin was agitated. “There is no time
for this nonsense. Return at once.”
“Can you not…?”
Eadric warded her.
The Alienist scowled again. “Listen carefully. We are about to assault a jackal-daemon, an
arcanaloth named Tholhaluk. He is a powerful sorcerer; currently we are below his throne-
room, which is
dimensionally locked. We must kill or drive off the fiend as quickly as possible – he has
yagnodaemon guards, but they should prove reasonably easy to overcome. Iua will be
there: her weapon is inhabited by the demon Surab, and she is quite mad. Try not to kill
her. Notice the direction in which I face: the daemon will be fifty feet, dead ahead, when
we gain the chamber. When I scried, there was a gap between two yagnoloths…”
Ortwine sighed. It would be her – she was the fastest.
“How did you…” Nwm began.
“There is no time,” Mostin opened a passwall directly above their heads. Then three more,
each delving a shaft deeper and higher into the rock above them. The Alienist bestowed
the power of flight upon them all.
They ascended the shaft swiftly, and Mostin removed their last obstacle – the three feet of
magically reinforced adamantine which was the floor of Tholhaluk’s sanctum – with a
quickened disintegrate. A lurid, red-green light immediately illuminated the shaft, vying
with Lukarn’s brilliance.
Mostin, followed by Eadric, Nwm and Sho, shot upwards into the centre of a tall chamber
wherein
hundreds of fiends were gathered. The Alienist unleashed a disjunction immediately.
Space buckled as Eadric spoke a holy word: a swathe of grossly misshapen daemons
burned away in a wide circle, instantly turned to ash by his power. Nwm invoked a spell:
great metallic barbs, like spiked lances, erupted from the floor, impaling dozens.
Fiends fled away from them in every direction.
Eadric glanced toward where Mostin’s disjunction had fallen: the Eye of Palamabron
revealed an unweaving cloth of impossible colours, which rapidly evaporated into
nothingness.
Ortwine’s invisible form flashed through the demagicked area at breakneck speed towards
a group of daemons who were gathered on a low dais. The Ahma observed that the Sidhe
bore the scimitar won from the succubus Cemdrei in Afqithan, and hoped it would prove
equal to the task. Iua also stood
there.
Her reactions were undiminished.
Even as Ortwine’s scimitar found its mark, Iua had leapt the distance between them and
was about her in a fury, stabbing with uncanny speed.
Ortwine glanced toward Iua and caught her eye for a split second, hypnotizing her.
“Tholhaluk presents far more of a threat to you than I,” Ortwine spoke quite reasonably as
she proceeded to tear into Tholhaluk with her scimitar, slashing wildly; the daemon smote
her with a
destruction but it seemed to slide off of her. She deftly avoided the blows of two
yagnodaemons as they struck the floor with their tol kendars, sending sparks flying into
the air.
Tholhaluk disappeared in an instant.
Surab abandoned Iua’s rapier and likewise vanished. But Iua’s assault on Ortwine was just
as
determined.
She froze, as Mostin dominated her. The Alienist gestured again, opening another gate.
“Why the disjunction?” Eadric inquired.
“I know he’s got one,” Mostin replied. “I had to get mine in first. Quick. Before they
return.”
**
I have the web of motes Mostin’s head span. He sat in a comfortable chair in his study,
fondling it with his pseudopod.
“Are you keeping it?” Eadric asked pointedly, trying not to look too closely at the
Alienist’s appendage.
“Is Mulissu still its steward? What is the protocol?”
“Finders keepers,” Mostin cackled. He sighed. “Oh, I don’t know. I must first confer with
Mulissu: she has returned as a fey. Teppu persuaded her. Although I suspect that she is less
Green than Teppu would have liked: that, at least, should be some comfort.”
Nwm guffawed. “Are you serious?”
“How delicious,” Ortwine smiled. “One point to the Viridity, I say. You’d better get
resurrecting, Eadric or you’ll lose the race. Are you edified, Sho?”
The simulacrum stared at her, and then looked at Mostin. “Nwm informs me that you plan
to combine me with a pseudonatural analogue of my maker. Is this correct?”
“Yes,” Mostin nodded, glaring briefly at Nwm. “It is your destiny. Shomei predicted it.”
“She may have,” Nwm interrupted. “And she may not have. It’s all a matter of
interpretation.”
“Don’t start trying to seduce my students with your green-ness,” Mostin barked. He turned
again to Sho. “Nwm thinks I should reify you with a wish. Would you wish for such a
mundane noogenesis?
One should start on the highest available rung of the ladder of consciousness.”
“I have no preference in this regard,” Sho admitted.
“And therein lies the dilemma,” Nwm sighed. “How can one best determine the mode of
one’s being when one is not empowered with an existential appreciation of the choice?”
“Do not let Nwm mislead you into thinking he is any saner than Mostin,” Ortwine poured
herself a glass of kschiff, sniffed it, and placed it on the table with a look of distaste.
“Although I would still recommend against Mostin’s preferred course of action: if you
possessed an ethical locus, you would feel the same way.”
Sho stood uncertainly, and looked at Eadric. “You are the Ahma – and are thus bound up in
Shomei’s world-view. What is your advice?”
“You lack the capacity for reflective thought,” Eadric smiled sadly. “I’m not sure I have a
position.”
“I can awaken you,” Nwm said. “What’s more, I can do it now. It will contextualize your
perception.”
“You will be choosing an inferior state of being,” Mostin was rapidly becoming agitated.
“When will this pseudosynthesis be possible?” She asked Mostin.
“It is some time distant,” the Alienist admitted. “It has not been foremost in my thoughts.”
“I am at a higher risk of annihilation as a simulacrum.”
Mostin nodded dumbly. He knew what was coming next.
Sho spoke clearly. “I invoke both governing axioms, preserve thyself and transcend
thyself, and choose Nwm’s awakening as the best way to satisfy both. Is my logic
flawed?”
“No,” Mostin sighed. “But let me say this: what I have to offer, you will fear when your
consciousness is so confined. A limitless ocean of possibility will appear beyond your ken,
and you will be repelled by it. If you assume such a mundane state, try to recall the fact
that at this moment you feel no abhorrence and no trepidation. Your natural aptitude will
be for conjuration – much as your maker. I will teach you the secret method, if you are so
inclined.”
“And what of Mei?” Eadric asked.
“She can make her own choice,” Nwm rose up. “Come. Don’t be disturbed at the sight of
my skin boiling away – I recover quickly.”
*
When they returned, an hour later, Sho was silent. Mostin looked long at her.
“Is this the weight of being?” She asked.
“Yes,” Mostin said enthusiastically. “You must strive to overcome it! Destroy yourself a
hundred million times.”
“And then?”
“The gods will fear you.”
“This philosophy sits well with me.”
“It should. I suspect you are rather predisposed to appreciate it. But you should
contemplate your paradigm carefully.”
“Unnecessary. I choose Goetia as my vehicle,” Sho announced.
Nwm groaned. Eadric hung his head. Mostin sighed.
“You are choosing a lesser infinity,” Mostin had a pained expression.
“I find your theories untenable,” Sho replied.
The Alienist sat back, and pondered briefly. “Very well. My summoning room is at your
disposal. Use the mirror as much as you need. Any spell in my collection is yours for the
transcription. Please refrain from using my scrolls. Study the Injunction carefully,
especially article nineteen.”
“Thank-you,” Sho nodded.
“Where will you start?” Mostin inquired.
“With Erinyes.”
“Beware of Dispater! I would choose an unaffiliated duke, away from the main axes of
power. Seere counts Erinyes in his train.” Mostin silently unclasped the mantle which first
Irknaan, and then Nhura, had worn before him, and handed it to Sho. “Consider this an
indefinite loan.”
Eadric raised an eyebrow. It was a fabulously extravagant gesture.*
“Mei is still considering her options,” Nwm was exhausted. “But she is an impression
from a later epoch of Shomei’s consciousness, after her reincarnation. Her decision may
surprise us.”
**
The inauguration of the Ahma as Earl Marshal of Wyre was a subdued and informal affair,
as Eadric had requested. It was silently ratified by the small council, each magnate
witnessing in succession, and approved by the King.
Ortwine and Nwm were present in no specific capacity; Tahl, Rede and Tarpion – a saint
and two
vengeful spirits – also came in the Ahma‘s train. Mostin had absented himself to avoid
being politically compromised, and had instead travelled with Daunton to open a dialogue
with Mulissu.
It came after the first major spells of the conflict had been cast; not the destructive
magicks and compacted demons which Eadric had feared and anticipated, but a series of
massive enchantments
which had fired the uncertain masses of a dozen Thalassine cities into a bellicose fervour.
Daunton’s spies reported bizarre behaviour among the aristocrats of Jeshat, and a notable
increase in anti-Wyrish rhetoric. The diviner ascribed the change to dozens of
strategically-placed compulsions, which would prove difficult to locate – much less
counteract.
After the ceremony, Eadric took counsel with Prince Tagur, Attar, and Sihu. Foide left on
‘urgent
business,’ the nature of which, Tahl guessed, involved putting as great a distance between
himself and the Ahma as was practical.
“Until the threat has been properly assessed, we will deploy troops in cadres of no more
than one hundred,” Eadric removed his gauntlets and sank into a carved siege. “Any more
is inviting disaster.
Twenty knights, plus infantry and outrider support. They will adopt a defensive strategy –
there will be no heroic charges.
“Each cell will have a number of Templars attached to it. I have authorized the full use of
the scrolls from the vaults below the Temple scriptorium: now I regret that so many were
squandered during
Trempa’s secession. Certain more independently-minded mages have expressed an interest
in joining
the effort, as long as the conflict remains south of Hrim Eorth and the remit of the
Claviger: their contribution should be welcomed.
“Orders will be simple: harass the enemy where possible; stay alive at all costs. Gallant
dead knights are no use to me. Adopt a guerilla style of warfare. Strike and flee. Burn
baggage trains. Poison enemy wells. Kill them in their sleep. Use whatever means
necessary. Keep moving. This is about survival.
Make them bleed for every inch they advance.
“As Ahma, I take the moral burden of the atrocities to be committed entirely upon myself.
Make it clear that all who join us are absolved of all sin. This is a Holy War: their entry to
paradise is assured. Are there any questions?”
*
“Where is she?” The Alienist complained. “And why did you choose this locale?”
Daunton and Mostin stood upon a jagged pylon of rock; the ocean crashed at its base.
“I am here, idiot.” Mulissu was aerial, manifesting before them in a blue haze.
“I trust your transmigration was satisfactory?”
“What choice did I have? Teppu was unwavering in the weight of guilt which he applied
to me.”
“Are you sympathetic to his cause?”
“Oh, broadly, I suppose,” Mulissu seemed distracted. “But I am still Mulissu and he is no
longer Jovol.”
“Hlioth traces the continuity.”
“Hlioth is deranged. I bear no comparison with that crone.”
“I have secured Iua,” Mostin said.
“I know. You suddenly felt it necessary after many months – lest my ire descend upon
you, I suppose?
“Quite so. She is currently dominated.”
“That is a wise precaution,” Mulissu nodded. “I would suggest returning her to the Temple
of Jeshi, but the Thalassine is rife with unrest. Magathei will be safer.”
“To Ulao?” Mostin asked. “Is that wise?”
“Perhaps not. But I cannot guard her,”
“There is a demon. Surab…”
“Can you deal with it?” Mulissu asked.
“Regrettably, I cannot,” Mostin looked apologetic. “I am under Empyreal contract, and
must abstain from Goetic practices for the nonce.”
“Must I do everything?” Mulissu scowled.
“I recommend a finger of death. He is warded against enchantments, and your evocations
won’t even tickle him.”
“How long is this bizarre Enochian phase likely to last?”
“A few more weeks, at least,” Mostin grinned.
“Don’t get too comfortable, Mostin. Death has not lessened my anger towards you. And
what have you done to yourself?”
“Evolved,” Mostin nodded.
*This apparent act of generosity belies the fact that Mostin already had high SR and
groovy spell
absorption powers. His tenure in Uzzhin (which served as a useful way to advance the
plot) had gained him the Pseudonatural (CA) and Spellwarped (MMIII) templates. They
brought him up to ECL 30 or
so, on par with Ortwine and Eadric.
Nwm was 28th-level, with a revised VOP and two powerful permanent epic wards on him:
dwimmerhame (which grants SR 38) and anathema ward which prevents bodily contact
with outsiders.
I should probably update the rogues’ gallery at some point.
Sho’s Awakening looks like this:
Instantaneous DC=0 epic spell. Seed: animate (DC 25), life (DC27), fortify ( DC17);
Mitigating: 11-min casting time (-10 DC), 50d6 backlash (-50 DC), burn 900 XP (-9 DC).
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 09-08-07
The Road to Galda
WYRE, to the furthest extent of its ancient bounds, stretched from the Ocean of Iarn in the
east, to the rocky slopes of Harland in the west. Its northern frontiers were marked by the
Thrumohar Mountains –
the Heaped Thunders beyond which the frigid and inhospitable plateau of Tun Hartha
stretched. In the south, it marched upon the cities which bustled around the warm and
shallow waters of the Thalassine, where the winters were mild, and olive and almond trees
grew in great profusion. For more than six hundred years, Wyre – in more determined
fashion than its precursor, Borchiea – had dominated the
political landscape of the subcontinent.
It was, for the most part, a fertile and well-watered land, strewn with numerous lakes in its
inner regions, and hilly or mountainous at its margins. The forests which had once covered
Wyre’s landscape had, by the diligent effort of fifty generations of farmers, been first
contained, and then forced into retreat; save for the vast tracts of Nizkur in the west, where
feys and older spirits still held sway. Wyre enjoyed the seasons in roughly equal measure,
although the snows of winter had a tendency to linger.
Wyre lacked the ancient pedigree of the civilizations far to the south, or the enthusiastic
dynamism of its closer neighbours in the Thalassine, but possessed a middle-aged dignity
which had not been
entirely leached of youthful vigour. Its stability, like most feodalities, was tenuous at best,
and Wyre was often beset by internal strife. In its worst guise this manifested as open
warfare between its grasping nobles but, more frequently, the internecine squabbles of
Wyre’s aristocracy were resolved through the more elegant and precise medium of
assassination. Millennia of history – mostly forgotten
– underpinned Wyre’s traditions, but without the decadent self-obsession of Shûth, or the
ponderous grandeur of Bedesh. The Wyrish, whether of noble or common birth, were not a
people preoccupied
with tradition and ceremony; although, in matters of faith and philosophy, opinions tended
to be more jealously guarded – and more passionately voiced – than elsewhere.
Whilst power ebbed and flowed between great noble houses, its reins held by first one,
and then
another branch of the same huge family, the Orthodox Church of Oronthon prospered. By
the
beginning of the seventh century since Wyre’s foundation, the Temple – as it had become
known in all of its guises – had firmly quashed any rivals to its supremacy, and sat, gross
and distended, at the center of matters both spiritual and mundane. The plethora of
heterodox philosophies which it had once
tolerated had been reduced to the state of heretical cults by the Temple, and their adherents
forced to Wyre’s geographical periphery.
The Temple levied its own taxes, dispensed its own justice, maintained its own army, and
prosecuted its own wars – albeit with the sanction of whichever monarch happened to sit
upon the throne in Wyre’s capital, Morne. The boundaries of ecclesiastical and temporal
law became so blurred that an exclusive class of barrister had evolved in order to negotiate
this perilous field – where a charge of heresy was often the price for failing in the defense
of one under the scrutiny of the Inquisition. Nonetheless, despite its cumbersome
bureaucracy and dubious methods, the Temple retained an attraction for those whose
motives were pure and selfless. And, provided they could endure the stagnation and inertia
which Orthodoxy routinely presented to them, such individuals would find that, near the
centre, was a kernel of truth, and a light which had not yet gone out.
At odds with the Temple, subject to higher taxes and frequent harassment – and occasional
open
persecution – an older faith persisted. It concerned itself with the cycles of growth and
death and decay, with the rocks, the rivers and trees, and the numerous spirits which
dwelled therein. It lacked a formal body of dogma, was not graced (or burdened) by an
organized priesthood, and boasted no central locus of power. In fact, its practices were so
diffuse and various that to call it one name would be to do an injustice to the diversity of
perspectives which comprised it. Less ecumenically inclined members of the Temple
simply dubbed the practice pagan or heathen, and identified the woodland demigods and
spirits venerated by the older faith with outcast members of their own hierarchy of
celestial beings.
Those clergy in Morne who adopted a more tolerant stance – often at some risk to
themselves – called the other faith Uediian, after an earth-goddess whose cult had
flourished in southern and eastern Wyre prior to the Temple’s ascendancy. The term,
although simplistic, was deemed politer and was even
adopted by members of the faith themselves. It was a name which simply identified them
as ‘those who do not worship Oronthon,’ although downtrodden might have been more
apt. The interface between the two faiths, tense and dynamic, bred several interesting
schools of inquiry, all of which were considered heretical by the prelacy.
In contrast to both religious movements, a third group existed. It had evolved from the
undisciplined arcanism practiced before Wyre’s emergence. Its members concerned
themselves with the pursuit of
knowledge and understanding, and their methods and language were esoteric and
complex. They
shunned involvement in politics and regarded the desire for temporal power as aberrant
and bizarre, seeking only to deepen their own understanding of obscure and hidden lore.
They worked alone or,
occasionally, in small cabals. They were mysterious, furtive and utterly obsessed with
their own, elite
clique: the raw talent required to become apprenticed to one of them precluded all but one
in ten thousand of Wyre’s inhabitants. The Temple loathed and feared them, the Uediians
distrusted them, and the temporal rulers of Wyre begged them for favours – often to be
rejected on the grounds of some
mysterious Injunction, the terms of which, when cited, made no sense to those who were
not initiated.
They dealt with feys, elementals, and all manner of more sinister entities, in a seemingly
undiscerning manner. They were the Wizards.
Each of these three traditions had, in recent times, undergone a transformation.
The Temple, beset by internal strife, had disestablished; its hierarchy was dissolved, and
it’s structure became cellular: the meditational practice known as Saizhan became
emphasized above all else.
Involvement in temporal matters was frowned upon, although not expressly forbidden.
Simultaneously fragmenting and synthesizing, the Temple underwent an explosive
renaissance in philosophy.
The ancient cults of Wyre which venerated Nature and Goddess were striving to coalesce
into a single world-view which held that a Viridity – a “Greenification” of the world – was
underway. Some viewed this phenomenon as a periodic awakening in the cycle of the
Goddess herself.
The Wizards – finally frustrated by their own isolating paranoia – had relinquished the
proctorship of matters arcane to the mysterious entity known as the Claviger, and, in an
atmosphere of suspicious camaraderie, information had begun to flow more freely
between them.
It was against this backdrop of revolution in philosophy and praxis that a fourth
perspective – ancient and sinister – was revealed. It was foreign to Wyre, and the cause of
its re-emergence after centuries of brooding silence, the source of much speculation. Its
exoteric teachings were of nihilism and death, although its true purpose was impenetrable
to all rational scrutiny; its appeal was visceral in the extreme.
*
Mesikammi flitted as an insubstantial mist through the night sky. A swift breeze bore her
southwards with Hlioth to their appointed rendezvous with Mostin and Daunton. It was
cloudless, and the young moon had already set; low in the east, the ruddy Eye of Cheshne
– Soneillon’s star – hung with her
daughters. As Mesikammi gazed at it, it seemed to pulse with a menace which caused the
shamaness to shiver; she shifted her perception rapidly, and concentrated instead on the
rolling hills of Scir Cellod. A light frost clung to the ground below.
Hlioth spied a light and gestured. Both descended to where the Alienist had, in an effort to
make
himself comfortable, magically erected a small pavillion and a secure shelter on a hilltop,
and conjured a number of minor pseudoelementals to do his bidding. Daunton sat, cross-
legged on the ground,
staring into a crystal ball. Flambeaux burned in a wide circle about them.
“Perhaps you could make yourself even more conspicuous?” Hlioth snidely remarked as
she
corporeated. She assumed the form of an alluring woman of early middle-age, which may
or may not
have been authentic.
Mostin ignored her. They were warded against magical observation, and that was all that
mattered to him.
Daunton barely raised his head. “The appointed area is nineteen miles West. We can
screen this location if it makes you more comfortable, but I doubt that any scouts are
trying to pinpoint us visually. We should also make a move soon: we need to be outside of
the quiescence again an hour before the meeting begins. We will be entering on foot or on
horseback.”
“How quaint,” Hlioth grumbled.
“Eadric says that it would be ‘proper form’ for a diplomatic party. For what it’s worth, I’ve
got no issue with it – I don’t anticipate crossed swords just yet.”
“You are optimistic,” Hlioth said caustically.
Mostin handed her a scroll, with arcane glyphs smothered across it. “Here is the formula.”
Hlioth glanced at it. “You require a transvalent contribution? And ten gallons of my
psyche,
apparently.”
“I have modified the spell. It is more robust.”
“It better be.”
“What have you been doing, Hlioth?” Mostin inquired. “In Nizkur?”
“The Forest will be our last defense. It must be secure.”
A chill went down Mostin’s spine. Daunton glanced upwards. “If you have some
prescience which you wish to share, Hlioth…”
“I am not the one with the web of motes,” Hlioth gazed at Mostin.
“And I’ve not yet had the time and resources to inspect it,” Mostin snapped. “Were others
than I committed to Wyre’s defense; if I were to benefit a modicum of support from the
body magickal…”
“You lack the ability to rouse conviction in others, Mostin. When will you realize this?”
“As soon as any other takes responsibility,” the Alienist retorted. “Something which, thus
far, none have had the spine to do.”
“Perhaps Mulissu is the prophet you are waiting for?”
“Perhaps you are,” the Alienist replied drily. “Although being chased by fauns is more to
your liking.”
“Do not denigrate simplicity, Mostin.”
“Nor should you overlook the collective. You have become too selfish, Hlioth.”
Hlioth laughed. “You know nothing of me or my means. I see wider and deeper than you,
Mostin.”
” Then share your insight,” Mostin hissed.
“Not yet; but soon, maybe.”
“You are arrogant beyond belief!”
“I am a cog in a larger wheel, which is turning through more dimensions than you can
readily
apprehend.”
Mostin raised an eyebrow. “Now that, I most sincerely doubt.”
**
They moved at fantastic speed, phantoms of fear from which all that lived, fled.
Before they reached the limit of the quiescence, the stars seemed to wink out and, for a
moment, utter darkness prevailed. The ground shook as in some terrible impact ahead of
them. Space warped briefly.
Gihaahia stood before them: her aspect was gigantic; winged and wrathful, and magnified
to terrifying proportions. Flames kindled about her.
Choach invoked a shimmering ward which encapsulated them all, stretching the fabric of
reality into a semipermeable interface of null-magic. It crackled darkly.
The Enforcer shattered it with a contemptuous glance. The lich reeled.
“You act beyond your purview,” Yeshe was undaunted. “We are outside of Wyre and no
transgression has occurred.”
Silence your tongue. Speak not to me of my responsibility.
“Sister…” Naatha began.
And you, lest I deem your head unsuited to your body.
Naatha promptly closed her mouth.
From a huge, clawed hand, Gihaahia let a tablet drop with a thud. She sneered – evidently
she preserved her sense of humour.
The Rules Have Changed. I suggest you read them before you proceed. Consider this
a polite
warning.
The Enforcer vanished.
Yeshe cursed. She didn’t need to be told what the tablet was.
“She was three times thrice…” Choach began.
“I know it,” Yeshe replied dismissively, waving a hand.*
“Need I remind you of…”
” I know it! ” Yeshe screamed, her face contorting. Her calm – whether mood or façade –
reasserted itself in an instant. “We have underestimated the Claviger. That could prove
problematic.”
“It is a strategy devised to allow the Ahma time to prepare,” Sibud grimaced. “Jovol’s
prescience should not be underestimated. Who can tell how his negotiations with the
Claviger proceeded? Jovol’s
Oronthonian sympathies were well attested to.”
“As is your paranoia,” Yeshe replied.
Sibud remained silent.
“My apologies, brother,” Yeshe gave a curt bow. “Forgive my words – they were spoken
in haste.
Please continue.”
“Thank-you,” Sibud smiled. “If the Claviger…”
Yeshe pretended to listen, but her own head span. She waited for a suitable length of time
as the Vampire spoke – his power should not be underestimated - before gesturing. The
tablets rose from the ground and hung before her. She inspected them swiftly for any
revisions: prudence had demanded her own familiarity with the Wyrish Injunction.
As her eyes scanned the engraved text, her face contorted in anger and disbelief.
“… dispensation to the Enforcer to act unilaterally…”
“… extension of the Injunction’s remit to include aspects of Shûthite theurgy within the …”
“… the preservation of the Wyrish Collegium…”
Yeshe closed her eyes, and brooded silently. Sibud might be right: maybe it was an
Oronthonian
conspiracy, after all. She issued a sending to Temenun.
The Tiger-Who-Waits was nonchalant.
She is still finite. Let her flap her wings.
**
It was twilight. The company rode south to Galda.
“One wonders what would have happened, had you slain Despina,” Nwm remarked drily.
He rode bareback – and expertly – upon a charger lent him by Prince Tagur. The horse had
seemed absorbed in an ecstatic trance since its temporary adoption by the Druid.
Eadric shrugged. He felt uncomfortable.
“Perhaps reality would not have unravelled to quite such a degree,” Nwm continued.
“Sparing her was an ambiguous act, wouldn’t you agree? Rooted as much in lust as in
compassion.”
Tarpion scowled. Nwm smiled back.
Eadric sighed. “My conscience is fraught enough as is, Nwm. Why add more to my
misery? I’ve
thought long on this – and Nehael’s rejection of Oronthon. I know it well.”
“She asked me to remind you,” Nwm grinned.
Eadric squinted.
“She said other things, do you wish to hear them?”
“I’m not sure,” the Ahma shifted in his saddle. “Will they depress me?”
“Perhaps they can wait.”
Eadric shook his head ironically.
“I can quote her verbatim, if you wish?”
“Spit it out, Nwm,” Eadric groaned.
“‘Enjoin the Ahma to recall that moment, and to reflect upon his motivation at that point –
before his awareness had expanded to embrace a larger reality, when his concerns were
more human and less
divine. The seed of discord in his mind – the tension between his desire and his mercy –
has been the source of his strength. The root of the Path of Lightning, which has
unshackled him from morality. For a while, that path and the Middle Way were congruent,
but no longer; if the antinomian view becomes dogmatic, he will fall as surely as the
Adversary.
‘The Viridity arises in response to the ontological paradox. It grounds the abstract in the
present.
Notions of ens and non-ens are abandoned in the face of the Now, and when the Sela
apprehends the Viridity through Saizhan, he is pleased: the vibrancy of life crushes all
philosophy.’”
Eadric reflected for a while, and scowled. “She has become no less opaque.”
Nwm drew to a halt, and called out to Tagur, who led the company. “We will rest here for
one hour. The Ahma and I will return shortly.” The Druid began riding towards a lone
cypress, a hundred yards from the roadside.
Eadric paused uncertainly for a long moment, and then spurred his mount to follow.
“Where are we going?” He called to Nwm.
“To Afqithan,” Nwm replied.
Eadric immediately reined his steed in, and shook his head. “I have no desire to return
there.”
Nwm wheeled about and stared hard at him.
“Oh, very well,” Eadric grumbled.
**
The pool was black as pitch, and utterly still. Tendrils of dark mist clung to its surface.
“Welcome to the source of your nightmares.”
“I am past grieving, Nwm.”
“You are disconnected from your humanity,” Nwm opined.
“So you bring me to the grave of the demoness? This serves little purpose.”
“Your reluctance to be here would suggest otherwise.”
“I am wary of invoking her: her memory yet resides.”
“She is merely a phantom which clings to the real.”
“What is the purpose of this excursion, Nwm?” The Ahma was wary.
“Consider the Viridity, Eadric. Aside from the truth of it – and you have experienced that,
so you cannot deny it – your words can sway thousands.
If you were to adopt a reconciliatory perspective, you could effect the synthesis and
flowering of religious thought for generations to come. An end to ethnic strife in Wyre.
The Sela must surely agree…”
“The Sela would express no opinion, I’m sure,” Eadric smiled wrily.
” It must happen,” Nwm seemed adamant. “It is only a matter of how and when. You have
a responsibility to posterity: you must exercise it wisely.”
“The weight of history is not mine to bear.”
“I do not shirk my duty thus,” Nwm was acid. “I still strive to effect change for the better.
My concerns are human.”
“When you are not pursuing the elusive Goddess.”
Nwm smiled. “My perspective is balanced. But if you wish to speak of the devouring
feminine, Eadric, I’m all ears.”
The Ahma pondered briefly.
“There is much common ground here, Ed. You know it. A mystic is a mystic, after all.”
” I do not determine doctrine, ” Eadric groaned. “And I will not be drawn into a debate
involving comparative mysticism. At least, not until I’ve eaten. And I will not make
sweeping religious reforms.”
“Why not? Who says you can’t? Or shouldn’t? You say that the Sela would have no
opinion on the matter, and why should he? But you can. You are the Ahma. You are not the
‘gnostic intellect of God.’ If not you, then who?”
“Bah! Perhaps. But it is not my immediate concern. And even as we stand here, hours fly
past in the World.”
“There is something you should see. Please indulge me!”
“Be quick!”
Nwm shifted into the form of a raven with a thirty-foot wingspan, and made an odd
clicking sound,
indicating that Eadric should climb onto his back. He powered upwards through the
canopy, into the violet and saffron gloaming of Afqithan’s sky, and bore off in a direction
away from Ortwine’s Fortress.
“Look through the Eye of Palamabron,” Nwm croaked.
Eadric did so, and gaped. Nearby, soaring above the treetops, was Murmuur’s tower,
abandoned. Coiled about its upper quarter was a linnorm of dreadful size, dark with
shadowy power – some ancient
vestige from the umbral fringe of Afqithan. Teppu had bound it, and set it about the place
in guard, before hiding the tower itself from all but the most penetrating sight.
“Hlioth is of the opinion that Mostin, were he to use the web of motes in his inquiry, could
determine the mode of operation of this device.”
“I think that Mostin owning a planar nexus to the Hells is a bad idea,” Eadric said.
“Besides, why has it not been retrieved?”
“Devils do not step here. They have no place now.”
“Nor do I.”
“Ah, but you are here by invitation. My question is precisely this: should we tell Mostin?”
“I suspect we have to, now,” Eadric said glumly. “Can you imagine how he’d react if he
found out that we knew about it, and had said nothing?”
Nwm nodded his avian head. “There is one other thing…”
“How many other ‘one other things’ are there likely to be?”
“No more. I am wary of your reaction to this, however.”
“Thank-you for the warning.”
Nwm squawked. “Around now, Mulissu has seized control of the City of Fumaril.”
Eadric was aghast. “You cannot be serious!”
“The Temple of Jeshi has endorsed her coup, and a dozen wind-sorcerers are backing her.
She is erecting a barrier – similar to Soneillon’s paling – around the city.”
“The Injunction?”
“She is outside it.”
“But the other Wyrish Wizards…this is a massive breach of etiquette.”
“Who cares? She’s Mulissu. No-one dare challenge her. Especially if they know that
Mostin would jump to her aid.”
“It seems most unlike her,” Eadric mused.
“Teppu is persuasive. And Jovol was the only Wizard that Mulissu ever deferred to.”
“And you support this course of action?”
“I’m not sure,” Nwm admitted. “It risks a great deal – it is a response to the compulsions
which were laid down by the Cheshnite cabals, and ups the ante more than I’m altogether
comfortable with. But she will bring order to the city very quickly, either by persuasion or
by domination.”
“Does she intend for this to be a permanent arrangement?”
“She is styling herself Tyrant of Fumaril, so one would assume so.”
“At least she makes no pretence as to her role. I wish I could say the same. Is this the same
Mulissu? I mean, has her reincarnation changed her?”
“It always does,” Nwm seemed matter-of-fact.
“But how much?”
“Enough that she has stepped into the political arena. But I think the integrity of her ego
has remained intact.” Nwm landed upon the ground, and resumed his human form.
“Unlike Jovol-Teppu?”
“Unlike Ortwin-Ortwine,” Nwm smiled. “Teppu is…well, who knows, really?”
**
Eadric drew alongside Prince Tagur. “Highness, if I might have a word?”
Tagur scowled. Highness? This man – if such he still was – retained an odd respect for
conventional forms. Or perhaps he was simply the consummate diplomat. There was no
particular need for the Ahma to address him at all – Tagur was under no illusion that his
presence was anything other than
ceremonial. There was nothing that Tagur could actually do to influence the course of
events. He
sighed, and nodded.
“I should like to speak with you regarding the possibility of things…ah…coming to
blows, shall we say.”
“I’m sure I shall die very quickly,” Tagur smiled.
“I suspect you will have as good a chance as I,” Eadric said wrily, “considering I will be
their principal target.”
“Ah, yes,” Tagur half-apologized. “There is that.”
“Before we meet them, there will be a period of preparation.”
Tagur raised an eyebrow.
“It is customary to fortify oneself as best as possible before this kind of parley – the kind
that can degenerate quickly into a bloodbath. Especially if Mostin is present.”
“Are you quite serious? Why is this madman even involved?”
“I wish I knew,” Eadric groaned. “In any event, do not be concerned that you will be
ineffective. You will be bolstered with numerous spells, and will prove quite handy. I
suspect you’ll find things more evenly-matched than you fear.”
“You may spare my pride in this matter, Ahma.”
“Trust me. A large part of me hopes that it does come to swords. When I get the
opportunity to hit something in the head, the odds tend to favour me.”
“Have you considered simply striking first?”
“Oh yes,” Eadric nodded. “I consider it all the time.”
**
Ortwine rode on ahead, utterly self-absorbed.
I want my sword. My Heedless Githla. She realized that her desire for the weapon
bordered on obsession, and shrugged.
Ripples in consciousness, to which Ortwine seemed to be becoming increasingly sensitive,
spoke to the sidhe of the Green in motion: Nizkur was awakening, the ancient spirits of the
land stirring. In the south, feys and elementals were agitating.
Despite herself, Ortwine felt the Viridity drawing her in. The lure was impossible to resist,
as much because she felt it was stemming from her as calling to her. It made her
uncomfortable.
What do I want? It was the perennial question for her. Her existence was so often a jaded
malaise. An ennui which had persisted through four successive incarnations. A sword? A
throne? Divinity? All was empty. Ortwine turned her head, and gazed over her shoulder.
Nwm, who rode behind her, stared impassively at her.
Ortwine’s eyes narrowed. “Your religious machinations will not determine my purpose,”
she said acidly.
“I seek only to inform it,” Nwm smiled.
Ortwine glowered. “Fine. But I want my sword, first.”
**
Mulissu floated above the balcony before an immense throng; they screamed in frenzied
adulation.
Redemptrix, they called her. Goddess. The euphoria was intoxicating.
Temporal power is dangerous, she observed silently. Still, I will not have my city tampered
with. The savant raised a hand, and an excited hush fell.
“I am Mulissu, your new Tyrant,” Mulissu announced. The proclamation was greeted with
rapturous applause. The witch waited for it to subside.
“My apologies to any council members present for the inconvenience of your
displacement; rest assured that you will remain unharmed, and your mundane duties will
be mostly unaffected.
“You will find me largely benign, if somewhat aloof; my occasional fits of pique seldom
result in malicious transmogrifications. Please refrain from engaging in civil uprisings, as
such would be
doomed to failure. Your day-to day activities are of no concern to me, and I have no
interest in
managing your affairs beyond providing you with protection. Continue to pay your taxes.
Put your
children to bed at the normal time. For the moment, you are safe.”
*The numerological significance of the Enforcer’s magnification was not lost on members
of the
Cheshnite delegation. Enitharmon was said to have been three times thrice magnified – i.e.
to have been bestowed with nine divine ranks – for the purpose of expelling Oronthon’s
Adversary from
heaven.

Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 02-18-08

Galda I
The boy with the olive skin and tousled hair smiled, pulled up a chair, and sat. His
appearance was as one scarce out of adolescence. He looked hard at Shomei, and absorbed
every detail surrounding her in an instant. Except one.
“Why did you reject Saizhan?” He asked. “Forgive my abruptness. But, frankly, this
question still puzzles me. It was a bold gambit; I only wish I knew what prize it was that
you sought. You may
refrain from using honorifics when addressing me; I am already surrounded by
sycophants. Please
speak openly; treat me as any you would any other in conversation.”
“I am not sure of my motive,” Shomei admitted, her mind reeling. “It wasn’t rational, and
may have simply been an act of perversity. Do you think my choice was wrong?”
“No. I suspect that your Will directed you to act without the permission of your mind.”
“To precipitate this meeting?”
“How should I know?” The other asked. “It is your Will, not mine. In any case, you are
now here.
Outcast with the rest of us.”
“Might I inquire where here is, precisely?”
“In Caïna, for the time being. Astaroth purchased you from Amaimon – but at my
instruction. Actually, the Akesoli were also dispatched at my instruction.”
“I have been treated well,” Shomei remarked, “aside from the initial flaying, of course. I
had assumed that I would already be enduring unending tortures. When you say ‘for the
time being,’ am I to be
moved elsewhere?”
The boy nodded. “To the library, in Cocytus. If you so wish.”
If I so wish?
“I would never stifle your potential, Shomei. You have earned rights that few others have
won. Your loyalty has been unwavering; not to me, but to the idea. This is rare, and
precious.”
Her pulse hammered in her head. “I fear duplicity,” she said.
“Your honesty is likewise remarkable,” the other seemed amused. “Perhaps the Sela has
been a positive influence on you.”
Shomei glanced down at her hand, and gripped the skin between her thumb and index
finger. “This form is…”
“Infernal,” the youth nodded. “You cannot go back now, unless called. You must abide by
the terms of the Interdict and the Accord.”
Suddenly, everything she had foreseen in the web of motes made sense.
He stood. “Seek out the devils Agei and Ugales; you will discover their temperaments are
reflective, not unlike your own. I suspect you will find discourse with them productive.
Avoid the petty squabbles of the Dukes; you are above them. Hell is what you make of it,
Shomei.”
“I think I fear your mercy more than your wrath,” Shomei remarked wrily.
The Adversary raised an eyebrow. “And so you should. I am the Left Hand of God, after
all.”
*
After he had departed, she sat in contemplation for a long while before rising and exiting
the chamber.
The corridor beyond was empty and echoing; she turned left, and walked past open
embrasures: they
looked out upon a vast glacier beneath a sky which crackled darkly. The air was frigid, so
much so that even her newly-endowed flesh began to feel numb: away from the
strongholds, she knew few devils
could endure Caïna for long. Below, the damned wailed, immersed in ice.
Shomei turned left again, and descended a flight of many thousand steps; she noticed that
the darkness was absolute, although her sight was unimpeded. Finally, she reached the
chamber at the bottom.
Devils abased themselves. A mirror stood before her.
As they draped her cloak over her shoulders, slid her bracelet over her wrist, and pressed
her rod into her hand, Shomei gazed at her reflection: aside from a complex device upon
her forehead – which she knew marked her as His – it seemed unchanged. She touched the
brand, but felt nothing unusual. She knew its import, a dire message to those who could
read such things: Do not interfere with this one.
She passed swiftly through the mirror, and the fires of Nessus welled around her.
***
An ancient stone circle on a low hill west of Galda – a small village which nestled in a
valley at the southernmost tip of Scir Cellod – bore the uncertain honour of being the
meeting point between the Cheshnite delegation and the Wyrish embassy. It was
technically outside of the borders of Wyre proper, within the fief of a Marchioness named
Siliste; the noblewoman’s family had rendered a hefty annual tribute to Morne for more
than a hundred years in order to retain their precarious right of self-government. The
markland sat upon Hynt Coched, the main artery which ran south to Jashat, and
enjoyed healthy tax perquisites from the trade which passed through it.
Outside of the quiescence of the spheres – hardened now by Mostin to resist disjunctions
and superb dispellings – the Aethers sang with the horns of archons, and battalions of
devas were massing to the north. Messengers from interested parties reconnoitered the
edge of the quiescence; temporary ethereal presidios were quickly established nearby by
several Ugras of terrible power bringing blackness: the
vomit of Cheshne.
Inside, the Green writhed, potent and oblivious.
Eadric’s stomach was turning. Mostin, attuned to his spell, felt ripples along its periphery.
In his time, the Ahma had engaged in more than a few parleys with demons, devils and
other monstrosities. For the sake of his sanity, he carefully censored his awareness of
those present at Galda.
None conformed to the images which he had formed in his mind – despite his best efforts
to limit his expectations in that regard.
They manifested themselves at first as a great, dark cloud which billowed around a lone
rider – Anumid the Mouthpiece – before relaxing into more choate forms which intimated
at distinct personalities: demons, gods, godlings, undead, hierophants, theurges, great
warriors of unguessable age.
As the two parties gazed at one another, a long silence endured: a furious exchange of
thought,
speculation and surmise consumed each group at once.
Mostin reflected. It was all about the reservoirs, he was beginning to realize. And the
divinations. Each transvalent spell which would be cast – and they would shake the world;
of that, Mostin had no doubt –
was drawn against limited resources. They would need to be played carefully to maximum
effect, like pieces in some vast strategic game. And to do that required foreknowledge.
And Mostin had the web of motes. But they had the cabals. It was a strange, asymmetric
balance.
The Alienist scowled. Their wards were utterly inscrutable, although Mostin had no doubt
that each was vastly augmented, laden with protective magics. Whilst he had expected no
less, it made gauging their strength impossible; the insight of Hlioth and the gut of Eadric
were their best tools in reading any purpose in the Cheshnites. He hoped that his own
party was as veiled. A nagging suspicion in him was that they were not. Transvalent
divinations employed by the other might break through. How secure
was the quiescence? He was sure that he could feel things testing its potency. Mostin was
feeling acutely paranoid. His fingers were getting twitchy.
The Ahma‘s gaze was drawn first to Yeshe, who had entered the world when magic was
young and
abundant. With each breath she drew there seemed fused the threat of explosion. Clad in
adamant and black iron, and bearing ancient weapons of destructive potency, Eadric
quickly estimated her mettle in battle as formidable. And her magical art, he knew,
surpassed that of Mostin, by the Alienist’s own admission. She seemed youthful and hale;
dynamic and energized. Each new act of annihilation is fresh and exciting to you. The
Void – and Eadric knew its signs well now – rested easily upon her; an undertow of black
despair which grasped at frail sanity. All seemed cowed by her.
[Mostin]: (Concern). She is no arcanist; I willfully misconstrued. This woman is a High
Priestess, so to speak. I didn’t realize that her agenda was fuelled by such zeal.
[Ortwine]: Perhaps Eadric can seduce her? She seems his type.
[Eadric]: Perhaps Ortwine could refrain from sarcasm for a moment?
[Ortwine]: I am here under duress. Permit me at least my wit.
[Hlioth]: Silence, imbeciles!
Sibud – who did not breathe – emanated corruption and decadence in waves, and life
wilted around
him. His skin, grey and cracked, resembled shrivelled leather which moulted a fine dust;
obscene black fingernails dripped a caustic venom, which smoked as it struck the
withering grass at his feet. As Eadric’s vision rested upon his form, he knew that only the
vampire’s resolute will maintained his quiddity, preventing his dissolution into a cloud of
atoms. But into Sibud’s face, the Ahma could not bring himself to look; it haunted the
margin of his sight as the memory of his own death.
For Nwm, the vampire in particular was anathema. Only Threxu, the Wasted Nymph had
before evoked
that magnitude of revulsion. Despite it, Nwm seemed genuinely calm and confident;
Eadric could not guess the reason why, but Mostin sensed subtle shiftings in magical
attitudes with his arcane sight.
Nwm and Hlioth and Mesikammi had prepared some contingency, no doubt.
[Mostin]: Evocation?
[Nwm]: And Necromancy.
[Mostin]:!? Are you mad? What good will that do? Half of them are dead already.
[Nwm]: You might be surprised. Uedii thinks dead things should stay properly dead. I’m
not about to violate the truce, but I’m going to blast them all if they try anything, even if it
kills us stone dead.
[Mesikammi]: (Clapping) Supernova! It will be beautiful! I will reincarnate as an
unfettered wyrd; I have already chosen.
[Eadric]: Is she serious?
[Nwm]: Of course.
[Mostin]: If you die, stay within the quiescence! There are things beyond it which might
eat your soul.
[Hlioth]: Let them try. They’ll get indigestion.
The presences of Naatha and Choach – as foul and potent as they might be – Eadric could
accept and absorb. Then the Ahma beheld another, behind Yeshe. A rider in similar
harness to the Binder, but who sat sufficiently removed from the others within the group to
indicate a disdain for the proceedings. An image of fear and bloodshed contrived in the
mind of War itself. His first urge was to throw himself on the ground, and weep.
[Eadric]: Who is he?
[Mostin]: She. Visuit.
[Eadric]: We cannot prevail against such as her. We are overmatched. Why is she here?
[Daunton]: She brings war. She is war.
[Nwm]: (Smiling)
[Eadric]: I fail to see the humour, and sometimes I wonder who amongst us is the most
unhinged.
[Nwm]: Her horse regards you with hope.
[Eadric]: That is small…
But the Ahma caught the animal’s eye, and immediately fell in love.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 02-18-08
Galda II
Anumid spoke first. His suavity was effortless.
“The Oronthonians. The local fertility goddess also seems well represented. As do your
nascent magi.
What of Oronthon’s Adversary? Does the Ahma speak for him also?”
“I am the Breath of God,” Eadric stated calmly. “I speak for all present; and for the Sela,
and for the Celestial Host, and for Oronthon. If the Adversary has elected me his
representative also, he has not informed me of my appointment.”
“Your claims may be tested,” Anumid smiled.
Ortwine sighed. “You’re already boring me. Make your case, and go. I have better things
to do.”
“Silence, sprite!” Sibud revealed himself from shadow. “Your immortal pretensions are
pathetic! The slaadi already gather to reclaim Heedless. ”
“I think not. Afqithan is now inviolate. But these are facts: I will soon be a goddess, the
vorpal sword is mine, and you are a vampire. To fear me would be prudent.”
“The Ancient One does not regard divinity as a particularly noteworthy achievement,”
Yeshe’s tone was conciliatory but didactic as she stepped forward; somehow she avoided
condescension. “It is one path among many, and carries its own limitations, as you will
discover if your quest proves fruitful.
Immortality is merely immortality. Power is merely power.”
Whether by the term Ancient One Yeshe meant Sibud, or Temenun, or Cheshne – or
perhaps
Demogorgon – was not clear.
“As to making cases,” Yeshe continued, “it was you who arranged this meeting, not we.
State the Wyrish argument, if you please. I am anxious to hear it.”
“Why does the Tiger absent himself?” Eadric asked.
“Perhaps he is secretly trysting with Nehael,” Yeshe smiled. “Or your Sela. None of us
here are so deluded to think that this represents the sum of relevant interests, Ahma, so
why pretend otherwise?
Unlocking the morass of paradigms is central to this issue.”
“You demonstrate an appreciation of a larger process,” Nwm was surprised.
“Tell me more of my understanding, mortal. Your wisdom overwhelms me.”
[Ortwine]: I’ll admit, I’m starting to rather like this one.
“Enough!” Anumid interrupted. “Mistress, the Mouthpiece demands your silence. Lord
Sibud, a little respect if you please.”
Both immortals withdrew.
Eadric – guileless – could not help but evince surprise. What is the relationship here?
Evidently more complex than he had first assumed. Or was this some ruse to deflect his
attention?
Anumid smiled. “I speak with Cheshne’s Voice, and broker the power of the convocations;
do not underestimate me.”
“You have much to learn in the art of dissemblance,” Ortwine observed.
[Eadric]: No, he lies almost as well as you.
Anumid ignored her, and addressed the Ahma. “Why did you solicit this meeting?”
“To see for myself, first-hand,” Eadric answered honestly. “And in the vain hope that, if I
asked politely, you might quietly depart from this continent.”
“Doubtless, you consider us very wicked, Ahma,” Anumid smiled grimly.
Eadric was cold. “The Thalassine states. Do you intend to send them to war against
Wyre?”
Anumid was unreadable. “You must deal with the reality of us as you see fit, Ahma. I
think you already know the answer to that question, but forgive me if I don’t make you
privvy to our counsels.”
“Are we negotiating?” Eadric asked gruffly. “If so, then a statement of purpose would
seem in order.”
Yeshe gestured, and Anumid nodded and withdrew. Her manner was starkly different, her
arrogance
self-contained, as though she needed no external referents. “The South will be mobilizing
for war soon.
Wyre is large, but sparsely populated in comparison. Your wizards have censored
themselves. Your
Claviger has lapsed into a coma, and invested its power in its thug.”
Eadric realized that she spoke the truth.
The Alienist sensed something akin to a moment of prescience flicker over Yeshe, but far
deeper. Raw power she had, in abundance. Millennia of honing her magical skills. Mostin
swallowed.
“And apparently, I am better informed than you on the subject,” She read them all in an
instant.
[Nehael]: The Claviger has recently entered a state of somnolence. Gihaahia has been
fully activated.
[Mostin]: ?! What the…?
She wasn’t anywhere near.
[Nehael]: Yeshe inadvertently invoked me.
Mostin scowled. Yeshe withdrew again.
“War is never inevitable,” Anumid smiled. “It is a waste of resources, and if it can be
avoided, we should be the happier.”
Visuit snorted in contempt.
“For the most part,” the Voice of Cheshne shot a look toward The Butcher before
continuing. “If Wyre’s mobilization is halted, and the Wyrish extend the same courtesy to
the Cheshnites as they do other faiths – since the disestablishment of Orthodoxy – then a
compromise is within reach.”
[Hlioth]: They wish to establish temples within Wyre’s borders.
[Eadric]: (Incredulous) Why?
[Nwm]: Why does anyone seek to further the cause of their religion, Ed? They think that
they have the right answer, and you do not.
Eadric laughed aloud, to the surprise of many present. Layers of deceptions, threats and
counterthreats suddenly seemed vacuous and irrelevant. “I was under the impression that
the Cult of Cheshne had no missionary aspirations; the Mysteries are not for the cattle, as
it were. What has changed? And why in the North? Shûth is a more fertile ground in every
conceivable way.”
In his gut, he already knew the answer: to arrest the spread of Saizhan.
Anumid smiled. “Consider the proposal. It will be you who chooses in the end, Ahma. The
Sela is too passive; your grandees too tractable, and dependent on you. Your word is law.”
***
Fumaril, although settled since ancient times, had only in the last generation risen to pre-
eminence amongst the Thalassine cities. Sturdy merchantmen from its three harbours –
clinker-built and lateen-rigged – plied the seas with oils, glassware, amygdala firewines,
and all manner of more exotic goods.
They sailed to Harland to procure fur and ivory; to Bedesh for silks, and the exquisite
confections in demand amongst the Thalassine nobility; and to Shûth for its gems and
gold, its secrets, and for kschiff.
Mulissu – together with her clutch of wind-sorcerers and elemental priestesses – had
evoked an
impenetrable barrier, four miles in diameter, completely isolating the city. It rapidly
became clear that, for many, ‘going about one’s business’ might prove difficult or
impossible. The witch’s solution was pragmatic and unburdened by ethical sentiment: she
pacified much of the population with a powerful enchantment, succoured Ulao for aid, and
instructed dozens of indentured djinn to fulfill any needs the citizenry might have for food,
shelter and entertainment.
The holiday would continue until further notice.
With the burden of governance eased, Mulissu and her council turned their attention to
devising a
concrete strategy to deal with the Temple of Cheshne. The defenses would demand much
of her energy: her wards against intrusion would need to be renewed every few days, and
each casting would diminish her own reservoir. She wondered how long she could keep it
up.
Jashat was a mere forty miles distant, and the Shûthite cabals – as best she could estimate
– might invoke magicks a full order of magnitude greater than her own. Her aery charisma
lent a dubious
cohesion to the unlikely band: mages from Pandicule, clergy of Jeshi within Fumaril, two
sylphs –
Zimodee and Vouve – prior acquaintances of the eccentric sorcerer, Ehieu. She wooed a
number of
renegade Wyrish wizards – conjurers who had left the aegis of the Claviger to continue
their practice –
with the promise of an increased spell repertoire, and access to the names of obscure but
accommodating elemental allies.
Upon due reflection, the savant herself began devising a spell which would conjure Ha’uh
– an air
primal of unimaginable power – to defend the city if it were assailed.
***
Ortwine kneeled, bowed her head, and lifted her palms upwards. She felt the weight of the
blade as it came to rest in her hands: it was light and delicate; so wieldy, she knew.
Gingerly, she raised her eyes to meet it: it was exquisite, with traceries of gold etched into
black adamant. The hilt was replete with corundum and perfect moonstones.
Jaliere, God of the Forge scowled. “The weapon is accursed; it may be my finest work, but
it’s also the one I deplore the most. The intelligence which inhabits it is warped and
schizoid.”
Ortine stood, brandished the scimitar with a flourish, and slid it into its scabbard. She
bowed
perfunctorily. “My thanks, Jaliere. I will take better care of it than…”
“It will betray you; it despises you.”
“I understand it better than you think,” Ortwine smiled coldly.
“You understand nothing!” Jaliere snorted.
“You are becoming tedious, Jaliere.”
The god acted quicker than lightning. In an instant he dwarfed Ortwine, and with titanic
strength, grabbed the fey by the neck and hurled her against a stone column. She struck it
with such force that it cracked.
“Fool,” Jaliere bellowed. Flame issued from him in roaring sheets. “This sword screams
its agony to the spheres. It will demand much of your energy to keep it subdued.”
Ortwine rose slowly and easily, dusting herself. “Your deific tantrums do not move me. As
I say, I understand Heedless better than you think.” She sighed. “Jaliere, I appreciate your
work, and Sisperi would be impoverished were you to leave it, but I will cut you down if
ever you lay a finger on me again, be you god or no. This is a weapon worthy of my
cause; I have no doubt I will never see its peer again.”
“Cause?” Jaliere thundered. “You are your only cause.”
“That is quite true,” Ortwine nodded. “But in some things – as in this case, for instance – I
also honor my word: I am perverse like that. I am departing for the underworld forthwith.”
“It pains me that the future of my kin rests in your hands.”
“And I am aggrieved by your lack of faith,” Ortwine sighed. “We are speaking of my
divinity, here.
Whether earned or stolen, believe me when I say it is utmost in my thought. Consider, if
you admitted Ninit to your pantheon, why am I such a terrible prospect?”
“Ninit is more ancient than any of us; you and she hardly bear comparison.”
“And I will be the youngest amongst you: make way for new blood, Jaliere. The Nireem
need
revitalizing; I might prove more of an asset than you think. Perhaps I can stir you from
your apathy.”
“The apathy you perceive is the weariness of ten millennia of war,” Lai entered
unannounced. “Still, you may have a point. Do not fail us, Ortwine. And heed Jaliere:
beware the sword. Its moods are more opaque than you guess.”
***
Ilistet’s armour was rent. The succubus bled smoking ichor from a dozen minor wounds
and her perfect
skin, where exposed, was shredded and raw – lacerated by powerful sonics. Around her,
maimed
demons mewed pitifully: hundreds of bar-lgura, amid a seething ocean of dretch. She
cursed them, and screamed at them to hold as the maurezhi and abyssal ghouls tore into
their disordered ranks. From above, varrangoin rained down spells and darts: the same
mercenaries, Ilistet noted ruefully, alongside whom she had fought only a few months
before.
Graz’zt should have paid them more, or at least promised it.
The battle was already lost, the succubus observed. Air superiority was everything, and –
predictably –
her chasme had scattered like flies. She prepared to flee.
Abruptly, a gate opened next to her. She was drawn through irresistibly, into a chamber
thick with yellow smoke, which issued from a dozen censers.
“Greetings,” Rimilin smiled. He wore a long ceremonial robe of scarlet and gold, and bore
a staff of ivory which Ilistet viewed suspiciously.
“State your terms, eunuch,” the demoness growled.
The Acolyte of the Skin said nothing. His ego swollen by potent magic, Rimilin
dominated the Herald of Azzagrat with a transvalent compulsion.
***
The night before their departure for Ruk, the Ahma dreamed. It was altogether lucid, and
thoroughly uncomfortable.
It was a warm afternoon, and the sun was hazy. He sat upon a grey destrier, the flanks of
which
glistened with sweat, and trotted in a wide circle; inside a heavy casque, he felt beads of
his own perspiration trickle down his cheeks. Glancing down, he noticed that he wore full
harness, enamelled with gold and serpentine. Nearby, a knight lay upon the ground; Eadric
knew that he had recently
unhorsed him. Spectators were clapping; the applause was muted and genteel. He glanced
up toward a box, where two indistinct figures sat in conversation, and urged his mount
forward.
Eadric presented his lance, and a lady whose features he could not discern grasped its
shaft, tying a scarf of black silk below its head. She tossed a garland of black flowers to
him. Despite the vagueness of her features, he knew who she was.
Why do you vex me, still? He wanted to ask. Instead, he turned and prepared to joust with
another opponent.
A dozen bouts later, and he was still unbeaten. Throughout, he had remained conscious of
the shapes in
the booth, but had averted his eyes. Now she sat alone. Wearily, Eadric dismounted and
pulled off his gauntlets and helm, handing them to a squire who stood waiting for him;
dust and grime caked his face and hands. He ascended a flight of wooden steps into the
box and sat upon a chair which creaked under his weight. It was cooler there and shaded; a
breeze stirred as if in further response to his thoughts. She silently handed him a glass of
iced tea. A long moment passed.
“Is this all that remains of you?” Eadric finally asked.
Soneillon smiled her maddening smile. Her features had crystallized. The Ahma had the
distinct impression that, even by acknowledging her existence, he had lent her a little more
substance.
“I am Void; without form. You perceive an echo.”
“You gnaw at the edges of my mind,” he sighed. “And many of those considered wiser
than I have advised me to release myself from you.”
“Your reluctance to do so is revealing. Perhaps your prescience runs deeper than theirs.”
Eadric felt a chill; the merest hint of a veiled threat.
Soneillon spoke grimly. “Yeshe is searching for me in Dream; I cannot elude her for long.
She wishes to send me against you. She believes I am your weakness. A chink in your
armour.”
“You are no more,” Eadric grimaced. “You cannot harm me.”
“Annihilation is no obstacle to me, Eadric. I am birthed and rebirthed in Nothingness. That
much at least should be clear to you by now.” Her voice carried a note of desperation, and
she forced the scarf into his hand, closing his fist tight about it. “I do not wish thralldom,
to be bound as an Ugra.
Remember me: I would be your strength, not your enemy. Invoke me. Breathe into me,
Ahma. Bring me back, before she does.”
He awoke clutching the scarf, and vomited.

Shortly afterwards, Nwm entered and viewed him suspiciously. “Perhaps your returning to
Afqithan was a mistake, after all.”
Eadric stared back. “Things are more complex than you suspect.”
Nwm smiled sympathetically. “That is how I prefer it. Come. We are ready. Rhul will
accompany us.”
“Before we depart, I need to contact Canec. I am changing my colours, and my device.”
Nwm cocked his head.
“Green and gold,” Eadric explained. “Tree and Sun. Viridity and Saizhan.”
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 02-25-08
The overland passage to the Saivo – the entrance from Sisperi to its gloomy underworld,
Rûk – was across a frigid and despoiled land filled with twisted trees, many of which had
come to harbour malign intelligence. They wind walked, and although the Ahma was sure
that they might have sped there immediately, he suspected that impressing the full
magnitude of the corruption was important to Nwm.
Or perhaps manifesting through one of the blighted trees was not an experience which
Nwm wished to endure.
Ortwine’s demeanour was serene and composed. Many strategies for dealing with Saes
had crossed her mind, none of which seemed entirely satisfactory. Prior to her current state
of insanity, the death-goddess had not been one apt to casual interaction with the other
Nireem. As with most underworld
deities, she had been content to dwell in morbid isolation with her shades, grudgingly
releasing an annual quota of discarnate spirits so that the cycle of transmigration could
continue in Sisperi.
Whatever inducements Graz’zt had offered her to ally herself with him – and the sidhe
could only
speculate as to what those might be – Saes had become unbalanced. Before he had been
slain, Uort, the ferocious babau who had led the demonic legions in Sisperi, had intimated
that Graz’zt himself had laid some curse on the goddess. The truth of the matter had yet to
be discovered.
They descended, crossing over a steep arête; below them, a still tarn glistened darkly in
the wan sun.
Other lakes nearby were frozen. Not so the Saivo; its supernatural nature was immediately
apparent.
They corporeated a hundred yards from the lakeside within a copse of stunted black birch
trees. Fungi of an unusual variety grew nearby, somehow inured to the cold.
“This place is truly miserable,” Eadric remarked. “Was it always thus?”
Rhul nodded. “I am well-travelled, by any account. Few places are as desolate.”
Ortwine hitched Heedless across her back and tied back her hair in a businesslike fashion.
She seemed nonplussed, although whether her mood was genuine or not was, as usual,
impossible to tell.
“We will get wet,” she observed. “Fortunately, none of us will freeze. If there were
another way in, naturally I would suggest we take it. Unfortunately, there is not: Rûk is an
isolated bubble of reality, with no other entrance, and the whole plane is locked by deific
power. There may be other exits though
– at least Mostin seems to think so. If there are, then Saes controls them. Once we pass
through this way, we have to find another way out.”
Eadric twitched. ” May be? If? Ortwine, I would feel more comfortable in this endeavour,
had you done your research more carefully.”
“Time is a constraint we have all experienced recently,” Ortwine snapped. “I am no
different. It is logical surmise: prior to her current episode of covetousness, Saes must
have had some means to
liberate souls within her guardianship. In any event, there will be demons. Lai says in the
inverse of the lake, as well as within the vestibule beyond. The Saivo is deep – maybe a
quarter mile. Its magic is such that the pressure will not crush us, however. When down
becomes up, we will be half way to the other side; up will remain up thereafter, there is no
going back down. Is that clear?”
“Perfectly,” Nwm said. “May we proceed, now?”
Ortwine nodded.
Nwm transformed himself into a black dragon of enormous proportions, and bestowed
water breathing upon them.
“Grab onto a horn or something; we’re going down fast. If you’re struck by a dispelling,
hold your breath: I’ll get to you as soon as I can.”
**
Daunton looked worried. He sat in a plush chair in Mostin’s drawing room, and poured
himself another drink. “How long is this state of torpor likely to last? Is the Enforcer even
safe, without the Claviger’s direction?”
The Alienist stared blankly at him. “The Claviger cannot act directly, hence it needs an
agent.
Gihaahia’s empowerment is for her own protection, in this regard; unmagnified, she would
be
vulnerable. I suspect it will last for as long as the current crisis persists.”
Orolde entered apologetically, clearing his throat. “Rimilin is without. He wishes to take
counsel.”
“To pry, more like,” Mostin scowled. “I suppose I can’t fault him for wanting to keep
abreast of events; virtually every other Wizard I know is hiding under a rock.” The
Alienist sighed. “Show him in.”
“He is not alone,” Orolde added.
Mostin eyed the sprite suspiciously.
“He has a succubus with him. She seems docile enough.”
The Alienist tilted his head. Rimilin was not renowned for compacting fiendish lemans,
given his
particular circumstances. Perhaps he would shapechange himself…Best not to go there.
“Did he give a name?”
“Ilistet,” Orolde replied calmly.
In the name of all that is unholy Mostin’s eyes widened to obscene green orbs. His
pseudopod twitched involuntarily, scattering candied fruit across the floor.
“Are you a complete simpleton?” He hissed at Orolde. “Do you know who she is?”
“She is Graz’zt’s herald,” Orolde was unfazed. “What does it matter? Rimilin has her
under a compulsion.”
“He damn well better have her mind blanked as well, and more,” Mostin screeched. “I do
not want the eye of Azzagrat turning here at the moment.”
“Should I show him in?”
“Ngaarh! Yes!” He glared at Orolde, who left hastily.
Daunton stood. “I think perhaps it is time I…”
“Siddown!” Mostin barked. “We’re in this together, remember?”
Daunton readied a teleport. “I will remain temporarily. We are also outside of the
proscribed area, if you recall.”
*
Rimilin barely nodded in greeting to Mostin and Daunton, and made even that gesture
appear as though he were delivering some kind of benediction. His smile was as unctuous
as usual, and he was laden
with protective wards. The Acolyte began it: the negotiated exchange of information.
“My sources inform me that you plan to begin conjuring celestials tomorrow, is that true?”
“They are my new lackeys,” Mostin decided to brag. “They will have bat wings, if their
conventional form distresses you: it is their purpose which you should consider. I have
been restricted to devas and archons; naturally I interpret that to include exemplars and
episemes as well, as they were never
specifically excluded. There will be no cascade; I am therefore relying on conventional
tools.”
“You mean to conjure the Princes of the Choirs? You believe they will come?” Rimilin
couldn’t help but appreciate the literalist manipulation of the contract. “Exalted celestials
in the World of Men may serve to escalate the situation.”
“We’re playing catch-up. You have a demonic magnate dominated in my drawing-room;
violating Goetic etiquette regarding compacts seems no taboo for you.”
“I am establishing a temporal power base,” Rimilin smiled. “It seems voguish; I didn’t
want to get left behind by the fashionable set. And who cares if I anger Graz’zt? He’s in
no position to assault anybody at the moment. His popularity as an ugra is waning
amongst the convocations.”
“You have walked among them?”
Rimilin merely smiled.
“They wish to establish a religious base in Wyre,” Mostin reluctantly volunteered. It was
valuable information, but would soon be common knowledge. “The Injunction does not
apply to divine
thaumaturgy. Eadric is understandably reluctant.”
“He would rather send a continent to war?” Rimilin narrowed his eyes. “I suppose I will
benefit, either way. Tell me of Visuit. Did she speak?”
“She grunted a few times. She is potent. She bore the sword.”
“Yeshe is preparing to bind Pazuzu.”
“How do you know this?” Mostin whispered fiercely. “How reliable is your information?”
“Very. She is wooing the convocations intently. Her rivalry with Sibud drives her.”
Mostin’s mind raced. Legend maintained that it was only at the very climax of the war
with Durjan that Yeshe had conjured Pazuzu before. If she intended to make it her opening
gambit in this one…
“What else do you know, Mostin? What of Prahar?”
“He was not present,” the Alienist replied.
“That is not what I meant.”
Mostin remained silent.
“Mostin? Fair trade, now.” Rimilin’s tone was unbearably condescending.
“He bound Orcus previously. So far he has remained silent.”
Rimilin smiled.
“Do you wish to go higher?” Mostin asked. “There is one other piece of information: I set
a tall price on it. Do you have something to match?”
“Perhaps,” Rimilin answered carefully.
“Mine involves the Enforcer.”
“Her magnification is already well-known…” Rimilin began.
“Not that,” Mostin said. “Nehael says she appeared to the Cheshnite delegation and issued
a warning.
Certain articles in the Injunction have been amended.”
“The theurges are excluded, then? That is news, I’ll admit. Although not entirely
unexpected. I know something of which may be of particular interest to you: it involves an
Infernalist of your prior
acquaintance.”
Mostin twitched.
“Do you wish to hear more?”
“Speak, lest our relationship grow rapidly sour,” Mostin hissed.
“The schemes of the Nameless Fiend, Mostin. Perhaps he is nervous that the eschaton is
upon us and is drawing contingencies against the possibility. Shomei is in Cocytus. She is
most recherché.” The hint of envy in Rimilin’s voice left little doubt that the Acolyte of
the Skin was speaking the truth.
Mostin sighed. The wizardly ego would always abandon discretion in favour of the need
to appear
better informed. It was why they made such terrible politicians.
Throughout the exchange, Ilistet remained silent; seething with ill-concealed hatred, but
unable to act.
Her presence was an overt statement of power by Rimilin, and the Alienist wondered if
the Acolyte
could break her to his Will; domination was an effective temporary measure, but Ilistet
was unfathomably loyal to Graz’zt. He shrugged. It wasn’t his problem. Mostin felt
immensely relieved that he didn’t have to deal with conjured fiends on an ongoing basis.
**
The wastrilith slid through the water surrounded by an oily blackness. It was a creature of
prodigious size, plucked from a watery abysm by Graz’zt and deposited at the entrance to
Sisperi’s underworld. A school of bestial fish-demons surrounded it, ravenous for flesh,
deranged by their captivity within the Saivo; all were victims of false promises offered by
the Prince of Azzagrat a millennium before. They were prisoners as much as the souls
which Saes had gathered to herself.
Nwm, alerted to their presence with his true seeing, gyred in the water as they closed and
increased his
speed further; Ortwine, who clutched a bony protrusion from his draconic neck, was
struck by the elegance and efficiency of the movement.
Nwm turned his head casually, discharging a great gout of acid. He was powering towards
some
unknown surface now: down had become up, and there was no turning back. Eadric
invoked daylight on himself, illuminating their surroundings; a mire of darkness
encroached upon it, and was closing quickly. Faster, Ortwine drew Heedless and a wave
of venomous hatred surged through her. She quickly mastered it, but Eadric shot her a
suspicious glance.
Nwm shapechanged again, deciding to avoid conflict if possible. Reaching their goal
unharmed was his primary goal; distractions such as these would only denude their energy.
His form liquefied into that of an elemental, and cradling Eadric, Ortwine and Rhul in a
torrent of churning water, he began to race upwards at breakneck speed. The demon –
disinclined to let its quarry escape – paused and caused the water above them to suddenly
freeze: it cracked and groaned as tendrils of ice rapidly formed into a solid mass. Nwm
maneuvered around it easily, although in a motion which caused Eadric’s stomach to
somersault. As they outpaced their pursuers, Nwm felt a weak tugging sensation – a last,
desperate effort to drag them down again – but one easily eluded. A mental scream of
hatred and frustration
followed it.
They broke the surface, and Nwm resumed his draconic shape, launching himself into the
air. The
vestibule of Rûk was a vast cavern; a single unsupported dome which reached two
hundred fathoms
above black water. The light emanating from Eadric was like a candle held within a geode,
and sparked glistering veins of gold and gems within the walls.
Ortwine gasped despite herself. It was staggeringly beautiful.
Rhul spat water and raised an eyebrow. “It seems that our sister has kept more than a few
secrets – and more than just souls – to herself.”
**
Prince Tagur paced restlessly through the winding corridors and halls of the royal palace
in Morne. It was two hours before dawn, and torches guttered in sconces. Sentries, posted
at every doorway and at

thirty-foot intervals between, eyed him cautiously as he passed. He had been unrelenting
in his
insistence that the palace guard remain alert and fully mobilized at all times; every thane
of the royal household had been ordered to sleep in a mail shirt. Tagur had bolstered the
defenses with another hundred hand-picked knights, and assigned stern taskmasters from
amongst his own retinue to oversee them.
All utterly pointless, he knew. If the enemy decided to strike, what could they do to resist?
The Prince passed the doors to the royal bedchamber and sighed inwardly. Now was the
time for a warrior-king; instead Wyre had a fourteen-year old boy, cajoled by a group of
greedy relatives who still didn’t understand the magnitude of the threat.
At the Ahma’s insistence, key areas had been hallowed by Tahl, and wards of forbiddance
laid upon them; nothing could manifest directly within the inner donjon. But Eadric had
been honest with Tagur, contrary to the perceived security which he had allowed other
members of the aristocracy to enjoy: If they come for the king – I mean really come – it
will not be enough. We can only hope that they deem it an inefficient investment of
resources. Tagur had drawn some small comfort from that argument, at least. In many
ways, it was to the benefit of the enemy that an untested boy remain on the throne.
The Prince made his way to his own chambers, and sat at his desk. Sleep still eluded him,
something which an hour of administrative tedium might cure. He reached for his papers
and froze; atop a pile of legal pleas, aristocratic nuptial agreements, warrants, and
proposed exchanges of lands and properties, lay a single note in handwritten scrawl:
Beware. There are already tigers amongst you.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 08-04-08
***
Mostin stood within the summoning room in his cellar at dusk, and considered his peculiar
circumstances. He was an unlikely Enochian: driven by necessity, rather than any
philosophical
sympathy with the celestial agenda, which he viewed just as suspiciously as the fiendish
one.
Prior to the endeavour, he had made a brief journey to the cave of the Claviger in the hills
of Mord, just to be sure that he had overlooked no detail regarding the Injunction. And to
ensure that the Enforcer had not, in some perverse fit of humour, extended the proscribed
area to encompass the locale of his manse. The chamber had seemed unchanged, except
that – perhaps – the aura emanating from the
tablets was somehow subdued.
As he had prepared to leave, She had appeared to him, and smiled wickedly.
“Be careful, Mostin. If one of your new friends places even a feathered toe within Wyre, I
will take you. And there is no hiding from me.”
Despite his terror – because now Gihaahia was suffused with godlike power – Mostin had
clung tight to his own will, and forced himself to remain calm.
“Would you follow me Outside, even? Somehow, I doubt that.” It had been an empty but
necessary act of braggadocio; he knew that she would likely know of any violation before
it happened, and certainly before he could react.
“Place your trust in the Claviger,” Gihaahia had said unexpectedly. “I/She cares for you.”
Mostin had departed feeling sick. Apparently, the infernal had now thoroughly conflated
her own
identity with that of the entity she served.
Now he stood with Sho, who wished to witness the conjuration despite her own
inclinations; and
Orolde, the maimed sprite; and Mei, still devoid of true sapience. He sighed. My esteemed
cabal, he thought ironically. He stared at Shomei’s lesser analogues; news of their
creator’s infernal assumption could wait. He suspected that neither would care anyway;
Sho was rapidly individuating, and Mei was
dead to any feelings.
Mostin turned, and inspected a mildewed tome which rested on a carved lectern, flicking
through its pages with his appendage. Taruz, the captain of the Host with whom Mostin
had struck his deal, had indicated that celestials of a stature greater than that of a deva or
an archon were not suitable candidates for his conjurations, and had required that he not
use planar bindings in order to secure aid from the Empyrean realms. Mostin had
grumbled inwardly; opening a number of gates would be a massive drain on his psychic
resources, even if no subsequent fee were involved. And for devas?
The Alienist had brooded on the situation, and finally decided that he would pressure the
host to
renegotiate the terms of the deal. He would conjure Oraios, an exalted movanic; one of the
Twelve
Princes of the Eighth Choir. Technically a deva, yes. The fact that Oraios packed as much
punch as a half-dozen solars was neither here nor there. But Mostin was nervous; spirit
and letter were very different things, and he was dealing with celestials here, not devils.
And few had dared to invoke an episeme before.
Orolde coughed.
“Well?” Sho asked. “Are we to stand here all day? I had hoped to use the summoning
room later.”
“Very well,” Mostin steeled himself. Stay focussed on the face. Do not look at the wings.
And then: Screw the Host. It’s my reservoir, and I damn well expect my money’s worth.
*
In wheeling mansions of light, high in the Seraphic Sphere, a gate opened. After pausing
for a moment’s thought, during which he communed with the Marshal of the Host, Oraios
passed through.
*
Beneath a tree on the southern marches of Wyre, the Sela sat cross-legged, surrounded by
saints and talions, delivering a lesson to a wide circle of armored knights and templars. He
paused briefly and smiled enigmatically, shaking his head at the wizard’s audacity, before
continuing.
*
In Nizkur, Nehael glanced at Teppu in the twilight. “Look what Mostin just did,” she said,
presenting him with a mental image.
The sprite sat on a tump, inspecting the petals of a flower. “Jovol would have half-
approved,” he said archly. “His relations with the Host were always good.”
“And you?” She inquired.
“I defer to your authority,” Teppu replied. “How do you feel about it?”
“I suppose I must tolerate it,” she sighed. “Enitharmon is treading carefully; perhaps he
doesn’t wish to anger me. That much I appreciate, at least.”
“I doubt he fully understands,” Teppu grinned. “Celestials will never comprehend
Saizhan: they are relics of a previous era of consciousness.”
” Potent relics, nonetheless,” Nehael smiled. “And atavisms have a habit of resurfacing
after a millennium or two.”
“Are you worried?”
“I will weep for those who suffer,” Nehael replied. “But worry for myself and my charge?
No. Nizkur is grounded in the Tree- ludja. I am unconquerable. This is a reassuring fact.”
“Unless the Nameless Fiend comes,” the sprite observed.
“I fear no Hellfire,” Nehael laughed.
“And his rhetoric?”
“That has yet to be tested,” Nehael conceded.
**
Mostin quailed. Its feathers were terrible, and its radiance was almost as bad. Mogus
crooned eerily.
“No wrath, then?” Mostin inquired gingerly. The Alienist had amplified his own powers to
the point where he believed he had a good chance if it came to blows, but would rather it
not prove necessary.
“You abide by the contract,” Oraios replied stonily, looking down at the Alienist.
Mostin scowled. Exalted celestials acted according to their special remit – whatever that
was. They were beyond normal hierarchic status. This celestial specimen appeared
particularly warlike.
“Then I may deploy you in a manner consonant with the will of the Ahma or the Sela. I
also imagine that you regard yourself as better informed as to what that might be, and thus
feel in no way, in
actuality, beholden to me.”
“That would a wise interpretation,” Oraios affirmed.
“I think that it is contestable,” Mostin said coolly. “I would also like you to consider this:
my capacity to open gates is limited by my reservoir; my ability to use planar bindings is
not. I…”
The celestial gave Mostin an unreadable look. “You may use planar bindings. I abide by
the rules at this point. I will remain for one month.
Mostin frowned. He hadn’t expected the monster to submit as quickly. “You must not
tresspass within Wyre’s boundaries.”
“I am fully conversant with the Injunction,” Oraios said drily. “I try to stay abreast of
current events.”
Mostin scowled. This celestial had a sense of humour?
“I should like to make an observation,” the deva said unexpectedly, purposefully
emphasizing the last word.
Mostin fidgeted nervously. This was highly irregular. “Go on.”
“If you were to continue gating my peers, you would find them no less accommodating
than I.”
Mostin tilted his head and fixed his unblinking eyes on Oraios. “That information is duly
noted. You may now be about your business.”
The celestial looked at Mostin as it discorporated. “Thank-you, Mostin.”
Mostin shivered. Its light still clung to him; the promise of something true and
wholesome. It made the Alienist feel dirty.
“What now?” Orolde asked.
Mostin thought silently for a few minutes, before raising his head. “Tomorrow, we shall
conjure the deva Irel, who has the quaint title ‘he who smites.’”
“Don’t pull your punches, Mostin,” Sho remarked.
“And also the archon Hemah, and the deva Shokad.” Mostin added. “And a dozen or so
minor devas.”
Sho raised an eyebrow. “You will gain a reputation as Oronthon’s bitch.”
“I don’t see arch-devils coming this cheap,” Mostin replied.
“I don’t see you in control here, either.”
“You forget that I am a personal friend of the Breath of God,” Mostin smiled. “That
carries special benefits, and relieves me of certain concerns.”
“And imposes certain others.”
Mostin shrugged. He was interested in the broad canvas, not the details. And a penny
saved here and there could help toward that pot of very purple paint, which he could then
throw all over it.
He observed Sho. Her urge to overcome any limits was as pronounced as her creator’s.
Following her endowment by Nwm, she had quicky compacted several erinyes and – after
procuring a scroll from an
unrevealed source – a cornugon in the service of Seere, a disgraced infernal count who
dwelt in
Avernus. Now she courted pit fiends in Seere’s bodyguard. Her rise had been predictably
meteoric; in it, the cloak lent to her by Mostin, and the Mirror of Urm-Nahat had been
instumental. Mostin envied her: to have those tools with which to begin one’s career.
He regarded her approvingly, regretting only that she did not have another eye, or a maw.
***
Nwm alighted upon a wide platform of rock, thirty feet above the mere. He deposited
Ortwine, Eadric
and Rhul, and resumed his natural shape in a slick instant.
“No demons?” Nwm inquired.
“I suspect that this is only the beginning of the vestibule,” Rhul pointed through an
opening into another, massive cavern. “We have a long descent to make; the Underworld
is deep, you know.” He sounded wry.
“Forty-eight hours, Ortwine,” Eadric scowled at the sidhe. He turned to Nwm, “Should we
wind-walk? .”
“We must trudge,” Rhul observed. “Those are the rules.”
*
As they trod, Eadric handed Nwm a scarf of black silk.
Nwm looked dubious. “What is its significance?”
“It is Soneillon’s; she gave it to me in a dream.” Eadric proceeded to explain his dilemma
regarding the demoness; he could revive her, or Yeshe would find her first.
“Ah,” Nwm said.
“Do you have a solution?” Eadric asked.
“Not really.”
“I had considered imprisoning her…”
“Confinement would preclude her conjuration,” Nwm was hesitant. “But I would be
reluctant to condemn any location, anywhere, to such a fate.”
“Could you do it?”
” Could? . I suppose so.” Nwm acknowledged. “But not alone.”
“She need not be confined within the World of Men,” the Ahma ventured. “If some
forsaken Limbo could be found…”
“One man’s Limbo is another’s Paradise,” Nwm observed drily. “Still. Some locations
would be less offensive than others.”
“There is a place,” Eadric spoke carefully. “It seems apt. The lake. It would resonate. It
would require Ortwine’s permission, at the very least. She owns that stretch of Faerie. Or
at least has a better claim on it than any other. That wouldn’t be so hard to obtain. She
owes me.”
“I think you underestimate the degree of control that Ortwine prefers to exert over her
hegemony. She was livid when I revealed that I had opened portals to Afqithan. That said,
despite the protestations of
the sidhe, I think the very notion of ownership is absurd when speaking of Faerie.”
“If I asked you, would you do it?”
“Perhaps,” Nwm answered after a brief pause.
“Somehow, I had expected a flat no.”
“Often, one must look at the bigger picture. And how best to protect. I remember her: I
know how dangerous she is. But understand this, Ed: If I were to would lay a compulsion
upon her, I’d drain every drop from your psyche to do it. And mine. And probably
Ortwine’s – which I think she’d be less than enthusiastic about. It would need to be robust.
And it sits uncomfortably with me. It would be an act of hypocrisy; a violation of
something I am sworn to protect.”
“How long would such a confinement last?” Eadric inquired.
Nwm grimaced. “Until one more powerful than I came and broke it. Which might be
tomorrow, or
might be never. Goetia is hardly my speciality, Eadric. I can accomplish a great deal, but
my power is raw; I lack the finesse of a wizard. Mostin would be a better choice.”
“Mostin is under Empyreal contract. He’s not really an option at this point.”
Nwm stared at the Ahma. “You need to think hard about this, Eadric. You are
compromised in more ways than you know; I’m not just talking about your romantic
attachment to this particular fiend. You need to question every possible motive that you
might have before acting. And an investment of my
power in this would mean that it is not deployed elsewhere – and that concerns me as
much as anything.”
“Demons such as her don’t die, Nwm. They have already been unmade. They merely arise
from Nothingness into Being, and return to oblivion a while. Nothing Becomes.”
“That is a perversion of Saizhan, and you know it. I can’t believe I’m telling you this, of
all people.”
“It’s the other side of the coin,” Eadric shrugged. “Perhaps it’s also an act of symbolic
necessity; the Ahma must re-embody the Void; the Preceptor must confine its essence
within The Green. It is a point of commonality.”
“You suddenly seem well informed regarding my religious duties,” Nwm said acidly. “You
also posit a Hierarchy of Truths that I’m not altogether comfortable with.”
Eadric stopped walking. “You were the one who was passionate about my taking a stance.
About a reconciliation of ideals. Don’t get upset at me if my interpretation is one you find
you don’t like; something which makes you uncomfortable because of what it might
actually materially entail. I do not shirk my duty, thus? Remember? You’re going to need
to give a little, here.”
Nwm scowled. “Point,” he finally said. “Although if you’re going to start establishing
dogma, you’d better damn well make sure this time that it’s clear that this is not an act to
be emulated. News would get out; it always does. You would need to consider the
ramifications of knowledge of the event
amongst the ‘faithful,’ or whatever they are these days. And you need to decide if it’s the
Adversary who’s driving your agenda.”
Eadric glared. “You just had to get that one in, didn’t you.”
Nwm sighed. “It is a consideration.”
“The alternative is that you reincarnate her into a more benign form.”
“Absolutely not,” Nwm replied. “I have no jurisdiction over immortal abominations. Or
celestials, for that matter. Nor do I wish any.”
“I do. And I recall that once you were less reluctant to step outside of your remit regarding
another succubus.”
“Hardly comparable,” Nwm snapped. “Accepting an act of submission by one repentant
individual –
for the sake of expedience – is not the same as purposely incarnating a manifestation of
evil. You would have me unleash this thing in the world? You have no idea what you’re
suggesting.”
“Then enlighten me, Nwm,” Eadric said grimly. “I am merely exploring possibilities.
Could you bring her back Green?”
“No.”
“Why not?” Eadric asked. “Ortwine. Mulissu. Teppu. Nehael. If I’ve learned anything, it’s
that the Viridity can absorb anything. You awakened a simulacrum, Nwm.”
“She would bring a blackness with her. A corruption.”
” The Viridity arises in response to the ontological paradox. It grounds the abstract in the
present.
Notions of ens and non-ens are abandoned in the face of the Now. Your words, Nwm.”
“Nehael’s words,” Nwm corrected him.
“So ask the Goddess,” Eadric replied.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Ask Nehael if either solution is acceptable: imprisonment or incarnation. Or neither. We
will abide by her decision.”
Nwm squinted and cocked his head. “Very well.”
“In any event, it will require Soneillon’s consent.”
Nwm stood stock still. ” What? ”
“I will not lie to her, Nwm,” Eadric said simply. “I owe her that much, at least.”
Nwm sighed.
Ahead, Ortwine stopped. They had entered a tall cavern. Great bronze doors lay beyond.
“Demons,” she calmly observed.
*
The sidhe had been walking with Rhul, apparently in casual conversation, but in fact
probing him for information, and wooing the godling toward her camp. Her interrogation
was too skillful for Rhul to discern, and the subtlety of her intellectual seduction – which
targeted his aesthetic sensibilities with deadly precision – was more than Rhul was
equipped to deal with, despite his own sophistication.
Ortwine had the uncanny knack of presenting ideas to a subject of her willful
manipulation as exactly as I would have thought in the mind of the listener. Her sexuality
was a razor which she wielded with cool detachment, and could accommodate allusions to
either coyness or abandon, but in innuendos so ethereal that they merely left a vague
feeling of discomfort in those whom she targeted.
All must adore me, she knew. In that, her purpose was unchanged. Thus, can I brood
better.
Rhul himself had admitted that the exact method of Ortwine’s apotheosis was still in
doubt, but the sidhe had developed a number of theories – or rather entertained a variety of
notions – as to how it might be best effected. Outside of Mulhuk, the Nireem were
diminished in stature, although that had not always been the case; in their heydey, when
Sisperi had flourished, they had enjoyed the worship which that world’s natives had
lavished upon them.
Central to Ortwine’s plans were the series of massive reincarnations – planned by Nwm
and Lai – each of which would facilitate the simultaneous transmigration of thousands of
disembodied spirits into new forms. For Nwm, this would be an act of metaphysical
audacity which he had barely even begun to
address; the ethical responsibility involved was truly staggering. Ortwine’s view was more
pragmatic; she needed a base of worshippers upon whom to draw to fuel her divinity, and
who would venerate her based on her chosen role.
But the sidhe herself was not entirely without scruples. She understood the reciprocity
demanded by the agreement and, at present at least, recognized her obligation. She would
remain fey, of course, and that
presented her with a good deal of leeway; Afqithan was already bound to Mulhuk through
Nwm’s conduits. Sisperi itself would become infused with Faerie – the Enchantment – as
Ortwine had come to regard it in her mind. Not in some mundane wizardly fashion, but in
a deep, abiding occult manner
which she was beginning to understand.
The leaders of the Nireem – Lai, Rhul and Jaliere – had sworn solemn oaths regarding
Ortwine’s
ascension. Ninit, who preferred to remain marginal to the dealings of Mulhuk, had
expressed no
opinion other than her usual disdain. Ortwine had decided that some rite must exist where
each godling could invest her with a portion of their own strength, and that such might be
a possibility. At the last, the death of Saes at her own hands might be an option, although
Ortwine was nervous that such an act would mean that she herself would inherit Ruk, and
its dismal responsibilities.
Ortwine drew Heedless and felt the blade’s malign power course through her.
*
They had once been demons but – by through instillation of morbid power by Saes in her
delerium –
had assumed a darker status. Blood fiends which fed on each other, and disgorged
shadows of
themselves in an unending cycle of consumption and regurgitation. They descended upon
the party like a rabid pack, their thin screams echoing in the tall chambers of the vestibule.
Nwm swallowed. There were too many to count. He unleashed a sonic which ripped a
swathe through
them; the acoustic resonance shattered diamonds in the walls of the cavern. Lukarn flared;
brilliant sunlight exploded. Their numbers seemed barely diminished.
Nwm invoked potent wards. “Keep them at bay for a moment. Then we cut our way
forward,” he said.
It was their only option: they had to trudge. He shot two parallel walls of green fire across
the chamber, a narrow path between them. The blistering heat caused the undead to recoil
for an instant, before they hurled themselves oblivious through the burning curtains,
immolating themselves in a frenzy in order to attack the group.
“After you,” Nwm said to Eadric.
The Ahma began to hew his way through the monsters. The others followed him.
**
Graz’zt stood within the Gate Room, a labyrinth of hallways containing many thousands
of portals, all of which were sealed. The Prince had assumed the size and shape of a
human of dark aspect, and was outfitted as a gentleman prepared for travel; an extra digit
on each gloved hand remained to indicate his true nature, a vanity which Graz’zt always
indulged.
He was accompanied by a dozen other demons of note, including Chepez the Vicious – a
succubus
whose animal nature Graz’zt trusted – and Hejiel, whose grasp of planar geography was
unrivalled.
Megual, a kelvezu assassin renowned for his subtlety, rode upon the Prince’s right. The
marilith Hirmis, a loyal general who in the past had delivered numerous victories to
Graz’zt in his wars against
Yeenoghu, had also joined him. Twenty metamorphosed cauchemars served as steeds, or
as armor and
baggage carriers for the troupe; their possessions included all of Zelatar’s most portable
wealth, stowed in a variety of extradimensional bags. Their façade might have been a
squad of mercenary knights and their squires.
Above them, the hooves of nightmares bearing the undead cavalry of Orcus thundered
through the halls of the Argent Palace. Ten hours before, their chiefs had come; every
minute detail of the palace
defenses had been known to them, and Graz’zt’s walls had been disjoined in three
different places at once. To the astonishment of those closest to him, the Prince had at
once calmly opted to abandon his stronghold, but at a leisurely pace which allowed him to
collect his thoughts and make arrangements first. The bulk of his court, he had dispatched
to the Ice Waste of Kostchchie; were he to arrive in person, Graz’zt could assume control
of that miserable, backward layer at any time. Others had been sent to the few remaining
proxies which remained loyal to Azzagrat during tumultuous times.
A select group, he had kept to himself; the Prince had taken a fancy to the idea of a-
wanderin’ , perhaps with the notion of wreaking a little havoc. Distraction in destruction
was what he needed now. Ilistet could wait – he would rend her body and spirit for the
secrets she must have divulged. Compacted by now, no doubt; eyewitnesses had reported
his herald’s abrupt disappearance through a gate. Inscrutable to his divinations, the Prince
suspected Rimilin of the Skin, and information sold to Thanatos. He cursed them all.
With a gesture, Graz’zt dispelled the wards which held the portals closed, and hundreds of
vistas –
mostly terrible – opened up before them. A few other doorways remained blank and
closed; gates
sealed from the other side.
Graz’zt ignored them all, and with a small device instead opened a portal to yet another
world. With his party, he passed swiftly through into a dreary wasteland named Suluvda,
and into exile. The gate flashed closed behind him.
The death knights never reached the Gate Room. More than a few of the portals had been
shut for good reason.
*
In his meditations, Temenun knew that many chthonics had erupted into the fourty-fifth
abysm, and
that the ugra named Angula had vacated his demesne. Void was buoyant, pushing closer
to the surface.
Temenun bade the other immortals attend him.
Angula flirts with us. He dares one of us to conjure him. Who will raise his pavillion?
Choach bowed. “My brother, Draab, has already made pact with him.”
Sibud sneered. “We do not observe outside arrangements.”
Choach gave a ghastly smile. “Neither does Draab.”
“I bring Baramh,” Yeshe announced. “His pavillion can be raised in three days. I plan to
conjure the Gu Kaama shortly afterwards.” Rumours already abounded; the Binder merely
confirmed them. It was a goad directed at Prahar, who ignored it and slavered silently.
Temenun turned his gaze upon Anumid. “What does the Mouthpiece say?”
“Angula is currently unbalanced. Nonetheless, it will not be I who decides; I am
authorized to offer five
hundred to begin: you may bid on them as you will.”
A furious haggling began.
Yeshe smiled. She had the advantage: she was wealthier than anybody else.
**
Eadric, Ortwine, Nwm and Rhul finally gained the gates: massive bronze valves, twenty
feet high,
replete with ornate scenes depicting the passage of souls through various spiritual ordeals.
The press of fiends around them was unrelenting.
Eadric brandished Lukarn and invoked another sunburst. Nwm sealed the area
immediately before the portals with a wall of stone. For a brief moment, an eery silence
descended upon the group, before a hideous scraping – the sound of hundreds of claws
and maws upon granite – filled the encysted space.
“What now?” Eadric asked.
Ortwine pushed lightly upon the doors. They opened noiselessly.
“We trudge,” the sidhe said drily.
Wearily, they continued their descent.
**
“I must do it now! ” Yeshe hissed.
“The bids are not yet closed, Lady,” Anumid replied calmly.
“I need the first and third cabals of the Anantam,” Yeshe pressed on regardless.
“Then you need to up your tender,” Anumid smiled.
“You owe me much, Anumid,” Yeshe turned her scorn on the Mouthpiece. “I will offer
you two analahs and a dozen gomukhs for one month. It is a royal price.*”
“It is a fair price,” Anumid answered. “And must be split any number of ways.”
“I need three hundred by nightfall. I must build fast.”
“And I would remind you that you will have an advantage in future negotiations if your
circle is made.”
“The cabals may retain ownership of the circle,” Yeshe immediately conceded. “Anumid,
we need to act. Many enemies will soon come. We are losing the initiative. We must be
prepared.”
Anumid’s eyes narrowed. “I will advocate for you. But at three analahs and thirty
gomukhs.”
Yeshe’s face contorted into a snarl.
“And I will get you your three hundred. But know that the Anantam are dubious of
angering the Wyrish Enforcer.”
“Gihaahia will not come here. She cannot overcome us on this ground, and she knows it.
You may vouchsafe for me. I swear it on my name.”
Anumid nodded, and departed.
*
An hour passed, and Anumid returned. “They accept.”
*
Three hours later, the demon prince Pazuzu and six armored balors stood within the
confines of the inner precinct.
Yeshe knelt before them, but her supplication was ceremonial. They were already enslaved
to her.
**
The cavern was vast and approximately conical; its apex, a swirling vortex without colour,
which –
Ortwine knew instinctively – led out of there. They entered warily, upon a solid surface
which reflected like still water, but within the depths of which, a maelstrom of tormented
souls raged.
It was not what they had expected.
On an island of rock in the dead centre was slouched the figure of a slender woman on a
throne of bone and bronze, apparently insensible. She was possessed of great beauty, but
her eyes were glazed and vacant.
Ortwine cautiously moved closer, drew Heedless and poked Saes lightly in the ribs. The
figure was unresponsive. A trickle of divine blood from a tiny cut stained Saes’s white
robe. Ortwine gazed at it, fascinated. Heedless moved restlessly in her hand.
She turned to Nwm. “What now?”
“She needs to be healed,” the Preceptor observed. “That is all.”
Eadric raised an eyebrow. “Can you do that? Return sanity to a deity?”
Nwm shot the Ahma a glance. “Healing is what I do best, Eadric. Ortwine, be prepared to
negotiate. Be warned: sane and nice should not be confused.”
The sidhe paused. “Wait a…”
But Nwm had already touched Saes upon the forehead, flooding the goddess with green
light, even as traces of jade fire crawled over him, charring his own flesh and causing him
to writhe in pain. He reeled, and coughed blood upon the polished floor.
The malice which was Saes awoke from its stupor. Black eyes opened and regarded the
quartet before her.
“You presume much,” the goddess smiled thinly. Her consciousness rapidly expanded to
embrace her domain, dwarfing the psyches of those others present. “You I know,” she
looked coldly at Rhul. “What are these?”
Ortwine lowered herself to one knee, and pointedly averted her eyes. “On behalf of your
brothers and sisters, we beg for aid,” she said simply.
Inwardly, Eadric relaxed a little. They were in the realm of negotiation. Ortwine could
handle it alone from here.
**
I need to know. Mostin’s voice echoed in Eadric’s mind. The wizard was many worlds
distant.
Deploy them. Eadric replied.
Against whom?
We should target the cabals. Destroy their power base.
Good in principle. But assaulting the main precinct would be futile. It would take half a
myriad to accomplish.
Do you have a better suggestion? The Ahma was irritable.
An army musters outside of Thond’s walls.
Mortal thralls? Many who are innocent will perish.
It is the doom of mortals to perish. Mostin replied.
There will be enough blood on my hands. I would rather my opening move be less ignoble.
You have always lacked the pragmatism necessary to be an effective tyrant. Mostin’s voice
was scornful. Attack the vulnerable pieces first.
How many are gathered at Thond? Eadric was grim.
So far, around eleven thousand. Including bombards, battalions of condottieri , and the
flower of Thond’s chivalry.
Their composition was irrelevant. Eadric knew that they would stand no chance, and all
would be
quickly slain unless the Cheshnite spellcasters stopped to intervene directly.
And retaliation? Shouldn’t I be concerned that a counterstrike will be just as
indiscriminate?
Eadric, if you think that moderating your actions will somehow cause the Hierophants to
reconsider theirs…
In the throne-room of Ruk, the underworld of Sisperi, the Ahma stood quietly and
considered.
Unleash them. He finally commanded. But they must withdraw if Visuit or any other
immortal appears in person at Thond.
*
Princes, attend me! Mostin issued a mass sending.
The four exalted celestials, who had assumed the metaphysical stewardship of Wyre’s
cardinal
directions, manifested before the Alienist, bathed in radiance.
“I have a task consonant with the Will of the Ahma.”
***
Graz’zt has vanished. Ur-fiends stalk Zelatar’s byways, and Orcus cannot hold the plane.
Carasch and his ilk have risen to the fourty-fifth deep.
Jalael considered the sending which Daunton had issued an hour before. She sat within a
booth in the library of the Academy; tomes containing the names and sigils of many
demons surrounded her.
Celestial dignitaries had assumed the ethereal guardianship of Wyre. The Claviger had
magnified the Enforcer. Fumaril was inaccessible, isolated by Mulissu’s magicks.
Something was awakening in Nizkur. Pazuzu had erected a temple south of Jashat: the
olive groves were already stained black with the blood and smoke of sacrifice. And now
madness and annihilation were spewing forth their effluvia into the middle Abyss.
Where to throw her lot? She reflected upon her position carefully for an hour, considering
the merits of allegiance with the various axes which had formed. She contacted her
occasional patron – a
Pandemonic Hag named Kreta – whose agenda was opaque at best.
Jalael brooded long upon the whereabouts of Pharamne’s Urn.
Finally, in a small refectory, she took counsel with the wizards Troap and Muthollo –
together, these three formed an unbalanced triad which nonetheless might yield
remarkable results in the future.
Jalael’s accelerando was already underway. She knew that if she survived the current
crisis, she would be a major player in the New Order.
She cursed Mostin for encumbering her with notions of commitment to posterity.
“We are fragmenting into triptychs, as Shomei foresaw,” Jalael observed. “Ours is the
most potent. Are we to take a proactive stance?”
“I suddenly have a deep appreciation for the magical economy of the Cheshnites,” Troap
smiled wrily.
“It is a model which we might seek to adopt.”
“It has its merits,” Jalael agreed. “Loci are forming around Waide, Tullifer and Idro;
around Tozinak, Shuk and Poylu; and around Creq, Droom and Gholu. Others remain
marginal, although quadruplicities seem popular among the less accomplished. Mostin,
Rimilin and Daunton are the unintegrated
pinnacle,”
“Is Daunton transvalent?” Muthollo asked. “He is enigmatic.”
“He is spineless,” Jalael replied. “And yes, I believe so. And Tozinak is close. And so is
Waide. I suspect Jovol engineered the whole situation.”
“Jovol-who-is-Teppu,” Troap hissed. “I vote for the Green camp. I may be biased.” He
smiled broadly.
“I am inclined to retain our autonomy at present,” Muthollo seemed sceptical. “The goblin
has viridescent urges which are clouding his vision.”
“I am pragmatic,” Jalael opined. “I say we back Mostin.”
“Because insanity is recently fashionable?” Muthollo inquired.
“We need to deflate his Enochian bubble. We should offer to help him bind Graz’zt. The
Dark Prince is abroad, and lacks the protections of his sanctum.”
Troap inclined his head. “Mostin needs a bigger cabal.”
Jalael shrugged. “He can reconfigure the spell. His use of celestials is becoming
indiscriminate, and must be ended.”
Note
Angula (“Fingers”), Baramh (“Peacock Feathers”) and Aja (“The Goat”) refer to Graz’zt,
Pazuzu and Orcus respectively. Gu-Kaama is Soneillon, “Darkness-Lust.”
“Raising the Pavillion” of a demon lord occurs after it is thoroughly subjugated. After the
initial domination expires, a longer-term compulsion kicks in. I’ve assumed that it is
possible to coerce a dominated creature to surrender (voluntarily fail its save / lower its
SR) to a subsequently targeted long-term epic compulsion.
*Service rendered by two balors and twelve babau.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 09-23-08
***
Mostin Plays His Hand
The dim light before dawn. In Soan, in the world of Sisperi, Nwm stood with the goddess
Lai and her twelve handmaidens in a shallow bowl in the earth. The depression had once
been a temple. Untended for more than a century, now it was overgrown with creepers; the
roots of trees which had since
sprouted and matured there had cracked the dressed stonework, obscuring the site’s former
purpose.
Nwm had hallowed the remains, washing away memories of the blasphemies which had
occurred
during the last, futile defense of the temple against demons sent by Graz’zt. Now, all was
still, but the air was heavy with anticipation. The group was arranged in a wide circle, with
Nwm and Lai in the
centre.
The Preceptor, breathing slowly and easily in the chill air, lifted a flint knife, and began to
chant. The
echoing whispers of the handmaidens were barely audible.
Lai stretched out her arms, her palms upward. With two swift, brutal cuts, Nwm opened
up the veins of the goddess from elbow to wrist. Lai began to bleed profusely. Nwm held
her forearms and looked into her face; her blood flowed over him, and soaked into the
ground at their feet. He continued to chant. A breeze began to stir.
The wind quickly grew to a tempest which raged around them, flinging leaves and debris
into the air.
Nwm’s breathing became rapid, and his mind reached out into the storm.
Arise, he silently commanded. Green fire consumed him; a cyclone of viridescence
erupted, and whirled for the briefest of moments. Abruptly, the storm ceased. Life kindled.
He caught Lai as she collapsed, although he himself was pale and shaking. He spoke more
words, and strength flowed back into both of them.
Dawn broke in Sisperi, and the sun leapt into the sky, exulting. Many hundreds of souls,
graced with new forms, stood around them and gazed at them in silence and wonder: those
who had perished within the confines of the temple. Over the course of hours, thousands
more – who had awakened in the
surrounding countryside – made their way to the site. Ninit and the ancestors led them in
long columns into the bowl.
Finally, when all had gathered – and now the sun rode high in the sky – the Nireem
assembled together in the centre of the ruins. Saes was conspicuously absent, but with
Jaliere’s grudging acceptance, Ortwine had already taken her place amongst them.
Rhul stood upon a mound of rubble which had once been an altar, and began to tell a long,
bitter story.
As he recited, Lai drew Nwm aside and spoke in hushed tones.
“Stay,” she implored. “Return to Mulhuk with us.”
“In time,” Nwm smiled. “But I have other duties.” He reached out, grasped a nearby
sapling, and vanished.
Ninit, who had observed the exchange, scowled.
**
Mostin floated amongst the smoking wreck of the encampment, his features impassive.
Hours before, at his direction, the four exalted celestials – Oraios, Irel, Hemah and Shokad
– had descended in a fire of ruin upon the army gathered outside of Thond’s walls, and
slain upwards of ten thousand soldiers in a matter of minutes. The Alienist had observed
the carnage from a discreet
distance, impressed with the efficiency of the destruction.
Mulissu corporeated next to him. She raised an eyebrow.
“What a mess,” she sighed. “We have become politicians, Mostin. We demean ourselves.”
“We do what we must,” Mostin shrugged. “I have no regrets.”
“Well spoken,” a voice spoke unexpectedly from behind them.
Mostin turned rapidly, prepared to unleash a barrage of disintegrates. Mulissu’s power
surged.
“Peace.” It was a statement of profound simplicity, uttered with such power that the
cosmos might bend to see it done. A youth stood there, offering his palm. He seemed
wholly unperturbed.
“Who the hell are you?” Mostin asked.
“A many-layered question,” the other replied. “I regret that I cannot share that information
with you at this time.” The boy – who from his complexion may have been a native of the
area – seemed oddly amused.
Mostin furrowed his brow. “Why are you here?”
The youth cracked his knuckles casually. “To witness the handiwork of Oronthon’s
servants. You have done good work today, Mostin.”
Mostin became nervous. Who is this? Mulissu’s eyes narrowed.
The youth touched his nose. “You should know that the demon Pazuzu has begun to
ravage Eastern Trempa; other demons are starting to infest Ardan. Many Ushabam
thaumaturges accompany them.”
Mostin was irritated, but could not help but be intrigued.
“Yeshe’s nihilist fanatics,” the youth explained.
“What is your interest in this situation?” Mulissu asked directly.
“At the risk of seeming evasive, that is also a more complex question than it might first
appear. I would prefer not to go into it.”
“You say little to engender trust,” Mostin sighed.
“A fair observation; fortunately, I do not require your trust. But I do need you to convey a
message to the Ahma for me. Tell him this exactly: ‘Remember what the Sela said,
regarding your place in the downfall of Orthodoxy.’”
Mostin was about to say Tell him yourself, but thought better of it. “Perhaps if…” he
began.
But the youth had vanished.
Mostin turned to Mulissu and scowled. “This is disturbing. Could you read anything about
him?”
“Not a whit.”
“Nor I,” Mostin concurred. “And I mislike being elected to communicate messages by
unknown
entities.”
“And Pazuzu?”
“I should inform Eadric, if he doesn’t know already. I cannot dispatch celestials within
Wyre proper, anyway: this is up to him.”
“Mostin, we need to talk. I can’t hold the paling around Fumaril for much longer.”
“Don’t worry,” Mostin appeared unconcerned. “The gears are shifting. Everything will
happen quickly now.”
“How comforting,” Mulissu said.
**
“Graz’zt has abandoned the Argent Palace and unleashed a chthonic tide centered on
Zelatar. You should be proud, Mostin. You were complicit in reducing him to such a
desperate strategy.” Rimilin seemed genuinely impressed, though no less condescending
than usual.
“I had heard,” Mostin replied smoothly.
“I will aid you in binding him. For a price.”
“Strange. Jalael made a similar offer with her clique of wizards. I sense a renewed interest
in the whereabouts of a certain urn.”
“Every mage in Wyre has consulted Shomei’s library in an attempt to glean tidbits of
information regarding that pot, Mostin.”
“Not I, alas,” Mostin sighed.
“Nor I,” Rimilin admitted. “There has been no time for scholarly research. Do I want the
urn? Of course! How can there be any doubt on that count? I will find out how it works
after I get it.”
Not just the urn. This bastard wants Azzagrat. Graz’zt’s throne. The arrogance. Mostin
smiled, and shook his head. “You’ll never do it.”
“We’ll see,” Rimilin said smugly. “It’s time: bring him in, Mostin. You won’t have a better
chance. I will aid you. As will Mulissu, I’ve no doubt: she holds onto a grudge, that one.
Your sprite and your
Shomeiette can contribute. Jalael, Troap, Muthollo. You have your cabal, Alienist.”
“What is your price?”
“Access to the web of motes.”
Mostin considered briefly. “Let us assume, for the moment, that I agree.”
“It leaves the question of what to do with said bound Prince,” Rimilin observed, somewhat
surprised.
“Imprisonment, extortion, domination or termination are all viable options; nor are they
necessarily mutually exclusive choices.”
“I cannot dominate him.”
“I could, with help,” Rimilin suggested.
“I would sooner cut off my pseudopod, than hand Graz’zt over to Rimilin of the Skin,”
Mostin snorted.
“So what do you suggest?”
“A very precise coordination of efforts,” Mostin replied carefully. “It is rather risky; if it
fails, we will need to flee or eliminate him immediately.”
Rimilin looked at the Alienist suspiciously. “You have my attention.”
“Understand that I have long pondered this question, Rimilin. It requires a certain spell
synchrony.
Graz’zt must be struck by a superb dispelling only a fraction of a second before he is
subjected to a minimus containment. He will not have the opportunity to re-erect his mind
blank before he is captured.”
Rimilin gawked. “Ingenious, Mostin. I must admit it. Such a strategy would not have
occurred to me.”
“His receptacle will eventually need to be protected by a disjunction ward, although if due
care is taken with it, such a precaution can wait for a little while.”
“And when you have your Graz’zt-in-a-Jar? What then?”
“Your involvement in the process will end at that point,” Mostin smiled. “You need not be
concerned on that count.”
“I wish to be present during any interrogation regarding the urn.”
“I will convoke an assembly to discuss the urn,” Mostin spoke calmly. “Any interrogation
will be conducted under the full auspices of the Acadamy.”
“Touché, Mostin. I will accompany you when you deliver it to Daunton. I do not trust you.
”
“Nor I, you. And Rimilin,” Mostin stared madly, “if you do decide to betray me, you had
better be sure that you are thorough in your efforts, and overlook no contingencies. I have
dealt with you with due civility. You might rue it, were our relationship to change.”
*
Mostin tried to grasp the mote again. It was elusive, and kept slipping into the region of
space and time which Mostin had come to realize approximated to the Region of Dreams.
The remnant of Murmuur was impossible to isolate, his memory fading rapidly.
Mostin spun another arc, this time for Azazel, and observed a convoluted knot of
resonances. One radicle drew him onward and backwards, to a time when rebel smiths
hammered furiously in forges
upon the Blessed Plain, contriving engines of destruction to assault the Empyrean.
Murmuur’s mote hovered nearby, as if attempting to taunt the Alienist. Mostin ignored it,
concentrating instead on Sekabin, a proto-devil of immense cunning, who oversaw the
construction of devices which breathed unholy fire, and artifacts whose purpose was
otherwise long-forgotten. Sekabin, it had been, who had wrought the doors of Murmuur’s
Tower, and helped anchor it to unnamed worlds which would
later be revealed to the rebels as the prison from which they could never escape.
He would need to conjure the devil, and extract the key to activating the Tower from it. A
task well within his abilities. In his mind, he weighed the benefits of a return to Goetia
against the practical reality of already having celestials on the ground.
The Alienist relaxed his thoughts and returned his perception to the present. The echoes of
the deceased Dukes – Murmuur, Titivilus and Furcus – drifted on the edge of
comprehension. Deeper in dream,
Soneillon’s mote flickered in and out of being; taut radicles bound it to familiar nodes:
Graz’zt, Eadric, Rimilin, Yeshe. With a colossal effort of will, Mostin generated a
connection between the demoness, his own significator, and the Prince of Azzagrat. A
plethora of possible futures exploded into being, and he seized immediately upon one of
them. Pharamne’s Urn.
He gasped as new infinities were born to his inner sight.
The decision by Mostin to end his Enochian phase was made in a heartbeat.
**
An hour before midnight, the Ahma – together with Tahl, Tarpion and a number of other
resurrected temple grandees – assembled beneath a canopy on a conical hill twenty miles
south of Hrim Eorth in the Wyrish Marklands. Above them, flapping noisily in the wind, a
massive banner stretched: a rising sun cradled within the outstretched boughs of a great
tree. The green field of the standard appeared
black in the torchlight; its device was a ruddy gold.
In the valleys below, thousands of campfires flickered. Against the Ahma‘s better
judgment many companies were mustered together, but he felt powerless to deny the
faithful proximity to the Sela.
Those cadres which had been dispatched beyond the Claviger’s remit were small, mobile,
and bolstered with protective magicks.
Nehael’s farspoken words still echoed in Eadric’s mind. They had been less than
reassuring:
She is what she is, Ahma. If you want her back, then just do it: you have the power and
authority. It is your decision to make.
Which was to say that Nwm’s assessment of the situation – that Soneillon would bring a
corruption
with her, were the Preceptor to reincarnate her – might be correct, after all. Nehael herself
had surrendered to the Green, and had been relinquished by one Truth to another; on
reflection, Eadric realized that perhaps the Ancient Void – which owned Soneillon – might
be less accommodating than Oronthon in that regard. He stared at the Eye of Cheshne,
which brooded on the horizon, pregnant with power.
As they waited, Tahl regarded the Ahma carefully. The saint’s divinations had revealed
that, in all likelihood, Yeshe would now move to embody the demoness within a day.
Eadric had wavered, as
though he were waiting for some other sign; none had been forthcoming. Furthermore,
rumour of
demonic depredations in the East had agitated Eadric’s captains: all were restless, waiting
for the Ahma to act.
Finally, Nwm appeared, sprouting upwards from the ground. He was shaky and haggard.
“You look awful,” Eadric observed. “I take it you were successful?”
“Thank-you,” Nwm replied drily. “And yes. We have made a beginning. How is your
current moral quandary progressing?”
“Very nicely, thank-you.” Eadric sat unceremoniously in his armor. “Everything is messed
up, Nwm.
There are too many overlapping paradigms; things are becoming confusing.”
“And the massacre at Thond?”
“A miserable reality.”
“I sympathize,” Nwm said earnestly. “Being an agent of retribution carries a certain
weight with it.
There was no intervention by the Hierophants?”
“If there had been, it might have allayed some of my reservations. I think the Cheshnite
leadership would rather have me wallow in remorse.”
“And do you?”
“I have no inkling to indulge my conscience: we are at war. Things are about to get much
worse.”
“Apparently you have a bright mood upon you. What of the demoness?”
“I see no future in such a liaison,” Eadric said drily.
“A divorce, then?” Nwm inquired.
“Yes. And I foresee acrimony.”
“I will be tactful,” Nwm smiled. “So. Yeshe gets Soneillon. Is that wise?”
Eadric looked desperate. “Nwm! I thought you opposed her revival?”
“And so I do. I would oppose Yeshe’s efforts no less than I would yours. She appears
driven.”
“The memory of the cascade at Khu propels her,” Eadric explained. “In her mind, it was
the greatest blasphemy which could have been visited upon the holiest of sites.”
“Feeling sympathetic?”
“Hardly. I would still prefer her dead.”
“Then you will be relieved to hear that I have a solution,” Nwm said. “Mostin has
expressed an interest in conjuring your demoness; he was reluctant to divulge his agenda
precisely.”
Eadric looked suspicious. “He said nothing to me earlier.”
“You’ve spoken?”
Eadric nodded dumbly.
“Something is wrong?”
“He passed a message to me, from an ‘interested party:’ Remember what the Sela said,
regarding your place in the downfall of Orthodoxy. ‘
“That is all?” Nwm was baffled.
“It is sufficient. I understand its context well enough.” Eadric swallowed.
“And the ‘interested party?’”
The Ahma stared at the Preceptor, and raised his eyebrows.
“Oh.” Nwm breathed. “Sh*t.”
“Verily,” Eadric agreed.
“Does Mostin know who it was?”
“I don’t think so. And I’d prefer that it remain between you and I for now. I also find it
interesting to
note that after even the briefest exchange with said entity, during which no mention of
fiendish allies was even mentioned, Mostin suddenly seems willing to renounce his
Empyreal contract. In addition to the Exalted, he has conjured thirty celestials in two days,
Nwm.”
“Mostin is playing his hand,” Nwm nodded.
“Except he keeps all his cards hidden.”
Nwm laughed. “Whichever trumpet Mostin hears, it is not yours, Ed. Is that all?”
Eadric laughed bitterly. “No indeed. Get some rest, Nwm. You’re going to need it.
Tomorrow, we hunt demons.”
“What kind?”
“The Pazuzu kind.”
“Where?” The Preceptor groaned.
“In Trempa and Ardan.”
“A strangely marginal choice for assault.”
“Yes and no,” the Ahma sighed. “It is also the spiritual homeland of Saizhan. Bring
whatever allies you can, Nwm. I mean anybody. We need heavy firepower.”
“Is there a plan?”
“We find him. The Saints use their power, so he can’t slip away. I take him down.”
“Is there a better plan?”
“Only if you can scry him. He is emanating a massive nondetection and we only know his
general
whereabouts.”
“How hard can it be it to locate a rampaging horde of demons?”
“More of a troupe than a horde, Nwm. And harder than you might think. He’s slippery,
this one. And he’s in no rush. He’s having fun at the moment. He’s also beating us over the
head with the arcane Injunction. His presence is a religious matter.”
“Is it?” Nwm asked. “Then hand out the acorns. You will all assist me in a spell.”
**
Temenun pondered.
In Zelatar, the eruption continued uninterrupted, and Ancient Darkness consumed
Azzagrat. Prince
Orcus quickly retreated what remained of his armies, fortified himself against conjurations
by the Hierophants at Jashat, and gave thought to the tide of unbeing which might reach
him in half a
millennium. Companies of Death Knights – together with squads of kelvezu – were
dispatched to a
hundred likely worlds in search of Graz’zt.
Pazuzu – now joined by vrocks, succubi and flocks of fiendish corvids – razed villages on
the shores of lakes in the Wyrish hinterland, crucifying the inhabitants for his amusement;
balors were busy tearing down Urgic monasteries.
Yeshe was preparing to bind the first chthonic, Gu-Kaama: the apple of Cheshne’s eye;
Soneillon, Queen of Throile. She had intimated that the monster Arhuz would follow. The
Binder cursed silently as Prahar – who had struck a deal with the Anantam – made use of
the circle she had erected to enslave several middle-ranking demomic magnates in quick
succession, including Dhenu, a bull-faced fierce
protector. Three more pavillions had been raised. The ugras had been dispatched
defensively in the neighbourhood of the Temple and reinforced with squadrons of
goristros and succubi. Prahar’s unlikely choice to play a more cautious game had won him
the backing of three cabals of blood-magi who were
otherwise subject to the Wyrish Injunction.
Idyam, Rishih and Choach courted the Kesha-Dirghaa – theurges who formed the bulk of
the ritual pool – but whose activities had been curtailed by Gihaahia. The compound –
impregnable as it was –
had been further garrisoned with dozens of glabrezu. Choach had invoked massive screens
over subject Thalassine cities, and called a general mobilization of magically compelled
allies. Idyam surrounded himself with malign spirits.
Sibud – whose tools extended beyond magic – had unleashed a ferocious tide of
vampirism upon Jashat and Iea which threatened to consume the cities, and was rapidly
spreading to the surrounding
countryside. The creatures sired by Sibud were bestial and voracious. Temenun also knew
that the
vampire was wooing key spellcasters to aid him in his storm of blood.
Naatha made envoys to unaligned powers to seduce or coerce them, and it was known that
she had
spoken with several Wyrish mages. It was also rumoured that she had fled from Mulissu’s
wrath when attempting to gain access to Fumaril. Rimilin, she shunned, for fear of being
dominated.
Jahi plotted in the dark. Dhatri prepared for her procession.
**
Princes, attend me. Mostin issued the command again. Part of him regretted that it was
already the final time; a far larger part was relieved that he would no longer be required to
deal with their noisome feathers and light.
“Gather the lesser devas,” Mostin instructed, shielding his eyes with his appendage. “You
will aid the Ahma in his efforts: seek out demons on Wyre’s periphery – outside of the
circumscribed area, in case I need to remind you – and eliminate them. When the threat is
expunged from Ardan, set a watch upon
the monastery at Esoc. Six devas and an archon should be sufficient.
“Take your remaining minions, and harry the demons in the vicinity of the Cheshnite
temple at Jashat.
Destroy as many as you can, but do not attempt to invest the main compound. You may
continue this activity intermittently for the remaining duration of our compact; otherwise,
resume your patrols of Wyre’s borders. I leave the exact details to you.”
“Mostin,” Irel-Who-Smites spoke, fixing the Alienist with his gaze. “These are not the
Ahma‘s explicit instructoins.”
“Not exactly,” Mostin admitted. “But I must be permitted a certain amount of leeway in
interpreting his wishes. My celestial alliance will soon end, and this will be the last
command I will give you; you are still bound to carry it out.”
“I must strongly advise against the conjuration of fiends,” Oraios said sternly.
“That is because you don’t have all of the information,” Mostin gave an insane grin.
“Thank-you, gentlemen. That is all. Enjoy your eternity, and I will enjoy mine.”
*
It was utterly dark in the summoning room, and the smell of incense lingered in the air.
Mostin was intimately conscious of his surroundings, his augmented perception
penetrating the blackness around him. Nearby, there was a void within a void.
“Thank-you for the courtesy of manifesting as yourself,” Mostin said drily. He was weary:
the effort of invoking a metagnostic inquiry followed by a wish and a superb planar
binding had left him dizzy.
A girl appeared. “Do not presume,” Soneillon said. “Is this how the Ahma has chosen to
deal with the situation?”
“I want Pharamne’s urn, Soneillon. You are its former mistress. You have information.”
Soneillon raised an eyebrow. “So I have something you want? That makes for an
altogether more interesting discussion.”
Mostin sighed.
“I would prefer a more relaxed environment,” Soneillon suggested.
“I do not feel my Goetic Dunce hat on my head.”
“This circle won’t hold me for more than a day, Mostin.”
“I pray that this doesn’t take that long,” Mostin groaned.
“I would overwhelm you in a contest of magic,” Soneillon smiled. “I sense your reservoir
is almost depleted.”
Mostin stared at her, “Maybe,” he finally said. “Although I doubt it. And I think you might
be reluctant to risk being unmade again. I believe I have the advantage.”
” Unmade? Mostin, you have much to learn regarding the Truth.”
“I am less interested in the truth, than the urn,” Mostin was unfazed. “How far did your
control over it extend?”
“Are we bargaining now? Good. I will answer that question if you answer mine.”
Mostin gave a shrug. “Very well.”
“The demiplanes which abut Throile were made with the urn. With it, I have drained
oceans. Levelled mountain ranges. Generated worlds.”
“That sounds delightful,” Mostin nodded. “Did your cabal participate in your efforts to
control the urn?”
“Why must you always be so functional, Mostin? Pragmatic. In any event, it is my turn to
pose a
question. You have been consorting with Seraphim: I smell it. The stakes are higher than I
suspected.
Which demons have the immortals bound already, Mostin?”
“Pazuzu. Alrunes. Baphomet. Munkir. A dozen balors. Many more.”
“Do you plan to conjure Graz’zt?”
“I believe it is my turn,” Mostin gave a ghastly grin. “I will rephrase my last question:
which of your cabal members were party to your use of the urn?”
“If I agree to answer, you must issue a sending for me immediately.”
“That would depend upon to whom it should be delivered,” Mostin said carefully, “and the
exact wording of the message.”
“To Chaya. The message is this: This is Mostin the Metagnostic. I have a message from
Soneillon: Prepare for my return. ”
Mostin’s eyes widened. “You are optimistic regarding the outcome of our exchange then?”
“I’m confident I’ll walk out of this summoning room,” Soneillon said lightly. “Do you
agree to communicate this message?”
Mostin considered. “I agree to your stipulation, on the condition that I may pose an
additional question.”
Soneillon sighed. “Fine. The names are: Adyell, Helitihai, Orychne, Chaya, Lehurze; the
principal members only.”
“Thank-you. That wasn’t so hard, was it? How quickly could you generate a demiplane –
by which I mean how soon did it reach its full extent – and to what degree did you deplete
your collective psychic resources?”
“I perceive at least two questions, Mostin. Which would you like me to answer?”
Mostin scowled. “The latter is more germane.”
“Each of my handmaidens was emptied of power; I myself suffered no such debilitating
effects.”
Implicit in the answer was the reminder: I am chthonic. You would do well to remember it.
Mostin paused to consider, swiftly making a series of magical calculations in his mind.
“The sending, Mostin?” Soneillon raised an eyebrow.
Grudgingly, Mostin retrieved his stone and issued the message.
“What are you planning, Mostin?’
“Now that information would involve a year of servitude.”
Soneillon smiled innocently. “Let me reverse the question. What is a year of my
submission to you worth?”
Mostin gawked. “You cannot be serious.”
“I am deadly serious, Mostin. What is access to my reservoir worth to you?”
Mostin rocked back and forth on his heels. “A lot,” he finally conceded. Especially if it
means I can snub Rimilin. “What do you want?”
“Give me Graz’zt, Mostin. Of all creatures which hate him, I despise him the most.”
Mostin invoked a moment of prescience.
“You are also anxious to avoid a compact with Yeshe,” the Alienist observed drily, “whose
terms might be more demanding than mine. No, Soneillon. I think that to have Prince
Graz’zt delivered as a gift – to
do with as one will – that is worth more than a year of thralldom to me.”
“And to Rimilin? What might my submission be worth to him?” Soneillon asked
pointedly.
“Might I remind you that it is my thaumaturgic circle which holds you, not Rimilin’s?”
Soneillon stretched lazily. “You could secure my confinement, Mostin. You could invest a
great deal of energy in binding me to your will. It is my guess that you don’t want to,
however, as your limited resources are better deployed elsewhere.”
“True. But I am stubborn, and I will not be foiled; even against my better judgment I
would coerce you, just to make the point. Give me one year of service, and freely share all
knowledge that you have of the urn. Give me names of the chthonics. Give me your
reservoir. And I will deliver Graz’zt to you within a week.”
“Out of generosity, and for aesthetic reasons, I will extend the bargain to a year and a day,
Mostin. But I will consider the pact to have begun when he is mine.”
“Which leaves us an uncomfortable honor period,” Mostin scowled. “Might I suggest a
less demanding contract to tide us over, until the main agreement takes effect?”
“State your terms,” Soneillon breathed.
“You will protect me with your ecstasy of negation. You will aid me in retrieving
Murmuur’s tower from Afqithan.”
“These are no small tasks, Mostin…”
“I will give you Adyell.”
Soneillon smiled graciously. “Thank-you, Mostin. Adyell will be a useful asset.”
“You would exact no vengeance?” Mostin seemed surprised.
“No, Mostin. I can spare none.”
**
In Jashat, Yeshe fumed. The ritual had been ineffective, despite her prognostications to the
contrary.
Fate had shifted course whimsically. She stormed from the circle, and confronted
Temenun in the
sanctum.
” I am thwarted. Did you foresee this? ” She barked the question at him.
“No,” Temenun purred.
“Do you have an explanation?”
“Our enemy has superior prolepsis.” The Tiger remained calm.
“Mostin.” Yeshe said. “Sibud must annihilate him.”
“Feel free to argue that point with your Brother,” Temenun replied. “My focus lies
elsewhere. Yeshe, I will demonstrate the art of binding to you.”
*
Yeshe watched from her tower and chewed her lip thoughtfully.
Below in the courtyard, within the circle and near it, demons were gathered. In four hours,
Temenun had conjured twenty mariliths. Robed in purple and black and bearing his iron
coronet upon his brow, he had foregone the usual niceties of compacting the demons, and
simply dominated them all. Only now, he tapped his reservoir and spoke a powerful
summons.
A void which burned – one of the kin of Carasch – erupted onto the edge of being. It
emanated terrible power. Seconds later, another manifested.
Yeshe’s eyes narrowed. Temenun knew primeval magic, and remembered names forgotten
by all others.
He raised his hand and wove a dream rapidly. Abruptly, the courtyard was empty.
Yeshe paced briefly, before descending into the deep caverns below the compound. Here
most of the
Cheshnite forces were marshalling: demons conjured by the favored souls of the
Naganam; desert-dwelling spirits of ill temper; companies of half-giants in enamelled
armor, drawn through
teleportation circles from the jungles of Utter Shûth.
Within an unlit chapel filled with death, Yeshe approached Visuit, who sat in meditation
amongst the corpses.
Yeshe bowed. “The Tiger-who-Waits has pounced. He has had some prescience, which he
has not
shared.”
“The Mouthpiece has not approached me,” Visuit growled.
“Leave Anumid to me,” Yeshe replied. “You’ll get your war by nightfall.”
*
In the early morning – after the Ahma and his party had passed through a tree into Trempa
– Temenun struck the Wyrish encampment. While he himself remained in Dream, the
Tiger’s demons arrived a
furlong distant from the Sela‘s tent.
A barrage of dispelling magic followed from the chthonics; zones of forbiddance
crumpled. Unholy auras flickered on, and blade barriers ripped through unwary Temple
troops.
As Urqual sat in Saizhan, observing thought pass through Mind, he was aware that nearby
Templars moved; his empty eyes followed them as though he watched them.
There was a sound like a roaring hurricane.
And death.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on Nov 17, 2008
Demonstrating the Prophetic Advantage
An hour before dawn, Nwm roused Eadric from prayer.
“Gather your Saints,” he told him.
The air was chill. Esquires of the temple clad the Ahma in his armour and girt him with his
sword.
Adepts invoked protective magicks upon him.
The Saints assembled. The Preceptor instructed them all in a brief rite, and gathered their
energy into him, staggering from its frequency. So bright. So unearthly. So much of it. It
spilled out of him, incinerating trees in the vicinity and transporting their essence to the
Blessed Plain.
Nwm discarnated and soared upwards on a torrent of light, all the while gazing down upon
Wyre.
Behind him, the Sun hung amid the Void. Warm. Beckoning. He turned to face it. It
illuminated billions of devas.
Nwm swallowed.
He turned back, and his sight ranged across Trempa, quickly locating the disturbance
which he knew to be Pazuzu and his troupe; violent perturbations in the otherwise
harmonious whole. He brushed aside the Prince’s screen and pinpointed him exactly.
Nwm rematerialized. “I have him. I can open a tree nearby.”
Eadric nodded. “Then please do. But not too near. I’d rather not be thrown straight into
combat.”
Quickly, they made their preparations.
Tahl issued a sending, and Eadric summoned Ortwine. A brief remote conversation with
Mostin ensued.
[Eadric]: We’re preparing to strike Pazuzu.
[Mostin]: I have instructed the Episemes to purge demons outside of Wyre, but I was
otherwise less than specific.
[Eadric]: They can be recalled if a particular task awaits them.
[Mostin]: Unfortunately not. I am investigating other avenues.
[Eadric]: Ah. Yes. Your glorious return to Goetia.
[Mostin]: The potential of that avenue is also exhausted.
[Eadric]: Your allegiances are more fleeting than those of Ortwine!
[Mostin]: But far more effective. I am returning to Afqithan in order to secure my new
tower.
[Eadric]: You have penetrated its mysteries, then?
[Mostin]: The tower is indestructible, impervious to scrying and astral attack, may plane
shift at the whim of the one who controls it, and may spin a gate to each and every Hell. It
is opened by a password known to but a handful of devils. Its exterior demonstrates an
extreme mutability of
appearance, at the owner’s discretion. Its interior is extradimensional and opulent. One has
to admire the antique Infernal aesthetic.
[Eadric]: And your manse?
[Mostin]: I must have a summer retreat!
[Eadric]: You have acquired the passwords?
[Mostin]: From the devil Sekabin. And knowledge of the sigils to open the gates. I didn’t
even need to resort to torment; he seemed quite willing to impart the information. I
imagine his superiors simply wish to see the tower active again; it is inert in Afqithan. I
dismissed him forthwith; I have no desire for further enmity with Hell.
[Eadric]: Fear not. I’m sure Dis has forgiven you.
[Mostin]: You are unusually droll today.
[Eadric]: The Adversary is moving, Mostin. He is a player you cannot outclass. Be wary.
How did he appear to you?
[Mostin]: !
[Eadric]: Well?
[Mostin]: Hmph. So that was he. Enigmatic. A tanned youth, with unruly black curls. Lean
of frame.
Suave, but somewhat understated. For Ego Incarnate, he seemed very restrained. My
initial impressions were largely favorable.
[Eadric]: !?
[Mostin]: He was less overbearing than certain celestials of my recent acquaintance.
[Eadric]: And as Evil Incarnate?
[Mostin]: That question has no meaning. Our definitions of Evil are not altogether
congruent in this
regard. He is no mere devil, Eadric. He is the Adversary. His plan is hidden to all but
himself and your glowing despot, of whom he is a function in any case: [display =
complex, meaningless formula].
[Eadric]: Ahh.
[Mostin]: I do not expect you to understand the proof.
[Eadric]: That is fortunate.
[Mostin]: These minor infinities are of no particular concern to me, in any case.
[Eadric]: What else?
[Mostin]: I will use Soneillon’s reservoir to allow me to bind Graz’zt in three days. Other
mages have expressed an interest in aiding me.
[Eadric]: This egomaniacal nonsense again?
[Mostin]: Apparently my taste for vendetta runs deeper than yours, Ahma. He has
wounded me deep, more than once. I am a wizard with a reputation to maintain: I do not
forget a slight.
[Eadric]: Touché, Mostin. That I cannot deny you.
Abruptly, Ortwine issued from a shadowy portal. She seemed unusually pensive.
“Is the happy band ready?” Mesikammi asked with apparent innocence. Behind her there
was a huge confusion of Temple troops; they were parting to allow the progress of five
enormous golden boars.
The ground shook as they approached.
Yet more gods, Ortwine observed silently.
**
Two Saints, four Talions, eleven Penitents, Mesikammi, five boars, Ortwine, and Nwm
accompanied Eadric in his attack upon Pazuzu and his troupe. Many of the templar
grandees – past and present –
were riding celestial griffons of prodigious size. Ortwine veiled them all. Transformed into
an unkindness of ravens, their approach was unnoticed; appearing to hug the ground, they
passed below the mobs of fiendish crows which wheeled in the sky over Pazuzu’s train.
The Ahma felt distinctly uneasy at the sidhe’s burgeoning power.
They descended on the demons, who were busy levelling a quaint Trempan village and
visiting
grotesque horrors upon its inhabitants. Nearby, a large group of ushabam conjurers
gathered. Some were making sacrifices; some were conjuring more demons; some raved,
or experienced religious
ecstasies.
Nwm evoked a powerful wind which suddenly propelled them toward the demon prince’s
position; as
they plunged, one of the balors noted them with its true seeing and gave telepathic
warning. Saint Tahl, Tuan Muat and Moda the Exorcist simultaneously dropped
dimensional locks centered on Pazuzu.
Ortwine’s glamour evaporated, and the sidhe pounced, vorpal sword in hand. Heedless
was screeching in telepathic jubilation as it bit home; the Ahma raised Lukarn and smote
Pazuzu with all his power.
Ichor sprayed, and the demon reeled. Talions and penitents descended on balors and
nalfeshnees. Five-ton boars trampled through vrocks like they were grass.
Ortwine moved faster than thought and was already about the demon prince again,
effortlessly slicing in a perfectly executed pattern.
[Mostin]: I guess you are engaging Pazuzu’s force?
[Eadric]: This may not be the best time, Mostin.
The dimensional locks hadn’t contained the arch-fiend. The Prince of the Lower Aerial
Kingdoms dilated time, vanished, instantly reappeared a quarter of a mile above, and
unleashed a tempest of eldritch power centered on the Ahma; a purple lightning penetrated
everything. Griffons, vrocks, and
Penitents perished. Eadric was scarred and blasted. Otwine somehow avoided the storm.
The few remaining vrocks launched themselves into the air. Mesikammi whistled. The
boars – smoking but otherwise unfazed by the violet discharge – turned towards the
gathered thaumaturges, and charged.
[Mostin]: Nonsense. A little mutitasking is no great ordeal. Your strike is premature.
You…
[Eadric]: Later, Mostin.
Nwm struck Pazuzu with a peal of thunder accompanied by an explosion of green fire.
Two more gates opened; two more balors manifested. Several of the ushabam were
already taking to flight, speaking words of recall.
Eadric groaned. This had to stop. He leapt forward thirty yards and struck, instantly felling
one the demons; the explosion flung him backwards and burned him through his armour.
[Mostin] (Frustrated): I can’t see what’s going on! What’s happening?
[Eadric] (Resigned): I hate it when they blow up. These priests must be eliminated before
the numbers of demons can be swollen further. Where are you, anyway?
[Mostin]: At home. Preparing to depart. I have been monitoring the activities of celestials;
they have destroyed three balors. Unfortunately, those remaining have fled to join Pazuzu.
[Eadric]: I had noticed.
Two armored balors now assailed Saint Tahl the Incorruptible. He weathered their blows
and
pronounced a dictum, instantly banishing one of them to the Abyss. The other, uncowed,
uttered blasphemy in retort. Tahl was unscathed, but two of the Penitents combusted and
vanished.
Outside of the dimensional lock, two more gates opened; two more balors appeared. The
boars thundered into the remaining ushabam, quickly trampling them to death.
Five balors and Pazuzu now remained.
Ortwine reappraised the situation in an instant. She turned her mind and quickly
dominated the demon closest to Eadric; two of the others, she knew already, were
protected by mind blanking rings.
Straightaway, she instructed it to teleport and attack Pazuzu.
Pazuzu, climbing rapidly beyond range, issued a thin wail which made the Ahma‘s blood
curdle. Space began to bubble and warp in the demon prince’s vicinity. In response,
Mesikammi began to cast another spell.
Eadric bounded forwards again, this time pronouncing a holy word, simultaneously
expelling and obliterating the two most recently arrived demons. Two more holy words,
spoken by Tahl and Moda, rang across the wreck of the village. The demons were being
driven away.
Nwm, considering whether to unleash a terrible necromancy upon Pazuzu, suddenly
received a
communication from Daunton the Diviner.
He paused, made a swift judgment, stepped into a tree, and vanished.
Eadric’s jaw dropped.
[Mostin]: What now?
[Eadric]: If you happen across Nwm, send him in this direction.
But the Preceptor’s appraisal of the situation had been accurate; the two remaining
demons vanished.
Pazuzu also elected to slip away, but not before an immense, grizzled balor had appeared
below him.
Will they never stop, the Ahma was exasperated. He healed himself, steeled himself, and
prepared for the onrush.
A tide of blasphemy washed over him, leaving him momentarily senseless; his wards
protected him.
Ortwine flung the dominated demon against the newcomer, and with a battered Rede,
prosecuted a well-coordinated aerial attack at speed.
An air monolith, conjured by Mesikammi, encompassed the balor and forced it to the
ground. Its whip and blade flailed ineffectively, as the boars thundered into it. Their tusks
ripped it open; there was another explosion; their hooves trampled its remains into the
steaming mire of ichor.
Eadric glanced around: smoke; entrails; blood. Six penitents and two Talions – including
Rede, caught in the final explosion – had fallen. He, Tahl, Moda, Tarpion and Tuan Muat
were blasted in varying degrees. Ortwine was largely unscathed; Mesikammi, descending
from the sky had escaped all injury.
The Ahma walked to the mangled wreck of Rede’s corpse, removed a gauntlet, and
touched the erstwhile Grand Master upon the forehead, instantly resurrecting him. Rede
arose grimly.
You don’t get off that easily, Eadric thought. The others might be returned at a later time, if
he needed them. Nervously, he looked toward the shamaness. The elemental hung in the
sky above her; ancient
boar-spirits attended her.
Abyssal slime evaporated as the area was hallowed by Saint Moda. Ortwine moved
purposefully through the remains of the fallen, looking for items to plunder.
Eadric approached the nearest beast: nine feet at the shoulder and covered with a fur
which glistened like gold. Whatever wounds it had received, they had already healed.
He abased himself. “Thank-you.”
Mesikammi clapped. “Yes. Good. Very respectful. Three miracles I had to work to wake
them. The Wyrish Royal House are an ancient lineage; they should look more to their
roots.”
The beast snorted.
**
The camp was in chaos.
The chthonics uttered blasphemies which caused even the most devout to reel in shock,
and obliterated less robust souls. Mariliths tore into squadrons of Temple troops who were
hastily attempting to
interpose themselves between the fiends and the most direct line to the Sela‘s tent.
Saint Kustus – who had been slain by demons some two hundred years previously – took
stock and
rapidly gauged the level of the threat.
Those. The Ahma had warned him about them.
The attack was well-timed, as only minutes before the Ahma had departed with many of
the more potent warriors within the Temple ranks. Kustus knew that it was a direct probe,
to make a practical test of the defenses around the Sela and to demonstrate a prophetic
advantage. Whoever had launched the attack had avoided the Aethers altogether and had
out-dreamed the planetars which had been set to
intercept any oneiric assault.
Still, thirty-six concentric rings of forbiddance surrounded the Sela‘s tabernacle and a full
celestial company was waiting in proximity; the Saints and the adepts had not been idle,
and had covenanted
with many devas within the host. A huge net of blasting glyphs and symbols encompassed
the camp.
Kustus immediately summoned his celestial destrier and charged into the fray.
Closer to the impact point, Wurz was inciting New Temple zealots into a frenzy. Holy fire
surrounded them. Saint Anaqiss the Apostate engaged the demons with his mace, grown to
twice his height and
wearing a crown of glory.
As Brey wind-walked beyond the zone of forbiddance, half of the celestials moved in
ethereal tandem with him.
” Manifest,” he commanded. Sixty devas appeared.
“Bring down the chthonics,” he instructed them.
**
Daunton stood on the balcony of his suite at Prince Tagur’s fortified palace at Gibilrazen,
and gazed skywards. He had remained silent for days. His divinations preoccupied him,
and he avoided any
situation which might compromise his position with regard to the Injunction: that meant
shunning
anyone with a political interest, and that entailed everyone at present.
Clouds were beginning to gather. Greys and ochres; beyond lay hints of vermillion. A
wind was rising.
Unnatural, he knew immediately. Daunton’s worst fear gripped him, and he invoked
prescience. His magical perceptions soared.
It was the storm of blood.
What to do? His mind reached out.
Nwm: Daunton. The storm of blood is coming.
How long?
Not long.
Sh*t. Your timing couldn’t be worse.
Or Sibud’s better.
Daunton’s stomach turned as he watched the quickening clouds. He felt old and weary; the
twists and turns of the world – and the powers which were now manifesting – were
beyond his capacity to
anticipate, much less deal with. He leaned heavily on his staff for a moment, and turned to
reenter his
apartments.
She was standing directly behind him, silent, and their eyes met with barely eighteen
inches between them. Her crimson hair stirred in the breeze and brushed his face, the scent
of imminent death filled his nostrils.
He froze and tried to speak, but no sound issued from his mouth. No magic lay on him, but
terror
overcame him.
The Enforcer smiled. She seemed almost benign; a fact which troubled the arch-mage
more than her
usual overt malice.
“I have committed no violation,” Daunton finally said, shaking. “But I need to know
where my limits lie. Nwm will come here soon; may I aid him?”
“You are being assailed,” Gihaahia said in a matter-of-fact way. “You may take reasonable
precautions to counteract the threat. But you lack the power to foil this spell.”
She reached out towards him, and Dauton barely resisted the urge to vomit and cower.
The Infernal touched his forehead with a burning palm, and the diviner’s mind twisted as
though
suddenly caught in a vice. Reality altered. One of his highest valences vanished and was
immediately replaced by a hithertofore unknown configuration.
“I am the Claviger also,” the Enforcer breathed. “I am entrusted with the articles, and the
protection of the Wyrish Collegium. You are its president; demonstrate your authority.”
She vanished.
Dauton, still shaking, examined the dweomer. Curiously, the language was utterly familiar
to him, as though he himself might have contrived it. He found himself wondering if it had
somehow been
appropriated from a future iteration of himself.
With care and effort, he spoke the words and gestured, for the first time invoking
Daunton’s Instant Convocation.
Within moments, eleven other mages – including Jalael, Waide and Tozinak – stood in
close proximity to him. As many had declined the invitation, and neither Mostin nor
Rimilin had answered.
The Hag scowled. “Explain yourself, Daunton.”
“It would seem I have been empowered,” Daunton observed. “Note the clouds above.”
Tozinak, manifesting as an ugly mannikin, looked upwards at the sky and wailed.
Creq looked aghast. “Do you have some means to counteract this Daunton, or did you
simply bring us all here to die?”
Nwm the Preceptor emerged from an ornamental lime tree in the courtyard below, and
leaped up onto
the balcony.
“We have a minute yet,” he sighed in relief. “Open your reservoirs to me.”
A chorus of objections began.
” All of you!” Nwm screeched.
For a second time that same day, Nwm channeled the power of magic alien to his
understanding, and it caused him discomfort. His sensitivity to such things, he noted wrily
as he wrought the spell, had increased substantially.
Voices mumbled in his head. Formulae floated past his vision, distracting him.
He focussed, and his perception became titanic; coterminous with the extent of the storm,
which
writhed in his conscious mind like an ungraspable idea.
He caught it, stilled it, snuffed it out. There was no struggle.
Suddenly, the sky was clear. The balcony was bathed in warm sunlight.
“I am spent,” Nwm muttered.
The wizards were busy congratulating themselves on their ingenuity.
**
Mostin ignored Dauton’s appeal; his prescience had already alerted him to the outcome.
Now he stood on his porch, dressed for travel. His higher valences were crammed with
powerful spells which jostled with one another for space. His intellect was amplified to an
improbable size. He had entrusted a number of scrolls to Orolde and Mei, in the event that
the manse was attacked in his
absence. Sho – in the company of several other wizards of dubious repute – had
entrenched herself in the astral hold, which she had magically fortified.
“Remove the comfortable retreat to another location,” Mostin intoned. “Take it deep into
Nizkur forest, but beyond the bounds of the Injunction. Employ your best obfuscatory
magicks; always have a
teleport on hand: these are the golden rules of survival. Do not interfere with the symbols
of insanity.
Refrain from thaumaturgies beyond your certain ability to control.
“Be wary of the local feys, they are ancient and cunning; especially the trolls. Pay no heed
to Hlioth’s bluster if confronted with it; she is not the only witch living in Nizkur, merely
the loudest. Hew no living wood. I will contact you in due course.”
Mostin made a final adjustment to his hat and examined his plans for flaws. In dealing
with Soneillon, the Alienist had protected himself as best he could from the Arcane
Injunction. He made no formal
compact; she would perform specific services only when conjured. As a dreamer, or a
chthonic, or
both, he already knew that she could slip under the Celestial Interdict and manifest freely
within the
World of Men. A measure of trust was required in their arrangement: Soneillon’s desire to
exact pain upon Graz’zt was the glue which bound it. The alternative – making a Goetic
pact with a clause which required that Soneilllon did not trespass within Wyre – seemed
even more dubious to the Alienist, as culpability might be his were she to violate it.
He had conjured the devil Sekabin and the succubus Adyell – Soneillon’s rebellious
lieutenant – with superior planar bindings. Sekabin, he interrogated. Adyell, he released
immediately from his service, and delivered to the demon queen. Soneillon quickly
subdued her former protégé to her will, and
returned her to Throile as her agent. Intelligence began to flow to Mostin regarding the
current state of demonic politics.
Now she corporeated on the porch of the manse, appearing as a slender girl dressed in
austere black; her child-like face conveyed gravity and seriousness.
Mostin considered the strategy of her façade.
“Carasch has already ascended to the Plain of Infinite Portals,” Soneillon smiled. “He is
close now. Two steps away. Blackness sweeps through the upper Abyss, but the Ice Waste
remains unmolested.
Curious, given the fact that most of Azzagrat’s nobility have chosen exile there.”
“The speed of this phenomenon is disturbing.”
“Graz’zt has uncapped his Gate Hall.”
“Is that all?”
“Temenun struck the Oronthonist command and retreated to Dream,” Soneillon replied.
“He has exhausted himself and must rest; he is vulnerable to the other immortals until he
regains his strength.
He will hide for a while. He is wise. ”
Mostin sighed and shrugged. There was nothing he could do about it.
Augmented by her ecstasy of negation, the Alienist plane shifted with Soneillon to
Afqithan.
**
Yeshe – warned of Mostin’s intentions through a dark haruspicy performed on a living
subject – had acted immediately, and with the recklessness she often occasioned to display
at such critical junctures.
She gated the ugra called Angula.
The Fierce Protector condescended to appear, armor-clad and bearing a shield of
unblazoned darkness.
His eyes were slits of green fire; his visage was beautiful, but upon it aeons of cruelty
were etched. He regarded her coolly. Yeshe looked up at him, undaunted.
“Supplication is customary, Binder,” Angula smiled, “If I am to remain unbound.” He
drew his brand, and placed it at Yeshe’s neck. Her skin smoked as the acid from the blade
burned her.
“I require nothing.” Yeshe maintained a steady gaze. “You may do as you will. I will
conjure others, if you require it.”
Angula scowled. She was ancient and potent, this one; coercion would not be possible.
Still, a little humilty might become her.
Yeshe recognized his mood, and gave a nod which might be interpreted as either cursory
or deferential.
Angula recited a long list of names, each with many syllables. “First bring me the steed
Tandava. We will consider all debts payed.”
Yeshe opened another gate, through which a monstrous cauchemar careened.
“One of the Wyrish Wizards is preparing a cabal to bind you,” Yeshe said drily. “Baramh
and Dhenu are already abroad. The gates of the Temple open at midnight, and Dhatri’s
procession begins: Anumid the Mouthpiece has ordained it. Will you ride with Visuit?”
Angula mounted Tandava and smiled wickedly. “Perhaps, for a while.”
**
That should have been tigr esses, Prince Tagur mused as he attempted to rally the
Household Knights of Morne.
He had no idea how many there were altogether. The terror visited on those within the
palace in the last hour had been unrelenting; appearing from the shadows, they slew and
vanished, and their butchery
seemed utterly indiscriminate. Their strike was not pre-emptive; they acted in retaliation to
one of their own being discovered. An error on their part, or a betrayal.
Now, in a small banquet chamber of the great castle, one Naztharune confronted sixty
heavily armed Wyrish aristocrats, including knights of renown from the king’s
hearthguard. She moved with
incredible speed; appearing, slitting a throat, and vanishing again. The tigress toyed with
them
masterfully, delighting in the slaughter; twice, she moved past Tagur and brushed his
cheek before gutting one who stood close to him. His rapier had flashed out, but she was
too fast.
Tagur hurled a glass vial upon the marble floor, and brilliant daylight illuminated the hall.
For a split second, she was revealed: a sleek black hunting cat, to which tendrils of
shadowy mist clung.
She hissed and became invisible. For a while, matters worsened considerably.
Finally, somehow, they grappled her and pinned her down. Six burly knights could barely
contain her slippery contortions.
She purred. “I am resigned to my death; are you to yours?”
Tagur squinted. A stiffening breeze outside had suddenly grown strong. Shutters strained,
broke, and
wind rushed in. A great agony ensued.
Prince Tagur screamed, as a fine mist of blood – his own – erupted from his skin and was
carried away.
Other screams rose all around him. Some cowered, but there was nowhere to hide,
nowhere which
granted surcease; the wind penetrated everything. Some fled from the chamber, the most
robust running as far as the courtyard or the cellars before they succumbed.
The scene was repeated across all of Morne, and the countryside around. Every living
creature within twenty miles died.
Sibud had invoked a second storm of blood.
**
Irel, who Smites, beat his wings with slow grace, resting in the skies above Jashat. At an
altitude of five miles, the Aethers were quiet. He cast his celestial gaze in a great arc; his
eyes penetrated everything.
Far to the north, horror was unfolding; he could do nothing to prevent it. Westward, locked
in its shining bubble, Fumaril endured.
Below, closer to the north and east and south, a rotten plague of blackness centered on the
great Temple of Cheshne stretched. Pyres smouldered and blood congealed. The southern
cities sat beneath brooding clouds, their leaders dominated or possessed, their legions
succumbing to vampirism, lycanthropy, or all manner of similar afflictions. Unquiet spirits
prowled the land.
He communed.
[Irel]: I would still beseech intercession.
[Enitharmon]: And it would still be denied.
[Irel]: I beg of you, Marshal.
[Enitharmon]: And it is still denied. But your compassion magnifies. You are much loved.
Know this always.
Irel signalled to the other celestials. They would start at the periphery. They wreathed
themselves in holy fire and descended upon one of the more remote pavillions.
Before they could begin their assault, time slowed to a halt. Within arm’s reach of Irel, a
youth
appeared in the sky. He munched casually on an apple. Seeming to notice the archon
Prince Hemah, he gave a look of mock surprise.
“Why, you remind me so much of my own herald,” he smiled. “So, before you proceed, I
thought I’d offer you a different perspective. Relax. Don’t feel rushed or compromised; we
have as much time as we need for you to understand my central argument.”
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on Nov 27, 2008
Reversal
Mostin stood with Queen Soneillon in the dusk of Afqithan. The demoness was subdued;
whether
reflecting on the site of her prior demise, or merely hatching some other plot, Mostin
could not tell.
Around them, Faerie balked at their presence; fortunately, the local sidhe-lord was
occupied elsewhere.
Before them, Murmuur’s tower reared; about it, a vast umbral drake slowly slithered, its
eyes
penetrating the shadows nearby. The Alienist – shrouded to all perception – eyed it
suspiciously. The thing was an atavism; a corpse tearer imbued with darkness and evil.
Against any but the most potent magicks, it was utterly immune.
Mostin had determined to keep it. He quickly dominated it and commanded it to assume a
less imposing size; it became a seven-foot wyrmling which coiled itself neatly at the base
of the tower.
Mostin approached, giving a sidelong glance to the linnorm, before looking at the
structure’s circumference.
Within the black outer face of the wall – smoother and stronger than cut diamond – faint
traceries of dormant gates were visible, accessible to those who knew the correct
combinations of syllables and glyphs. The tower rose hundreds of feet above him, and
Mostin gazed in wonder; its perfect magical geometry, he knew, spoke of symmetries
accurate to the width of an atom. This was its true shape, if such it possessed; Murmuur’s
tower was an artifact of deception, as well as war.
The Alienist ran his appendage over the outside at a height of five feet, and whispered
powerful words; a small door appeared, between the portals to Maladomini and Caïna. It
opened soundlessly; beyond, a great reception hall stretched. The walls were panelled with
ebony; couches were festooned with plush silks and velvets. Great sconces burned ruddily.
Mostin stopped momentarily.
“There may still be menial devils present,” he said in a low voice. “They will not be
hostile; they are bound to the service of the tower, and may not leave it. Please do not
annihilate them.”
They continued. Soneillon paused by the entrance: bound in a temporal stasis, likely as a
decoration, a solar stood in a striking pose, its sword raised as though ready to decapitate a
foe of similar stature.
Mostin shivered and walked forward into the centre of the space, and slowly they began
their
exploration. Chamber upon chamber. Balcony upon balcony. Hall upon hall. The décor
ranged from the austere to the fantastic; Mostin found himself generally agreeable to the
various modes and themes present. Occasionally, spined devils would flap past, occupied
with sundry tasks.
After an hour, when he had charted over two hundred rooms, including parlours, offices,
torture
chambers, conservatories, drawing rooms and private apartments, Mostin finally found his
way to the conference hall where the Infernal Duke Murmuur had once held court.
With his ego amplified by Soneillon’s magic, Mostin sat on a carved ivory chair at the
head of a long table. Murmuur’s ducal throne, but also – in a manner of speaking – the
helm by which the tower was steered.
He wrestled with it briefly, before asserting his will and attuning the tower’s resonances to
himself.
With a passing thought, Mostin translated the entire edifice and its contents to the borders
of Wyre where his manse had once stood. He disguised it as a rustic, overgrown keep of
the late Borchian
period.
**
Ortwine brandished Heedless lazily. Ichor covered her; her eyes blazed with an old greed.
In her left hand, she clutched a soft leather case containing a dozen black candles of
invocation, won from the corpses of the Ushabam in the ruin of the Trempan village.
Nearby, a dominated balor brooded like a black stormcloud, its skin intermittently flaring.
Reverberations in the Green impinged upon the sidhe’s mind; she tried to shake them off,
but to no avail.
As he meditated amidst the carnage, Eadric felt a low vibration. An archon, He’el,
appeared before him, wordlessly communicating.
[He’el]: Hail, Ahma. Much evil transpires. Three storms of blood have been unleashed.
The Adversary is abroad. The Sela is assailed; Sercion supplicates you.
Eadric rose immediately, addressing Tahl and Moda. “Get to the encampment as fast as
you can.”
The Ahma invoked a holy aura, drew Lukarn, and retrieved from beneath his breastplate a
necklace upon which clay images of various adepts hung. He crushed a tiny icon of
Sercion between his thumb and forefinger.
Instantly, he was transported into a nightmare.
Heaps of Templars and devas lay about him, their faces contorted in expressions of agony;
blasphemies had slain them. Thirty yards away loomed two great shapes of burning void,
emanating death. Only the Saints and the doughtiest of the celestials could withstand
them. Kustus, Wurz and Anaqiss endured a
storm of magic and blows. Sercion lay close by, stunned but still breathing.
Immediately aware of the presence of the Ahma, the chthonics turned their attention to
him.
Eadric leapt at them.
**
Teppu scowled at the sky: clouds gathered above him. He waved his hand dismissively. A
calm, clear morning reasserted itself.
Around him, Nizkur brooded and waited. The sprite looked into a pool of water,
inspecting his
appearance, and adjusted an eyebrow minutely. New tenants had taken up residence in an
elm-grove
situated in a deep vale some thirty miles away: a sprite and a simulacrum who made a
peculiar couple.
He would pay a visit and greet them formally, before Nodri – an ancient redcap who
dwelled nearby –
began to make mischief on them.
Teppu made his way through veils and glamours into a world which was both that and the
other, and
arrived before Nehael, who sat contemplating a leaf beneath the primeval Tree.
“Thank-you for dealing with the storm,” she said. “I would’ve gotten to it.”
“The vampire has made a statement of intent, even if he knew it was doomed to fail,”
Teppu observed.
“I am planning on visiting Mostin’s apprentices, who have commandeered an obscure
nook of the forest. I’ve asked Hlioth not to threaten them.”
Nehael raised an eybrow. “Somehow I suspect your motives.”
“They present an interesting conundrum,” Teppu grinned. “One is a fey and the other
lacks a persona entirely.”
Nehael nodded. “Mostin was wise to secret them within Nizkur; there is nowhere now
more secure.”
“He takes great efforts to protect them.”
“His actions are not always selfish,” Nehael smiled. “Mostin possesses a peculiar loyalty.”
“And you?” Teppu inquired. “Did your phyllomancy resolve your dilemma?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Nehael sighed. “I feel the need to go and look at the Sun for a
while.”
“Mind your eyes,” Teppu said wrily.
**
To an outside observer – one who could observe invisible, mind blanked celestials at any
rate – the descent of Irel, Shokad, Hemah and Oraios and the two dozen devas who
accompanied them would
have made a magnificent spectacle.
Wings folded, plummeting, with swords drawn and auras blazing, their vibration was
fundamentally
changed at a height of around two hundred feet; a great fume of smoke arouse around
them, ruddy fire kindled, and their aspect became terrible.
The conversation which had elapsed between the exalted celestials and the olive-skinned
youth had
taken the merest fraction of a second to transpire in the World of Men. In the demiplane
which the Adversary had generated around the company, any length of time may have
elapsed. Patient beyond all measure, perhaps the Nameless Fiend – after aeons of debate –
finally swayed the four celestial princes with his relentless logic. Or he might, after a
century, have become bored and simply coerced them to his irresistible Will.
In any event, before their attack began, the angels might be said to have become devils,
although in fact their status was rather more ambiguous; as yet fully undescended, they
retained all their beauty and
nobility. A dark choir, their evil was fresh as virgin snow. The Adversary endowed them,
and wrought about them wards of surpassing potency.
But they were still pactbonded with Mostin, and three weeks had yet to to pass before their
agreement expired. Their descent continued, and they crashed like meteors through the
apex of a ziggurat; an explosion of rubble accompanied their entrance into the chamber
below. Irel raised his mace and smote the retainers of the demon Munkir, exulting in his
awareness, his power, his lust for battle. His spirit soared.
I am free, he knew. And, if thereafter, he were condemned to an eternity of torture, he
knew that for that one moment – to experience it in its fullness – it would still be worth it.
He was.
**
First came swarms of insects and vermin, sicknesses and poisonings.
At midnight, a plague of shadows and spectres then heralded Dhatri’s procession from the
Temple of Cheshne at Jashat. In the van, Visuit led a group of godlings, demonic nobility,
undead knights, and an immense cavalry of half-giants from the far South; hideous beasts
of every stripe followed. In the main battle, Dhatri’s vast bulk was hauled in a great
palanquin, and numberless ghasts surrounded her. A steady stream of sacrifice was
brought to her; her hunger remained insatiable.
As she passed the threshold of the Temple, a gloom enshrouded the land. From Galda to
northern
Pandicule – encompassing the entire Thalassine region including Fumaril – all light was
suddenly
extinguished. The spell – the Pall of Dhatri – was far more potent than any that had yet
been wrought: Anumid had commanded each of the five cabals of the Anantam and all of
the Kesha-Dirghaa to participate. Within the darkness, creatures otherwise vulnerable to
daylight might roam.
The company turned northeast, toward Thond and Jompa, once bustling towns but now
living hells for the mortals who still abode there: these were the closest source of food for
Dhatri.
Soon afterwards, Sibud – who also hungered – veiled himself with magic and flew out
into the shadows.
**
They were already at Rimilin’s doors, by the time that the Acolyte of the Skin perceived
them; a
function of his abode, which acted as an extension of his own consciousness in that regard.
Eight
demons – mariliths and succubi, but including a kelvezu assassin of high standing – riding
great
nightmares. To mundane perception, they had assumed the form of gallant knights;
Rimilin found it
curious that they persisted in the guise: surely they knew who they were dealing with?
“Where is Graz’zt?” Rimilin’s voice echoed in the stones at the base of the tower. “Is he
skulking nearby, or does he absent himself out of shyness?”
Megual dismounted. “The Prince has other debts to settle, of greater enormity. May we
speak?”
“And so we are,” the disembodied voice replied drily. “You will excuse me if I am
reluctant to allow you ingress; I am generally suspicious of kelvezu. And your reputation
precedes you, Megual. What
message are you here to convey? If a threat, then begone; if I hear it I will quickly grow
tired and blast you all. If a bribe, then proceed; I am eminently corruptible.”
Megual smiled. “I wish for news: of Mostin the Metagnostic, Eadric of Deorham, the
demoness
Soneillon, and the plot to conjure Graz’zt. You may consider yourself pardoned in
complicity, if of such you are guilty, if you render useful information. Graz’zt will reward
you richly.”
There was a brief silence, as Rimilin considered his response.
He manifested before Megual, bearing a rod of ivory bound with steel. Impenetrable
wards surrounded him. “In fact, you hold no fear for me; we should be clear on that count,
before we continue. Tell Graz’zt that we will speak more on this matter when he renders
Pharamne’s urn to me. If my price seems outrageous, tell him to find another informant.
Tell him also that Ilistet is mine, now; I have
broken her to my will: there will be no negotiation on this point. If you or he – with his
tawdry band –
wish to assail me, feel free to try, but in all conscience I must advise you against such a
course of action. You may go now.”
Megual remained expressionless. If they attacked, Rimilin would quickly dominate one or
more of them; no good would come of that. And if Ilistet were nearby…Megual wondered
what other monsters
Rimilin had bound. He bowed politely, and turned to leave.
Rimilin smiled. “Wise choice.”
**
Through stiffening winds, Prince Graz’zt rode west with Chepez and Queen Mazikreen:
succubi
infamous for their fierceness and slipperiness respectively. The landscape between Jashat
and Fumaril –
in more settled times rich with vineyards and olive groves – was become a blighted,
poisonous waste, stalked by demons and phantoms.
“The World bends easily to Darkness,” the Prince observed. “All of the signs are here. The
Celestial Era is over; soon the Interdict will be in shreds.”
They reached Mulissu’s Paling and reined in their steeds; about them, tornados raged.
Graz’zt and
Mazikreen dismounted quickly, and – screaming – the Prince invoked powerful sorceries
upon the
succubus.
Silently, Queen Mazikreen vanished and strode through the winds – denser than iron –
which
surrounded Fumaril.
**
Eadric stood with Ortwine in the nave of the Great Fane in Morne. A curious detachment
possessed him: heaps of bones shrouded in leathery skin lay around, and every surface
was covered with a thin film of congealed blood. An iron reek filled the air.
The mind cannot contain the enormity of this, but also I am the Ahma. This is the
eschaton. I should hardly be surprised. Everything in Morne which had walked, or
crawled or flew was dead.
He brooded on the conversation he had had with Nwm only an hour before; the Preceptor
had made a
journey to Sisperi, to engage the help of Lai and her handmaidens. There was a precedent:
with the Saints and Oronthonist adepts, Nwm had said that he could resurrect every single
victim of the storm of blood.
The Ahma had acquiesced, but his heart felt heavy. This was madness: it seemed too
massive. Still, he would cede all authority and trust Nwm on this count: this must be
quickly undone, and the Viridity must manifest; heal the wound. Death means nothing:
this must be demonstrated.
Tahl had offered to be the sacrifice.
“I will bleed,” Eadric had said. It was proper. He was the Ahma. He wondered if the slain
would even return; most now basked in Radiance: such had been his pronouncement upon
the Faithful who
suffered in this war.
Dare I command them back? Who am I to deny bliss to any? But then It is not I, but Nwm
who issues the plea. By whatever power.
After an hour, the Preceptor instructed the Ahma to attend an altar he had erected beneath
an orange tree; the same spot upon which Feezuu had annihilated Cynric, and Graz’zt had
pronounced his curse upon Morne. The wound was deepest there. There were assembled
Saints and Talions, many flamines
and scrollbearers of the Temple, Lai, Mesikammi and a half-dozen Uediian priestesses.
For the first time in his life, Nwm invoked the Sun-god; he offered the blood of the Ahma
as sacrifice and named Nehael as his intercessor. He supplicated Uedii in her aspect as
Wisdom, and evoked the
full power of the Viridity. The same flint knife he had used to cut Lai, he now employed
upon Eadric,
opening gaping wounds upon his arms. His face became pale.
A great pneuma arose, and a vibrancy permeated everything. The rivers were suddenly
rich with fish; life returned to the woods and fields; flocks of birds appeared in the skies
above.
The two hundred thousand souls who were recalled by Nwm from the Serenities were not
untouched by
their tenure in the upper altitudes of the Empyrean. Each of them brought a little of it back
with them.
As Tahl arrested the flow of blood from his arms, it dawned on Eadric suddenly; an
irrefutable truth.
They could win.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 01-03-09
Urbs Cœlestis
The Sun was at its zenith when Tiuhan Gultheins, the boy-king of Wyre, awoke within his
own
chambers. He recalled a brief, hideous nightmare of great violence, followed by a glorious
ecstasy which lay outside of time; a brilliance which persisted for uncounted aeons.
His choice to forego bliss – for such he had made – had issued from an ethical centre
which Tiuhan had not known he possessed. A necessary selfless action, he knew, in
response to a request which had arisen from the Ocean of Fire and Light, the memory of
which filled him with warmth and fortified his soul.
He recalled that golden boars – archaic protectors of the royal house – had borne him
away from it; once again, his spirit was housed in flesh.
He felt unusually peaceful; an urge to meditate and pray settled on him before even the fog
of waking departed. He arose and gazed at himself in the mirror.
The Empyrean filled his face, in both memory and anticipation. There was no fear in him;
he laughed and cried for joy. He could return again at any time; his abiding in this crude
form would pass as the blink of an eye in eternity. He washed and dressed himself, and
departed from his suite; it was noon,
and others were also only just starting to go about their business.
Standing on the parapet, he noticed a calm industry and purpose seemed to possess the
citizens of
Morne, as though each were pursuing a task both ordained and well-practiced. Household
knights and men-at-arms were beginning to assemble in the baileys beneath the inner
walls of the palace; masons were loading the cranes around the Great Fane with cut
marble. Servants toiled contentedly. Gardeners were pruning with particular attention to
detail. There were no raised voices. No beatings. Light
suffused everything.
Tiuhan gazed at the Temple compound. In a quiet corner, an old, bent yew-tree; it had
taken root a thousand years before, but Tiuhan also recalled that before today, no such tree
had stood there. He pondered its significance, as did another his own age or a little older: a
youth stood near to it and inspected it, his arms folded.
The great bell in the tower of the Fane began to ring; a slow, steady note of enormous
depth, with complex overtones. The campaniles around the city swiftly took up its cue,
and a music at once both spontaneous and perfectly orchestrated suddenly flourished.
King Tiuhan stood and listened for a while, before tearing himself away. He had a vast
administrative backlog which he had been neglecting, and the Small Council was meeting
in an hour.
**
In shadow, Mazikreen slipped unseen with great speed through the streets of Fumaril; its
inhabitants were still milling in the streets, speculating as to the import of the darkness
which covered the city. The succubus must locate and dispatch five targets: two priestesses
of the goddess Jeshi, and three Pand Wind-Sorcerers who had taken up residence in the
Tyrant’s palace. They were pivotal members of
Mulissu’s cabal, and the ceremony for the reinvigoration of the Paling – which required
their
contribution – was due to take place in half an hour.
She moved along the waterfront, leaving a trail of corpses and charmed informants who
directed her to
the temple of the wind-goddess – a modest affair by Thalassine standards – and thence to
the palace courtyards.
She discharged her mission efficiently, avoiding detection by the slow-witted djinn who
acted as
sentries, and eliminating all of her targets quickly; Mazikreen felt a touch of annoyance
that her last –
the sorcerer Ehieu – had noticed her presence before dying.
Alarms were being raised as she slid back over the city wall, and vanished like a shade
into the
unnatural night.
**
Mulissu immediately issued an appeal to Mostin, Daunton, and a half-dozen other Wyrish
mages for
aid: I need help. The Paling must go up in fifteen minutes, or Fumaril is doomed: make
your choice.
Mostin cursed. He was due to convoke his cabal in three hours, but could hardly refuse.
Mulissu conveyed the coordinates of a temporary exempt bubble within the lock of the
Paling, and
Mostin teleported to it forthwith.
Jalael and Troap – two of those whom Mostin had previously suborned – were already
present.
He fixed Mulissu stonily. “I trust the drain on our collective reservoirs will be of small
amplitude?”
“Your generosity overwhelms,” Mulissu said drily. “It will be negligible. You did not
predict this event?”
“No,” Mostin confessed. “Or not exactly. But I knew that it would be an inopportune time
to request your direct inclusion in the cabal; hence you will make the transference. Also, I
trust no other wizard to be able to effectively dominate Graz’zt.”
“Can I have him?”
“Sorry, Mulissu. I have already promised him to Soneillon. I have a year of informal
compact with her, or six remaining discrete services, whichever passes first.”
“If you were anyone else, that would mean other than it does.”
“I am not oblivious to the existence of certain baser urges,” Mostin explained, “but I have
utterly transcended the notion of coitus. Nor do I any longer require the use of a latrine.”
Daunton appeared.
“About time,” the Savant said.
Once again, the Paling was erected. Mulissu sighed. She couldn’t take much more of this.
**
“Infernal is very last epoch, Mostin,” Jalael gazed around the tower’s reception hall. “How
much for the solar?”
“He is not for sale. He’s an antique. Captured during the Fall.”
“You need to develop an alternate strategy, Mostin,” Soneillon was visibly irked. “One
cannot conjure a demon who has already been called.”
Mostin scowled. “I have anticipated the possibility. Do you think I’m a fool? He is
unbound. The ritual proceeds as scheduled. He is outside his sanctum; his foresight will
not avail him, nor his mind blank.
He has erected another protection: a ward which will discharge upon contact with a hostile
conjuration.
That will fail also. I will bind him in the Astral.”
Jalael’s hideous face screwed up. Doubt now possessed her. The Hag’s offer to aid Mostin
had been
made to head off what she had considered to be a celestial threat; events had since
transpired to make the situation far more complex.
Mostin, sensing her ambivalence, fixed her with his uncanny gaze.
“I am not about to back out of this, and neither are you,” he said.
“No,” Jalael growled. “I’m not. But nor will I let you forget this. Had I known that you
had switched your allegiance anyway, I might have been more reticent in rendering aid.”
“It takes a quick mind to anticipate me,” Mostin nodded sagely. “But had I known that the
celestials themselves were about to reconsider their programming, I might not have been
so eager to relinquish direct control. Still, what is done is done. Their orders remain the
same; although the implementation may be rather more inventive. I trust that the rest of
you are as good as your word?”
Muthollo nodded resentfully; Troap seemed unfazed: he liked Mostin and – for a wizard,
at least – the goblin was unusually generous in his dealings with others. In the final
configuration of spells which Mostin had opted for, only six mages – including Sho –
would be required; Soneillon would cover the not insubstantial magickal deficit. Orolde
would remain as an observer.
Mostin plane shifted his tower to a remote island of astral matter, where it abutted an
already existing stronghold, merging seamlessly with its architecture. He removed himself
to an obsidian binding
chamber, and began to inscribe a thaumaturgic diagram from powdered celestial metals.
**
The Ahma was present when the Small Council convened: a dozen of Wyre’s leading
temporal
magnates, amongst whom were Tagur, Sihu, Jholion of Methelhar and Attar the Warden.
Six, including the Lord Chamberlain Foide and Skett of Mord, were absent, and remained
in their own demesnes:
nobles who had been subject to neither the storm of blood nor the subsequent Reversal.
Saints and Talions sat upon the episcopal thrones which the Lords Spiritual of Wyre –
whose bishoprics had been
dissolved after the accession of the Sela – had once occupied.
“I will try to explain circumstances as best I understand them,” Eadric sat in his armour on
a low stool next to the king, which creaked under the weight. “First, the greatest of the
Cheshnite spellcasters have already unleashed many of their most potent spells. A certain
arcanist of my acquaintance – whose
methods of garnering intelligence are dubious, but the accuracy of which is generally high
– posits the following situation:
“Yeshe is depleted, and will for some time have to content herself with binding nothing
more significant than powerful balors – depletion is a relative term. Sibud has exhausted
his credit – which was poor – with the Cheshnite cabals, and hopefully we can expect no
more storms of blood for the time being. Temenun may have drawn a cupful of power
from his reservoir, and remains strong; his
armamentarium is already replenished.
“Guho, Choach and Rishih have been engaged in the solidifying of the Cheshnite defense,
the erection of teleportation circles, and the subjugation of the Thalassine nobility, but it is
likely that their real power has yet to be manifested. Rishih has also been active in
conjuring demons: he has restricted himself to lesser nobility. Furthermore, he enjoys
prestige amongst certain of the cabals; in general, his more conservative approach is well-
received.
“The goddess Dhatri has invoked a blanket of darkness, and has set forth from Jashat in
what is known as her Procession, an event which might be said to mark the formal
beginning of hostilities. With her are Prahar, a number of evil godlings, and Visuit the
Butcher, against whom we cannot yet stand. And many tens of thousands of lesser
minions.
“The demons Graz’zt, Pazuzu, Alrunes, Ahazu and Baphomet are at large. Pazuzu is
pactbonded with Yeshe and acts as the instrument of her will; Baphomet is enslaved by
Prahar. Graz’zt is a wild card whose activities we cannot anticipate. Ahazu and Alrunes
have yet to show themselves beyond their
pavillions.
“Four celestial princes – those covenanted by Mostin the Metagnostic – have Fallen. The
Adversary has seduced them. The motivations of the Nameless Fiend are unguessable. At
present, the actions of the debased celestials have proven to be not antithetical to our own
needs: they have eliminated the
demon lord Munkir, and are disrupting affairs beneath the Pall of Dhatri. This congruence
of purpose may or may not last.”
Prince Tagur looked uncomfortable. “Then what do we do?”
Eadric sighed. “We find ourselves in a curious position. I suggest we move half of
Morne’s garrison –
including all of the royal knights – immediately south to join the main Temple force; those
who
experienced the Reversal have become amongst our most formidable soldiers.
Furthermore, we have to move outside of Wyre proper; the active participation of Wyre’s
wizards is more appealing than the incidental protection which the Enforcer offers us.”
“Wizards are not trustworthy,” Saint Anaqiss observed.
“You are correct,” the Ahma agreed. “Still, that is the plan. We break camp tomorrow.”
“So we march on the Thalassine?” Sihu inquired.
“Yes.”
“All men will flock to your banner,” Wurz declared.
I sincerely hope not, Eadric thought. I will have enough blood on my hands as it is.
“Which wizards have sworn oaths to Oronthon?” Saint Wurz asked.
“As yet, none,” Eadric smiled at the naïveté of the question. “Nor do I expect any to. We
may depend on Daunton almost definitely, and on Mostin probably, although any aid
which he lends will doubtless be viewed dimly by the pious. Mulissu, perhaps; although
Fumaril’s concerns preoccupy her. Hlioth is an unlikely candidate, but I suspect she might
prove the most useful of any of them were she to act.
“At present, our best defense may be offered by Nwm the Preceptor, who is capable of
coordinating diverse magical energies. Currently, with the adepts, he is engaged in
protecting the Temple
encampment more thoroughly from attack: I wish no repeat of the assault launched by
Temenun’s
demons. I have asked him to invoke a mobile defense; it will move as the Sela‘s
tabernacle moves.
“Lastly, we can expect a period of quiescence while the Cheshnites adjust to the fact that
death might be no particular obstacle to us. Mostin anticipates that they will change tack.”
Tagur gave an inquiring look.
“They’ll try to imprison souls,” the Ahma explained.
King Tiuhan swallowed. “I will take to the field. I will need guidance.”
Sihu looked dubious. “Your Majesty…”
Saint Tahl interrupted her. “I agree with the King. There is nowhere safer. That has been
amply demonstrated.”
**
Nwm watched as the Sela gave a lesson. There was no sense that Oronthon’s proxy was in
any way unsettled by events; being invested by the Supernal apparently granted one a
certain perspective to which ordinary mortals were not privy.
But ordinary mortals are a dwindling breed, Nwm observed.
The Preceptor felt uncomfortable. He had struck compromises which – prior to current
events – he
would not have even considered. Although, having counselled the Ahma to adopt a
Reconciliationist position, he could hardly do less himself.
But Nwm alone knew that – at the climax of the rite to revivify Morne – his designs had
been shifted; agents of the Sun-god had interfered with the pattern. The massive matrix of
magical energy which
Nwm had created had been reordered to better suit the celestial agenda. The Illumination
of Morne’s
citizenry had certainly not been his original intention.
As the lesson concluded and the devotees dispersed, Nwm approached the Sela, who sat in
Saizhan.
“You are perturbed,” the Sela observed.
“No, I’m pissed off,” Nwm replied.
“The Host does not answer to me. I understand your anger, but I cannot offer redress.”
“You passivity is impossible,” Nwm groaned.
“If you think so. I would gladly receive any wisdom in these matters.” Tramst was ironic,
yet perfectly earnest. “The Host is attempting to interpret Oronthon’s will, and is
sometimes fallible in its judgments, according to its own standards. Oronthon is utterly
ineffable: celestials are not. The fact that four archfiends were recently born might be
viewed as a cosmic blunder on the part of Enitharmon.”
Nwm raised an eyebrow. “An opinion?”
“It is not within my purview; hence I make efforts to remove myself.”
“You remain open,” Nwm observed. “Your feelings may be changed in that regard.”
Tramst smiled softly. “I mean no disrespect, Preceptor, but one rather more skillful than
you views this as his ongoing project. I cannot become embroiled in politics. That is why
there is an Ahma.”
“And Oronthon’s eschaton? How do you relate to that?”
” Saizhan is the disintegration of all previously held conception. The Viridity can be
understood as a reflex; an inevitable rebirth. Saizhan itself is the eschaton, symbolically
speaking.”
Nwm gaped. “This is your belief?”
“Indeed, no,” the Sela smiled. “I make no metaphysical assertions. On doctrinal matters, I
also suggest consulting the Ahma.”
“Ngaargh!” Nwm threw up his hands. “Can you not make one categorical statement of
truth? Or at least posit an opinion which is your own?”
“Regarding what?”
“Regarding anything,” Nwm groaned.
“Certainly,” the Sela answered. “Nehael is the Supreme Empathy.”
Nwm squinted. “There is a lot of Urgic baggage attached to that term, and its implicit
philosophical gravity is lost on me.”
“Then you have a chance to understand it,” the Sela smiled broadly.
**
Several hundred tapers burned steadily within the chamber.
Mostin had opted for a triangle in preference to a pentacle. The symbolic apex – where the
Alienist would stand – was aligned with the Empyrean; Troap and Sho stood at either
other trine, dexter and sinister as seen from the Throne of Oronthon; behind them were
Muthollo and Jalael, respectively. A complex motif of overlapping symbols connected an
ideogram within the circle’s outer ring to a second diagram of more modest dimension,
wherein Soneillon was positioned, opposed to Mostin. Here, a
brazier of silver also stood, upon which exotic incense burned.
Mulissu waited outside of the pattern. Pungent smoke billowed around her as she floated.
As Ashva rose in Jashat, Mostin began to mutter and gesticulate, weaving a net of little
subtlety but
great potency. Salt, silver and cold iron were flung generously in all directions. Magic
flowed; Soneillon opened her reservoir. Reality bent.
Graz’zt manifested, incredulous, and flung himself impotently against the barrier which
contained him.
Even as the first wave of ritual energy around the room dissipated, the Alienist had already
begun to cast another spell of tremendous power. Mulissu gathered her energies in
synchrony.
Mostin unleashed a dispelling; death wards and mind blanks crashed, a hundred
dweomered items became comatose. Soneillon flickered on the edge of being. Graz’zt
became vulnerable.
At precisely that moment, Mulissu dominated the demon with a transvalent spell.
YOUR MIND BLANK STAYS DOWN. INVOKE NO POWER. DO ONLY AS I
COMMAND.
The Savant turned to Mostin. “I have him.”
*
Orolde stepped forward, and, in a trice, magically divested Prince Graz’zt of all of his
personal effects.
The next minute – which was the time it took Mostin to complete the binding ritual – was
the longest of his life. At several junctures, acute paranoia threatened to overcome him,
but at the end of it, naked and humiliated, Graz’zt was confined within a ten-inch globe of
adamant.
Immediately, Soneillon proffered her upturned palm to receive the sphere. As he watched
his
pseudopod – which was wrapped around the captured demon prince – move toward her, a
sudden
prescience of indefinable quality but great surety passed through the Alienist’s mind.
Instead of giving it to her, Mostin spoke two powerful syllables, and Soneillon vanished.
Sho gaped.
Jalael, in anticipation of attack from Mostin, immediately erected a mind blank.
“She would have betrayed me,” Mostin explained, holding up his hand in a gesture of
appeasement.
“Goetic protocols just don’t command the respect that they used to.”
“Where did you send her?”
“Outside. She will need to find a way to come back through Dream. It will take her some
time.”
Mulissu looked at him suspiciously. “What are you up to Mostin?”
But Mostin’s eyes – and those of the other wizards – were turned toward Orolde.
“There are portable holes here,” the sprite said. “There are a number of cubic gates also.
And this.”
Orolde held up Graz’zt’s amulet.
“And this.”
A small key.
Jalael cursed impatiently. “Open the holes. Empty everything out.”
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 03-07-09
***
Teppu strode up to the ramshackle building, and ascended the three steps onto its porch.
It was somewhat more than a cottage, but rather less than a mansion; its three levels
boasted no more than twenty rooms, all told. Although the sprite perceived that two dozen
extradimensional spaces –
ranging in size from hidden cubby holes to a suite of dedicated summoning chambers –
abutted it; its total internal volume might be four times larger. It occurred to Teppu that
Mostin might possess a particular attachment to the notion of space.
Teppu adjusted his hat, coughed, and rapped upon the door. He placed his hands behind
his back,
whistled softly, and glanced around approvingly. The nymph who dwelt nearby had been
persuaded to
bring forth numerous wildflowers around the manse: sorrel and stitchwort; purslanes,
bluebells and wood-anemones. The veranda had been situated for the perfect dappled
shade beneath an ancient elm.
A slender fey – perhaps five-feet tall, with nut-brown skin and an impudent smile –
opened the door.
Teppu raised an eyebrow. This was neither Orolde nor Mei. Who else lived here? A
servant?
“Greetings,” Teppu doffed his cap. “I was not expecting you.”
The other seemed unfazed. “Teppu,” he said warmly. “Please come in. Orolde is presently
indisposed.”
“You have me at a disadvantage,” the sprite replied suspiciously.
“Do not concern yourself. I know of only One to whom that does not apply.”
“Then inquiring as to your name would be pointless,” Teppu nodded. “Is your
manifestation as a fey for my benefit? Have you taken up residence here?”
“Temporarily,” The Adversary nodded affably. “Although I’ve been spending a good deal
of time in Morne. As to my chosen form, I attempt to remain unobtrusive in my actions. I
have rather a reputation in that regard.”
“And the simulacrum?” Teppu cocked his head.
“Is accepting of my presence. But I find this place quite charming; I also confess that my
lodging here has a certain symmetry to it, given the owner’s current choice of abode.”
“That is an eloquent premise for circumventing Nehael’s fence,” Teppu bowed politely.
“I am gratified that you appreciate it,” the other replied. His tone was self-mocking. “I
boldly straddle paradigms. Now. Will you remain on the porch?”
Teppu shrugged, and followed him in, closing the door behind him. He glanced around;
the place was cluttered but comfortable. Teppu suspected that Orolde had already begun to
arrange things more to his liking.
“Would you care for tea?” The Adversary inquired.
“Certainly,” Teppu nodded, sitting at Mostin’s kitchen table.
“Where should we begin?”
“I think one should always warm the pot,” Teppu replied drily.
“An argument? I would contend that the extra labor does not contribute to the quality of
the brew.”
Teppu nodded. “That may be so. But I find the ritual reinforces the experience.”
The Adversary smiled, and sat opposite. “In my cosmic capacity – as the Embodiment of
Pure Will –
you will probably appreciate the limited use of ritual to me. However, I will follow your
instruction; let it not be said that I am insensitive to others’ observances.”
Teppu sighed. “Allow me to gird my intellect, if you would; I suspect nuances to this
exchange which will otherwise elude me.”
“As you wish,” the Adversary waved a hand casually. “Everyone is always so suspicious.”
**
Screaming, inchoate rage. A desire to rend, profane and destroy all that was not he. But
also a furious plotting which followed a thousand permutations simultaneously.
He was Graz’zt. He had been caught before; he had escaped before.
Mostin’s face loomed above him, filling immensity.
“Your Highness,” the idiot drawled like deranged sky-god. “We can be civil about this:
you divulge information which I require, and I spare you from unimaginable tortures.”
Graz’zt’s intuition told him that the Alienist had no coercive spells available to him.
He remained silent.
*
Mostin rattled the three cubic gates together in his closed palm and stared into the blank
sphere. The treasure of Azzagrat lay heaped around him.
Inside the globe – although apparently shy at revealing his countenance on its surface –
was trapped the demon prince Graz’zt. Mostin – who experienced a state of disappointed
anticlimax with regard to the contained fiend – was presently unprepared to torment the
Prince into a more receptive mood.
There was no damn urn. Just a key.
“Well?” Mulissu asked.
Mostin grimaced, and shook his pseudopod in a gesture which Mulissu interpreted as
irritation.
“You think you can face them down?”
“I know I can. I have foreseen it; but other futures might hold better prospects.”
“Choose swiftly,” Mulissu groaned. “News travels fast. Divinations will be cast regarding
Graz’zt’s whereabouts and disposition. Inferences will be drawn. The truth will be quickly
determined.”
“Silence,” Mostin snapped. “I know this.”
“And if your temper gets the better of you, and you disintegrate Waide, you will make
enemies.”
“Are you deranged?” Mostin asked. “No. We’re going back to Wyre, for this. I want the
Enforcer watching my back on this one.”
“You cannot take Graz’zt into Wyre,” Jalael observed.
“We’re in an extradimensional space,” Mostin said. “It’ll be fine.”
“Gihaahia will permit this?”
“She did nothing about the solar; or the spined devils who do the cleaning. I assume so.
Also, Graz’zt himself is removed from the continuum proper. I perceive no breach of the
Injunction.”
“Then neither will she intervene if things go awry,” Jalael said drily.
“I will stand on the threshold,” Mostin said.
“She must appreciate your pedantry if nothing else,” the Hag growled.
“We are settled then?”
Mostin grumbled and nodded.
They translated back to Scir Cellod, but within the Enforcer’s remit. Mulissu issued a
sending to Daunton, and the wizard arrived presently. Mostin apprised him of the
situation, and in his official capacity Daunton called a convocation.
Sixteen mages attended, including Rimilin, Waide, Tozinak and – to the surprise of all
present – the witch Hlioth.
Mostin, standing in the open doorway to Murmuur’s Tower and brandishing the globe
containing
Graz’zt, sighed. He was tired.
Tozinak – whose present form included a number of disturbing insectoid features – clicked
his
mandibles together in excitement.
“I have captured Graz’zt,” the Alienist announced boldly, although his fatigue was
evident.” I am informing you of this myself, before the rumors begin to fly.”
“Bravo, Mostin,” Rimilin said drily, with more than a hint of resentment in his voice.
Mostin smiled eerily. “I purpose to seek for Pharamne’s urn. Who will join me?”
Voices began to chatter excitedly.
Rimilin raised his eyebrows at the vulgar display.
*
“You are lucky I came,” Hlioth later snapped, after the others had dispersed. “Rimilin
would have launched an assault, were it not for me.”
“In Wyre? I hardly think so.”
“In your tower.”
“He cannot penetrate it.” Mostin sighed
“He can, you fool. The quiescence of the spheres must necessarily provoke a counter-
argument.
Rimilin can bypass dimensional locks. Do not think to exclude him that way.”
“I don’t need nannying, you mad old hag,” Mostin hissed. “Let him try.”
“And how now do you purpose to penetrate Azzagrat? The planar flux is impossible. Your
devilish artifact is not adequate to the task.”
“I will conjure one of Ghom’s servitors and equip it with a magical howdah.”
“I? Mad?”
“Quite so,” Mostin replied.
“I wish to speak with Graz’zt,” Hlioth growled.
“Feel free to try,” Mostin tossed her the globe. “I must reattune. If you release him again,
brains may begin to disappear inexplicably in Nizkur. I take it you understand my
meaning?”
Hlioth scowled, and gestured the Alienist away.
**
Ortwine – in the guise of a Thalassine gentleman-turned-vampire – walked with easy
confidence
through the dark promenades of Thond, impervious to scrutiny; whimsy informed her
choice of
apparent gender. The damned cowered behind barricaded doors as Abyssal ghouls
prowled the streets.
Things went ill for Thond. The greatest of the town’s remaining noble families – the
Truzha – had
undergone a collective transformation which had resulted in a haemophagic aristocracy
being foisted upon Thond’s hapless citizens. Under the auspices of the aging family
matriarch, a dozen first cousins –
and scores further removed – had enthusiastically embraced unlife as a useful tool to
advance their power and interests. Initiation had become de rigueur amongst the
fashionable set.
They counted Naatha, Sibud and Rishih as their sponsors; the immortals had invested
heavily in the organization and defense of Thond subsequent to the annihilation of its
armies. Naatha had lent Jariliths to sorcerers who pledged themselves to her; Rishih had
erected a number of potent magical wards
around the city; Sibud had bestowed a rare vampiric pedigree.
Ortwine entered a den where unspeakable tortures were inflicted on mortals by many-
limbed demons.
She drew Heedless and slew the closest fiend immediately. The others began to hastily
disperse, but Ortwine arrested one before it could flee, pinned it to the wall, and
dominated it.
“You are compacted by House Truzha. Inform your masters that Ortwine wants to talk to
them.”
The demon moved to oblige her.
Ortwine liked this game.
**
“Were you aware that the Adversary is squatting in Mostin’s Manse not fifty miles from
here?” Teppu asked.
“No,” Nehael smiled. “I sense you had an exchange. Was it illuminating?”
“Disturbingly so,” Teppu admitted. “He’s even more disarming than you. He confused me
utterly.”
Nehael nodded. “That is his nature: to refute that which is.”
“That is a generous assessment,” Teppu was wry. “Others have been less forgiving. What
can you anticipate of his actions?”
“Little or nothing,” Nehael shook her head. “And try not to analyze his words. You will
never guess his
motives. Accept this; you will be happier.”
“This is sound advice. He also requests an introduction,” Teppu raised his eyebrows.
“That much, at least, I predicted.”
“And you will indulge him?”
Nehael shrugged. “Why not? Do you fear he might successfully woo me to his cause?”
“Precisely thus,” Teppu confessed. “What is your strategy?”
“That which I apply to you, so do I equally to myself. There is no strategy. I will play it by
ear.”
**
The Ahma stood with Tahl and Rede beneath a canopy south of Wyre’s marches, receiving
news of events which gave him pause for wonder. Orolde intoned as though reading from
an altogether
mundane inventory.
“One amulet; one suit of baroque plate armor; one large shield of fearsome aspect; one
glaive; a greatsword which drips acid…”
“Bastard sword,” Eadric interrupted.
“One sacrificial dagger,” Orolde continued, “three cubic gates; three portable holes; one
amulet of the planes; one crystal ball with several special applications; twenty-eight ioun
stones of various function; one iron flask, determined to be the prison of the devil
Sirchade; around one hundred books of spells –
including those of Kothchori – which have yet to be translated and fully catalogued…”
Orolde paused sadly.
“A scroll collection which I will not begin to bore you with: Mostin has suggested to
tender to you those scribed by Oronthonist sympathizers, and there are more than a few;
material wealth in jewels, gold and adamant which might best be described as
incomprehensibly large. The inventory was witnessed by all of the mages present.
Pharamne’s urn was noticeably absent. Mostin believes that the small key found on
Graz’zt’s person unlocks whichever space holds the urn – presumably somewhere in one
of Azzagrat’s nested demiplanes – but he needs to employ divinations of some magnitude
in order to determine the exact truth.”
Eadric raised an eyebrow. Mostin having the web of motes in his possession was bad
enough. Mostin with Murmuur’s tower was something which filled the Ahma with
trepidation. Now the Alienist sought a generative power which was so far beyond his
ability to safely manipulate, that Eadric experienced pure dread.
“I suspect that Mostin has become instrumental in the designs of the Adversary,” the
Ahma sighed, smiling grimly at Orolde.
“As to that, I could not say,” the sprite bowed. “I do not concern myself with the
machinations of entities within the Oronthonian pleroma.”
“Has Shomei shown herself yet?” Eadric asked.
A look of discomfort crossed Orolde’s face. “No. Is this something you anticipate?”
The Ahma shrugged. “Anticipate? No. But many patterns have been laid; this much is
clear to me. I was there when Sacir dragged Shomei to Hell. I was impotent to prevent it.
The Akesoli are the agents of Amaimon, perhaps, but there a greater mandate drove them.
Mostin informed me of her current
situation; do not be concerned as to a breach of confidence.”
Orolde smiled. “I am not. I cannot match Mostin’s prescience; hence, there is no reason to
anticipate that his reaction to anything I might divulge will be unpremeditated. My own
status is somewhere
between apprentice and journeyman, if you understand my meaning: no proscriptions have
been placed upon me; nor do I shy from the truth, as I perceive it.”
“And what is your perception, Orolde?”
The sprite looked nonplussed. “That question is quite impossible. I cannot communicate
the totality of my apprehension effectively; we have no common frame of reference.”
The Ahma thought for a moment. “Do you ever seek solace, Orolde? And if so, where?”
“In whatever fashion seems appropriate at the time.”
“And your stump – magic might have replaced your hand. Why?”
“I will grow a pseudopod in due course,” Orolde said drily.
Eadric gave a thin smile. “Tell Mostin that the Ahma thinks he’s way out of his depth. He
can’t now go to Azzagrat to retrieve the urn, in any case.”
Orolde shifted slightly.
“You cannot be serious?” Eadric asked.
“His energies are now concentrated on accomplishing this task,” Orolde admitted. “And as
to Shomei, if you wish to speak with her she must be invoked; her nature is now Infernal.”
“Foci are aligning sharply,” Eadric said.
“Yes,” Orolde replied.
**
The van – which contained the banners of the Ahma, the Talions and the Penitents –
crawled south
along the Hynt Coched in the direction of Jompa. Griffons wheeled and gyred in the skies
above them.
In the main battle, the Sela rode surrounded by Saints and many of the recently
Illuminated of Morne, whose numbers continued to swell as companies wind walked from
the capital. Hundreds of wagons churned up the road behind into deep mud, through
which resentful Wyrish aristocrats and their
retainers doggedly toiled. Eadric had stiffened the rearguard and reserve brigades with a
battalion of Templars under Brey’s command, in the event they were actually attacked: the
King, his household
knights, and the boars had yet to arrive. In all, the columns trailed for six miles through
the low, rolling hills.
Ahead, bisecting reality at an indeterminable distance, a wall of night loomed. On a low
knoll by the side of the road – beneath a tall finger of carved granite – a crimson-haired
figure stood and observed the passing of Wyre’s armies.
As the Ahma approached, she stared at him; his sight informed him that this one was not
all she appeared to be: her ontology was complex. She said nothing, but her presence was
significant: this was the edge of her remit. Beyond here, she exerted no influence.
As soon as Eadric passed a point due west of the menhir, the sky above seemed to crack
open briefly and a squadron of celestials flashed into view. They shone darkly.
The Ahma remained expressionless. He had anticipated this – or something similar – but
had hoped for a period of quietude before they showed themselves. They were already
sworn to him; a powerful tool to execute his will in the world. Using them entailed a price
he was reluctant to meet.
The wards which Nwm had erected around the column discouraged their close approach,
and Eadric
called a general halt to the vanguard’s progress. He rode with Tahl through a detachment
of Ardanese mercenaries and across a hundred yards of open ground, to where they stood
or floated gently.
Eadric reined in and dismounted. Saint Tahl remained in his saddle.
“Hail, Ahma,” the archfiend Irel bowed. “We finally meet, although under circumstances
which few guessed likely. The covenant undertaken still holds. You may instruct us as you
see fit; alternately, we must interpret your will to the best of our ability.”
“Neither option thrills me,” Eadric said, gazing at up Irel, who stood head and shoulders
above him.
Taint emanated from the Fallen in palpable waves but their nobility was all-too-apparent.
Thus it might remain. These were a new breed.
Eadric gazed at them and sighed, and resigned himself to the inevitable. He turned to Tahl.
“Let it be known that the Ahma has perforce acquired a Left Hand,” he said, “his right
alone being inadequate to the task which our current predicament presents.”
“They are loyal?”
“Absolutely,” Eadric admitted. They were. He could still speak into their minds; know
their thoughts.
He suspected that Irren was smiling smugly in some Nessian Beatitude.
But against Visuit, how would they fare?
So the wheel turned.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 4-16-09
Visuit
The warm spring sun, filtered through the canopy of the forest, lent a greenish hue to the
still air.
Nehael smiled as she approached.
Behind the manse, above a small stream which gurgled enthusiastically, a figure lounged
in a wicker hammock suspended between two young birch trees, chewing thoughtfully on
a long blade of cooch-grass. He wore one of Mostin’s favorite hats: an ochre felt, sporting
a wide brim, and suitable for lazy afternoons.
Through many perceptions, the goddess apprehended him in a thousand guises: a fey; a
mortal youth;
an emperor, resplendent and dreadful; incandescence – a sliver of the Sun; the Will to
Become. Here was the great Antinomos; the Nameless Fiend, exempt from the Law of
Oronthon. Space and time warped in his vicinity: he was a singularity around whom
cosmoii turned. Still, his totality eluded her.
Deceiver.
The Adversary opened an eye as she drew closer. “You were never Nehael. What are
you?” He asked, half-amused.
Nehael tilted her head. “Am I so opaque to you?”
“Oh, yes,” he answered.
“There is much I might show you,” Nehael suggested.
“You are empowered to realize the full potential of the urn?”
“Yes,” Nehael replied.
“I suspected as much.”
“Thank-you for letting Rintrah pass,” Nehael nodded politely. “Will you trust me?”
“Let me think about it,” the Adversary replied. He pulled Mostin’s hat down over his eyes.
“Do you fear me?” Nehael inquired directly.
The Adversary gave a shrug. “Perhaps. I haven’t yet decided as to whether I ought, or no.”
“I should like to offer some advice,” Nehael smiled.
“Feel free,” the Adversary smiled drowsily.
“Read me. I am open to you.”
“I cannot. That is my dilemma. But thank-you for your consideration.”
“You cannot?”
“Humility becomes you, Who-Were-Never-Nehael. As does your genuine lack of guile.
The Tree
weaves a net around you so subtle that even you can’t perceive it.”
“And you can?”
“No,” the Nameless Fiend sighed. “But I can infer it. I am in Nizkur. I have no power
here, save by your grace. Or that of the Tree. Or Uedii. The puzzle intrigues me: I am an
inquisitive sort.”
“Why would you reveal these things to me? They diminish you and empower me. That is
contrary to your nature.”
“My Nature – normally my preferred topic of discussion – is of no consequence in this
matter. Because I am not your Adversary. Do you doubt your invulnerability here?”
“I had not, until you asked me that very question,” Nehael admitted.
“Touché,” the Adversary tipped the brim of Mostin’s hat. “Observe.”
Without warning, he struck her with enough power to raze a continent.
Nehael merely witnessed him scattering a handful of acorns.
“What of the Claviger?” She asked.
“I’m wholly ignorant,” the Adversary sighed.
“I cannot believe anything you say.”
“Well, naturally,” the Adversary smiled. “And there’s the great irony, of course.”
“Decide what you want to do,” Nehael turned and walked away.
“Think of a name for me,” he called after her. “Maybe I’ll like it.”
**
Nwm’s interdiction, as Mostin dubbed the spell – although the Preceptor himself had not
thought to name it – was a compound ward which excluded certain creatures of the
unnatural order from
proximity to the Sela. It was less comprehensive than Nwm would have secretly preferred,
but – given that the bulk of the power required to evoke it was derived from Temple
Adepts and Flamines – it
would have been less than gracious of Nwm to exclude celestials from its zone of effect.
Nwm refused to relax the primary ward to allow the nascent devils of the Dark Choir
access, regardless of their professed loyalty. This vexed many of the Irrenites present, who
entertained notions of
discourse with the fallen celestials.
“I’ll not have them within a league of me. Nor will you unless you think that you’re
immune to subterfuge.”
Nwm had a point, Eadric conceded.
The interdiction was quickly followed by a Nwm’s mantle which settled upon those
marching south –
necromancies would henceforth prove ineffective against the Wyrish forces – and a Nwm’s
quickening which bestowed miraculous regenerative powers.
The primary ward moved as Wyre’s armies moved, encapsulating an oblate hemisphere
some six miles
in diameter, and invisible to mortal perception. It was potent, but demanded a renewal at
dawn every day: a substantial investment of time, and an effort of magic to effect; the
mantle and quickening required less frequent reinforcement. Although bolstered to
withstand disjunctions, to contrive a superb
dispelling of sufficient magnitude to counter the interdiction was certainly within the
ability of the Cheshnite leadership, were one or more of them to set their mind to it.
Nwm’s concerns were justified, and Anumid initially approached Idyam with the task of
devising a
spell for such a purpose. The demilich – feeling such a chore was beneath him – ignored
the request and continued his necromancies. Idyam felt in no hurry. Malign spirits
attended him now:
deathshriekers spawned by the horrors visited upon Jashat. Nwm’s ward could not be used
offensively; they would effectively need to cut a swathe forward for it at some point.
Choach accepted Anumid’s offer, although with a counterbid for two hundred which made
the
Mouthpiece glower. Still, resources were plentiful: all of the Anantam were now able to
act without fear of retaliation from the Claviger. Anumid felt pressure from the
increasingly frenzied politicking of certain cliques within the cabals. It was only a matter
of time before the assassinations began in earnest.
For four hundred, Choach offered to eliminate Fumaril’s defense as well.
“How quickly can the spell be ready?”
“In twelve hours.”
“I will give a provisional yes,” Anumid grimaced.
The Mouthpiece subsequently gave thought to assailing Fumaril. Although the host which
had set forth with Dhatri was immense, the chambers below the Temple of Cheshne were
far from empty; Naatha
and Guho – otherwise uncommitted – might be persuaded to undertake the magical
leaguer of Fumaril
if offered sufficient inducements.
The balance of power between the greatest of the Cheshnite immortals and the cabals was
beginning to shift, Anumid observed. He found himself thankful that his own position
until that point had been one of reserve; over-caution as Yeshe had preferred it.
*
Yeshe anointed herself with blood beside her pavillion and prepared to commune.
Something was evading her notice, and she was determined to find out what.
Her divinations were interrupted by Visuit.
“We strike immediately. My instinct tells me the time is now,” the Butcher growled.
“We must bring down the ward first,” Yeshe retorted.
Dreadful runes kindled about Visuit as her mood darkened. Mortals nearby ran screaming.
The goddess drew her weapon: a huge curved sword. “Do not seek to instruct me in the art
of war.”
“Your bloodlust must wait,” Yeshe snapped. She was rapidly losing her temper.
Without warning, with a peal of thunder, the goddess smote Yeshe; a single blow which
would have
slain any mortal and many a godling. The Binder’s armor, titan-forged, buckled but did
not break.
Yeshe staggered back, insensible.
Visuit thrust out an arm and caught her by the throat. The goddess kicked Yeshe’s legs
from beneath her, and pushed the immortal to her knees.
Still, Yeshe could not make her limbs respond.
“You would presume?” Visuit threatened to break her neck.
Incapacity. The Binder crumpled to the ground.
“I am making a sortie,” Visuit boomed; her voice carried for a mile, drowning all other
sound. “Those who wish to accompany me, may.”
“You will serve me,” she hissed to the form at her feet.
“Goddess.” Choking, Yeshe abased herself.
Visuit focused momentarily.
The enemy would be breaking camp soon. She reached out with her mind, searching for
purchase: a
place in proximity to the Sela, where she might recently have been invoked by word or
deed. An anchor in space. Her deific perception penetrated every ward erected by the
Temple Adepts.
At the last, a green veil, supple but unyielding: Nehael’s blessing. Her concentration
evaporated, and her thought retreated.
Visuit cursed. Several of the Ushabam who pressed too close went mad.
Holding her dark blade aloft, she clove open a gate.
“Follow!” War demanded utter obedience.
She mounted Narh; steed and rider leaped through the rift.
A great press of demons and undead clamored behind her. After Yeshe, Prahar – unhinged
as he already was – was the first to follow. On the Plain of Infinite Portals, the
Sorrowsworn mustered hungrily.
**
Tensions ran high in Mostin’s Infernal tower.
Eleven mages, in addition to Mostin and Orolde, were now ensconced in various chambers
– some of them all-too-comfortably, Mostin ruefully considered. And Hlioth remained,
which made Mostin suspicious and more than a little nervous: she had appropriated a
stone courtyard, and modified it –
greenified it – to her satisfaction and Mostin’s chagrin.
Inevitably, the habits of certain of the Wizards – and all were guilty of odd behaviours of
one kind or another – had come into conflict. Creq exuded a charnel reek which many
found distasteful. Daunton pestered the Alienist constantly for use of the web of motes.
Tozinak transmogrified various mundane objects for no apparent reason. Waide – who
maintained a disciplined hauteur – insisted on an
afternoon nap in one of Mostin’s preferred spots: a conservatory in which various Hellish
fruits grew on thorny trees. Mulissu’s mephits and Jalael’s quasits were on the verge of
open warfare: spined devils ineffectively policed an uneasy truce between the two groups,
until the Alienist conjured a barbazu to act as a more effective deterrent to hostilities.
Mostin himself sat poring over formulae, performing impossible contortions upon
immutable laws of
magic in his head. Graz’zt’s jar sat before him on the desk. Upon it, placid, the dominated,
polymorphed linnorm rested, coiled in miniscule.
Mostin’s prolepsis had generated a number of uncomfortable arcs, which involved the
scorned Queen
Soneillon, the Region of Dreams and Uzzhin combining in some dreadful resonance. He
tapped upon the sphere with his quill until the demonic countenance of Prince Graz’zt
appeared.
“What is your intuition?” Mostin asked.
“Thou hast exceeded thy authority, and made something unholy,” Graz’zt replied,
sneering.
“Be more specific!” Mostin snapped.
Graz’zt’s face vanished.
Mostin cursed him for his willfulness and tormented the captive demon, finally forcing his
visage to reappear. Graz’zt’s intractability seemed only moderately diminished; his hatred
was palpable.
“Answer the question,” Mostin groaned. “And dispense with the archaisms: they are
tedious.”
“You have sent What-is-Not to Where-it-Cannot-Be. As though realities do not bleed
freely enough, Mostin the Metagnostic punches holes in continua to turn drips into
torrents.”
“You speak of Soneillon’s pilgrimage?” the Alienist hissed.
“Vhorzhe made the same mistake,” Graz’zt smiled wickedly. “Except it was no chthonic
he sent hurtling into Delirium.”
“Your teminology is outmoded,” Mostin corrected him. “And the analogy is inexact, in
any case. I have demonstrated this!”
“Rimilin will bring her back, for all your prattle.” Graz’zt was obviously taking some
pleasure in his words.
“Rimilin does not concern me,” Mostin sighed.
“Then you will lose the race for Azzagrat.”
Mostin scowled, and waved Graz’zt away irritably.
The demon remained, glowering at him.
“Bugger off.” Mostin shoved the linnorm off its perch, picked up the globe, and dropped it
in a drawer, slamming it shut.
He returned to his problem.
*
An hour later, Mostin announced his plan.
The mages were to accompany him to a location within what had been the Argent Palace
in Azzagrat, after the Alienist had established a modicum of stability on the planar flux in
its vicinity. Thereupon, Mostin would invoke his quiescence of the spheres.
They must next disjoin the chthonic gates, to permanently arrest the upwelling;
subsequently, the quiescence could be dispelled, and the offending gates would be gone.
After Pharamne’s urn was recovered – Mostin purported to know its exact location, now –
the Alienist would hold a splendid party in celebration.
Various concerns were voiced: Would chthonics in manifest form still be nearby? Would
the gates even be present after the reality maelstrom had been suppressed? How many
demiplanes removed from Azzagrat was the urn in any event?
“And how many gates are there Mostin?”
“I have calculated twenty-two,” Mostin confessed. “But their usage has diminished
considerably; a new equilibrium has already been established.”
“You require twenty-two disjunctions? ” Hlioth laughed.
“Certainly. This can be achieved with single-minded purpose.”
“And the predicted length of our tenure in these regions?” Tozinak inquired, sniffling
dismally.
“Around thirty minutes, if all goes to plan,” Mostin grinned eagerly.
“Alas!” Tozinak wailed. “I may not live to see my egg hatch!”
**
“I am perplexed,” Teppu admitted, looking at Neheal. “The exchange would indicate that
you have him at a gnostic disadvantage – so to speak.”
“He was thwarted in Afqithan; his prescience failed. This is a new experience for him. He
claims the
Viridity is inscrutable to him.”
“And Saizhan?” Teppu inquired.
“That relationship is more complex. I don’t profess to understand it. I suspect that he is
somehow instrumental.”
**
They manifested in the fading half-light, within a bowshot of the interdiction, and within
plain sight of the celestial guards who policed the perimeter. A ragged hole in the fabric of
reality, slashed open by Visuit, through which a stream of demons poured.
The Dark Choir was upon them in an instant, wreaking havoc with maces and flaming
swords; within
Nwm’s presidio, news spread like lightning, and clarions sounded: knights and Templars
sprang to
arms.
Visuit, who trusted her instincts, smiled. In the Aethers below, something stirred. To those
who were sensitive – adepts and celestials – a ripple of Darkness ran across the still waters
of Mind.
The Butcher gestured with her clenched fist.
Chthonics manifested.
The proto-devils cautiously withdrew to consider their options.
Visuit sliced open another gate, and vanished.
The rent in space remained open; through it, yet more demons and monsters began to rush.
*
As the alarm spread, Nwm – who was stationed in the centre of the encampment with
most of the
spellcasters – reached out his mind to Eadric, whose tents were closer to the periphery.
[Nwm]: She is opening a gate every thirty seconds or so; they at appearing at apparently
random locations around the circumference. Teleportation circles are also now beginning
to open. The strongest has predictably asserted herself.
[Eadric]: I had hoped she might be more direct. Still, they cannot penetrate the ward.
Something very dark just came.
[Nwm]: It is called Narake.
[Eadric]: How do you know?
[Nwm]: Uedii whispers it to me.
[Eadric]: What is our best recourse?
[Nwm]: Fortification.
[Tahl]: We are ready.
[Mesikammi]: As are we.
[Lai]: And we.
[Brey]: And we.
“I will brook no celestial interference!” Nwm hissed through gritted teeth.
“There will be none,” the Ahma vowed. The words emerged from the mouths of all within
the
communion.
Nwm evoked a spell.
The Green Benediction settled upon Eadric and those nearest him.
**
Lying in Mostin’s hammock, the Adversary opened an eye. Now that was impressive, by
any standards.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 05-10-09
Eadric
The Goddess inhaled sharply; her head span in an ecstasy. Her communion became
perfect, and her
form blazed as the Viridity flowed through her. Nwm had invoked her again as the conduit
for a spell of staggering power.
Trees nearby erupted briefly into spontaneous sapience. Teppu capered madly.
“Excellent,” he clapped his hands.
Nehael’s consciousness was immediately drawn to focus on Eadric and the thousand or so
most stalwart knights in the Wyrish encampment; those whose tents were in proximity to
those of the Ahma. Thence it extended to settle upon every griffon, every horse, every dog,
every bird, every ant.
Nehael shook her head. “It will not be enough. Nwm must try harder. I hope he knows
this.”
**
Eadric’s head hummed, as though he had imbibed some heady green wine which evoked
an urge to
pure enjoyment. Around his core, a warmth which nourished and sustained him. The Eye
of Palamabron revealed the Aethers thick with archons and devas; myriads dispatched by
Enitharmon to intercept the Chthonic threat and prevent further bleed into the World of
Men.
Here and now, the twilight tasted fresh and new. Eadric’s skin tingled. He mounted the
griffon Hauhuts and took to the skies. Below him the camp stretched, many fires were
burning: casting his eyes around, he noticed that three main fronts had opened, all to the
east of the Interdiction, which – thankfully –
still held.
Northernmost, a cluster of gates through which Prahar’s undead cavalry poured, swiftly
and repeatedly
dispersing and reforming in cadres. Their movements seemed in execution of a long-
prepared plan, although maybe the phenomenon was spontaneous; formations rippled like
schools of black fish
beyond the protective walls of the spell. They were followed by blood fiends, abyssal
ghouls, and other things which ate flesh.
In the centre, Yeshe, Pazuzu, and the violet banners of the Ushabam held by their giant
bodyguards; their leaders were burning dozens of candles of invocation, and balors were
appearing in the skies above them. Others were conjuring lesser demons, as their ability
permitted. Still more demons were simply manifesting.
To the south, in an arc, the chthonic menace. Narake, evoked last of all, was easternmost.
Irel had determined his reaction quickly: more than half of the Dark Choir – under the
archon Hemah –
remained in the fight with Yeshe and her minions, and were attempting to eliminate the
spellcasters.
Shokad, Oraios and Irel himself – with a smaller number of former celestial stalwarts –
moved to
intercept the chthonics.
Knights and Templars under the effects of the Benediction were already materializing
within the ranks of the enemy, immolating with green fire and quickly routing the half-
giants, whilst enduring a barrage of blasphemies from the Ushabam themselves. In
response, demons were being invoked even more rapidly; the balors were being flung
against them.
From above, Eadric’s vision rested on a heaving mass of nullity shaped like a demon,
which emanated a destroying fire. All other creatures shunned it.
Narake, Nwm confirmed.
Bathed in green radiance, Eadric grunted and urged his steed to a dive; his plummet
brushed aside a flight of chthonic succubi which strove to block his path, burning many
from the sky. His task was simple: he should strive to slay as many as he could. He smote
Narake a great blow as he wheeled past, only to have Hauhuts plucked in turn from the
sky by a fiery tendril. Griffon and rider were flung to the ground; the earth shook as he
struck it.
Visuit thundered past, slaying Hauhuts with a single blow which continued on to Eadric,
striking Lukarn and causing the blade to shiver powerfully along its length.
A death spell spoken by Narake slid over him, dissipating harmlessly. In a trice, the demon
– dwarfing the Ahma – leapt upon him, striking him with an object shaped like a mace and
forged out of malice. In the vicinity of the chthonic, matter was beginning to smoke and
evaporate.
Eadric fended the blow easily with his shield, and the sledge carved a hole in the earth
next to him.
Four more strikes he turned or withstood; black fire engulfed him, but nothing adhered.
By instinct, he moved his form subtly; or maybe the World shifted around him, reordering
itself in response to some impulse of Uedii which he could not articulate. He followed
invisible green tracheids, emerging instantly from the grass on the other side of the demon.
He launched a powerful assault.
Lukarn opened huge, gaping wounds; Light poured into naked Void. Narake vanished
from sight; whether destroyed or fled, Eadric could not tell: and perhaps it made no
difference.
Before he could even draw breath, Visuit sped past again upon Narh and struck a great
blow upon his shield, shearing the celestial metal from edge to edge, cleaving it cleanly in
two. Her curved sword – if such it was – continued through the rerebrace on his shield-
arm into sinew. Visions of carnage passed through his mind, and voices called to him from
unnamed hells. He felt warm blood flow over his
elbow and down to his wrist.
Sixty yards past Eadric, Visuit leapt from her saddle and – with surprising elegance –
twisted in the air like a cat, landing firmly to face him. She smiled. Life withered.
Casting off the remains of Melimpor’s Shield, the Ahma gripped his weapon in both hands
and materialized immediately in front of the goddess, hewing at her ferociously with every
ounce of
strength he could muster, and burning her with green flames which issued from him in
sheets. Lukarn fulminated, illuminating the battlefield as he smote her. She struck back,
and with terrible speed.
Raining blows down hard upon him, hammering him through helm and armor and forcing
him
backwards. He bled profusely.
Thus they exchanged buffets. Visuit had quickly gained the upper hand.
The Ahma prudently withdrew. He followed a strand of Green and appeared instantly
before Nwm.
“I need more,” he said simply.
“There is no more. Try harder,” Nwm scowled as he healed him.
“Nwm…”
“My resources are not infinite!” Nwm snapped. “And a new front is about to open. And
there will be others. Timing is critical. Do not be distracted. Now keep them at bay. ”
The Ahma nodded, understanding.
Moments later, the lich Choach – together with a large number of Anantam magi – arrived
a league to the west, collapsing Nwm’s Interdiction.
Demons began teleporting: probing unlocked areas closer to the centre of the camp. Every
plant whispered; green ripples moved across the ground, as hundreds of Templars rapidly
transported
themselves back from the now-vanished periphery.
Two hundred yards from Eadric and Nwm, Narake reappeared.
Nwm vomited as the demon invoked a spell, enveloping everything within a mile in a
maelstrom of
black fire. Thousands died. Though many – adequately warded – survived, all plant matter
was turned to ash.
Nwm coughed, regaining his composure. It has to be Now.
[Tahl]: We are ready.
[Mesikammi]: As are we.
[Lai]: And we.
[Brey]: And we.
A silent green nova.
Eadric knew it: he had felt it before in Afqithan. This was of more modest scope, but
subtler. A
frequency attuned to a specific vibration, married to a wave of banishment. Every demon,
every
chthonic vanished. Pazuzu and Visuit, vanished. Each expunged; shunted away to its
proper place.
Yeshe cursed. Gating Visuit again would not be possible until the prescribed length of
time had elapsed. The thirty-or-so balors who had been interposed between the dark
celestials and the Ushabam had disappeared; Hemah and his brethren were already in their
midst, sweeping their fiery swords in great arcs, and hewing them down.
Ablaze with her own magic, she emptied her reservoir and struck the former episeme with
a pillar of blackness, slaying him. Wearily, the Binder opened yet another gate, and
another; she drew now on a rod of ancient potency to fuel her magic.
She staggered. Exhausted, she vanished with a word of recall. Those amongst the
Ushabam who were able, followed her lead.
**
The earth was black in the gathering night: Narake’s carnage was ugly. Outside of the
wasted area, the Temple forces were assembling.
Eadric stared at the body of Hemah; he had expected it to vaporize, or at least to smoulder.
The great archon seemed serene in extinction. The devil’s expression might have been one
of mild perplexity.
They were one and the same.
Irel alighted silently next to the Ahma.
Whither? Eadric wondered.
“To a lake of fire,” the fallen deva replied.
“Or to an Ocean?”
“If you decree it.”
“Let it be so.”
Eadric heard a soft hoof-fall approaching; he turned to observe the stallion Narh pacing
gently toward him. Somewhat behind, a lone figure wearing a worn studded jack and
spattered with ichor.
Ortwine gave a hint of a smile as she approached, and tossed Sibud’s head to the ground at
the Ahma‘s feet.
“One for me,” she said.
Eadric gaped.
“In order to write lays of one’s exploits, it is necessary to first perform them,” she
explained.
[Nwm]: It must wait.
A magical wind was rising: the slightest breeze, invoked by Prahar, but tenacious: it
rendered all flight impossible. Those who remained aloft across the battlefield found
themselves without purchase, and plummeted.
Ortwine gazed north and east. Night had now fallen fully, but the sky – through
Mesikammi’s arts –
was clear as crystal and the stars were bright. A tremor pulsed through the ground. Ancient
carynxes
were sounding brazenly, as evil godlings ordered their undead ranks.
“Prahar is preparing to charge with his death knights,” the sidhe observed drily. “By lucky
happenstance, the greatest horse ever sired is your eager steed.”
The Ahma muttered an earnest prayer of thanks to Uedii.
“You may also thank me. You may not criticize me for my gnomes again,” Ortwine smiled
coldly.
“Thank-you,” Eadric nodded. “And agreed. What will you do?”
Ortwine reached into her vest and withdrew a talisman which reeked utterly of evil. “I
plan to sow discord – which appears to be my forte.”
*Unfortunately for Eadric, Visuit resolves her melee attacks as touch attacks. DR 50/-
helped a lot.
DevCrits didn’t work for either of them as they were both fortified. At this point, they
were pretty evenly matched. Don’t let her charge was the informed consensus.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 05-23-2009
Mostin Ex Machina
Temenun meditated in Dream. His ancient consciousness – elevated by powerful magics
and attuned to destructive urges – rapidly took stock of the changing situation. Prescient
impulses crowded his mind, each seeking to assert its own augury as truth.
Sibud had fallen; the Vampire had been an arrogant fool, and the Tiger felt only contempt.
To taunt vindictive sidhe-queens entailed certain risks, and departing one’s own
fortifications to slake an urge as
base as feeding brought the consequences it deserved. Masquerading as an agent hired by
herself, Ortwine had infiltrated Thond, gained news of Sibud’s whereabouts, and
penetrated the spirits which attended him during his glut. A dirty, ignoble assassination.
Temenun smiled. Eventually, his Naztharunes would have accomplished the same task.
But the sidhe
had also succeeded in instigating a bloody feud between two opposing factions within the
Truzha
leadership; Thond’s cohesion would soon be lost. Part of Dhatri’s main force – bent on
Jompa, where mortals were more abundant – would have to divert to Thond and resecure
it.
Yeshe had vanished, presumably departing to a hidden sanctum to recoup. As many as half
of the
Ushabam were destroyed, and her authority was now questionable at best. But not her
power; Temenun would not underestimate that.
The Tiger considered Idyam now the greatest threat to his own supremacy; the demilich,
virtually
indestructible, had been quietly extending his power base. Temenun knew through his
spies that
Anumid had spoken with him at least three times, but Idyam played a cool courtship and
patiently
bided his time.
Imperceptible to the oneiric guard which the Servants of the Sun had set in defense,
Temenun dreamed his way in darkness to Scir Cellod to watch events as they unfolded.
**
Choach, and the thirty Anantam who accompanied him, were entrenching quickly. They
had cordoned a half-acre with walls of force and fortified their position with dimensional
locks, symbols and a complex pattern of selective antimagic, overlayed by the lich himself.
In unlocked areas, teleportation circles were opened; a quartet of compacted balors herded
goristros through with goads of adamant. A ruddy glow illuminated the magical
beachhead.
Perched on a skeletal dragon, Choach gazed across the dark of the rising plain, bending his
thought north and east. Sunbursts strobed on the horizon over a low rise. He reached out
with his mind to
observe the main conflict, almost four miles away. Lacking adequate aerial support of his
own, Prahar had pinned down the devas and griffons and forced a ground engagement.
By now, Choach knew, the nature-priest must be spent. The lich contacted Anumid.
The situation is precarious. You will need to send reinforcements if you deem victory
important.
In Jashat, the Mouthpiece pondered. This might have been an ill-advised sortie, but one
could hardly gainsay Visuit.
With exquisite timing, Temenun’s voice purred into his mind. I am also here, Anumid. I
can strike the decisive blow.
“How much?” Anumid asked aloud through gritted teeth.
Two thousand.
Anumid almost laughed. It was a preposterous sum; almost two thirds of the liquid assets
of the
convocations. “Even were your solution watertight, I could not persuade the cabals to
invest so much.”
Shvar Choryati, was Temenun’s response.
The blood left Anumid’s face. “I will communicate your offer.”
Do not tarry in your deliberations. You have less than an hour before Nashhte sets.
Anumid swore, and commanded a dozen babau to ring the gongs and summon the
remaining Anantam
and as many of the Kesha-Dirghaa as could be persuaded. He sent entreaties to Naatha
and Rishih to reinforce Choach with their compactees as soon as they might.
**
In the chill night air, Ortwine soared undetected above the melee, ignoring Prahar’s spell
of impeded flight, and gazed at the spectacle below.
The enemy’s initial charge had been brutal, and backed by a magical impetus which had
broken the
half-ordered Temple ranks. Now three great kanistas, led by the Penitents and the
Illuminated, had rallied and penetrated the Cheshnite front. Ahead of them all, the goddess
Ninit rode with the five Boars, cutting a swathe through everything in her path. Magical
and supernatural detonations echoed across battlefield. Devas of varying moral
persuasions acted as bulwarks around which Wyrish knights rallied.
Nwm had dismantled the ritual configuration; the saints, priests and adepts who had been
involved
were now free to engage the enemy: a task which they undertook with predictable gusto.
Lai was
reordering her handmaidens with Mesikammi; the shamaness was readying another rite.
Ortwine descended behind the Cheshnite lines, and wrought a powerful glamour: what
was to pass here must go undetected, for a little while at least. She reached into a soft
leather pouch and withdrew a slender black taper. Igniting it with a cantrip, she held the
candle as it burned rapidly.
A balor appeared in a cloud of fire and smoke. It looked around suspiciously, its true
seeing unable to pinpoint Ortwine.
“Wait there for a while,” the sidhe commanded, her voice issuing from somewhere close
by. “I will have further instructions for you presently.”
Her eyes penetrated the darkness ahead to observe Mesikammi as she invoked a massive
resurrection: hundreds of corpses sprang to life again; those who had been disintegrated
incarnated in pristine forms.
Ortwine raised an eyebrow; even the death knights had been afforded random living
bodies. Clothed in flesh again, some rejoiced, some wept, others fled or waxed furious;
their variety was utterly
bewildering: strange goblins and sprites; satyrs, mephits, nymphs and sylphs; animal
spirits of every conceivable type. Other spirits for which Ortwine had no names.
I have decided that I like your style, Ortwine spoke with deific benevolence into
Mesikammi’s mind. If you wish it, I will sponsor you.
Power is power, and I accept; although I fear I might be too fickle a priestess.
You may come to realize the absurdity of that sentiment.
Refocusing, Ortwine reached into her pouch and withdrew another candle.
*
The Ahma fought upon Narh; on his left arm he bore a light buckler lent by Ortwine. The
stallion seemed to anticipate his thought even before he did, and moved with a deadly,
fluid grace. Already brimming with primal energy, Narh had been infused yet further with
Green power by Nwm. Sundry wards and both the Mantle and the Quickening protected
Eadric still, but the ecstasy of the Benediction had passed, and the grim reality of the
conflict had returned to him.
It was a confused riot: cadres of dismounted knights formed protective rings around
Flamines as they worked magic; Abyssal blasts issued from death knights, penetrating the
Temple ranks. Celestials
moved amongst the Wyrish troops, bringing respite wherever they showed themselves;
Temple
Scrollbearers were evoking flame strikes and sunbursts, wasting squadrons of undead
cavalry. A hundred other magical lights had been struck. Protected by Nwm’s Quickening,
the Templars were proving exceptionally hard to kill. The Dark Choir slew everything in
its path.
Overhead, the stars winked as the fume generated by lesser magics was dispersed by the
persistent
breeze of Prahar’s spell. Hyne winded Hemah’s horn, a piercing call which echoed across
the
battlefield.
Striking down the enemy rapidly, the Ahma attempted to run a gauntlet of undead knights
with Rede, Tarpion and Tahl in order to reach Prahar’s standard; he hewed his way
forwards until the press became so thick he could no longer move; the reek of the
Cheshnite horses – drawn from demonic stock – was suffocating. He spoke a holy word,
burning away the knights ahead and allowing him to push forward
another twenty yards. Tarpion and Rede flanked him, pronouncing dicta and rendering the
enemy insensible. Behind, Saint Tahl – grown ten feet tall – now fought on foot.
Prahar, also in the thick of combat but a furlong distant, uttered a profanity and struck
Eadric and his company with a horrid wilting, which the Mantle deflected easily. As the
Ahma fended the blows from some petty godling, he caught glimpses of Prahar’s manner
in battle. It made him more than a little nervous.
The undead warrior exhibited a slavering rage whilst raining down magical fire. And
when any came
within reach of his sword, he killed them instantly, with one stroke. Always.
Eadric cursed as he cut down his opponent, looking past him; now another gate was
opening near Prahar.
The Ahma groaned as a great Ugra, hugely muscled and bearing a massive rod lurched
through, smashing everything in his path. A distended gut hung over grotesque genitalia;
vast horns curved
down, then up, then out. Rank hair covered him. Aja, the Great Goat.
Eadric knew him as Orcus.
Matters worsened.
*
Ortwine clapped her hands. Twelve balors – suitably screened and veiled – now attended
her. All were dominated.
“Your primary target – with whom I am sure you are all familiar – is Prince Orcus.
Perhaps some of you may have been waiting for this opportunity for a long time. Kill
Orcus. Kill Prahar. Kill Choach.
Kill any other members of the Cheshnite faction. Then return here.”
Ortwine waved a hand dismissively. The twelve balors teleported away.
And bring me trophies, she reminded them.
**
The Tiger dreamed his way back to Jashat; he would evoke his spell from a safe distance.
Proximity to such a thing as this was never advisable. Beneath a great dome, the
assembled magi were waiting for him.
Gathering his energies, Temenun reached out through Dream. Drawing on the pattern
generated by the Anantam, he penetrated layers of veils, deep into ancient nightmares. His
mind rested, still, within the primordial Dark. He breathed deeply.
Shvar Choryati, he whispered, and turned his thought back two hundred miles to the north.
**
The meticulous preparations for the Abyssal descent were nearing completion.
Thirteen Wizards now worked magic furiously. They conjured allies and warded
themselves, haggling
over access to one another’s spells like children at a fig stand.
Mostin had been forced to revise his plan; yet another delay, but one insisted upon by a
vocal minority led by Waide and Tozinak. They must first target the entire area in
Azzagrat with the largest expulsive spell they could muster, before the Quiescence was
evoked, ridding the area of chthonic nuisances before proceeding.
Mostin had been forced to reconfigure another spell, a process which took valuable time.
When he was finally ready, the Alienist consulted the web of motes again. Soneillon’s
significator was
beginning a resonance with Rimilin; the wizard would soon bind her, as Graz’zt had
indicated. Mostin felt uneasy. He hated it when demons told the truth; it made things so
much more complicated.
Even as he observed, possibilities multiplied; an area of flux was causing dozens of motes
to swerve along unlikely cateneries. Mostin swore profusely.
No! Not now! Why was it always now? Why couldn’t it wait?
Eadric’s mote suddenly careened towards him at breakneck speed, engulfing him.
Mostin snapped out of his reverie as he was struck by a desperate sending issued by Tahl.
Mostin. Help. Please.
“This is a most unfair choice,” Mostin protested.
*
Scenes of battle passed across the surface of the Mirror of Urm-Nahat. A ravenous
darkness, rolling across the conflict, appeared to be consuming Wyrish troops by the
company.
“It’s simple,” Daunton sighed. “Do you know nothing of committees? We vote; and
quickly.
Abstentions must also abide by the majority decision. Mostin, as host, must vote last. In
the event of a tie, I have the casting vote. My vote is for a return to Wyre.”
“To Azzagrat,” Jalael said immediately.
“No vote,” Tozinak sighed. “I simply cannot. I am overwrought.”
“To Azzagrat,” Muthollo concurred.
“To Azzagrat,” Hlioth nodded.
Mostin cocked his head. Now that was unexpected.
“No vote,” said Creq. “I have a mortuary in southern Hethio, and I would be loath to see it
despoiled.
But I am greedy, and wish to increase my power. I am genuinely conflicted.”
“I cast no vote,” Mulissu waved her hand dismissively. “I do not recognize the authority of
the Wyrish Collegium, and reserve the right to ignore any decisions the committee
reaches.”
“To Wyre,” Sho said unexpectedly. Mostin wondered which sentiment moved her; an
inkling suggested it might be some sense of obligation to Nwm, but he had no evidence to
support the theory.
“To Wyre, also,” Troap nodded. “I am a mundane sort, by nature. Which makes me
wonder as to which voice Hlioth is responding.”
“Now is not the time to analyze motivation.” Daunton groaned.
“To Wyre,” Orolde answered.
“No vote,” Waide growled. “At the moment, neither choice appeals. I am hungry, and I am
late to bed.”
“To Azzagrat,” Droom of Morne spoke. “I would hate more to see the vote so
uncontested.”
Mostin glared at him.
Daunton looked desperately at the Alienist.
“Wyre,” Mostin nodded. “Although I feel bound to point out that the target area is not
actually in Wyre, either politically or magically. Ladies and gentlemen, we are
unconstrained.”
“If you insist on this course of action,” Hlioth sighed wearily, “you must first neutralize
Choach, before he disperses his demons and becomes a further nuisance.”
“An opinion or a prophecy?” Mostin asked acidly.
“Quiet your ego!” Hlioth snapped. “And for once, do as I say. I will be busy dying
elsewhere. Do not mourn. I will be back ere sunrise.”
“Hence, I mourn.”
“After you have eliminated Choach, evacuate as many as you can,” Hlioth sighed. “You
cannot overcome this darkness.”
**
Daunton pinpointed one of the gaps in Choach’s protective net with a potent divination.
The Infernal Tower appeared, unmasked by any illusion, within the lich’s rapidly
deploying force. The Collegiate mages stood on a wide balcony which Mostin had caused
to be projected from the tower’s
wall at a height of fifty feet. The Alienist smashed the lattice of antimagic protecting the
Cheshnite magi with a powerful dispelling.
A barrage of disjunctions – previously prepared by the Wyrish wizards for the purpose of
sealing the twenty-two chthonic gates of Azzagrat – instead rained upon Choach and the
Anantam, stripping them of protections, collapsing walls of force and rendering
teleportation circles inert.
Mulissu struck Choach with a Glance of Thunder; before he could teleport, she struck
with another.
Mostin detonated a massive sonic.
“Take out the balors, you idiots!” Mostin barked at the other wizards, who seemed to be
targeting groups of demons indiscriminately.
Tozinak grew wings and hovered exitedly. “My egg has hatched! My egg has hatched!”
Mulissu collapsed unconscious, blood pouring from her nose.
Deprived of his physical form, Choach fled back to his phylactery.
Five miles away, Eadric was alerted to the presence of the wizards by a peal of distant
thunder.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 05-30-09
Moonrise
Hlioth appeared before Nwm. The Preceptor looked haggard.
“Go to Mostin and sort things out,” she instructed. “Then start thinking of a way to get rid
of that.” The witch gestured irritably to a billowing void which absorbed everything in its
path.
“I am spent,” Nwm shook his head.
“But you cannot be!” Hlioth groaned. “Mostin is missing me from his ritual; I had elected
you my substitute.”
Nwm glared at her. He was spent; aside from a few restorative spells, he had almost
nothing left.
“Work something out,” Hlioth said irritably. “Is this all there is?” She glanced around: Lai
and her handmaidens, a few Uediian priests and priestesses. Most seemed exhausted; at
least Lai retained some of her power.
“You are late to the party,” Nwm smiled stonily.
“It will have to do. Give me what you’ve got.”
Hlioth drew on their magic, invoked a powerful ward – on herself alone – and then
vanished.
“Charming,” Nwm sighed. He looked at Lai.
“I’ll go,” the goddess said. She vanished into the earth.
*
Eadric was closer to it: an inky darkness which slithered across the ground like malign
fog. It emanated terror; those which it touched, it snuffed out. Everything recoiled from it;
it seemed bent only on destroying vibrancy and life. The telepathic screams issued by
celestials which had encountered it still echoed in the Ahma’s mind.
He had no time to muse on such things. Orcus’s mace slammed into his buckler, numbing
his left arm; a sting like a wyvern’s tail punched through a gap in his armor and potent
venom threatened to
overwhelm him. Horns, a maw, claws. A foul, rank, cloying smell. Aja was a bastion
around which all evil things rallied and from which all that was good was moved to flee.
Lukarn was impotent against the demon’s defenses; the Prince of the Undead had erected
a ward of indomitability about himself.
Orcus spoke a dark blasphemy. Eadric endured it; Rede and Tarpion reeled. Others nearby
exploded into dust.
Eadric groaned. Balors were now manifesting all around him.
They’re on your side, Ortwine’s voice echoed in his head.
Your timing is a little tight. Orcus is warded.
Noted.
The dominated balors targeted Aja with dispellings.
**
The stars shone brighter still.
Mesikammi had now waxed to her full power; the spell which she had wrought an hour
before came
into effect.
Reaching skywards, she plucked a meteor from the heavens and pulled it to the earth; the
light as it struck the ground illuminated the countryside for miles around. Its impact
vaporized an entire company of undead mercernaries, and left a smoking hole a hundred
feet wide.
Nwm glanced upwards. More stars seemed to be shifting.
“How many more do you have?” He asked.
“Three,” Mesikammi smiled.
“Make ‘em count,” Nwm cautioned her.
Mind my balors, Ortwine’s voice carried to the shamaness.
**
The Ahma enjoyed a brief lacuna in the combat; everything within a hundred feet was
dead. Orcus had fled or obscured himself – a dozen balors was enough to cause even him
pause for thought. Prahar had done the same, although Eadric anticipated that either or
both would soon reappear.
In their absence, the demons had set upon the enemy knights.
Ortwine became visible and descended to the ground, her hand upon the pommel of her
weapon. Eadric leaned heavily on Lukarn, and spat blood.
She gave a cool smile, and bowed. “I should apologize for doubting your capacity to keep
me entertained. I have burned all but one of my candles; unfortunately, those fellows
cannot linger too long. Still we’re not doing so badly.”
Eadric gestured with Lukarn towards the consuming Void.
“There is that,” Ortwine conceded. Her face became deadly serious. “You should consider
sounding a general retreat. ”
Eadric nodded. He knew it.
**
Hlioth materialized within a translucent jade sphere atop a precipice; below her, waves
crashed at its base, the foam catching starlight. The moon was still a rumor on the eastern
horizon. Nearby, an iron tower reared high into the sky.
You. Rimilin spoke into her mind.
As demons materialized around her, the Green Witch struck her staff upon the rock,
sending forth a massive vibration which caused the ground to heave and ripple. Like a
rising bore, it rapidly carried the tower and its contents over the edge of the cliff, toppling
it into ocean below. The air around her was suddenly thick with fiends teleporting away
from the collapsing structure, hurling magic and bodies against her.
Unperturbed, Hlioth pronounced a swift banishment of great power; green light flashed.
Abruptly, all was quiet.
Rimilin arose from the wreck of his abode and alighted on the cliff-top twenty yards away.
“Are you done?” He asked. He struck her with a disjunction and blasted her with arcane
fire.
Hlioth smiled. The spell she cast – possessed of immense penetrative power – could not be
turned.
Rimilin knew that it had been crafted just for him.
A look of mild astonishment crossed his face; he had not expected another of that
magnitude. And not this…
Rimilin vanished.
Hlioth sighed. The presence of another. A void with many tendrils. She saw Queen
Soneillon quietly walking towards her, even as an annihilating fire consumed her.
“You have seen too much,” the witch whispered, as she expired.
**
Mostin grumbled. Goristros were hurling themselves at the base of the tower, and
palrethees were
appearing before him. The threat of the balors had – fortunately – been eliminated in quick
measure: Jalael had dominated one and hurled it at another; the two remaining had wisely
chosen to avoid the same fate, and vanished.
The Alienist sighed. They were probably loose in the world. Somewhere. Tracking them
and
dispatching them was not a chore which concerned him.
Mostin invoked a chained polymorph; the demons directly ahead were transformed into
trout and dropped to the ground. Those who were fortunate enough to avoid the hooves of
the goristros flapped briefly before dying.
Creq was administering some necromantic elixir to Mulissu in order to revive her. Tozinak
made
encouraging sounds.
“Can’t you do something?” Mostin asked of Tozinak, incredulous. “Even Waide is doing
something.”
The other transmuter had reversed gravity, causing three of the enormous demons to bob
in the air
unceremoniously.
Tozinak pursed his lip – Mostin had no doubt that he had taken genuine offense – and
pointed. A
goristro began to dance.
Lai sprang out of the ground, assumed the form of a falcon, shot upwards, dived, and
landed on the balcony, resuming her normal shape in a single, seamless movement.
Mostin blanched.
“Hlioth indicated that you need another for your spell,” Lai explained. She reached down
and healed Mulissu, saving her from Creq’s dubious ministrations.
Mostin’s prolepsis warned him of an impending explosion of planar conduits. Naatha and
Rishih, with their allies. Too many; the force previously gathered to assault Fumaril. More
teleportation circles began to appear, a quarter-mile to the north. Three gates flashed open.
Demons, giants, magi.
Immortals. Mostin knew they were loaded with magic. They were coming through fast.
“Sh*t,” the Alienist cursed.
“Well?” Mulissu asked groggily.
“We have to,” Mostin nodded glumly.
Drawing on the cabal, he invoked a massive Quiescence of the Spheres. The air became
still, and all dimensional traffic within ten miles was stifled. Silence.
An acidic storm struck the tower. Orolde, Troap, Creq and Daunton perished.
“That it should come to this,” Mulissu erected an antimagic field.
“Deploy the compactees,” Mostin screamed, skin hanging from his nose like molten wax.
A portal to the tower – no small postern, but a great gate – was opened. Dozens of
compacted daemons, devils, hags and elementals – retained as security against Abyssal
entanglements – poured forth.
Quasits and mephits bickered in the air above them.
“After we get out of the vacuum, please tell me you can wind walk?” Mostin asked Lai.
“Only to a certain point,” Lai said. “Prahar has forbidden flight beyond it.”
Mostin groaned.
An old moon – a slender sickle, the colour of deep rust – finally arose from behind distant
hills, casting morbid rays across the field.
**
Prahar had invoked a pitch darkness which defied all attempts to dispel it. It encapsulated
an area of fierce combat, where a great mob of undead horsemen were attempting to push
through to a heavily
defended Temple centre. Within the shadow, the void – famished and profane – rolled
forward and
consumed. Hysteria descended on the Wyrish forces. Their enemy – seemingly unaffected
– struck at
them ruthlessly. Tahl, separated from the others and finally surrounded and overwhelmed,
self-
immolated in a swirling column of fire and vanished, burning the enemy in a wide circle.
Nwm stumbled blindly toward the Sela‘s redoubt, where he knew many of the hardiest
knights were stationed; even his supernatural vision had been subdued. He cursed himself,
assumed the shape of a wolf, and sniffed his way forwards. More than a few hacked at him
in panic as he moved, mistaking
him for the enemy; he shrugged off their blows.
Behind him, it was coming. He could feel it; Green was buckling like a warped plank to
accommodate it.
*
Shvar Choryati encroched. Now it phased nearby in contempt of the Quiescence of the
Spheres, first here and then there, slaying hundreds each time it appeared; half at random,
but always closer, as if some instinct drew it obliquely inwards.
Nwm stilled his thought and considered his options. He observed its pattern, and
pondered.
“You will not escape it,” Nwm spoke to the Sela. “No magic can speed you fast enough
now; all has been stilled. It hungers for you, albeit circuitously; it is does not perceive the
route to you in linear fashion. Many are dying as it seeks you; we may never recover them.
It will eat everything near you.
Will you trust me and do as I say?” Nwm asked.
“Yes,” Tramst replied. Even in the darkness, Nwm knew that his expression was open.
Nwm reached out and felt the Sela‘s helm, and placed a hand on either side.
“Invoke her,” the Preceptor said.
“Nehael,” Tramst whispered. A supplication.
“Rest until the morning. I will wake you at sunrise.” With a strong twist, Nwm snapped
the Sela‘s neck.
His death passed unnoticed by all except the Darkness.
Become an enormous hunting cat, Nwm bounded north and west. Two minutes later,
beyond the range
of Prahar’s invocation, he assumed the form of a great eagle, and powered his way away,
in search of a likely refuge.
Meanwhile, the void turned its attention to the brightest remaining source of light.
**
Lai led six wizards – Mostin, Mulissu, Jalael, Tozinak, Waide, and Droom – north and
west across the battlefield in vaporous form. Sho and Muthollo had retreated into the
Tower, in the event that one amongst the Cheshnite immortals was to prove intent upon –
and capable of – breaching it. Disjoining the wards upon the solar in the vestibule had
been the Alienist’s suggestion as to their first line of defense.
As Mostin sped away from his fortress, he noticed that a number of large nozzles had
emerged at
intervals around the tower, and were projecting some kind of hellfire at the advancing
demons.
Evidently, Sho had been referencing more obscure tomes than he; this function was
unknown to him.
To hasten their passage, Mulissu had evoked a roaring wind which verged on agonizing to
ride. Only moments later, Naatha, Guho and a group of Kesha-Dirghaa theurges were in
swift pursuit, employing similar tactics. The savant immediately conjured elementals to
delay them.
Below, isolated skirmishes persisted between death knights and paladins; ahead, a blank
hemisphere a half-mile in diameter had sprung up. Around it – and presumably within it –
the main conflict surged to and fro.
[Mostin]: What is your evacuation plan?
[Mulissu]: I?
[Jalael]: He means any but he.
[Mostin]: I am not equipped to move large numbers of mundanes. What do we have left?
(Tally of spells).
[Jalael]: Were that we were better configured for offense.
[Mostin]: We will be next time.
[Waide]: There will be no ‘next time.’ I might also observe that the stress of our current
predicament is having a deleterious effect upon Tozinak’s delicate psyche.
[Tozinak]: Do not speak of me as though I am not here!
[Jalael]: The fat transmuter fears stress, Tozinak. Pay him no heed. Somehow, you have
stumbled your way into transvalency.
[Tozinak] (emboldened): Quite so!
[Mostin]: A month previous would have been preferable.
[Tozinak]: I have a spell already at hand!
[Waide]: He is clearly deranged.
[Tozinak]: Preparation will take only a few moments. I must corporeate and study my
petroglyphs.
[Mostin + Mulissu]: What do you speak of?
[Tozinak]: My slab, bequeathed by Jovol. His last work.
[Mostin]: What is it titled, idiot?
[Tozinak]: There is no need for rudeness, Mostin.
[Mostin]: Its name!
[Tozinak]: A Flame Precedes the Aeon
[Mulissu] (exasperated): Just show us the pattern.
(A pause for inspection)
[Mostin]: A Grand Enochia? A conjuration, or a transmutation? It makes no sense. The
spell is scribed in terms of Urgic Altitudes. It needs thirteen…
[Jalael]: Tozinak! You imbecile!
Mostin groaned as he saw. The focus required was Pharamne’s Urn.
Ortwine’s voice suddenly echoed in his head. Mostin! You made it! How delightful!
As they began to descend, Mostin looked down and sighed. The sidhe was waltzing with a
balor upon a heap of the slain.
From without the magical darkness, the insatiable void now lurched uncertainly; but away
from the
conflict, south and east towards Jompa.
Ahead of it, drawing it onwards, a streak of brilliant light; Eadric brandishing Lukarn and
riding upon Narh.
**
In Nizkur, the appeal reached her.
Teppu immediately stopped time.
“Thank-you,” Nehael acknowledged. A moment to reflect was never a bad thing.
“It is an eventful night,” Teppu observed. “And I am losing track. Has Nwm overstepped
the mark, I
wonder?”
“Frankly, I find Hlioth’s play more outrageous.”
“Enitharmon will be in flap,” Teppu pointed out.
Nehael nodded. “I anticipate he will send episemes to penetrate the Hahio. I might need to
have words with them.”
“Be gentle with them,” Teppu said wrily.
“I will invite them to stay,” Nehael smiled. “I can be very accommodating. If you
would…”
Time resumed its normal flow.
The goddess reached out to Tramst; Her grace enfolded his spirit, and kept him safe.
** **
By the light of a dim oil lamp, the Adversary relaxed in the study of Mostin’s manse,
sipping firewine and playing a game of chance with Mei.
“Alas,” he remarked wrily to the simulacrum. “I fear that you have no ego and I have no
name. We should each borrow a little from the other.”
Mei was confused. She still didn’t know why this sprite was here. He seemed pleasant
enough, and his manners were always impeccable; although she could never tell if he was
being serious.
“No, thank-you. I await my pseudogenesis,” she answered, playing a red token with three
sphinxes graven on it.
“Might I inquire why?” The Adversary asked.
“I must weigh transcendence against preservation; I favor a high ratio of the former to the
latter.”
“Your sister seems content enough.” The Adversary carefully placed two white tokens –
each bearing a yellow trifoil – on the table. “Hers is a rapid path.”
“I wish for a greater leap,” Mei shrugged.
“Ahh,” the Adversary nodded. “I face a similar dilemma. Although mine is rather the
reverse.”
“I do not comprehend.”
“The certitude of diminishment, or the high likelihood of extinction. You may remove that
token from beneath your hand; you must learn more finesse if you are going to cheat at
this game.” He played another yellow trifoil.
“And if you choose to risk extinction, and yet persist?” Mei inquired, unabashed that her
subterfuge was revealed.
“I fear I might be forgiven. From my perspective, this is the worst possible outcome.”
“Diminishment is so untenable a proposition?”
“My circumstances are rather unique,” the Adversary smiled.
“And extinction?”
“I speak metaphorically, of course.”
Mei gave a puzzled look. “I can no longer follow this argument.”
The Adversary sighed. “It is complex. I also regret to inform you that I have won the
game.”
He placed a blue tile bearing a pomegranate before him.
“You already played that token!” Mei objected.
“I’m sure I didn’t. Perhaps you are mistaking the previous game with this.”
“This game bores me,” Mei remarked. “I never win.”
“I have another,” the Adversary suggested. “If you would prefer. It is called Requite.”
“Are there more tokens?”
“Of a sort,” the Adversary admitted. “But of a more abstract kind. We pretend to dispense
judgement upon our devilish minions, pronouncing terrible dooms; their humiliation and
subjugation serves to magnify us. We must maneuver our pieces cunningly; our minions
are apt to squabble amongst
themselves.”
“It sounds involved.”
“It is,” the Adversary nodded. “But I am well-practiced, and I can teach you. Would you
care to learn?”
Mei shrugged. It was something to pass the time.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 06-12-09
Interpenetration (Mostin In Machinam)
The air rushed past the Ahma as he rode along the sward above the Hynt Coched. As
Shvar Choryati had made its first dimensional lurch toward him, Eadric knew that its
attention had become focused on him. Having considered that he would be able to draw it
away and outpace it, the Ahma had veered sharply south. It quickly became apparent that
he had miscalculated.
Some distance away, Mostin turned his arcane sight around him.
Wild magic danced intermittently in the air; auroras generated by the interplay of a half-
dozen potent spells. Nearby, the wall of Prahar’s Utterdark loomed, impenetrable to his
vision; south, the vastness of the Pall of Dhatri was now visible in the moonlight. He
gazed west: Naatha, Guho and the hierophants were almost upon them.
Eastward, where the plain rose away, Eadric blazed a path faster than any wind walker,
opening a gap of over two miles between himself and the consuming blackness. The
phenomenon shuddered forward
again – and a little east – ripping the fabric of reality and stretching the Quiescence of the
Spheres until it squeezed through, and the dimensional lock snapped back into place.
In an instant, the void sprang forwards almost mile. Mostin’s foresight informed him that
the Ahma wasn’t going to make it. A series of presentiments impacted on his mind.
Mostin cursed, dismissed the Quiescence, and invoked a time stop. He teleported to a
point immediately ahead of Eadric, opened a gate, and hopped through. It was a strategy
which the Alienist had previously used to extricate Mulissu from Graz’zt’s clutches.
Time recommenced.
Eadric blinked, saw Mostin beckoning toward a serene vista, and was instantly
transported.
*
The Ahma, sat astride Narh, was high on a mountain; a narrow path wound downwards
and away from him. Monasteries clung to the wooded lower slopes; isolated hermitages
were perched on bare, snowy shoulders higher up. Below, wide vistas stretched to blue. It
was an idyll, as if stolen from a dream he had once had in an innocent youth: a view of the
Blessed Plain from the Beatitudes. Now, he seemed to be awakening from a nightmare; he
removed his battered helm and breathed. The air was sweet and
sharp and full with energy. All was pristine. The sky seemed composed of tiny motes
which danced
before his eyes, until he focused his sight.
High above, uncounted myriads of archons and devas whirled in the sky. Spheres of
increasing brilliance seemed to issue up and away from him, defying laws of distance and
perception. Beyond, the Magnitudes pulsed. The light – refracted through the planes of
four interposing heavens – was still too overwhelming to gaze upon.
Ahma, the celestials sighed into his mind with one voice.
The massive vibration made Eadric shake.
Mostin stood looking back through the gate into the darkness of Shvar Choryati as it
oozed around the portal, unable to penetrate. His pseudopod flexed nervously.
“Mostin…”
“I know they’re above me,” the Alienist said through gritted teeth. “That’s why I’m not
turning around and looking up. ”
“No. How did you…”
“We had to come a long way in. It might have followed you anywhere else. Believe me
when I say I can think of more agreeable locales.”
“I need to get back to the fight.”
Mostin sighed. “That’s precisely what you don’t want to do, Eadric. It wants to eat your
‘soul’ – or whatever you term it. You need Nwm. This is out of your league.”
“But the Sela…”
Sela! A pulse which made the mountain tremble.
“Tramst is dead,” a familiar voice said.
Eadric turned to face Rintrah, Oronthon’s Messenger. He was clad in a simple white gown.
“For the time being,” the celestial added. “He is in transit, under Nehael’s protection.
There is some disagreement amongst the Host whether he is safe or not.”
“Disagreement?” Mostin asked, averting his eyes. The notion amongst celestials was a
novel one.
“Do you believe him safe?” The Ahma asked directly.
“Yes. But I am in the minority, and my opinion matters little.”
“Ah, a demonstration of Empyreal initiative,” Mostin sneered. He continued to look
through the gate; the blackness had passed over, and was gravitating back to a more
reliable source of light. There
seemed to be no activity in the immediate vicinity; Shvar Choryati had scoured all bare. A
ruddy moonlight had returned to the battlefield.
“I am fallible,” Rintrah answered, unfazed. “Enitharmon, less so. How could I deny this
basic fact?”
Mostin groaned, and turned to face the celestial, his expression one of nausea. “You are
trite. You appeal to hierarchy to avoid responsibility: you are fundamentally
disingenuous.”
“I wish you were capable of understanding otherwise, Mostin…”
The Alienist became red and twitched. “Would it avoid the World being wracked because
Oronthogorgon is having another existential crisis?”
“Enough!” Eadric’s eyes flashed. “You forget where you are.”
Wrath! Thunder echoed in the spheres above.
Mostin quailed – an expression which quickly became a pout – and turned back to look
through the
gate, positioning himself again so as not to observe Rintrah directly. Evidently, Eadric
possessed some
kind of home ground advantage.
Things seemed to be quiet through the portal.
“I’m done here,” Mostin announced. “I’m going back through. As you’re staying for a
while, Eadric, maybe you can ask…”
“I can tell you nothing of the Aeon,” Rintrah anticipated him.
“Whatever,” Mostin grumbled. “I’m assuming you can figure out a way back. Mulissu
was just as appreciative when I did the same for her.”
Mostin vanished and the gate snapped shut.
“We should go this way,” Rintrah smiled to Eadric. “The view is good.”
“Rintrah, I cannot stay…”
“Certainly, you can – for a while. Mostin is correct in one thing; you can no longer
meaningfully influence the outcome of this battle.”
Gone.
“Gone? Who is gone?” Eadric asked.
Rintrah raised an eyebrow. Evidently, this was also news to the Messenger. “The seven
seraphs who entered Viridescence.”
” Seraphim?” Aside from Enitharmon, none among the highest choir had left their
Altitude since the Fall.
“These are eventful times,” Rintrah nodded. “It would appear that Nehael has appropriated
them.”
(A Migration of Light).
Eadric was dumbfounded. Apparently, others amongst the Host were inclined to join them.
A few –
perhaps too eager – fell catastrophically, striking the plains below and vanishing.
Rintrah smiled. “Stay focused on the path ahead, and don’t be distracted by what
transpires above. Do not concern yourself too much; in Consciousness, all events are
allegory. Let us walk a little way further; there is a tree I would like you to see.”
“In the face of calamity, you seem in no hurry to act.”
“I sense no diminishment in the quality of the light,” Rintrah said wrily. “It is a prodigal
spark which counsels action as the only means to induce motion. I am not here at
Enitharmon’s behest: I am His Messenger.”
“Forgive me,” Eadric nodded.
**
As the Quiescence of the Spheres dissolved and Mostin vanished, Ortwine, Lai and the
remaining wizards found themselves in something of a predicament. The sidhe had
quickly screened them, and Jalael had immediately disjoined Prahar’s darkness in order to
gain a better appreciation of the tactical situation. It was bad.
Temple units, who had been unable to endure the presence of Shvar Choryati, were
routing to the north and west: great, curved swathes of lifeless corpses marked the passage
of the Eater of Light.
Prince Tagur, who commanded the rearguard, had deployed a screen of knights to cover
the retreat.
Prahar led a vicious pursuit. Squadrons of death knights roamed and slew at will, cutting
down
stragglers and hurling themselves against any remaining pockets of resistance. Three large
knots of Templars and their allies remained, but many of the doughtiest warriors – those in
whom the light
shone brightest – had been greedily devoured by the enemy.
Some distance away, outside of the zone where flight had been dampened, what remained
of the Dark
Choir – the arch-devas Irel and Shokad – gyred in the sky, locked in furious but
inconclusive combat with Prince Orcus and a number of lesser demons.
Ortwine’s perception identified Naatha, Guho and their wind-walking cabal half-a-minute
distant. A hundred yards away, a demon materialized. And another. Rishih was active, and
the teleportation circles were opening again. The consuming darkness – distracted
momentarily a mile to the southeast –
was moving back towards them. News of the disappearance of both the Ahma and the Sela
was beginning to spread.
The sidhe turned to Mulissu.
“Remind me why it is exactly that you’re here again?” She asked.
“Hlioth seems to think that some kind of evacuation is both possible and desirable.”
Ortwine raised an eyebrow. “The witch?”
Mulissu nodded. “Her foresight is erratic, but occasionally inspired.”
“I suppose so. I will negotiate some breathing space.” She handed Mulissu her box of
shades.
“You seek to parley?” Mulissu was incredulous. “At this juncture? Why would they listen
to you? And why do you pay heed to Hlioth, of all people?”
Ortwine laughed.
Prahar, she spoke directly into his mind, but also into the thoughts of those other
immortals who were present. I’ve got Sibud’s talisman. Call off your dogs. I’m willing to
make a deal.
[Guho + Rishih + Naatha]: Wait!
**
The Alienist glanced around nervously and licked his lips. He was nearing the point where
he was
becoming vulnerable; a decidedly undesirable situation. He reached out with his mind to
contact Sho.
Moments later, the Infernal Tower appeared immediately before Mostin, rearing above
him with its gate facing him.
[Sho]: I recommend that you embark quickly.
Mostin didn’t need telling twice.
[Mulissu]: Mostin! Where the hell have you been? Never mind. Get to Kustus and what’s
left of the
Flamines. Get them out of here.
[Mostin]: Why the hiatus?
[Jalael]: Ortwine is ceding the field and negotiating the safe recovery of casualties.
[Mostin] (Mad Laughter): Safe? I notice a certain chthonic void seems undistracted by any
diplomatic protocols. And since when did Ortwine become the chief ambassador of Wyre?
[Mulissu] (Irritated): Since she could lie better than anyone else! Now make haste!
**
“A weregild, so to speak,” Ortwine smiled easily. “Or reparations if you prefer. Or simply
bribery, if we can speak more directly.”
Her apparent nonchalance belied her caution, and she was ready to sidestep into Faerie at
the first sign of treachery, or if any magical energies were suddenly gathered. Before her,
four great Cheshnite
immortals – Prahar, Guho, Rishih and Naatha – were arrayed, surrounded by dozens of
undead and
demonic retainers.
Ortwine was alone. She was also surprised to find that Sibud’s token was attracting this
much attention, and lamented the fact that she might be grossly underestimating its value.
The sidhe scanned the opposition.
Naatha, she had encountered before, but the others were new to her. Guho writhed, a
festering heap of corruption; larvae – which seemed to comprise her entirety – shifted and
flowed in shapes which
paused at times to resemble that of a mortal visage.
Prahar was mounted on a black monster of approximately equine shape; he was clad in
full harness, but his raised visor displayed a shrivelled countenance; one which indicated
both a malice and a madness of unguessable depth. From his jaws – punctuated by rows of
razor-sharp teeth – a sticky secretion dripped. He raved and slavered, and seemed barely in
control of his faculties.
Rishih – who stood slightly to one side, with obvious distaste for his peers – appeared
human; albeit one ancient and wicked. A weight of being afflicted him, as though he
craved annihilation; he wore only an ascetic’s garb, but bore a staff of tremendous power.
Before them all stood Anumid, grudgingly invoked by the immortals as arbiter. His veneer
of civility was thin.
“But to which oaths can I bind you?” Ortwine continued. “I suspect that each of you is as
inclined to malfeasance as I in contractual matters. The answer is none, of course; hence I
continue to speak.”
“We give you one hour,” Anumid spat. “I do not speak for Shvar Choryati. Give me the
talisman. There are no assurances.”
“Prahar should first dismiss his spell,” Ortwine said reasonably. Within range of her deific
sight,
Mostin’s tower had materialized again. “It will expedite our retreat.”
Naatha, also sensing the relocation of the infernal device, immediately assumed treachery
and targeted Ortwine with chains of antimagic.
The sidhe had vanished before she had even raised her hand.
Too bad, Ortwine’s voice echoed in their minds, moments later.
Prahar became enraged. The others withdrew from him.
“Fortify your position before sunrise,” Anumid hissed to Rishih and Naatha. “Let the
maniac be concerned with any pursuit. Consolidate. The field is ours.”
Anumid scowled, but felt an inward relief that Sibud’s token was not in Prahar’s hands. At
least his own presence had averted the immortals coming to blows with one another. That
had to be worth something.
For the moment, at least.
*
Jalael had conjured a teleportation circle – the only one available to any of the remaining
collegiate mages – through which the remnants of the Temple centre were fleeing. Tozinak
had opened a gate; Mulissu a shadow avenue. Temple scrollbearers and flamines were
being ushered into the Infernal Tower against their better judgement. At Mostin’s
suggestion, egress from the battlefield was being offered first to spellcasters; others – who
weren’t as strategically important – would have to make their own arrangements.
Demons harried them in droves; banishments were discharged.
**
As the very first light of dawn stole over the battlefield, a pillar of flame appeared amid
the slaughter, at the same spot where Saint Tahl the Incorruptible had self-immolated.
Fiery wings – briefly appearing and then vanishing – cradled Tahl as he corporeated again.
Looking around him, he wept.
“Come,” Hlioth said, appearing from nowhere. “Before they do. We have lost much
tonight.”
In her hand, she held Drengh, Ninit’s spear.
*
Eighty miles to the north, perched on a rocky crag, Nwm – in the form of an eagle with a
battered
aspect – awoke and screeched. His head hurt. He remembered little of his exhausted
journey to his
roost.
As he stretched his wings, he started. Squatting motionless on her haunches above him,
perched upon an outcrop and staring southwards at the Pall of Dhatri, a lean figure; sable-
clad, with scarlet hair flapping in the wind. She said nothing.
In his mind, another voice.
[Nehael]: About time. You have a busy day ahead.
Nwm groaned.
**
Temenun relaxed in his suites at Jashat. A victory, to be certain. He apprised a Naztharune
servant that he had a visitor, and to admit Yeshe the Binder. She entered calmly.
“What do you know of the Urn?” She asked.
“It reaches beyond the Veils,” he replied.
“You incited Visuit to interrupt my meditation?”
“Her instinct for war needs no prompting,” Temenun purred.
“And the Urn?”
“Is safely buried in the deep again. Gu-Kaama has recovered it. Mostin inadvertently
empowered her.”
” Shvar Choryati is out of control. It drives northwards now toward Wyre. The Enforcer
will eliminate the Anantam who are implicated in its conjuration if it passes her threshold.
I assume that you have some contingency in mind?”
“I have a while yet to consider,” the Tiger said smoothly. “And always time to indulge
your curiosity, Yeshe.”
“You are most gracious, brother,” Yeshe smiled insincerely.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 08-30-2009
TREE
[SKADDING]: What happened when the Sela died?
[BREY]: Mind does not die.
[SKADDING]: But Tramst died. The kas was destroyed.
[BREY]: Nwm the Preceptor afforded him another.
[SKADDING]: But the Sela? At this juncture – what was its nature?
[BREY]: Why would it be other than it is? Your mind is too focused on doctrinal
questions. Apprehend the Moment and eschew theology.
[SKADDING]: You evade the question.
[BREY]: And will continue to do so! You must be flexible in your understanding of
hypostases; rigid dogma in this area – more than any other – is detrimental to the
cultivation of Saizhan.
[SKADDING]: Please, indulge me. Sineig suggests that the ahmasaljan was the only
component to traverse the Hahio. He said that a Flame of Oronthon was present; that it
lingered, and he perceived it.
[BREY]: Perhaps such chose to reveal itself to him: how else could Sineig sense the
imperceptible?
The Sublime Essence. He posits a quincunx of natures in Tramst; others a quaternity. They
can argue until the end of time and it will avail nothing. The Irrenite tendency to formulate
mystery is apparent in this; I feel duty bound to point out that certain dubious
thaumaturgic practices also accompany his point of view.
[SKADDING]: I had, in fact, considered Skohsldaur.
[BREY]: I would advise against it.
[SKADDING]: My father has voiced a similar opinion. My argument is solid.
[BREY]: And what might that be?
[SKADDING]: I have been to Heaven; you have not. I have a perspective which is
difficult to
communicate.
[BREY] (Wrily): So spake the Nameless Fiend! This experience must surely carry weight.
Still, I find the prospect of such tension disagreeable. Who will look to my bees if I choose
such a demanding
vehicle?
[SKADDING]: And devotion is for old men…
[BREY]: Wise old men, Skadding. Both wise and old.
[SKADDING]: You cling to life! I knew it!
[BREY]: Cling? Not I. To me, life is a dream both surreal and utterly poignant; I have
faced certain death more times than I care to count, yet still I stand here. This also affords
a certain perspective; one difficult to communicate…
[SKADDING]: Saizho.
[BREY]: No. This is mundane wisdom.
[SKADDING]: Is there such a thing?
[BREY]: All Wisdom is Mundane. Saizha?
**
They reached the crest of a hill, and Eadric found himself gazing into a deep ravine. It
seemed utterly wild; a virgin corner of the mountain. An ancient yew dominated the
chasm, by virtue of its presence rather than its stature. They began to descend towards it,
and Eadric noticed celestials in its vicinity.
“It is profoundly sapient,” Rintrah explained. “More so than any in the Host. And benign –
for the most part. Many devas have been drawn to it. And some former Masters. It is the
Yew- ludja; the tree in the courtyard of the Temple in Morne is one of its scions.”
“Are there others in the Heavens?”
“Yes and no. Yew is the only ludja here – it was invoked at the Reversal. One of Oak’s
scions rises on the Blessed Plain; and a Beech also – these are still profound, although of
less magnitude. Others are in other places: and not all are kind. All emanate from the great
Tree- ludja in Nizkur.
“They are rapidly awakening,” Rintrah continued. “Tree in Nizkur seeks to generate a new
axis mundi, so to speak. Nwm’s portals between planes serve to mark channels for the
roots of its scions. And
Hlioth’s efforts also. Certain magicks which have been invoked have carved paths more
vigorously;
transiting entities have left wakes which Tree has been quick to exploit. You might tell
Nwm that his fears were unjustified: the celestial case was not asserted without cost.”
“Then some kind of equilibrium is being established.” The Ahma slowed his steed to a
halt.
“Mind precedes, but its workings may be more subtle than you perceive in this case. And
the motion of the Adversary also speeds the differentiation. Descend. I will wait here for
you.”
The Ahma dismounted from Narh and approached Yew quietly; an emotional state which
seemed to come naturally, yet as though responding to some external demand. He walked
a slow circuit around it.
That it was cognizant of his thoughts and feelings – to a far greater extent than he himself
was – Eadric had no doubt. The sheer weight of its consciousness was palpable.
He turned to observe Rintrah, but the great celestial was a blurred figure now receded
from his mind.
From a source deeper than Yew, Eadric knew, the Primordial Tree itself was generating a
continuum
around the ludja. A resonance which transformed that which was around it.
Devas moved aside to let him pass, whispering Ahma into his thoughts. They had acquired
a quality of indefinable measure, which had set them apart from others in the Host. Taint
was not the correct word, but a transformative effect of equal significance, and one to
which he was sensitive. Were they now viridescent? An imprecise terminology bothered
him; yet why systematize?
Viridescent, they whispered. Apparently, a point of doctrine had been made.
The boughs stretched up high above him; they seemed to bask in the Radiance pouring
down from the
Magnitudes. Silence, as the tree breathed Wisdom of impossible depth.
If this is Heaven, then it pleases me, Eadric thought.
He sat and prayed for the safe passage of the Sela.
**
The reincarnation of Tramst by Nwm in Nizkur was a quiet event, untroubled by any
fanfare or ceremony.
Nwm proceeded to recall the wizards, affording Daunton the Diviner a far younger body
than the one which the wizard had previously enjoyed. Daunton’s mood improved
considerably with a more
youthful and dashing aspect, and a general limberness. Two massive reincarnations,
followed by dozens more; invoked by Mesikammi, Lai, the Uediians, Temple Adepts
sympathetic to the
Reconciliation.
The roll of those who could not be recovered was long and depressing: Ninit and the
boars; eight of Lai’s twelve handmaidens; Temple grandees, penitents and scrollbearers;
common soldiers too
numerous to count.
Afterwards, Nwm arranged a meeting between Nehael and Mostin. An encounter which
the Preceptor dreaded.
*
Mostin breathed with conscious measure and attempted to remain focused.
Nwm had referred to this place as Kilthei or Kinthei or Qinthei or some such: the air was
pregnant with a power which Mostin had never before experienced; all seemed doused in
an abundant, fertile energy.
The walls which separated any number of worlds were gossamer-thin; Faerie and its
primordial
analogues; unnamed spirit dimensions, inhabited by monstrous animal-deities; the
forgotten heavens of shamans who had been dead for a hundred generations. All were
contained within the Green hollow.
Each merely a step away.
A tree – the pivotal node through which Tree manifested, Mostin realized – stood above a
small pond possessed of unusual clarity, upon the surface of which tiny motes of silver-
green danced or floated.
His own presence seemed to go unheeded. Surely not unnoticed. Dwarfed, in fact, beyond
imagining.
Yet it seemed merely a tree…
Nearby, Rimilin of the Skin sat cross-legged upon a flat stone, examining patterns within a
leaf which the Tree had shed. He had been encysted or subsumed in some way; his Will
erased, or captured and redirected. Unexpectedly, Mostin experienced a upwelling of
profound empathy for the Acolyte. He
turned to Nehael; her power was veiled, but still perceivable.
“Divinity becomes you,” Mostin doffed his hat with his pseudopod. “Will you be taking a
more proactive stance in the war?”
Nwm, standing to one side, sighed. This would be just too irritating. Ortwine observed
lazily.
Nehael smiled. “I assert my inscrutability. You are here because of the Urn, Mostin. I also
notice that you have Graz’zt in your robe pocket. Were I a vengeful goddess…but alas, I
have no use for him. The Urn…”
“Soneillon has it.”
“Yes,” Teppu nodded. “This much I have determined. And for that, the prior I must
assume some responsibility. Jovol’s foresight was imperfect. I believe he laid a variety of
other contingencies according to other possible futures.”
“What are you?” Mostin fixed him with a stare.
“I have no idea,” Teppu confessed. “I’ll remember when I die.”
“He is an agent of the Aeon,” Nehael said.
“That is a theory,” Teppu observed. “I have no evidence to support it. I am certainly
Green; the question remains as to whether I can be both.”
Nehael shrugged. “As far as culpability goes, the principal offender stands before us. Why
did you send her Outside, Mostin?”
“Your judgements do not concern me,” Mostin said haughtily.
“Four times Fallen now. She has escaped. Had you considered that she might build an
Infinity around her?”
“You are familiar with my theories?” The Alienist was pleasantly surprised.
“I speak in a language you understand,” Nehael said evenly. “I regret that the facts of the
matter are incommunicable.”
Mostin twitched.
“Do not mistake the truth for deific condescension,” Nehael anticipated him.
“Or foresight, for that matter,” she added before he could speak. “I know you well,
Mostin.”
“You’ve made your point,” Mostin grumbled.
“The Viridity unfolds. The ludjas bind worlds together, but where will the remaining
scions sprout?
Tree is silent in this; all watch with anticipation. You should not berate yourself for
abandoning the race for Azzagrat; you acted in good faith.”
“I blame only Tozinak’s stupidity,” Mostin waved his appendage dismissively. “And his
inappropriate use of oological metaphor when attempting to communicate. Nehael. What
of the Aeon?”
“It is beyond my scrutiny,” Nehael said. “I can offer you no advice. But I would ask you to
reconsider your original plan.”
Mostin cocked his head.
“The gates in Azzagrat, Mostin. You could still close them.”
Mostin scowled. “Why? There is no longer any purpose.”
“One single selfless act? A Flame Precedes the Aeon. What does it do, Mostin?”
“Ask your friend. He scribed it.”
“My memory is poor,” Teppu admitted. “You are better informed than I.”
“It uncorks the Urn,” Mostin explained. “In a manner of speaking. But the opportunity is
passed. Did Jovol lay some kind of geas on Tozinak?”
Teppu sighed. “It is possible. He may also have been manipulated by another agent. I
suspect that frustration with the imperfect game of prescience led to my abandoning it; I
would urge you to do the same.”
“I think not,” Mostin smiled.
Nehael closed her eyes and exhaled.
Mostin condescended to give an inquiring look.
“Scions. An Oak and an Elm, north of Galda. Direct the Wyrish retreat towards them. And
in response to your original question, yes.”
“Reflexive is not pro-active.”
“We have different methods,” Nehael whispered. “Didn’t you know? You may remain in
Nizkur for now; I grant permission. Please refrain from disruptive activities.”
“Permission?”
“Necessarily, when at war, a wise dictator invokes martial law,” Nehael said drily.
“I also understand that you have seduced a clutch of Seraphim?”
Ortwine raised an eyebrow.
“News travels fast,” Teppu sighed. “Or your sources are remarkably well-informed. And I
have not even spoken with them. Tree has already dispatched them on various errands.”
“The nature of which you are inclined to reveal?” The Alienist asked.
“If I knew what they were, I might.”
Abruptly, the hairs on Ortwine’s neck stood on end. Mostin’s eyes bulged. A crescendo of
magical
energy which became almost deafening.
A pulse of tremendous power emanated from Tree. Dimension waxed sharp or retreated. A
cascade of
fortifying waves. Impregnability. Afterwards, silence. Somehow, the matrix possessed a
pattern familiar
to Mostin.
“What just happened?” Ortwine asked.
“NonGreen forms of interplanar travel have been discontinued,” Teppu clapped.
” What? ” Mostin’s jaw dropped.
“Where?” Ortwine asked.
“Just this world,” Nehael smiled. “Dreamers are unaffected.”
“I do not dream,” Mostin spoke the word as though it were an unsavory habit. “Is this a
permanent imposition?”
“I would rather see it as a means to end other, temporary, impositions,” Nwm grinned
broadly.
Mostin flailed. “Well, you would. Your tree just dimensionally locked the whole damn
planet. And what about my tower? What am I going to do now?”
“I recommend tree stride,” Nwm said earnestly.
Mostin glared at Nehael. “And closing the gates? Recovering the Urn? How do you
suggest I accomplish this?”
“Nwm. Hlioth. Or you could petition Cherry directly. Be careful – Cherry is a tricky one.
And my instinct is that this is a temporary measure, if that is any consolation.”
“If temporary means ‘one billion years’ then no, not particularly,” the Alienist glared.
“And exempting dreamers leaves a lot of big holes.”
“Dream will be monitored,” Nehael smiled.
The Seraphim, Mostin knew.
“A number of myriads have also joined them,” Nehael caught the thought.
“The other scions?” Ortwine peered at her. “Are they all…sprouting? Do you know where
they are?”
“Not all,” Nehael shook her head. “Some will remain hidden.”
“Restricting traffic is wise,” Ortwine nodded. “How do I get to Afqithan?”
“I believe previous portals will remain open,” Nwm answered. “You should have asked
me where they were earlier.”
“Evidently,” Ortwine raised an eyebrow.
“This is intolerable,” Mostin spat. “I will find a way to circumvent this.”
“No, Mostin, you will not,” Nehael regarded him gravely. “For a little while, be patient.
There are things specifically excluded or trapped here now against their will which dwarf
you in significance.
Perhaps it is better that you are restrained, or at least monitored.”
“I?” He was incredulous.
“Mostin,” she drew close. All notion of sophistry had vanished from her demeanour; she
spoke into the core of his being. “Believe me when I say that I honour you and love you,
Mostin, because such is my nature; but you must recognize that what you are – how you
see and what you do – these things are anathema to me. You possess a potential for horror
which disturbs me.
“And this,” Nehael smiled as a clump of moss and sod grew in her hand. “This is Mine,
Mostin. All of it. You are a guest. Don’t forget it.”
“Currently, I am a prisoner,” Mostin seethed.
“If you wish egress, petition one who can transport you; I will do it if you request. I will
take you outside – but not Outside. You will need to negotiate at a Green concursion if you
wish to return inside.
Unless you wish to dream.”
“Bah!” Mostin grunted. “And what is a ‘concursion’ supposed to be?”
“A node. Interface. Gate.”
“And how might I recognize these?”
“The scions, Mostin,” Nehael smiled wrily. “Or in some cases, the ludjas themselves.”
“I need to appeal to trees to be allowed to go about my normal business? Many of which,
by your own admission, ‘will remain hidden?’”
“Essentially, yes. Or one of we five.”
Mostin looked around. Nehael. Teppu. Hlioth. Nwm. Mesikammi.
Ah. Those five.
“Where are the ludjas themselves?” the Alienist demanded. “Assuming that you can be at
least that forthcoming.”
“Here in Nizkur: Oak, Elm and Ash. Others in the Beatitudes, Throile, Azzagrat. On
Avernus; in Faerie.
In Mulhuk. In the Hidden Realm. Five have yet to manifest themselves…”
“Hidden Realm?”
“I can show you,” Mesikammi offered.
” Your reality?” Mostin groaned. “You’re as mad as I am. And what is this talk of Trees in
Hell?”
“Some equilibria must be forced,” Nehael smiled.
**
They gathered at Mostin’s manse in the Forest of Nizkur; the building had acquired an
eccentric turret of modest proportions, oddly at ease with the prevailing aesthetic and
comfortable in the sylvan
surroundings. The Infernal Tower‘s now-inaccessible extradimensional interior – like that
of much of the manse itself – meant that Mostin had a much reduced living space. Nwm,
and a number of
goddesses, saints and wizards crowded around the Alienist’s kitchen table.
Mostin had considered the significance of the Inertia of the Spheres – as he had scathingly
termed Tree’s reordering of planar reality – and determined that it was, in fact, utterly
beyond his ability to bypass. He sighed, handing Nwm a piece of paper with many
numbers and symbols scrawled upon it. It meant nothing to the Preceptor, whose magic
was instinctive; the Alienist explained with forced
patience.
“Half of the flamines have been consumed: tasty morsels, I’m sure. Many reservoirs are
drained. The Pall of Dhatri is out of reach, and will likely remain so in any case. You can
banish the Eater of Light; if you do, then you can say good-bye to those whom it ate. If
you were to destroy it, they would be liberated: this would be preferable. Slay it. It’ll hurt,
but you’ve got enough juice at a stretch. Let me configure the spell, as I am otherwise now
at a loose end.” More than a hint of bitterness was present in Mostin’s voice.
Nwm nodded.
Ortwine smiled coolly, and turned to Nwm. “I have a question. Did you really need to kill
the Sela, or were you just making a point?”
“It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“I’m glad that you’re carefully considering the ramifications of your actions,” Mostin said
acidly. “It’s
not like you’ve caused any problems so far.”
“I approve of Tree’s interdiction,” Tahl spoke wearily. “The progress of Shvar Choryati
has been slowed drastically. All enemy movements must also now occur conventionally.”
Mulissu nodded. “I no longer need to invest more than half of my energy simply to
maintain Fumaril’s defense. We are in a better position than we were twelve hours ago.”
“And elementals are considered sufficiently ‘Green’ to pass muster,” Mostin complained.
“And I am tired of your incessant whining,” Mulissu sighed. “Do you have nothing useful
to contribute?”
“No,” Mostin replied, staring at Nwm. “But I have a good many questions. What is
Gihaahia’s role in this? Why did you wake up with her looming over you?”
“I don’t know that she has one,” Nwm answered. “Her mandate is … not incompatible …
with the exclusion. Perhaps Nehael has spoken with her.”
“The succubus in her is exerting its charms,” Ortwine said approvingly. “You can’t keep a
good demon down. She’ll snare them all.”
“Not all.”
Ortwine shrugged. “Tree is acquiring an exciting variety of thralls. I believe I chose the
right side.”
“I have no doubt that you’ll be on the winning side,” Nwm remarked drily. “As to
information which I possess to which you are not privy – yes, in a manner of speaking.
Insofar as that nothing which has happened surprises me, although I wouldn’t exactly say
I’ve anticipated anything, either.”
Tahl stood abruptly. “The Ahma has returned. He is at Galda, ordering the defense.
“Splendid. Assemble the minions,” Ortwine waved her hand.
“And none of the other Great Wyrish Wizards have anything to contribute?” Mostin
inquired.
“Not especially,” Daunton said vaguely. “Do you think I should keep the beard?”
“Your hospitality is diminished,” Waide grumbled. “Where are your fruit teas gone? And
those little cakes? Your simulacrum is less attentive to replenishing your pantry than
Orolde; she spends the day reclining, reading your insane scrawl.”
Mostin had to agree. “I need a new apprentice.”
“I have gnomes,” Ortwine suggested.
Mostin’s head bobbed. Gnomes were agreeable enough.
**
**
Shomei the Infernal exited the trance and pondered. It was as Ugales had described: two
zones within Qematiel’s range, in close proximity to one another, were inscrutable. None
save the Adversary might have screened areas of such size from her spell, yet Shomei
doubted it was his doing. She determined to investigate the first node: she suspected it was
a Power, the presence of which could only be inferred obliquely.
Qematiel – an atavistic hellfire wyrm – abode within the realm of Mahazael Amaimon,
King of the
Fourth Quarter. An infernal monarch whose exact mandate – other than the reprobation of
delinquent devils and distinguished wicked mortals – was hidden to all save the Nameless
Fiend, Amaimon was
unguessably powerful. He removed himself from Hell’s routine workings altogether, and
concerned
himself with philosophical struggles on a more rarefied level.
Shomei herself had enjoyed the arch-fiend’s hospitality for a brief while, after her
abduction by the Akesoli in Afqithan. The outcasts and detritus of a hundred unnamed
hells and abysms found their way to his demesnes, and were tolerated or punished for
unknown reasons; Wyre’s Enforcer had made her
abode nearby, until she had been plucked to serve as the Claviger’s slave.
Shomei armed herself with magic and opened a gate; she passed through into a blasted
defile.
Lightning wracked the dark skies. Descending carefully, she crossed poisonous rills and
found herself in a wide, flat-bottomed canyon. A great thicket – an untended hazel coppice
of willful aspect – filled much of it. It murmured power to her; Shomei paused
suspiciously, unsure if it was a deific illusion or an empty lure set as some test.
Without warning, fire overhwelmed her and a great claw pushed her a hundred yards
through the air, pinning her to the wall of the ravine. A vast, horned head reared before
her; ancient draconic eyes – full of wisdom and malice – regarded her briefly, absorbing a
thousand details in a glance. They rested on the sigils which the Infernalist bore upon her
forehead.
“An Exempt.” Qematiel snorted. “I am still inclined to break your body; the Tree
recognizes you. It would have otherwise.”
Shomei managed to scowl even as she writhed in pain. A ludja? Here? By whose
permission?
Tree needs no permissions, Hazel whispered into her mind.
But which was the other? The second un-scryable area?
A brief, unendurable pain as barbs seemed to sink into Shomei’s mind: evidently the other
ludja was also fully aware of her thoughts. There was the looming threat of an execration
so powerful that it would extinguish her.
Holly, she knew. She breathed deeply, mustered her will, and stared straight into
Qematiel’s eyes.
“What passes here?” Shomei the Infernal asked. The question was possessed of terrific
power.
Qematiel regarded her quizzically; none before had ever been audacious enough to
attempt to dominate her. It was a fair effort.
“You amuse me. I am not sure. But my role in it – after an eternity of preparation – is not
the one I had anticipated.”
“And the I?”
“It has migrated,” the Wyrm replied. “As will I. Hell is receding.”
**
In a dark abysm, Soneillon reflected on her circumstances. Events had not transpired as
she might have preferred.
Atop her palace – a vast ziggurat which rose a mile into the skies above dense jungle – a
tree had sprouted in a garden, sinking roots through marble and adamant, and fruiting in
an instant: an event which coincided exactly with the return of the demoness – bearing
Pharamne’s Urn – from the wreck of Zelatar. It bore huge, ripe cherries which exuded an
irresisitible odor.
The demoness had warded herself in a heartbeat and retreated to a remote fastness, even as
the tree had reached out to her mind and urged her to descend. She felt its consciousness
pursue her, and she
transported herself again. And again. She could not elude it.
Soneillon cursed, fled deep into a chthonic dream - a delirium of unbeing - and brooded.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 10-17-2009
“Are We Ready?”
**
Two miles to the north of Galda, the Sun was rising as squadrons of Templars hurried
about their
business. Mostin – floating inches above the ground - bent his thought northwest whilst
eyeing the nearby Nwm suspiciously. The Preceptor stood before him, ankle-deep in mud
and horsedung, and
apparently enjoying the experience. A night of heavy rainfall and twenty thousand cavalry
had turned the fields into a morass.
An hour before, Mostin – closeted within a secure shelter – had emerged from a reverie of
motes with too many contradictors to even begin to make sense of. It was as though the
universe – several
universes, in fact – were being turned on their heads. And something had seemed to reach
toward him through the Web. As if its ineffable divination had been somehow perceived.
Impossible. He glanced around.
The Temple forces – swollen by more of the Illuminated of Morne, as well as Foide’s
skeptical vassals and the northern aristocracy of Ialde and Dramore – had entrenched at
the southern end of the hills of Scir Cellod. In an ancient wood in a nearby valley, two
scions – an Oak and an Elm – generated a
power which encompassed the entire camp and a wide area beyond, excluding the enemy.
The site was
outside of Gihaahia’s remit, but overlooked the Hynt Coched, the main artery which
connected
southern Wyre with the Thalassine cities.
Nwm had transported refugees who had fled to Nizkur or who had been reincarnated
within its bounds; another ritual had opened a Green highway, speeding thousands –
including the Wyrish Magi and many Temple grandees – straight into the midst of Eadric’s
already swollen camp. Mostin had found the ego dissociation which accompanied the trip
unsettling.
Galda – a town of some eighteen hundred which lay beneath the aegis of the scions – was
now visible in the dawn, and its campaniles, rooftops and walls thronged with armed
sentries. Picquets and
outriders were spread in a wide arc to the limit of the Trees’ protection and about the town.
Beyond was subject to the depredations of two demonic magnates – Orcus and Pazuzu –
and those
amongst the remaining fiendish population which they had gathered about them. Both
were operating
without reference to their respective invokers, Prahar and Yeshe; they skirmished
continually with both each other and with archons and devas under the command of two
more archfiends, Irel and Shokad:
episeme princes who had recently adopted a more Adversarial view. In the absence of any
extradimensional movement, wind walking had become the preferred means of travel
amongst all; despite their inferior numbers, in this the celestials possessed a distinct
advantage.
Cirone, another quaint walled settlement some twenty miles further south, had been utterly
consumed by Shvar Choryati, and it was near its wreck that Prahar had elected to establish
his camp: a hemisphere of darkness which defied the attempts of both Mostin and
Daunton to penetrate with their sight. In a separate bubble – warded with even more
potent defenses – Rishih and Naatha had raised a magical beachhead with a large
contingent of Anantam magi, supported by compactees and
bodyguards, the armored Giants of Danhaan. Against the backdrop of both, loomed the
unpierceable
wall of night which was the Pall of Dhatri: somewhere within that was the unguessably
vast main Cheshnite force.
Shvar Choryati had eaten its way approximately north, on an eccentric path which made
frequent detours to annihilate farming communities. It would reach Galda in three days
and the Wyrish border in five, assuming a stimulus of light didn’t draw it directly towards
the Temple encampment. How it
would interact with the scions would hopefully not be tested: Nwm planned to eliminate it
before it advanced so far. It persisted on the edge of his perception like a cancer which
infected the World.
*
Mostin scowled. “Yet another power is rising in Nizkur. What do you know of it?”
Nwm shook his head. “Nothing.”
“A fey; most ancient.” The Alienist studied his face minutely; Mostin’s paranoia was
becoming more acute and more evident by the hour. He was beginning to remind Nwm of
a caged animal.
” Nothing,” Nwm reiterated. “But the Green is moving in torrents everywhere, so I can’t
say I’m surprised.”
“Go on,” Ortwine turned her head. “Fey rivals hold an interest for me.”
“You flatter yourself,” Mostin sniffed. “You pose as much threat as a gnat to one such as
this.”
“I prefer the gadfly metaphor. And no sidhe stands so far above me.”
“I mentioned nothing of sidhe,” Mostin sighed. “You are such a parochial queen.”
“Currently, my parish is rather larger than yours,” Ortwine smiled. “Speak more of this
fey: do not let my witty quips distract you.”
“That you are both so ignorant of events which reference your paradigm is a source of
continual amazement to me,” the Alienist grumbled. “This is no woodland sprite. It is
rather… wild, in the instinctual, primal sense. The fact that it is present suggests massive
change. It is masculine. It does not rise from the Tree-matrix, although its catenary is
parallel.”
“That sounds fine,” Nwm nodded, distracted. Hlioth and Mulissu were becoming
impatient.
Mesikammi had already departed. “Are we ready?”
*
All but one of the demons – a babau lurking behind a ruined pillar – fled as the five
entities manifested amid a green surge. Perhaps deities recently awakened from some
hibernation, the power of their
arrival caused the tiles in the courtyard to crack with a sudden growth of moss and lichen.
One, covered in a hundred rolling eyes, spied the babau and dominated it quickly.
Another, ragged and scarred, gestured toward a pomegranate tree which had long since
been reduced to a stump. It immediately regrew its limbs and sprouted tender green
leaves.
The third – an opaque, sylph-like creature who floated above the ground – swore profusely
as she
looked at the wreck of her former home. A number of obscene execrations were directed
toward the
eye-covered entity.
A fourth – apparently a female human of middling years – waited with a sour face. After a
pause, during which the others collected their thoughts, she struck her staff upon the flags
with a resounding crack. A brief but massive flurry of magical energy followed.
The last – a goddess with a curved sword – stared at the the artificial heaven above her,
watching it shift and writhe like a thing alive. A wave radiated visibly out and away from
the group, reordering the matrix of the real into a new form. Crumbled masonry flew back
into place, and debris of all kinds vanished.
Mulissu’s demiplane, restored to a pristine state, rested peacefully again beneath its blue
vault.
“Do you want the demon?” Mostin asked.
Mulissu struck it with a spell, petrifying it.
“I’ll take the statue,” she said.
Nwm glanced around. “Again. Are we ready?”
Grumbles of assent.
Nwm evoked a spell, causing four more trees – an almond, an olive, a cypress and a
deodar – to spring up within the courtyard. Within the trunk of each – and the
pomegranate also – was a small wooden
door, perhaps five feet high and two wide.
“Which is which?” Ortwine inquired.
Nwm sighed. “The olive leads to one in the palace at Fumaril; the almond to the elm at
Mostin’s cramped retreat; the pomegranate to a banyan in the garden of the Academy
outside of Morne; the deodar to one similar near Deorham; the cypress to a tree near the
entrance to the Claviger’s cave.
Mesikammi is accomplishing spirit bindings with genii at the terminal locations, to
prevent passage for those who are not permitted. Here, I have chosen species most
familiar to Mulissu, based on her
childhood experience.”
“And it is appreciated,” the savant nodded. “Although I find it rather shady, and may need
to adjust the illumination.”
“And from here Mostin can reach outside of your miniverse?” Ortwine asked.
The Alienist laughed bitterly. “No. Hlioth annexed the plane. This is now a Green node.”
“Then why else are we here?”
Mostin scowled, and gestured with his appendage toward Mulissu.
The savant smiled savagely. “I’ve come for my spellbooks.”
**
“It is as wicked as I, or I’m no judge of character. Still, I like this not one jot.”
Standing on a high balcony, Yeshe the Binder regarded Temenun carefully. The Tiger, in
turn, was
gazing down at a blackthorn which had sprung overnight to full height, next to a likeness
of the
disgraced Ugra, Angula.
“If this is Nwm’s doing,” Yeshe continued, “then it appears we have underestimated him.”
Temenun remained sanguine. The Blackthorn, impenetrable to divination, was silent.
“What else?” The Tiger asked.
“Its parent tree has…annexed a large swathe of what was Angula’s realm in the forty-fifth
abysm. Gu-
Analas which have entered its presidio have not exited. Planar breaches and reality
maelstroms still rage around it, but it has established a quiescence in its immediate
vicinity. Deeper, the Great Bhitis are assembling at the Veils. What is your intuition?”
Temenun smiled and bared his fangs. “If Carasch avoids the streets of Azzagrat – or what
is left of it –
for fear of a Tree, then the fact that we are not all dead is cause for celebration.”
“This thing is so potent?”
“It is. But it deals in generalities; it is not concerned with the specifics of our actions.
We’re playing by its rules. For the time being.”
Yeshe was grim. “We are outmaneuvered. My dreams are full of avalam jvalats*. Still,
Dream is our best recourse. The weak link.”
“I will give it some thought,” Temenun purred. “In the meantime, we should abandon the
compound.
Mobilize all reserves. Relocate to Thond.”
“Are you mad?”
“I foresee.”
“I will take Fumaril first,” Yeshe spoke steadily. “I won’t have it sitting on my flank.”
“Then be swift!” Temenun’s eyes narrowed. “I anticipate their counterattack will be
furious, and soon.
First, they must deal with Shvar Choryati. That will require much of their strength.”
“It will be an easy test.”
“We shall see. I have yet to invoke the ward.”
“There is a good deal which you keep hidden,” Yeshe observed. “Now is not the time to
remain jealous of your prescience.”
The Tiger said nothing. Temenun was of Utter Shûth: twenty thousand years he could
recollect. To him, the ascendancy of the Sun was but a recent phenomenon; he had
witnessed far stranger and more
ancient things. Ebony had been an ally for a while, long before, during the Ice in the
North.
The Trees of the South held a greater power, he recalled. Or perhaps age and distance
clouded his memory. All of Shûth had been jungle then; rich and verdant, and malign as
Throile.
Yeshe turned her head, and a discordant clash of gongs sounded from deep within the
Temple,
signalling that Idyam, the demilich, was finally deigning to take counsel.
As if in response, Anumid’s voice echoed in the minds of every immortal.
The Tree is no threat: I have seen beyond the Veils. In her mercy Cheshne spares the
interlopers on her threshold, but she exacts a price: one will return; one other will join
her. A Great One. Kaala-anala demands that you raise her pavillion. Henceforth, the Fires
of Death will abide in the Temple. Visuit will attend her. Jahi and Yeshe may remain. The
rest of you will continue your removal to Thond: you will pay homage.
“Indeed?” Temenun spoke softly, but those a hundred miles distant still heard him.
In this I am the Mouthpiece of Cheshne. I may not be gainsayed.
“Of course,” the Tiger purred.
**
Eadric drew a heavy fur across the opening to his tent and turned to sit on a crude stool.
An oil-lamp dimly lit the space: a ten-foot circle with spartan furnishings. There was no
pallet; although he found the experience refreshing on occasion, the Ahma did not require
sleep. Only privacy.
In his left hand, he held a sphere of adamant, upon the surface of which color might
occasionally move; in his right, Lukarn, its light currently subdued.
He tapped the former with the latter, eliciting brief flashes of total illumination.
Show Yourself, the Ahma commanded.
The face of Prince Graz’zt appeared.
Eadric resisted the urge to smash the globe with his weapon and cut down the demon as he
materialized. Instead, he breathed and slowly mastered himself.
“Times change. This will be our one and only conversation, Angula; or rather, you will
remain silent and simply listen, as dialogue holds no interest for me: if you attempt to
speak, I will annihilate you.
That which you were is no more; you have exhausted your possibilities. You are no longer
relevant.
“Now, I have a quandary; one you can probably appreciate. As the Ahma, I have
pronounced death upon you: this judgment is infallible. Yet, at present, you persist; due in
no small part to my being distracted by other, more pressing concerns. As you are also
currently the property of Mostin the
Metagnostic, it might be considered an act of legal trespass were I to smite you as you so
richly
deserve.
“Still, I am not inclined to commute this sentence, but merely suspend it on the basis of
my friendship with the wizard and the fact that he recently saved my life again. Ironically,
there are few others I would entrust you to: I am secure in the knowledge that Mostin can
always out-think you, and that he cannot use you for anything that he couldn’t find
another way of doing anyway. This decision is
pragmatic.
“This is your predicament: until such time as Mostin grows weary of your novelty and
dispossesses himself of you, your continued existence is relatively assured; at that point,
your future becomes more uncertain. I will not exchange good Temple money to procure
you, but moral persuasion might be
brought to bear upon any subsequent owner to render you into the custody of the
righteous. Assuming Mostin himself experiences no such urges. Here, then, are my words
to you:
“First, as your moral instructor: use your remaining time to reflect on the eternity of
suffering you have caused, and seek to experience one single iota of remorse: a task I
deem at the very limit of your ability to achieve. I remind you of this out of duty, more
than from any expectation that you will actually follow my advice.
“Second, as your judge and executioner: even were I persuaded of your contrition and
moved to mercy, Prince Tagur reminds me that you are still eligible for the death penalty
under Wyrish law, which makes no exception for your demonic status. I would, of course,
enforce the decision of any secular court in this matter. This knowledge will make your
moral quest more achievable as possible notions of reward or release will not distract you
from your purpose.
“Third, as one injured personally: my forgiveness, or lack thereof, is inconsequential. I am
one of countless wronged, and to forgive is not my function – I am the Ahma.
Nonetheless, I will cite my father’s murder, the assassination of Cynric of Morne, and the
abduction and torture of Nehael as those crimes which wounded me most grievously. If
that knowledge stirs some measure of satisfaction in
you, I refer you back to my first article of advice.
“If you have words, you may now speak. Please be concise in your delivery: I have many
matters to attend to.”
From his prison, the demon Graz’zt stared impassively at Eadric.
**
From a vantage point where Dream and Void and Madness met, a place where apparitions
strove to
manifest, and tendrils of unknown purpose writhed in the dreams of chthonic deities, the
demoness
Soneillon watched, and waited. Few immortal psychoses could reach so deep.
Black fire had kindled at the Veils of Oblivion, ascending in liquid sheets which
incinerated all vestige
of Being to reveal a vast, glorious emptiness. An ocean of nothingness which promised a
final end to all suffering.
After what may have been eternities, on its margin a terrible shape began to form. In
revulsion, it twisted at its own substance: a forced reification, effluxed by Unbeing itself,
or its shadow to some unknown degree. Flame and death surrounded it. It demanded
obedience.
The demoness abased herself.
With a passing thought, Kaalaanala – the Primordial Fear of Destruction – annihilated
Soneillon in an agony of unguessable magnitude; moments later, the demoness arose again
from the Void. The passage had left her sated and subdued. Soneillon swayed drowsily;
she was permitted to enjoy the sensation only briefly.
A thought which was a command was turned toward her. Soneillon hurried to obey: locate
the goddess Visuit in Dream and bring her to Azzagrat.
**
Nehael stood beside the Tree, feeling the texture of its bark with her fingertips. Nearby,
Rimilin of the Skin slept with his face pressed to the moss. The goddess looked up to
Teppu, who sat in the Tree’s lower branches.
The sprite grinned. “A great Bhiti is coming. Do Uedii and Cheshne send ambassadors or
exchange hostages?”
“Is there a distinction?” Nehael asked. “Some equilibria must be bought dearly. She will
remain in the Temple in Jashat. Her actions are circumscribed.”
“Within which bounds?” Teppu inquired archly.
Nehael sighed. “She cannot leave the Temple. She may act to the limit of her natural
senses.”
“With impunity?”
“With impunity.”
“Then Jashat cannot be assailed.”
“Realistically? No. At least, not at present.”
“You might want to inform Eadric of this tidbit.”
“The Ahma has achieved his objective to a large extent thus far: keep Wyre safe. This is his
principal charge. He will make no ill-informed assaults beneath the Pall of Dhatri.”
“And the Wild God?”
“Has yet to show himself.”
“Does he have a name?”
” Hummaz. ”
“I like it. Did you choose it?”
“No. He did.”
“Can you placate him, should his mood become violent?”
“I doubt it,” Nehael smiled grimly.
**
Nwm groaned wearily, and looked around him. Sixty spellcasters, including the wizards.
Waiting.
Mostin had called proceedings to a halt. That odd cluster of pinkish-brown motes he had
previously observed had suddenly made sense.
“You’ll have to try something different,” Mostin said. “Temenun has warded Shvar
Choryati”
“All other divinations run to the contrary,” Nwm sighed. “Why must you always be so
special?”
[Mostin]: Because Temenun is considerably more subtle than the Temple oracles.
Fortunately, I am
subtler still. You cannot stage a direct magical attack of any kind.
“Ngarh!” Nwm snarled. “Find me a meteoroid. Not too big.”
“Not so big,” Mesikammi nodded sagely. “They go very fast.”
The Alienist scowled and concentrated. Ten minutes elapsed.
[Mostin]: Here’s one.
Nwm exhaled. “Alright. Are we ready?”
Mostin had expected more preparation from Nwm; at least an idea. Vectors. Something.
There was a huge surge of magical power and a sense that his reservoir might be sucked
dry, accompanied by
another dissociation which Mostin found disturbingly euphoric. A backlash of green
lightning coursed over all present, arcing between them and burning them.
There was bright flash on the horizon. Silence. Even those who were otherwise insensitive
to such
things felt a breath of release as millions of souls were liberated: all of those whom the
Eater of Life had consumed in its unguessably long history.
Around a minute passed before the noise of the impact struck them: a growl like distant
thunder. A breeze began to stir, and quickly stiffened.
“Very impressive,” Mostin conceded.** “That almost counts as deicide.”
Nwm groaned, and shook his head.
Even as he had erased Shvar Choryati, the very source of that shadow – or so it seemed to
the Preceptor – had announced its arrival within the Interwoven Green with an expurgative
necromancy: a spell which slew everything which remained alive within two leagues of
Jashat which was not sworn in body and soul to the Dark Goddess.
Kaalaanala, the Fire of Death, abode in the Temple of Cheshne.
*“Those which glow abominably,” a term for powerful celestials.
**Epic conjuration/400d20 bludgeoning damage! Yay!
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 10-22-09
Mini-Update
Which was to have been part of a longer update, but it seemed apt to post it now.
**
[Jalael]: Observe.
The imp appeared with a pop! . It bowed.
[Mostin]: That was not a conjuration. That was a fly.
[Jalael]: In a small world, transmutation is the future. What you cannot conjure, you can
transform and coerce: functionally, they equate to the same thing – one dispel and they’re
gone.
[Mostin]: I am no mere summoner. I am the binder of the Horror. I have mastered
Celestial Princes.
Dukes of Hell quail at the very mention of my name.
[Jalael]: You need to move with the times. Think about it: [equation].
[Mostin]: !
[Shomei]: Greetings.
[Mostin]: Finally, you condescend. What transpires?
[Shomei]: In the last hour? Agalaierept has seized the throne room and the citadel with the
second legion. Chamosh is backing his bid, citing the need to maintain order; Astaroth
manipulates both of them. Belial has crowned himself emperor in Abriymoch. Azazel is
undeclared but has moved the
standard and two hundred legions to Avernus, including Bune and his malebranche shock
troops. The Iron City is locked tighter than…no cosmic superlative is possible. None of
the Antagonists are
condescending to involve themselves. Yet. When that happens, things will really heat up.
[Mostin]: And you?
[Shomei]: I remain in the library, observing all with wry detachment. Hell needs a good
war, in any case; cull the weak and eliminate some bureaucrats, I say. Can’t be bad. The
Ludjas, Mostin. Two of them, a Hazel and a Holly: they are incredibly potent. Hazel’s
Will…Azazel understands where the real locus of power now lies.
[Mostin]: You are advising him?
[Shomei]: I admit I have a soft spot for him.
[Mostin]: You still play the same game, Shomei.
[Shomei]: Fear not. I play well.
[Mostin] (Wrily): And who pulls your strings? A Tree?
[Shomei]: Actually, I suspect Amaimon.
[Mostin]: I saw a wyrm in the Web. Why?
[Shomei]: Qematiel is on the Prime.
[Mostin]: What? How?
[Shomei]: Hazel has taken a liking to her.
[Mostin]: What has happened, Shomei?
[Shomei]: The I has shifted Its paradigm. It has incarnated as a deity in Nizkur.
[Mostin]: Ah. More of a fey primal, really. Do you believe this is an artifice?
[Shomei]: On balance, no. But nor do I think it’s permanent.
Mostin opened his wine cabinet, and poured himself a large glass of kschiff. This news
would require some readjustment.
**
“What news?” Eadric asked with mock enthusiasm.
Nwm sat, and gestured toward another stool. “I suggest you do the same. Those whom
Shvar Choryati ate are gone.”
“Gone?” Eadric asked.
“As in not recoverable. Reincarnation is not an option. They were…snatched. As it were.
They have already been afforded new forms.”
” By whom? ”
“The principal suspect is a fey entity named Hummaz. Mostin equates him with
‘Oronthon’s Adversary in the diminishing Infinity.’ Mostin’s terminology is odd, but I
understand his gist. The transition might be likened to Teppu’s; or perhaps more akin to
Nehael’s.”
Time seemed to slow to a crawl for the Ahma. He cocked his head and looked at Nwm.
“You are telling me…”
“There is no Adversary.”
There is no Adversary.
“And…this…Hummaz?” The Ahma inquired.
“That is a relationship you must negotiate. He is wild; fickle; violent; passionate. And
prurient.”
“I think I preferred the prior iteration,” Eadric sighed. “Ethics? Morals? An opposition
thereto?”
“None. More accurately, such concepts are not germane. Will has become Instinct.”
“Magic?” The Ahma asked tentatively.
Nwm stretched his arms apart.
Eadric groaned.
“He’s laid claim to a substantial tract of forest. He has a number of servitors around him.”
” Servitors?”
“But I do not believe him to be overtly political,” Nwm added hastily. “He is innocent of
such matters –
and yes, I choose my language carefully. Eadric, if you have any remaining notions of sin,
you would do best to divest yourself of them. The Axes have shifted. Wherever they’re
going, it’s not back.”
“I have only one question,” Eadric spoke steadily. “Is it possible that Oronthon’s
Adversary – whom, lest we forget, possesses a not undeserved reputation for being the
most conniving and deceitful entity in existence – has somehow duped the Tree- ludja?”
Nwm considered briefly, and nodded. “That is a good question. I suppose time will tell.”
“Do you bring other good news?”
“Oh yes,” Nwm nodded. “Plenty. Remain seated. A chthonic deity named Kaalaanala has
taken up residence in Jashat. Orcus has withdrawn from the front: he fled from Irel over
Ardan, and could be anywhere. Dhatri has settled in Thond – for the time being; she is
hungry, after being carried around for so long. Two hosts have left the Temple compound:
Visuit and Yeshe lead the smaller, and it will reach Fumaril in four days. The larger is
bound for Thond: the demilich is moving with his deathshriekers and, I suspect, Temenun
also. Aside from the goddess in residence and a few dozen priests, the Temple of Cheshne
is empty.”
“How do you know this?”
“Certain stones gossip too much.”
“Are you suggesting an assault?” The Ahma asked.
Nwm shook his head fervently. “Quite the opposite. She would kill us all. Avoid going
within ten miles, at all costs.”
“We should move to intercept the smaller host. How many are there?”
“Twelve thousand, half of whom are cavalry. Plus light aerial support – succubi, mainly.
And goristros
– but only a few dozen: most of the temple defense is with the larger army. But Guho has
joined them and there are lots of the longhairs in Visuit’s train. They are currently
grounded: Mulissu has made the weather uncomfortable. They are devising sorceries to
counteract her spell.”
“And Pazuzu?”
“Ortwine hunts him.”
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 12-13-2009
*
Storm Sorceries; Demons’ Amulets.
Nwm had described the weather as uncomfortable.
Mulissu had generated a windstorm thirty miles in diameter over the warm waters north of
Pandicule, and moved it to occupy a position between Fumaril and Jashat; ahead of it, a
derecho had formed
through which tornados churned with distressing frequency.
Eadric sat upon Narh on a low rise in the darkness beneath the Pall of Dhatri, gazing
southward at a large enemy host. Eastwards, the haunted city of Jashat and the soaring
pinnacles of the Temple of Cheshne were a blot of corruption on his perception. The Ahma
was magically concealed and his sight had been supernaturally enhanced to penetrate all
shadows; still, his vision compared nothing to Lai’s, who balanced easily in hawk-shape
upon his helm. The noise of the wind was deafening.
The enemy had erected a defense against the storm, creating a smaller bubble of calmer
weather which mitigated – but did not altogether counter – the magicks invoked by
Mulissu and her cabal. Conjured allies – monoliths, storm-drakes, djinn and lesser
elementals – skirmished continually with the
Cheshnite outriders and van: clouds formed, discharged lightning and dissipated, and
downdrafts
erupted and vanished as a dozen competing sorcerous demands were placed on the local
weather
system.
Visuit was less than a mile away, hewing her way through everything in her path.
[Lai]: You study your enemy?
[Eadric]: Yes.
[Lai]: Do you see any weakness?
[Eadric]: None. She is the perfect warrior.
[Lai]: And what is your strategy?
[Eadric]: Prayer. The adepts are exhausted; Nwm is almost empty of power.
An urge. The goddess paused in her butchery.
A feeling of quietude.
“She senses something is amiss. That she is being observed.” Lai hissed and squawked
through the roaring wind.
“I thought we were inscrutable.”
“And so we are,” Lai nodded. “Warded from her sight, sound, touch, smell and all her
divine faculties.
But not from her instincts.”
“If that is the case…”
Before he could finish his sentence, a cloud passed over his consciousness, numbing his
soul.
Kaalaanala, he knew. Visuit had invoked the great Bhiti‘s name; the Fires of Death had
instantly located him.
” Enemy Captain. I know you’re there. ” Visuit’s voice, and the urge to unimaginable
violence, carried to all across the battlefield.
The Butcher began to move towards them. She gestured with her hand: an invitation to
combat.
And now the ravenous perception of the Dark Goddess in Jashat was a terrible presence in
the Ahma‘s mind.
Get out of my head!
…
Get out!
…
Nehael!
(I am powerless).
[YOU WILL DIE. ]
“We have to get out of here,” Lai said.
Eadric nodded.
The Green was warm as their forms dissolved into it. Annihilation became a memory.
**
Ortwine corporeated from wind walking and floated, invisible and mind blanked a mile
above the water.
The air was cold and clear. Heedless stirred restlessly in her hand.
She had chased a vaporous Pazuzu around the cape of Nivorn, across the hills of Ardan,
and for more than a thousand miles over open ocean. The pursuit had lasted thirty-three
hours, and had demanded a focus more than she thought herself capable of maintaining.
Never losing sense of him. And he was
more slippery than an eel; her initial attempts to dominate him had proven utterly futile.
Finally, convinced that he had eluded any pursuit, the demon gyred and turned towards the
west.
Ortwine waited patiently. She sheathed Heedless; it writhed as she forced it back into its
scabbard, and then projected silent telepathic anger at the sidhe.
Pazuzu materialized and began to work magic; Ortwine cursed, and began to fly silently
towards him at speed. She had no notion of his intention; she had no need: demon princes
casting spells never boded well. She carefully scrutinized his shape as she closed,
scanning him him minutely.
Pazuzu – who had begun to invoke a ward of some complexity – stopped abruptly as he
perceived the
slightest breeze waft past him, and felt something snap. He began to scream with
incredulity and rage and groped wildly at his throat.
Ortwine materialized a hundred yards ahead of him.
“You want this?” In her hand, she held his amulet.
He struck her, full force, with an eldritch thunderbolt. It dissipated upon contact with her.
Ortwine laughed.
He raised his hand as if to strike her again.
And instead became vaporous and vanished.
Ortwine scowled, and followed him with her Sight. She tied Pazuzu’s amulet around her
own neck.
Oh, that’s good, she thought.
The chase resumed.
**
“What you seen to fail to appreciate,” Mostin said to Nwm through gritted teeth, “Is the
power of this dragon.”
“She is a hellfire wyrm.”
“Yes. No. Of sorts,” the Alienist gave an irritated gesture. “She predates them. She may
even predate the Fall. And she has not migrated in the sense of Hummaz. Not even in the
sense of Mulissu – which is to say very little. She has been seduced by the Hazel- ludja;
which apparently has connotations of magickal Will.”
“Apparently so,” Nwm nodded. “Although this is hardly a surprising correspondence.”
“The Urn could…”
“Ngarh! You and your damned urn.”
“It is pivotal,” Mostin sighed. “If you think the Tree- ludja is omnipotent, think again. It is
compromised by this admission of the Cheshnite Bhiti; and from the outset by permitting
the I to remain here in any form. I use the Antinomian descriptor for Hummaz – which
stands, according to Shomei, and she is
reasonably well informed in such matters – because there are many infinities at work here
invisible to you.”
“And not to you?”
“Correct,” Mostin nodded. “They are merely opaque. Many correspondences: Kaalaanala
– Ancient Hellfire – the Wyrm – the Aeon.”
“Why the Aeon?” Nwm asked suspiciously.
“I have concurred that it was the Aeon which…lurched…at me through the web of motes.”
[Formula]
“Why do you persist in…”
“It is my contention that the Aeon is fundamentally draconic,” Mostin stared madly. “It
was Qematiel who…lurched…at me through the web of motes.”
“Wait!” Nwm held up his hand. “I am lost. Which is it?”
Mostin stopped speaking, and considered. “Infinities are bleeding. It makes divination
complex. In any event, I don’t have the Urn, and the reason I don’t have the Urn was
because I was saving your sorry skins from annihilation; a service for which I am
rewarded by a massive curtailment of magical power.
“How fortunate for us that you are so selfless,” Nwm said drily.
“Do you understand that Qematiel is Ancient Hellfire. The wyrm which the Adversary will
ride to the Oronthonist eschaton?” Mostin asked steadily.
“That reality is dead.”
“Maybe. But Qematiel is not. This assumes, of course, the Adversary himself is not
making some cosmic play. I have a plan…”
Nwm groaned.
“Hear me out,” Mostin raised his appendage. “I need to convene a cabal. And I need your
help…”
“Why?”
“I have an inkling. I will conjure Soneillon again as I need to talk to her. Outside of your
loop. You have to get me there.”
“You’re insane. How far outside?”
“I don’t care. Just far enough. Then I’ll make my way to the astral retreat. But give me a
couple of days.
There are tomes in Ardanese monasteries which I need to consult.”
“You have twenty-four hours. I plan on being in Fumaril thereafter.”
Mostin scowled. “Can you get me to Esoc?”
“You can get there yourself,” Nwm answered. “You’ll have to walk the last mile, but it’s
generally polite to approach on foot, in any case.” [Look: oak -> oak -> beech -> oak ->
rowan]
“How many of these things have you made?”
“A few dozen,” he shrugged. “It’s getting hard to remember where they all are. Hlioth has
fashioned many more.”
**
[Ortwine]: Priestess!
[Mesikammi]: Your largeness?
[Ortwine]: Mesi, now is not the time for banter. My foe will not turn to let me kill him. I
bore of this chase.
[Mesikammi]: You wish for my help?
[Ortwine]: I am issuing a divine command. Conjure a storm and force him down.
[Mesikammi]: Such an effect would be tiring at this distance.
[Ortwine]: There is kelp nearby; you can manifest yourself closer.
[Mesikammi]: I must also get wet?
[Ortwine]: I will grant you a boon, as befits faithful service.
[Mesikammi]: Perhaps a pretty bauble, recently won?
[Ortwine]: Mesi, do you spy on me? Truly, you are a worthy servant.
[Mesikammi]: An image of your holiness appears in my mind.
[Ortwine]: Such devotion should not go unrewarded. The amulet is a delight, I confess; I
will bestow a different bounty, if you show a little patience.
[Mesikammi]: I can spare a little, but not too much.
Close by, the shamaness appeared. A wind began to gather.
**
Voicing her name was enough to invoke her; Nehael could offer no protection against her.
This boded ill.
Presently, Oak and Elm shielded the Wyrish encampment with their power – not just the
scions in the nearby vale, but the ludjas themselves, from deep within Nizkur. But this was
not an effect which the Ahma was comfortable relying on – trees having their own,
peculiar agenda. Nor was it of much use beond the zone of the ludjas‘ perception. And
Eadric had no intention of entrenching permanently at Galda, despite the rapidly
completed fortification of the site.
The Ahma therefore issued an edict, announced by archons who attended him. Trumpets
rang, and the voices of celestials carried the proclamation to all within the Wyrish camp:
The name of the enemy in Jashat is anathema and may not be spoken: likewise, the name
of the enemy war-goddess, and any of the abhorred names of Ancient Darkness.
All iconography, all material representation, all literature containing reference to any
such entities is forthwith deemed blasphemous and must be surrendered immediately.
Practice Saizhan.
Eadric summoned Tuan Muat, a Talion whose prior acts had denied him bliss, and
anointed him. The
Inquisition was formally revived.
“Start with the aristocracy,” Eadric motioned. “Refrain from physical coercion until
they’ve had a chance to think about it.”
” Ahma,” the Inquistor began. “Many of the most ancient Temple texts…”
“Impound them,” Eadric said. “In fact, confiscate them first, then start on the aristocracy.
We need to set a good example, after all. This is a practical measure, not a philosophical
one.”
“The Irrenites aren’t going to like this,” Tuan Muat observed.
“Bring me Sineig.” Eadric sighed.
“And the wizards?”
Eadric groaned. “Be politic, Inquisitor. A little pragmatic hypocrisy is no bad thing. My
concern is with the ignorant; wizards must monitor themselves.”
“And if one articulates these forbidden names or concepts in one’s thoughts?” Tagur
asked.
“Then they must be demonstrated to be un-True,” the Ahma nodded. “Hence, we practice
Saizhan. We must move. I need a sizeable force before noon tomorrow: I plan to relieve
Fumaril.”
“How many?”
“Two thousand horse and eight thousand foot – half pike and half archers. Illuminated and
Templars.
I’ll take whatever Thalassine bombards you have, as well. With cold iron shot.”
“A little more notice would be appreciated,” Prince Tagur sighed.
“Just get them together in one place. Nwm will do the rest.”
“I understand the principle,” Tagur said. “And a little more notice would be appreciated.”
“Noted,” the Ahma nodded. “You have my apology, your Highness. Your tenure in the
Serenities does not seem to have diminished your acidity.”
“Oh,” Prince Tagur sounded mildly disappointed. “I had rather hoped that it had.”
**
At midnight, in Nizkur, all was darkness.
In a certain set of glades named Raithin Gabro, to the south of the forest and not too far
from the marches of Tyndur, a power accumulated around an ancient stone named the
Cleta; one of the many erratics or storrs which dotted the valleys nearby.
The area was a wild one: bare hilltops thrust above dense stands of pine. Further west, a
forlorn strand stretched beneath rearing cliffs. Those tracts had a reputation for savage and
malicious feys of every hue. It was here that Hummaz had elected to establish his realm:
an area, to all intents and purposes, of Faerie proper.
From the bole of the Tree, a hundred miles to the north, Nehael’s perception ranged wide
over the land, absorbing all.
“What do you see?” Teppu asked excitedly. “He makes no efforts to impede your sight?”
“None,” Nehael sighed. “Faerie awakens. I see areas of dusk and gloam and magic, and
quicklings moving in the shadows. I see sidhe fortresses perched on windy crags, and
hoary hunters preparing to
ride. There are eight scions…”
” Eight? ”
“Holly and Hazel, obviously. A Willow. Others. Curiously, also a Yew. Ninit. The Boars.
They have reincarnated. And those whom the Eater of Light consumed; the forest is
alive.”
“I sense no Awakening.”
“I speak figuratively. The trees remain dormant, for the most part. But all of the most
robust who were were taken by Shvar Choryati have transmigrated. They have lost none
of their potency; they are now fey.”
“Sidhe?”
“Many. And tree-wyrds and other genii. And nymphs and satyrs. The latter revel as we
speak. Hummaz is drunk.”
“One hopes that this is not a prelude to some rampage,” Teppu sighed.
“His mood seems amiable enough. He smiles drowsily at me.”
**
Mostin augmented and warded himself with powerful spells, and plane shifted to an area
where reality maelstroms churned through Void. Mile-long shards of matter span slowly
on their axes, flickering on the edge of annihilation.
A telepathic bond connected him to Jalael, Troap and Daunton, who were ensconced in the
astral retreat, forty-seven shattered dimensions distant. Mostin’s sensory experience was
conveyed directly into the other wizards’ minds.
[Daunton]: Pan left. Up a little.
Mostin scowled.
In the far distance, dominating all, a redoubt of substance which the Blackthorn- ludja had
gathered around itself. Like a vast mountain floating capsized in space, fragments of
Zelatar – complete with minarets, domes and viper groves – comprised its inverted flanks.
About its base, a fence of lesser peaks thrust upwards to surround a forested bowl twenty
miles wide, at the centre of which, Mostin knew, the malign Blackthorn brooded. Flights
of chthonics – which erupted spontaneously and
vanished as quickly – avoided proximity to the great Tree.
Mostin wrought magic, and brought his will to bear upon the planar flux near him. In a
previous cycle, Graz’zt had made spells of his own for the same purpose: vast in scope,
and taking millennia to
complete. Strands of plasm flowed; matter quickly agglomerated, assuming shapes and
angles
possessed of a disturbing quality. The aesthetic was peculiar in the extreme.
The Alienist drew a rod of cold iron two feet long from a portable hole, and scratched a
wide circle about himself quickly. Within it, he scribed a set of complex runes and glyphs
with uncanny speed and precision, pausing occasionally to recollect. With a motion, the
rod vanished and the scrawl became a perfectly engraved tracery of iron.
Mostin stood inside the circle, muttered, and made a brief gesture.
A gate opened, and Soneillon appeared without duress.
Mostin recoiled, and reflexively assumed his pseudonatural shape as a churning vortex of
darkness
attempted to engulf him. It failed – barely – to penetrate a hemisphere which had sprung
into existence around the wizard. Mostin swallowed with many mouths: he had thought to
err in his protective ward with a wide margin of safety.
Soneillon withdrew and immediately became a demure child with wide eyes.
“Mostin. How delightful to see you again. Forgive my enthusiasm to embrace you.”
Mostin remained in tentacled form, a thousand eyes directed suspiciously at the demoness.
He knew
that she could endure any magic he presently had at his command: in Uzzhin, it appeared,
she had not only undergone a powerful pseudogenesis, but had taken tutelage with one of
the elder horrors;
spellwarp clung heavily to her. A number of transvalent spells protected her.
“Let’s negotiate,” the Alienist said wisely.
” A Flame Precedes the Aeon, Mostin. It troubles my dreams. What does it mean?”
Mostin resumed his humanoid shape, looked at his hand, and cocked his head quizzically.
“Why do we find such forms necessary?”
“For you, sentimentality; for me, habit. Mostin, your evasiveness needs much work: the
question still stands.”
“You might volunteer a little first,” the Alienist smiled. “Given the level of mutual distrust
which we must first overcome. Note that I have conjured you without compulsion in a
locale which is suitably secure for you.”
“I have accepted an invitation; that hardly qualifies as grounds for debt. And good luck in
your efforts to bind me. Still, I will tell you this: Carasch gathers darkness to himself; he
prepares an oneiric assault.
It will come in three days.”
Mostin raised his eyebrows. “He is bold to move against the Seraphim. The Tree may swat
him for his insolence.”
“Or ignore him, as a fly. The fence has holes for those who know where to look. Only the
great bhitis dream deeper than Carasch. A Flame Precedes the Aeon? ”
“An opportunity to actualize the Urn, now passed,” Mostin sighed.
“Which Flame?”
“In the Urgic sense; an iota of Perfect Radiance. Manifested when the Sela transmigrated.”
“But you lost the Flame,” Soneillon understood. “You search for another. Still, you
withold much; some component of the equation is absent.”
“This is to be expected,” Mostin nodded. “You are my enemy.”
“I am/not what I am/not,” Soneillon snorted. “And you I bear no more malice than the rest
of Creation, Mostin. If I were to proffer a little more, would you bite?”
“In this case, I regret I must decline. There is no article of knowledge which you possess
which might be of equivalent value. You can surrender the Urn, to be privy.”
Soneillon smiled sweetly. “Unlikely. But I am also reminded that analas – which is to say
flames –
come in a variety of colors. Perhaps ruddy or black? One might ask why there is a Hellfire
Atavism lurking in the woods? Or would Carasch burn with sufficient heat, I wonder? Or
the goddess in Jashat, the Death- Anala herself?”
Mostin shifted uncomfortably.
“You see,” Soneillon placed her palms together. “The Void has opened, Mostin. It draws
other forms spiralling into it. My power waxes.”
“A Tree sits atop your palace and has enslaved your cabal,” Mostin sneered. “You have no
foundation.”
Soneillon drew close to the circle’s edge, placing childlike hands upon the invisible
barrier. “The Cherry can wait. Chthonic axes will hew its roots in due course. Understand
me, Mostin: I have been Outside and I have returned. I know what you know; I’ve seen
what you have seen. Is there no potential for productive discourse?”
“Certainly. That is why I called you. Some topics must presently remain taboo, however.
With which
did you apprentice when you were Outside?”
Soneillon laughed. “You would not believe me if I told you.”
“An entity of some reputation, I assume?”
“Something hidden, Mostin.”
“Then this I must know,” Mostin said wrily.
“Vhorzhe,” Soneillon whispered. “My sponsor is Vhorzhe, Mostin.”
The Alienist gaped at her.
“I told you that you wouldn’t believe me.”
“No,” Mostin said grimly; the solutions to a number of nagging equations had already
presented themselves in his mind. “I believe you well enough. You found a
Pseudodaemonic Infinity.”
“You should be more careful when targeting your banishments, Mostin. I didn’t even have
to look.”
“The spell is named Pilgrimage,” Mostin said bitterly. “An apt descriptor in your case, or
so it would appear. Trust me Soneillon, were necromancy within my purview, I’d have
happily obliterated you
instead.”
She smiled coyly. “Mostin, sometimes you speak such charming words.”
“Nor did I name any particular pseudolocus for the spell. I find the prospect of
coincidence
improbable.”
“To discover that one has been manipulated by an unknown agent is never a happy
moment,”
Soneillon’s eyes narrowed.
[Daunton]: Vhorzhe?
[Troap]: Enlighten me?
[Jalael]: Mostin was apprenticed to him. A disagreeable sort, by all accounts. Shomei
knew him.
Mostin’s over-hyped Horror abducted him previously.
Mostin scowled. A wizard’s dirty laundry was seldom a pleasant sight.
[Mostin]: Enough! Begone! I will relate the shabby details in Fumaril.
The Alienist summarily dismissed the other wizards from his mind.
In a chamber of the astral retreat, Jalael looked hard at Daunton. “He is so damnably
arrogant. Will he now strike some deal without our knowledge? Why do we endure this
tyrannical lunatic as our
spokesman?”
Daunton raised an eyebrow, and glanced at Graz’zt’s token, which hung around the Hag’s
neck; her
greatest treasure gained from the binding of the demon prince.
“Profit,” the diviner replied sagely.
**
Otwine swore. Divine blood erupted in a cloud from delicate fey skin as a sonic of great
magnitude struck her. Heedless was a blur in her hand. It screamed ecstatically.
The Demon had gone to ground on an unnamed island; ancient olive groves, long
abandoned by some
ocean-going culture, clung to the steep slopes of a dormant volcanic peak. The trees were
being ripped from their roots and hurled into the sky from the force of the wind which
Mesikammi had conjured.
Pazuzu spat a gout of corrupted acid over Ortwine; she saw the droplets spin through the
air towards her and somehow avoided each. The wind carried the black vapor harmlessly
away.
“This.”
Ortwine opened a gashing wound across the demon’s chest.
“Is.”
And another.
“Just.”
And another.
“Too.”
And another.
“Easy.”
And another.
It was. The cornered demon prince screamed in rage and frustration. His remaining magic
was
impotent against her; his claws could find no purchase to inject their ineffectual venom.
She outpaced him. Out-fought him. Out-thought him. He was stuck in this accursed place.
“I yield,” Pazuzu screeched above the wind. It was a violation of his pact with Yeshe, but
he cared nothing for that any longer; all of the old rules had been overturned.
“Thanks,” Ortwine cut his head off.
The gale subsided abruptly.
Reaching down, the sidhe-goddess retrieved a rod of intricate design ending in a golden
claw. She plucked a long feather from the fallen demon’s wing.
“For Mostin,” she smiled to Mesikammi.
The clouds parted: for a moment, the Sun shone brighter; a great bird seemed to pass
across its disc.
Upon the ground, the broken remains of the Prince of the Lower Aerial Kingdoms burned
swiftly; ash was carried away on a gentle breeze.
Ortwine made a rude gesture towards the Luminary. “I didn’t ask for your opinion. I’d
have taken another feather, if I’d known.”
**
The Ahma retired grimly to his tent. As he entered, a movement within it prompted him to
draw Lukarn in a flash.
He found himself gazing at his own reflection and swallowed. Resting on a stand, not a
mirror but a round shield, burnished to perfection. Once Melimpor’s shield, hammered
fresh by celestial smiths, then cloven by Visuit; it had been cast yet again. A delicate
device of Tree-and-Sun was etched upon it.
Around its circle, between its rim and wide boss, phoenixes took flight; they seemed to
wheel
incessantly as the observer moved this way and that. Lukarn‘s light was reflected as with a
green and gold fire.
“Strike it,” a voice said from behind him. It was Jaliere.
“I…”
” Strike it! ” The god demanded. “Hew at it with all your strength. Smash it. Shiver it.”
The Ahma gathered his power and dealt a terrific blow with his weapon, two-handed,
striking the shield’s upper rim. The stand shattered. The shield sank into the dirt floor
under the force of the assault, but otherwise bore no mark.
“Good,” Jaliere nodded.
“I…”
“Don’t bother,” the god of the forge grunted. “Your account is still firmly in the black.”
“There is no debt. I have never expected payment.” Eadric shook his head.
“Hence, you deserve it,” Jaliere replied. The god regarded him. ” Ahma, in Soan they
build a great temple to you.”
“No!” Eadric stepped back and his face contorted. “I cannot be worshipped.”
“Then you must disabuse your worshippers of their prayerful notions,” Jaliere sighed. “I
wish you all the best in that endeavour.”
“And why are they building temples? A few thousands; barely returned from death. They
must feed themselves. Clothe themselves. Build shelter.”
Jaliere laughed. “The gods and ancestors are not idle in Sisperi, Ahma. And it has already
been five years.”
“Five years?”
“In Sisperi. Saes changed the passage of time; increased the pace of mortality – if only for
a little while.
The negotiation between her and Ortwine? Were you not present?”
“In body only,” the Ahma smiled.
Eadric lifted the shield, and wiped the dirt from its rim. The tree in its design was –
unmistakeably – a yew.
“How did you know it was a Yew?” He asked.
“Lai sees much,” Jaliere replied.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 12-25-2009
Fumaril – Part 1.
The Ahma stood on the balcony of the Tyrant’s palace and gazed eastwards. Tents now
crowded the baileys below, but all was gloomy and indistinct, save the throne room behind
him; in that narrow
space alone, Mulissu had found enough power to counteract the oppressive darkness of the
Pall of Dhatri. It was the only light for a hundred miles.
Nwm – who rested after the transportation of many companies of Wyrish troops – had
resolved to
counter the spell locally, at least to a mile or two beyond Fumaril’s walls. Mostin –
unusually animated
– had made calculations which made the Preceptor groan. To do so would be a massive
drain on their already stretched magical resources.
Initially, Mostin had been sceptical; news of vampires and spectres had caused him to
reconsider. “You need get the timing right. Fry as many as you can. And you need to start
conserving resources. Squeeze every drop. I have it. Look: [Formula].”
“You may use plain speak.”
” Lukarn,” Mostin said. “As the focus. Gather them up and perform the ritual now. Then
you take a rest.
Be fresh later.
Nwm stared blankly.
” Limited resources,” Mostin reminded him. “Visuit will be knocking on the doors in less
than twelve hours.”
“Very well. Limited resources. You’re in. Help spread the pain around.”
Eadric remained solemn throughout, brooding upon the strategic situation. As he handed
Lukarn to Nwm for the purpose of the spell; a general presentiment of unease possessed
him.
Visuit’s maneuver with the multiple gates and chthonic summons at Cirone had
demonstrated to the Ahma that the goddess – while relishing direct, bloody conflict – had
a number of other tools at her disposal. Her assault would be fast, brutal, and
extraordinarily well-coordinated. No chthonic
intervention could tip the scales this time; in that regard, the threat was at least more
quantifiable.
Mostin had observed that banishing her again was also not possible as long as the Tree’s
interdict held.
She must therefore be killed; Eadric’s preferred solution, certainly, but not one which was
obviously achievable.
The hairs of the back of his neck stood abruptly, and his eyes widened.
She was.
Here.
” Nwm!” He screamed. “Sword!”
The Preceptor tossed him back his weapon.
**
In the courtyard directly below the balcony there was an eruption of earth and rock which
hurled
flagstones fifty feet into the air; the ground heaved and rippled like liquid. Guho had
conjured an earth-
spirit – a dao prince of considerable prestige – and negotiated a terrene passage for four
travellers. The Worm-that-Walks was accompanied by the goddess Visuit, Yeshe the
Binder, and Choach, manifesting
a fresh form from his hidden phylactery.
Upon his arrival, the lich immediately scoured all trace of life from the courtyard with a
massive acid evocation. Yeshe struck the façade of the palace with a powerful vibration
which caused it to collapse.
The Ahma and Nwm were borne away in an avalanche of rubble. The Alienist – alerted by
a moment of prescience – had hopped onto a more secure foundation, now a pilon of
masonry extending from the
stricken building.
Mostin stopped time.
*
He considered, and many eyes absorbed many details; his mind processed perception
rapidly. Why this moment? What was the qualifier which had divined this point in time for
their attack? The Ahma parted momentarily from Lukarn? Their foresight was subtle, or
the synchronicity apt.
Visuit was in mid-leap, her monstrous weapon raised above her head and ready to fall;
whether her
target was Nwm or Eadric was impossible to say: it was likely that the goddess herself had
not yet made that determination.
Guho was in the act of casting another transvalent spell; the accretion of magic around her
revealed much. It was an enchantment; a bad one, designed to punch through mind blanks.
And her attention was turned in his direction.
Choach and Yeshe were both gathering their power again, but their specific intention was
unknown.
Furthermore, a complex lattice of unidirectional antimagic protected both; a network of
fine gaps in Mostin’s arcane perception. That would be a problem.
Behind him, in the throne-room, Mesikammi was conjuring…something. Mulissu was
fortifying
herself: air crackled; the metallic reek of ozone reached his nose. Daunton had begun to
protect himself as best he could. Tahl was roaring Get Out! at everyone else.
Ortwine’s location was unknown.
Mostin augmented his consciousness to godlike proportions and refocused. Backlash
cascaded over
him.
*
As time recommenced, he targeted Guho with the Mhuerh Resonance, a sonic of terrific
power. The aberration exploded into a million pieces.
The Alienst launched a disjunction at Yeshe and Choach, but it slithered off of their
protective shells.
From nowhere, Heedless, flying through the air, bit into Visuit’s gorget but was turned by
the hammered layers of black adamant. Her armor pulsed with death runes in anger.
Mostin experienced a brief dissonance: in an unrealized future, the goddess had brought
her weapon down upon Nwm, slaying him instantly, and cleaving into Eadric, smashing
through his armor; in the realized, Ortwine had used a spell to avert the possibility at the
last moment. Instead, Visuit’s sword opened a wound from the Preceptor’s shoulder to his
belly and left him senseless.
The Ahma smote her with all his power. She leered at him.
At the behest of the goddess, Choach sealed the area surrounding Nwm, Eadric and Visuit
with a
transvalent spell: a spherical wall of force which encapsulated a bubble of antimagic. All
dweomers failed within it, but Ortwine did not manifest; Mostin guessed that she had
somehow jumped free.
Visuit smiled. As potent as her own artifacts might be, in an area of dead magic she had a
huge
advantage.
Yeshe struck Mostin with a spell contrived to imprison souls; his spellwarp absorbed it,
energizing him.
She followed with a quickened superb dispelling, divesting him of most of his magical
protections.
Mulissu stopped time.
*
Mostin was poised upon the remains of the balcony at the very edge of illumination.
Below, in shadow, Yeshe’s contorted face was caught in the act of voicing an execration.
Mulissu considered the bubble around Eadric and Visuit, and glanced at Yeshe and
Choach. It would be one or the other.
She erected a prismatic wall directly in front of Mostin, sealing off three-quarters of the
opening in the blasted façade, and preventing Choach from targeting either the Alienist or
Daunton. Next, she
conjured an air monolith, which remained in a paradoxical stasis, its unmoving-churning
base
threatening Yeshe and the lich. The savant gathered her thoughts.
Time recommenced.
*
Mulissu darted into the air and targeted the encysted antimagic surrounding the Ahma with
a superb dispelling, evaporating it instantly. Simultaneously, the monolith was a churning
vortex which sucked Choach into it.
With a thought, Mulissu stopped time again.
*
The savant scowled at Visuit. The Butcher was nigh-invulnerable to her magic, and her
options with regard to the goddess were limited. She quickly scanned Yeshe with a
powerful spell and raised an
eyebrow.
You stupid, arrogant bitch, Mulissu thought. You have no idea
She invoked a mantle of egregious might, and concentrated.
Time recommenced.
*
Mulissu struck Yeshe with an antimagic ray and conjured two spheres of ball lightning
which blazed as they hammered into the immortal. Yeshe gaped in pain and amazement.
Tendrils of lightning wrapped
around her.
Choach uttered a swift destruction, causing the elemental around him to disintegrate in an
explosion of black fire, and directed an empowered energy drain at Mulissu which failed
to pierce her wards.
Mostin stopped time.
*
The Alienist was shaken; his most potent defenses were stripped from him. He granted
himself the
power of flight, moved out from behind the prismatic wall, and briefly surveyed the scene.
His magical sight had also been suppressed; shapes were blurry and vague.
Mulissu was floating above the courtyard, traceries of static lightning surrounding her.
Choach was below her. Yeshe’s power was muted by antimagic.
Mostin descended, conjured a prismatic sphere directly in front of Choach, and refocused.
Time recommenced.
*
Mostin became a hideous thing. A barbed tentacle lashed out and dragged the lich through
the seven layers of shimmering light which surrounded the Alienist. Undaunted and
unaffected, Choach dropped another superb dispelling – this time on the entire area below
the prismatic wall.
All magic ceased, save for the Pall of Dhatri only. The pervasive gloom reasserted itself in
the perception of all present; suddenly, everything became real, and shadowy.
For a brief moment, all eyes turned to Mostin.
His form remained the same.
*
From nowhere, a subdued Heedless was about Yeshe: Ortwine – now visible as a swift
shadow – was finding gaps within the Binder’s armor. Yeshe staggered under the assault.
Visuit glowered at the insensible Nwm and cut him down in an instant. She continued with
a ferocious attack upon Eadric, dealing huge punishment to him and forcing him
backwards. He could barely stand, much less focus; Lukarn dropped from his hand; his
strength ebbed away.
A boar – one of the enormous Gultheins, conjured by Mesikammi – burst out of the
throne-room and ploughed into Visuit, carrying her thirty feet into a balustrade with an
explosion of rubble. Yeshe became insubstantial and flitted away as Mulissu targeted her
with a barrage of lightning orbs. Tahl leapt down to Nwm’s side, and revivified him.
Mostin, a writhing mass of appendages, ripped Choach apart and flung skeletal remains in
all
directions.
Magic surged as a score of artifacts reawakened.
*
Visuit slew the boar with a single, great swipe of her sword. Power coursed through her
again now. She turned her attention back to Eadric.
In a heartbeat, Ortwine closed the distance, scooped up Lukarn and pressed it into the
Ahma‘s gauntleted fist. The weapon stirred; Eadric’s faculties returned abruptly.
“That way,” Ortwine said, orienting him. “You’re doing fine.”
Daunton erected a wall of force in front of the Butcher, sealing her into a corner.
“How long do we have?” Eadric asked.
“I’d guess about six seconds,” Ortwine replied.
“Did I miss much?” Nwm asked. Tahl had healed him.
Another spell from Daunton facilitated a telepathic bond amongst all present.
**
[Mostin]: Ignore Yeshe. Target Visuit.
[Mulissu]: Forget it. I’ve got nothing. We need to take out her goon.
Yeshe – vaporous and hidden somewhere nearby in the gloom – used telekinesis to lift
Visuit into the air over the wall of force and deposited her directly in front of Eadric, Nwm
and Ortwine.
Mulissu – aware only of the Binder’s approximate location – blasted the area around
Yeshe and Mostin with a string of powerful electrical evocations. The Alienist – happily
immune to lightning, and
realizing the wisdom of Mulissu’s words – followed suit with a sonic barrage.
[Nwm]: I’ll take whatever you’ve got.
[Eadric + Mesikammi + Tahl]: Ready.
[Ortwine]: You’d better finish this.
A pillar of green fire consumed Visuit. She screamed in agony; a sound which rocked the
foundations of Fumaril. Thundering forwards in a rage, she slew Nwm for a second time,
her great, curved sword, cutting him limb from limb in a flurry of deadly strokes.
Daunton struck the goddess with a dispelling; momentarily, her armor subsided into
quiescence.
Yeshe had vanished into the darkness.
Mostin smote Visuit with a sonic meteor swarm – his last remaining big evocation.
Mulissu began to conjure another elemental.
Ortwine, sensing opportunity, attacked in earnest; all of her focus was directed at parting
Visuit’s head from her shoulders. From the opposite side, Eadric hewed into her with
Lukarn.
With three mighty strokes, Visuit dropped the Ahma like a stone, whirled her blade over
her head, and clove into Ortwine, driving her backwards in a daze. With a back-handed
swipe she slew Tahl the
Incorruptible – who was moving to revivify Eadric – as an afterthought. Mostin had
resorted to magic missiles which pulsed into the goddess.
Another boar crashed into Visuit, a great tusk impaling her through her armor and forcing
her back yet again.
Yeshe corporeated for an instant beside Visuit before both dissolved into mist.
Mulissu cursed.
Mostin experienced it as a shiver; the subtlest aethers were singing in resonance.
Mesikammi gaped. She saw and heard, although no other might. The radiance was
overwhelming; the
sonority, perfect. She danced and clapped. “Beautiful Flames! Beautiful Flames!”
In the darkness, Mostin assumed a humanoid shape and considered. Nwm would self-
incarnate in a few hours. The lich would slink away to his phylactery. Guho had more than
a few worms hidden, no doubt.
But Eadric of Deorham had passed. He would be presented with a variety of choices.
*
Ortwine’s senses returned to her and she wiped the blood from her eyes. Her faculties
reached out
through the shadows, groping in search of Visuit and Yeshe. Nothing.
Next time, Faerie. Visuit’s voice, echoing in Ortwine’s mind.
The sidhe focused.
Lai. Get here now. We need you.
Mulissu turned to Daunton. “You will convoke the Wyrish Academy.”
Daunton protested. “We are not in Wyre. And the Collegium is not Mulissu’s to command.
And the Interdict prevents the spell, in any case. Mostin?”
“Do as she says,” Mostin nodded. “Tell them to get here as fast as they can, by whatever
means they can.”
**
I’ve been avoiding footnotes. But:
*Mulissu’s main attack spells are electrically-substituted energy orbs with a variety of
secondary (entangling, sickening etc.) and metamagic effects attached; I ruled that energy
conjurations logically penetrate antimagic as well as ignore SR. Sketchy, but there you go.
Yeshe had native resistance to electricity as well, but not much. She botched two DC 50
Fort saves.
*Mostin gets 9 tentacle attacks at +44 (2d8+14).
*Devastating Critical is the most broken feat ever.
*DM Note: I may have underestimated Visuit’s CR for this encounter.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 03-23-10
Between
Aeon.
Wyrm? Eadric wonders. Not so much by its shape; dimension is not, in fact, a concept
which is altogether appropriate. Nor by its nature, a notion which is entirely moot. It is
made of and contains all color. Potentiality focused at a single point, awaiting time to
commence. It is poised upon the
interstices Between.
Even it has a shadow. The never-realized; that-which-cannot-be. An Apparition.
Eadric turns his thoughts to the World. Within Finitude, a torrent of Flames has already
descended in anticipation of the Aeon. They are hidden, save those few which might
reveal themselves to the blessed or the mad. In his mind, Eadric smiles. Despite his
protestations to the contrary, Nwm had invoked the Sun-God. An inpouring of light and
fire; a divine immanence carried by those resurrected at the
Reversal. What exactly did the Preceptor expect?
The Urn. The Moment. The Spell. The Flame. One thrice-transcended? Thrice-fallen?
Thrice reborn; or remade?
Nehael? Soneillon? Teppu? Ortwin(e)? Hummaz? Mostin?
If Wyre survives, the Illuminated of Morne and their descendants will dominate history for
fifty
millennia.
In Dream, Darkness moves; Carasch prepares to assail the Viridescent Seraphim.
Moment. It must be at an appropriate moment.
The Dragon coils around the Tree.
There is an awareness that this perspective is impossible, and Eadric returns to Finitude.
Reality commences.
**
**
“Fumaril is not built to withstand conventional siege,” Mulissu explained, “much less
earthquakes and goristros. Visuit can and must press the attack; she may petition for more
magical help – possibly another immortal, or more than one. Yeshe has yet to gather the
ritual power of her cabals; even if her
reservoir is dry, she is not toothless.
“When this storm blows out, I will not conjure another; nor will the Paling go up again. I
lack further patience for these delaying tactics. Mostin has therefore devised a plan…”
Waide groaned. “Are you now the charismatic face of Mostin’s deranged schemes?”
“Precisely,” Mulissu smiled.
“I am nervous around deities,” Tozinak sniffed.
“Our advantage is in versatility,” Mostin’s entrance, although flamboyant in his own eyes,
was accompanied by such a distortion of normality in the senses of those others present
that it caused heads to spin and stomachs to heave.
“We can adapt our strategy much more effectively than they,” the Alienist continued. “We
have greater spell resources. We have regained the prescient edge. They have outmoded
spellcasting techniques and their repertoire is limited. Choach is gone again, for a while;
Yeshe is exhausted. Guho is recovered, and still potent, but she is only one.”
“As has been said, Visuit must press on. I foresee that Rishih will join them, but under
duress. The Cheshnite leadership is fragmenting; or rather, the illusion of unity is finally
being dispelled. Powerful warlords who are effectively vassals of K—laan—la. Those few
demons which remain – by few I mean
few thousand – are the last of their kind. We may not see their like again. We should
consider
preserving some specimens.
“But I digress. Ladies and gentlemen, imprisonments and disjunctions are your friends.
Sonics – if available to you – are good friends. Transmutations are of limited utility; time
stops, yes! Necromancies and enchantments, useless.
“We will approach mind blanked and under superior invisibility…”
“This strategy did not work for Eadric,” Jalael observed.
“Visuit is less likely to experience abject nausea when we approach her,” Mostin said
sagely.
“How much of this did you learn from Soneillon, and at what cost?” Jalael’s irritation was
apparent.
“Much. And none to you. If I may continue? Prismatic walls and spheres… ”
[Mulissu]: Enough speak! Whether you invoke her or no, her gaze is turned upon us again.
[Daunton]: It matters not. As has been pointed out to me, we are all figments of Mostin’s
imagination in any case.
**
Ortwine galloped northwest upon Narh through Nizkur Forest. Eadric’s steed bore her
faster than she could wind walk; the trees parted for the sidhe as she rode. Blood and ichor
still clung to her and caked her hair; her cloak was a billowing shadow, distorting
perception around her.
Her course led her toward Kinthei and the Tree. Her instinct cautiously probed those tracts
to the west of her as she rode; the limits of Hummaz’s realm, if such notions as limit meant
anything to the enigmatic fey.
Abruptly, shadow passed across her mind; a vast, dark fire impinging on her
consciousness at a
distance of a mile. Ortwine cursed, and veered east, spurring Narh to an incredible pace.
Too slow. The shape hurtled towards her with uncanny speed, and within three seconds
had manifested itself directly in front of her; a raging inferno of black flames surrounding
a great, sinuous wyrm. Qematiel.
The forest ignited. The fire burned her and Ortwine drew Heedless, but backed up upon
Narh. “I am about the Tree’s business. You would be ill-advised to thwart me.”
With such power and confidence did the sidhe speak, that the wyrm paused uncertainly.
Then she
remembered her mission.
“My, you are a suave one. Do not attribute your continued existence to anything other than
my whimsy,” Qematiel smiled wickedly, displaying many hundred teeth.
Inwardly, Ortwine sighed. This fact was undeniable.
Her aura extinguished itself and the dragon assumed the shape of a female devil of not-
inconsiderable allure. She held a tiny hazel twig, barely longer than a splinter, between
thumb and forefinger; she proffered it to the sidhe with an arched eyebrow.
Ortwine looked sceptical. “I am generally reluctant to accept gifts from powerful entities
with opaque agendas.”
Qematiel smiled again; in diabolic form, the expression seemed even more malign.
“I don’t believe I gave you a choice,” the wyrm said. “And the Hazel certainly hasn’t.”
“What is it?” Ortwine took the twig in a resigned fashion. She screamed as it buried itself
into her left palm.
“Power,” Qematiel replied.
**
He is a boy of ten again, standing in the courtyard of the keep below the Steeple. His
father tosses him the sword. He feels its weight in his hands.
“It is too heavy,” Eadric complains.
“They need to feed you more meat and less scripture in the Temple,” his father says
without sympathy.
“The men of Kyrtill’s clan are large; hence we use large swords. Be about you!”
Orm is sitting nearby. He jeers.
“Shut up!” The boy shouts. “You’re just jealous because they wouldn’t take you.”
“I was,” Orm admits calmly. “Now I am relieved. I do not require a syllabus censored by
the Inquisition.”
“Father?” Eadric pleads.
“As I love you both, shut up and learn how to fight. This is eminently practical advice: if
you are dead, you are of no use to anyone.”
**
“Where is Nwm?” Ortwine inquired.
“He has not returned yet,” Nehael answered. “He is assessing the situation from a different
perspective before he commits. You wear Hazel’s mark; that may have been a rash
promise of fealty.”
“I am confused, and my fealty – which is to myself – has not changed. What does the
dragon have to do with this?”
Teppu sighed. “She is a useful agent.”
“A useful agent for whom? For Hazel? Or for the Tree? For you? For Hummaz?”
“This has yet to be demonstrated,” Teppu conceded. “She is also a liability; Kaalaanala
now plots to break Hazel’s spell on her and unleash the wyrm’s destructive potential.
Which is considerable.”
“Many balances have been struck,” Nehael sat upon the ground. “Energy has become
diffuse. This is natural.”
“Mine has not,” Ortwine said dismissively. “What of Hummaz? Have you made contact
with him?”
“No,” Nehael shook her head. “And I would advise you likewise avoid him. If we are
fortunate, he may revel blissfully for a thousand years before he awakens one morning in a
bad mood. Or he may stub his toe whilst chasing a nymph, and become enraged. These
things are hard to predict. Nonetheless, I feel a certain maternity toward him; it is hard to
explain.”
“Adopting the Adversary is a bold undertaking,” Ortwine said drily. “I’m not persuaded
that his new clothes will fit to his liking.”
“You would know better than I,” Nehael nodded. “You demonstrate many convergences.”
Ortwine scowled.
“What is your purpose here, Ortwine?’ Nehael sighed. Even her intuition could not
penetrate the sidhe’s motivation.
“I have come to ask for your help.”
“I have no authority beyond Nizkur,” Nehael shook her head.
“No, but you have great power beyond Nizkur. In any event, I require your intercession
not your intervention: Kaalaanala sees everything which transpires in Fumaril. A Tree
could veil us…”
“There is no scion there; a ludja feels protective only toward its scions.”
“Hence I require your intercession. If…”
Nehael held up her hand. “I will do what I can.”
She communed momentarily.
“The answer is no,” Nehael said plainly.
“But…”
“No,” Nehael repeated. “Neither Oak, not Elm nor Ash will lend you aid, as you now bear
Hazel’s mark. In other words, Hazel has pre-empted your efforts; you must petition it
directly.”
“But Hazel is in Hell.”
“You are marked. You need merely invoke her by name. A votive offering to a scion
would place you in better standing.”
“And where might I find a Hazel scion?” Ortwine asked, exasperated.
“Unless you wish to enter the realm of Hummaz, the only one is in the gardens of the
Wyrish Academy.
Shomei’s abode.”
“Somehow, I’m not surprised,” Ortwine said. “And I’m sure the wizards will be thrilled. Is
this ludja feminine or neuter? You have implied both.”
“It is not masculine,” Nehael nodded.
“And when do I receive this power that I am promised? The wyrm was vague.”
“It is already bestowed. In the Forest, you must fight left-handed.”
Ortwine narrowed her eyes. “This is an odd restriction.” She moved to draw her weapon,
but froze involuntarily.
“No!” Nehael hissed. A celadon light flared around her. “Not here. You will not unsheath
that thing here. This is a holy place.”
The Image of Uedii. The sidhe’s façade collapsed entirely, and she backed away, her
countenance full of righteous dread.
Her opacity suddenly made utterly transparent, Ortwine wavered, turned, and fled.
When she reached Narh, the sidhe encountered Nehael again. The goddess stood before
the great horse, which nuzzled her affectionately. Her palm was offered outward; her
expression was benign.
“Kindly step aside,” Ortwine said. She still shook.
“You will need a votive offering,” Nehael emphasized.
“I have something in mind,” Ortwine said through gritted teeth.
“I am what I am, and you must decide how you relate to that. Your insecurities are your
own.”
Nehael vanished.
**
Eadric sat beneath the Yew in Saizhan. Viridescent devas surrounded him. He experienced
a subtle tugging: Lai and Mesikammi were beckoning him to return, and he merely need
reach out and touch
the gnarled trunk…
He felt their entreaty, but did not act upon it.
He watched as Tramst, the Sela, quietly approached and sat opposite. There was a long
silence.
Eadric breathed deeply – a chill, forest-mountain air scented with resin – and looked into
the Sela‘s face.
“I have seen a little of what you see,” Eadric finally said dubiously. “If only for a moment,
or was it an eternity? I marvel that Tramst – who is a fragile vessel – can contain the
magnitude of the Sela, although this truth is also somehow quite mundane. I am
conflicted. I should return, of course. But this is a fine spot; the light is of a perfect,
blended quality. The air is crisp and clear.”
Tramst laughed. “This is your Heaven; are you surprised that you like it?”
“Not entirely. Sela, I cannot overcome Visuit. Twice, I’ve faced her now. She is beyond
me.”
“Yet overcome her you must,” Tramst nodded. “And Kaalaanala also. Visuit is but a minor
test.
Observe.”
A light sprang into being within the Sela‘s palm. At first, it seemed perfect and undivided,
but on closer inspection, differentiation existed – or at least Eadric inferred as much.
Motes whirled about in a cloud; around each mote, yet more motes span, and around them,
yet more. The light shone upon the face of the Sela – a visage both empty and complete.
“Radiance illuminates Mind,” Tramst smiled. “And Mind reflects upon Radiance. But
what is behind me?”
Oblivion. A terror so complete and all-consuming that Eadric’s thought was utterly
paralyzed. He
teetered on the brink of annihilation.
“Look beyond Nothingness,” the Sela said calmly.
The Darkness called to him. He could not rest his gaze there.
The Sela sighed. ” Beyond, not into. Stare not at Apparitions of Demogorgon; merely
practice Saizhan.
Tools I offer you. How many motes do you see?”
They span wildly. To observe one was to lose its identity to perception. A grand cosmic
uncertainty.
“Seven,” Eadric replied. “And seven times seven unnumbered times.” His knowledge was
oblique, but the intuition certain.
“You may choose two.”
Slowly, an action which itself seemed aeons long, the Sela moved his hand toward him;
Eadric stared into the maelstrom of light – for such it had become – until it overwhelmed
him entirely. It asserted ens with such ferocity that it threatened to extinguish all other
notions of being. Its magnitude was
unguessably vast. It was Magnitude.
Silence.
“Which did you choose?” The Sela asked wrily. As though he might not know.
” This and That,” Eadric laughed.
“They are called Fultum and Anto,” the Sela nodded. “Or Steadfastness and Wrath; or
Vigilance and Requite; or Succour and Renewal. You choose well. Share these meditations
with those whom you trust and who might understand. Look now beyond Unbeing. What
do you See?”
Eadric wept. The Void shone.
“Thus,” the Sela smiled. He held Eadric’s head in his hands and breathed gently.
The Ahma entered him.
He awoke beneath the Yew beside the Great Fane in Morne.
“You took your time,” Nwm said.
The Preceptor watched silently as a vast, aquiline shape receded towards a setting Sun.
*
In the gathering dark, Narh walked steadily through the wide grounds of the Academy
southwest of Morne. Ortwine’s eyes moved suspiciously; any number of the trees there
possessed a rudimentary
sentience, and most were malign. Now a far more sinister Intelligence – that of a Hazel
scion – held banyans, viper trees and night twists in thrall away from the main trail.
Ortwine scowled. The Hazel itself was remaining elusive. She knew she was being toyed
with.
A familiar sensation came upon the sidhe, the quality of which was reminiscent of a prior
incarnation.
Ahead of her, the barest rumour of a path had appeared, winding its way through dense
briars. She
drew Heedless and progressed cautiously, at first upon Narh, and then – due to some
internal impulse which she felt obligated to heed – on foot. Through the foliage, a light
flickered through the gloam.
Ortwine wrapped her cloak around her and moved towards it, silent and unseen.
It was a stone cottage – a coppicer‘s cottage, of all things, as evidenced by a number of
tools which rested neatly against the wall by its open door. Outside, a lone devil of
thoughtful and melancholic aspect sat upon a stool carving a slender hazel switch. He was
in a state of deep concentration, and seemed oblivious to the sidhe’s presence. Despite her
efforts, Ortwine’s deific sense could not reach within the structure itself. Unperceived, the
sidhe slipped past the devil and entered.
Ortwine raised an invisible eyebrow. In seeming contradiction to the Tree’s limitation on
such spatial manipulation, it was larger within than without, and scrolls and codices
crowded shelves upon the
walls. Stacks of tomes reached the ceiling; in places, there was barely room to move.
Ancient books.
Forbidden books. Books bound in the hides of unknown creatures, and whispering secrets
best left
untold. Accursed books. Thousands of them. Through dark doorways, stairs led up or
down: to rooms
filled with yet more books.
She moved towards a space where a pair of plush chairs flanked a large hearth, within
which a fire crackled merrily. In a large wicker basket, neatly stacked, half a stère of cut
hazel. Hints of cinnamon hung within the air; on a small table by the fireside, an
unstoppered bottle of kschiff stood.
Above the mantlepiece, framed within crystal, was a large parchment of impossible
antiquity bearing
one hundred and sixty-nine signatures. Below the names – Infernal appellations which
themselves made the sidhe’s head reel – the Empyreal seal, as borne by Enitharmon
himself. Below that, an empty rune which held no meaning; it could not, in fact, be said to
exist beyond the context of the document itself. The endorsement of Oronthon’s Nameless
Adversary. The Accord.
“Take a seat,” Shomei’s voice reached her from a nearby room. “Have a drink. I’ll be with
you in a moment.”
Ortwine glanced around.
“Check the small cabinet,” Shomei added. “I have several bottles of Loquai vintage,
liberated from Menicau’s estate should you prefer.”
Ortwine relaxed. She loathed the taste of kschiff and found its particular psychotropic
effects disagreed with her.
Shomei the Infernal appeared presently. She smiled, poured herself a generous goblet of
liquor, and sank into one of the chairs. Ortwine regarded her closely; upon her forehead,
Shomei bore a faint mark not unlike that which ratified the document above the mantle.
“You have become a devil,” Ortwine observed.
“Of sorts,” Shomei nodded.
“And I suspect that you have a particular relationship with the Hazel which is germane to
my current situation,” Ortwine added. “What is this place?”
“A concursion,” Shomei said carefully. “You are already within Hazel’s domain. The
coppice itself is behind the cottage.”
“You have…permission…to cut wood? Hazel’s wood?”
“Will must be tended, lest it become unfocused,” Shomei the Infernal nodded.
“Then you are in thrall?”
“No. The arrangement is reciprocal. I am Exempt.”
“Then you are paid for your work?” Ortwine asked slyly.
Shomei laughed, and gestured. “Look around you!”
“Books?”
Shomei narrowed her eyes, and lifted a large, weighty volume from a stack nearby. She
handed it to the sidhe, who wiped grime and dust from its cover to read its title in the
ancient Infernal tongue:
Two Hundred Discourses on the Nature of Depravity
“This particular volume was scribed by a devil named Enaia,” Shomei explained. “Her
seductive accomplishments rival those of the most notorious of succubi. Alas, she is no
more; her subterfuge was unmasked by diviners sixteen epochs past: she was bound in
dimensional shackles, and buried in a silver salt, gathered from the shores of a celestial
ocean.”
Ortwine cast her gaze through the dark doorways nearby which led to other chambers.
“You have sequestered a portion of Hell’s library?”
“I have sequestered the entirety of Hell’s library,” Shomei the Infernal smiled.
Ortwine looked dubious. “Moving countless million books would seem the occupation of
many
lifetimes. I assume that certain planar boundaries have been redrawn?”
“From this perspective,” Shomei nodded. “Hell as it was is no more. It has been ejected
from the continuum, so to speak. Forced Outside, or retreated into Dream might be
alternate descriptors, were one inclined to view things in such a way. In any event, its
influence will no longer be felt as directly. I have preserved its legacy and its wisdom. A
quartet of great once-devils remain within what was
Avernus, but which is now a great forest dominated by two of the darker ludjas.”
“And these once-devils – which are now presumably Green – fill which roles in this new
continuum?”
“That will depend on the Aeon,” Shomei poured herself another goblet of kschiff.
“Then devils have become a scarce commodity.”
“Not so scarce,” the Infernalist smiled. “Merely transformed. And Azazel’s legions wisely
removed themselves and placed themselves under Holly’s protection.”
Ortwine’s hackles rose.
“You are wise to fear Holly,” Shomei nodded. She was becoming inebriated: apparently
kschiff retained its potency with regard to her diabolic metabolism. “She is quite the bitch.
The Kings of the Four Quarters, now Four Kings amid the Thickets: this movement was
inevitable, even as the Adversary
migrated. In a prior reality they were also of He; before a Fall which now never happened.
Perhaps half of his Regents in the Undivided Sphere: the half which fell, even as half
perished altogether? Each of the others lost one; sixty-four became forty-nine. This was
necessary. The I is necessary to ens. For Radiance to penetrate beyond Tamasah.”
The sidhe barely followed her. “And what is beyond Tamasah? ”
“Truth,” Shomei smiled lazily.
“And what might that be?”
Shomei laughed heartily. “Ask the Ahma, for he has seen it. I care not for the Unmanifest,
Ortwine.
Hence, I do not practice Saizhan.”
The sidhe-goddess sighed and raised her glass. “I’ll drink to that.”
“You may leave both rod and talisman when you depart. I will ensure they are buried at
Hazel’s roots.”
Ortwine scowled. Sibud’s talisman, she had marked for an offering; Pazuzu’s rod she had
intended for Mesikammi.
Shomei raised an unsympathetic eyebrow. “Will is bought dearly.”
*
Six hundred miles to the south, as the Wizards of Wyre made their preparations within
Mulissu’s throne room, Mostin noticed a subtle but irresistible reorganizaton of intangible
membranes around Fumaril.
Saint Tahl the Incorruptible – recently resurrected by Lai, and who led a number of
Flamines in meditation and vigil – felt the oppressive presence of Kaalaanala’s scrutiny
depart from his
consciousness. It was immediately replaced by a cold, steely focus, which seemed barely
less malign.
In Jashat, fires erupted in violence and anger, annihilating the priests who tended the
altars. The Bhiti‘s perception had been forced into retreat.
Fumaril: Part 2
Within a fortified palace of marble and serpentine – which the demilich Idyam had caused
to rise
between Jashat and Thond – three powerful Cheshnite immortals gathered together: Idyam
himself; the Ak’Chazar, Temenun; and Naatha, an ambassador of the now firmly-
entrenched northern party.
Godlings, Death Knights, Naztharunes and compacted fiends were gathered nearby. Many
legions were
encamped about them.
The topic of debate was strategy on the largest scale, including the pressing question of
how to deal with Kaalaanala, which was necessarily addressed obliquely. None of the
immortals had been directly suborned by the Dark Goddess, and her terrible will could not
act directly on them as they were beyond the geographical limit imposed by the Tree.
Nonetheless, the concern which consumed each was how do I react if she summons me? In
this, it was desirable to seek consensus. Hours passed as a variety of strategems were
outlined. Throughout, Temenun listened, but did not speak.
Finally, the Tiger-Who-Waits stood, and silence fell. His tone was at once contemptuous
and magnetic.
His position, bordering on heretical and schismatic. He smiled.
“I am an ancient spirit, not like you others: corrupt abominations, skeletons, demons, sad
remnants of former selves. I am noble and cruel; born of fear and hatred. And I know the
Green. I am of this world.
“I see possibilities you do not; I apprehend truths you barely glimpse. This is fact; to deny
it would be futile. We must position ourselves carefully in this emerging disorder if we are
to realize Tamasah.
“The Fires of Death abide in Jashat now. Through diligence, we have helped accomplish
this task. A great Bhiti dwells among us. And what now? Should we turn our attention to
breaking this net which the Tree has cast between us and the Truth? I am patient. We
should admit that some tasks are beyond our ability to immediately accomplish.
“Another spirit arises in the Forest. Some monstrous priapic expression of Aliikaghana*
which acts only from instinct to satisfy its immediate desires. Again, it is demonstrated
that ens merely hinders its own devices. We should avoid premature conflict with this
entity at all costs; if an understanding can be reached which will hasten the downfall of the
Wyrish theocracy, so much the better.
“Our sister Guho strikes compacts with the avanim; necessity now forces our hand.
Powerful analas move within Dream, but I foresee a stalemate with those celestials in
thrall to the Tree. Other agencies are now moving.
“Which brings us to an impasse…” Temenun paused. Impulses were intruding on his
unconscious. His prescience rippled through a host of Nows.
Incredulity.
No! How DARE you!
His message, carried on a sending, reached the Claviger’s unruffled perception.
**
Bells rang within the palace compound at Fumaril, signalling another invisible dawn
beneath the Pall of Dhatri.
The Ahma stood with Nwm and Lai upon a tall minaret, staring into the gloom. The
Butcher’s main force had still to deploy, although spectres, outriders and flights of succubi
– acting in the capacity of aerial scouts – had been encountered by his own piquets in an
area of low hills ten miles to the east.
Eadric watched nervously as Mostin floated upwards from the courtyard below and
alighted before
them.
“What is keeping them?” The Ahma inquired.
“I can only infer,” Mostin replied. “Visuit’s mote is coming into sharp resonance with that
of the Dark Goddess. As the latter cannot act substantively beyond a certain area, this
probably means that the Butcher has returned to Jashat temporarily.”
“By which you infer what, exactly?”
“Kaalaanala is warding her champion,” Nwm replied.
“That would be my reading,” Mostin nodded.
“Sh*t,” Eadric muttered.
“That would also be my reading,” Mostin concurred.
“How long before she rejoins her army?” Nwm asked.
“An hour? Two at most.” The Alienist shrugged. “I am assuming she will try to wind walk
back to her encampment. Mulissu can make the weather uncomfortable and may be able to
pin her down for a
while. But if more Dao nobility have been co-opted, she may go… earthy…and be there
in an instant.”
The word earthy was pronounced with considerable distaste.
Eadric pondered for a moment before issuing a silent mental command. A quartet of devas
appeared
presently.
“Muster all of the celestials, all of the Flamines, and any amongst the Templars and the
Illuminated who are already in harness. Nwm, I need everyone flying, wind walking, mind
blanked, invisible and warded against blasphemies and the consumptive attacks of undead.
We are making a sortie. We have thirty minutes.”
Nwm sighed.
Eadric considered briefly. “As soon as we break out beyond the limit of the Tree’s ward,
Kaalaanala will perceive us; at that point Visuit will rush back from Jashat, assuming she
is not already en route.
The goddess will inform those in the camp of our imminent arrival – I am assuming Yeshe
will be in command.”
Ortwine, who was apparently with them but invisible, whispered softly.
Nwm – sensitive to such sudden changes – immediately scowled suspiciously. He looked
around,
attempting to pinpoint the fey. “How did you do that?”
Ortwine allowed herself to manifest and looked vaguely puzzled. “Do what?”
“She invoked the Hazel- ludja,” Mostin seemed distracted by some elusive thought. “This
is substantially to our advantage.”
Ortwine felt irked that Mostin knew of her activities, but remained outwardly calm.
“Would you care to explain?” The Ahma asked. “But swiftly. Time is not now best spent
in idle conversation.”
“Kaala-anala is effectively blind,” Nwm replied. “Hazel just suffocated her divine vision
in a number of different locations, including the Cheshnite camp ahead.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that. What is the cost, Ortwine?”
“Potent artifacts seem to work just fine,” the sidhe replied drily. “Do you have a problem
with that?”
“I have none,” Nwm smiled. “You are an agent of the Tree. If you find you have a
problem, then I offer my counselling services. I understand these matters far better than
you.”
“I doubt it.”
“You have debts yet to pay to Mesikammi,” Nwm sighed.
“My High Priestess trusts in my capacity to deliver benefactions.”
The Ahma unbuckled Lukarn and handed it to Nwm. “Let’s try this again.”
“You have high expectations for a thirty minute window,” the Preceptor grumbled and
departed.
Eadric inquired gingerly. “I assume a fully warded Visuit is likely to be invulnerable?”
“Not if we can drop a couple of big ones on her,” the Alienist replied.
[Nwm]: Mostin. Mulissu. Tozinak. Jalael. Daunton. Waide. Get down here now. I need
your reservoirs: everything else is empty.
“This better work,” the Alienist scowled.
[Hlioth]: Snap! Snap!
[Mostin]: That’s all we need.
**
**
Gihaahia, the Enforcer of the Great Injunction, stood within a low chamber. It was the
sanctum sanctorum of Wyrish Wizardry, the abode of the Claviger: that mysterious entity
which governed the moral conduct of Wyre’s arcanists. Before her, the great slab bearing
the Articles: itself a gateway connecting the Claviger’s awareness to the primal Dream of
which it was an aspect. A Dream of Magic.
The Infernal was waiting. The Claviger meditated, its processes isometric with rational
thought. It had been dreaming Spells.
It was absorbed in a particular, nightmarish substrate; one of those several which
comprised the
impending confrontation between Carasch and the Viridescent Seraphim. After an
indeterminable time, the Claviger finally emoted an aesthetic appreciation which caused a
frisson of excitement in Gihaahia.
Quickly, the Claviger reconfigured the Enforcer and transposed her into the dreamscape,
asserting a hegemony which threw the chthonics into violent rages and discomfited the
episemes.
The Claviger cast the Spell, and quickly retreated into an idle waking fantasy.
Manipulating unconscious vestiges emanated by every dormant mind from Harland to
Ardan, as far
south as the blight which afflicted the Thalassine, the Claviger swiftly span a new dream,
using magic of tremendous power. A net which might have encapsulated an area far
greater than that of the Wyrish Injunction had its real dimensions been spatial.
In Nizkur, Hummaz – abruptly subject to the superimposition – grunted in his wine-
soaked sleep.
Nymphs nearby became suddenly histrionic.
The Claviger emoted surprise. Carasch, alone of the chthonics, had somehow eluded the
dream-lure and had incorporated himself into the new substrate. The hypoabyssal
connection was maintained.
Do not presume. I yet Dream
The thought – directed from beyond the Veils – almost erased the Claviger in its intensity.
**
The Collegiate Wizards corporeated briefly in the darkness as the Temple forces flowed
around them like a swift breeze. The Alienist reached out with his thoughts to contact an
unseen spy high above the Cheshnite camp.
[Mostin]: Well?
[Ortwine]: I believe Visuit is still absent. The Anantam are gathered [here] and [here], but
they are few.
Guho is [here]. There are many of the Keshaa-Dirghaa [here]. Spectres and wraiths move
around the periphery in unguessable numbers; they appear as a screen of fog.
[Eadric]: Where is Yeshe?
[Ortwine]: I would guess within the focal utterdark. There are other defensive magics.
They are potent.
[Mostin]: Show me.
[Ortwine]: [These].
[Mulissu]: Transvalents. Ortwine, do not enter the presidio.
[Mostin]: [ Moment of Prescience]. They are four-hundredth order. As soon as we pass the
screen, we will be precipitated out of wind walking and all our wards will be collapsed.
[Nwm]: I can bring them down. It will leave only one for Visuit.
[Mostin]: Two would be better.
[Eadric]: Then we strike fast and eliminate Yeshe, Guho and as many of the magi as we
can. Then we get the Hell out, and worry about Visuit later.
[Ortwine]: I believe Rishih to be [here]. And more Anantam.
[Eadric]: That complicates matters.
[Ortwine]: Leave him to me.
[Hlioth]: Three immortals will perish today. I will not be one of them.
[Ortwine]: Thanks for that.
[Mostin]: We have to take Visuit.
[Eadric + Nwm + Ortwine]: …..?
[Mostin]: We must. She won’t be getting any weaker from here on in. Her wards will last
for months, and may become compounded. Kaalaanala will just keep augmenting her.
**
In the Garden of Mind, in the fortress recently appropriated from the daemon Tholhaluk,
Soneillon awoke to physicality, sank into a throne of flesh, and considered.
Events were not transpiring to her liking. Energies were moving too subtly to comprehend.
Her
prescience had grown; her understanding of formlessness deepened. But not enough.
She considered her essential inessence.
Tendrils of impossibility reinforced her now; her emptiness might be seen to writhe with a
palpable insanity. Old paradoxes had crumbled away. She was the Void in which the Urn
was hid. But whether Soneillon dreamed or woke, or became another Nothing or a mad
parody thereof, she might not act
within the world without the permission of some other. In so doing, she would necessarily
compromise her position unfavorably.
And Soneillon pondered a question: Why had Kaalaanala not stripped her of the Urn when
she had manifested ex nihilo? She must have known of it; how could she have failed to
apprehend its presence and significance in an instant? How could she not want it, having
known of it? Had she chosen to let it remain with Soneillon for some other purpose? Did
she fear it?
Or was the Urn somehow inscrutable to the Fires of Death?
The exiled queen of Throile pulled the jug from its hiding place on her person, and felt its
weight.
You serve only to neuter me, she directed her resentment toward the vessel. It seemed to
observe her impassively.
She would have to make a choice. An alliance. Concessions. Carasch was too dangerous;
Vhorzhe too
mad; the Cherry too unpredictable – its agenda was utterly opaque to her. It seemed to
want the Urn. Or her.
Briefly – and ironically – Soneillon considered that Graz’zt’s counsel would have been
useful.
A sound like thunder, echoing through a million imaginings.
The ripples in Dream were subsiding when the magnitude of the Claviger’s act became
apparent to her.
Squabbling seraphs and chthonics had been swept away, lost in conflict in all but the
darkest of long-forgotten nightmares. The Claviger had replaced the dreamstuff with a no-
less convoluted matrix of
color, texture, smell and substance; of correspondences and hierarchies, symmetries and
order. A new arcane rationale. To Wizardry, and its subset – the emergent Wyrish High
Arcanie – it granted an assured ascendancy.
The demoness cursed.
A whisper reached her from a distant grove: Tree’s Own Shadow. Unwarded – as no magic
she
possessed would be effective in any event – Soneillon transported herself to what had once
been
Azzagrat.
The maelstroms had subsided, and matter had been reordered. A vast Blackthorn, with
barbs ten inches long reared a hundred fathoms into a ruddy sky; about it, swathes of
viper-trees glowered menacingly.
Chthonics roosted in its upper branches.
The great ludja regarded her as it might an aphid.
“I desire ingress.” Soneillon announced undaunted.
Echoes rippled beyond the Veils.
The Blackthorn silently opened a path.
Soneillon appeared in the courtyard at Kyrtill’s Burh, stepping from beneath what she
knew must be a Scion; that tree once raised by Nwm in defiance of the chthonic threat,
now serving as a tendril of the darkest of Tree’s facets. As with its sibling in Jashat – the
Blackthorn within the Cheshnite inner temple itself – it seemed dormant. But its sleep was
more troubled, and if it would soon strive to awaken.
Clasping the Urn, Soneillon glanced over her shoulder. The way back was closed. And
something else was here.
The demoness observed the devas patrolling the skies around the keep: they were of small
magnitude, and could not perceive her. A middle-aged man – one whose resemblance to
Eadric informed Soneillon that he must be close kin – exited the door from the chapel
nearby and peered in her direction.
“So what are you going to do with it?” He asked her, nodding his head towards the Urn.
“Ah, the heretical Brother makes a pilgrimage.” Soneillon stared at him through narrowed
eyes. He made her uncomfortable. “I haven’t decided. But whatever it is, it has to be in
here and not out there.”
“Well that much is obvious,” Orm said.
“You should probably leave,” Soneillon smiled. “I’m staying, and celibates are too easy.
I’ll be making some renovations, and inviting some friends over to play.”
“I had anticipated a painful and degrading death.”
“If you desire. When I have devised one suitable, I will come and find you.”
“My anticipation is not wishful,” Orm explained.
“Tastes differ,” Soneillon shrugged.
“What of the others within the Burh? And the village?”
“They may stay or leave, as they will,” the demoness replied easily. “Let them make their
own choice.
They know who I am. Or they have seen me in their dreams.”
“Your presence here may be less enduring than you imagine,” Orm suggested.
“Ignorance!” Soneillon snapped. “I have apprehended that chapel in a Moment. Can you
claim the same? Do not speak to me of tenacity, nor the length of my own shadow. Now
begone!”
She issued a massive sending. It echoed across Wyre.
“I suggest you hasten,” Soneillon added. “I cannot speak to the courtesy of my fellows. If
you stumble across your anointed sibling or his friend Mostin the Metagnostic, tell him I
want Graz’zt back.”
Orm hurried to raise a warning and begin the evacuation of Kyrtill’s Burh, Deorham, and
the surrounding countryside: for those who would listen.
Soneillon turned her eyes skyward, and solemnly regarded the celestials. Inexplicably,
they darted away as though alerted to her presence.
She glowered after Orm. There had been not one iota of fear in him. She knew a Flame
was with him: a visceral unease was her only inkling, as her senses were otherwise
incapable of perceiving it.
Awaken she willed desperately toward the Blackthorn.
It remained quiescent.
I need allies, she thought to herself. Soneillon watched as one of the devas teleported
away.
Teleported? She smiled widely.
Around her, demons were appearing.
**
Mostin felt it coursing through him: first a rumour, then a vibration, and finally a roaring
noise which vanished suddenly into silence.
His skin tingled. It reminded him of Afqithan. But more cogent; more focused.
Mulissu looked at him. “What now?”
“I think the Claviger just changed the Arcane Morphic,” Mostin said.
“The Claviger acted?”
“It dreamed,” Hlioth replied. “It is much the same.”
Another pulse, of great depth and profundity, as though in response to the first.
“What the…” Mostin’s eyes widened grotesquely.
This time, Nizkur was its source. A surge of power which unlocked the Interdiction which
lay across the world, finalizing boundaries. The Tree described its own limit; the cosmos
reshaped itself in
accordance. All was Tree. The Alienist knew that it moderated all prior infinities now:
neither demon nor celestial might tread here again without passing through it; without
itself becoming Green, and other than that which it previously was. Those that were
stranded here were here to stay.
But Mostin’s surprise was that the new shape permitted a path Outside. And that Outside
was really Outside.
From a great distance, Nehael touched his mind: Please exercise restraint.
Mostin’s response was wry. Had I had warning, then my answer should have been “not
bloody likely.”
Unfortunately, I did not.
Ahead, Nwm had materialized and was gathering the power necessary to collapse the
wards which
protected the Cheshnite camp.
Around them, demons were suddenly appearing, teleporting as an apprehension that the
lock had ended spread through their ranks.
“Things will now become confused,” Mostin sighed.
“I suppose one must take the bad with the good,” Mulissu remarked drily.
“Fortunately, their numbers are limited.” Mostin issued a sending to Sho: Bring the Tower.
And then, another sending to Shomei herself: I told you my Infinity was bigger.
Power surged as Nwm struck the defensive spells below, shattering them. The wind
walkers descended rapidly, materializing with lances lowered.
In Rishih’s pavillion, Ortwine cursed. The Thaumaturge had vanished, although not before
the sidhe had opened his chest and belly with Heedless. Now she found herself surrounded
by his retainers. She smiled: still, they could not see her.
Outside, the massive edifice of the Infernal Tower, piloted by Sho, suddenly appeared.
As Narh‘s hooves touched the ground, Eadric unsheathed Lukarn and a great light sprang
forth. Wraiths and shadows turned to vapour; vampires dessicated. For a little while, the
darkness of the Pall of Dhatri was banished; the morning Sun shone warm upon the field.
*The Cloud of False Wisdom. Construed as a feminine aspect of the Abominable Light.
Fumaril - Part 3
North of the Pall of Dhatri stretches the march of Scir Cellod; further north still, Mord,
Hethio and the Wyrish heartlands
At the junction of three wide feodalities, beneath the aegis of a Yew scion, stands Morne,
the celestial city. Its resurrected craftsmen – possessed of a sudden inventiveness and
aesthetic genius – are
beginning to contrive works so far unrivalled in the course of human history. Teams of
masons, acting in unconscious unison, work unceasingly to perfect some grand
architectural design. The devout throng
about the Temple courtyard; within Morne’s baileys, companies of the Illuminated muster.
It is the six-hundred and ninety-second year as measured since the foundation of Wyre
upon the ruins of Old Borchia; the six-hundred and thirtieth since the consecration of the
Temple in Morne; the third year of Saizhan. Midwinter is fast approaching, but in Wyre it
is unseasonably mild, and no snow has yet fallen.
In the South, in the Thalassine, it is as warm as a late spring day. A great tract of land lies
in darkness, suffocated of light by Dhatri’s magic: a hemisphere of tenacious night with a
diameter of two hundred miles. Beneath, vampires and phantoms rove at will. From the
city of Thond, a blighted wasteland
extends to Cirone, Jompa, Jashat and the walls of Fumaril, as well as a score of smaller
towns and cities. Of them all, only Fumaril endures.
The Cheshnite forces are concentrated at four locations within this arena. Jashat itself is
empty, save for Kaalaanala, her priesthood, and the marasmic demigoddess Jahi. Other
vestiges of life have been
scorched from the city; its once-abundant olive groves and peach orchards are reduced to
an ashen
plain.
The largest group – the main host – is at Thond with Dhatri. Hordes of undead of diverse
types
accompany her; the most numerous – her crawling ghoulish minions – have scoured the
city of all
carrion, and begin to hunger again.
Thirty leagues to the Northwest – at the edge of the Pall – the Cheshnite vanguard is
locked in an interminable skirmish with celestials, Illuminated, and Wyrish Templars.
They strike or are struck, before their enemies scuttle back to Galda and the protection of
the Trees. Here, the immortals Prahar, Rishih and Naatha have established a precarious
alliance. Most of the remaining Anantam – the blood magi once loyal to Sibud – are
entrenched with them, as well as blood fiends, compacted demons, and the three thousand
death knights under Prahar’s command.
Further from the front, straddling the Hynt Coched – the concourse which runs north from
Jashat – are situated those legions which attend Temenun and Idyam. The demilich has
erected an impregnable jade palace, and fortified an encampment about it. Armored Giants
of Danhaan stand guard; the largest
goristros are emplaced here. The remaining theurges and Deathshriekers accompany
Idyam; unknown
numbers of Naztharunes – the servants of Temenun – lurk nearby. These two immortals –
most subtle amongst the Cheshnite camp – prefer a slow game. Each acts prudently, and
their magical reservoirs are still largely untapped.
The last group – the smallest, most mobile, and most reckless – is led by Yeshe and Guho,
and
accompanies Visuit. It is bent upon the destruction of Fumaril, which has remained a thorn
in the flank of Cheshnite expansion.
**
**
Precedence amongst the spirits of the Green? Why must you impose hierarchy on
everything?
The anime of the world should come first; of these, the great ludjas are the foremost, and,
of these, the Trees are awake and hence most relevant: at present. Next, those servants of
the ludjas which abide by their appointed Trees, or in Dream; these constitute a diverse
group of sublimated entities, and I do not pretend to understand them all. Elementals are
third; whether one arranges them in some particular order is rather a matter of personal
taste than cosmic truth. Feys fourth – cataloguing these alone should take you several
lifetimes. Fabulous beasts of no specific kind, I suppose, should be cited last: this would
include griffons, unicorns, and the like.
And animals? Plants? Men? Giants? What of dragons? How wide one casts one’s net is a
lesson in
discretion. But dragons prefer not to be categorized, and it is generally wise to respect
their wishes.
**
**
Qematiel – most ancient and cunning of wyrms – powered her way through the skies
above the forest.
Dawn was kindling, and mist was rising from the ancient trees.
Something new was afoot. These were exciting times.
The dragon turned her gaze southwestward. Here, a distortion in space intimated at the
wide extent of the range of Hummaz. Encroaching on rural Hethio, it encompassed almost
all of the great southern
lobe of Nizkur; five thousand square miles of enchanted forest which merged seamlessly
into a wild Faerie of unguessable limit on its western bounds.
Hummaz – apparently now satisfied with the extent of his private domain – had ceased his
annexation.
A sixty-mile net of magic – the great central triplicty of the Oak, Ash and Elm- ludjas
from Nizkur –
defied his power, and defined the northern interface of his sylvan realm. Here, the very air
seemed to crackle with a vibrant green potency.
Qematiel gyred gracefully and launched herself away from the mingled energies of the
intersection, skirting the eaves of the forest and bearing across the green pastures and
wheatfields below. Hethio was the garden of Wyre; its breadbasket, and its richest
province.
Resisting the urge to tarry and obliterate a sleepy town which nestled within a wooded
vale, the wyrm rapidly approached the duchy’s expansive central woodlands: here, wide
tracts of deer and boar forest stood around Groba, a site of ancient power. She glanced
down and hissed at a great Beech which grew there; an entry into whatever shamanic
awareness Groba had once – and apparently now again –
embodied. As she dived, and then sped away, the ground shuddered from her passage and
a wave of
sound shook leaves from trees.*
Other Trees would also be waking; with Carash lurking upon the threshold of Dream and
Soneillon
fully reifying – the final grounding of the Chthonic in the matrix of reality – Qematiel
knew that the Blackthorn and the Cherry must perforce be next. A reign of destruction and
desire would begin; her mistress, Will itself, must accommodate and direct these
unfocused energies.
The city appeared in the distance, white marble basking in the early morning sunshine. A
low range of hills rolling westwards from it was soon below, dotted with large estates:
previously, the country villas of Morne’s fashionable bourgeoisie; now monastic cells in
the care of a variety of contemplative orders.
Within a wide bowl, the Wyrish Academy, Hellish trees and a Hazel scion.
Qematiel plummeted, and appeared in a tumult of fire which caused the earth to shake
beneath the tiny figure of Shomei the Infernal, who stood alone, rod in hand.
“You presume much, small one; I may not be invoked, nor invited, nor conjured.” The
wyrm’s voice threatened death.
“I tend Will,” Shomei smiled. As she spoke, a great, spiked trammel of adamant coiled
onto the ground from her left hand. “And at this moment, I am it. It is time for service, and
I accept no scutage. You will be my steed. Or be chained. The choice is yours.”
Qematiel raged furiously, the violence of her temper erupting as molten annihilation.
“I have no patience for this,” Shomei sighed. “This is the Hazel’s mandate. Cease your
petulance, and retain some dignity. When your tantrum has abated, the choice will remain
the same.”
**
Yeshe was not unprepared when she met the onslaught of the Ahma, and had girded
herself with powerful magic. As well as her goristros, two armored balors – maybe the last
of Baramh‘s train – still attended her; she had fortified them with spells.
To no avail. His glare dazzled her. His weapon was an incandescent blur which seemed to
burn
everything around it; a radiant violence committed against Void’s quietude. The steed
Narh trampled demons and immortals in its path. Unease gripped Yeshe; the Great Bhiti in
Jashat was deaf to her entreaties.
Pain consumed her briefly as she struck him with a dispelling; her reservoir was empty
and Yeshe was forced to channel the spell through her own body. It could not overcome
the Green Benediction and was insufficient to quell the light of Lukarn by an order of
magnitude; other items on the Ahma and sundry wards were suppressed. Not enough. The
Binder moved to speak a word of recall and spirit
herself to a hidden retreat south of Siir Traag in Shûth. It was too late.
Her enemy held his palm aloft and spoke a single syllable: a blasphemy of light. Her
servants burned away to atoms. Yeshe was overwhelmed; blinded and deafened, she could
not move her limbs.
Goddess, her supplication was a silent, visceral scream. Ever have I been thy faithful
servant. Now full earnest do I beseech thee!
The entreaty echoed through the Green.
**
In Jashat, the altars burned with black fires: an essence of Nothingness contrived by
Kaalaanala.
Visuit the Butcher sat cross-legged, gazing into oblivion. Unsheathed, across her knees,
that dreadful weapon which had wrought countless suffering. About her, the Fires of
Death moved, formless, as a
whirling maelstrom, imbuing Visuit with dark energies. Priests and supplicants chanted
unceasingly.
Kaalaanala’s formidable will reached out, seeking to grip the world. Trees were active
everywhere, obscuring her vision. But that Yeshe’s camp was under assault, the Dark
Goddess had no doubt.
The flames coalesced into a tall hooded form, its visage awful and unknowable. It stood
before Visuit, touching the forehead of the war-goddess to bestow some dark blessing.
The Butcher rose. With a growl, she hefted her weapon and carved open a hole in the
Green, passing through into a shadowy region with eerie trees where distance and
perception were twisted.
**
Mostin’s mind raced. He knew they possessed a precarious advantage which might
evaporate in an instant.
Prudently, he stopped time.
Lukarn cast a light which illuminated the despoiled countryside for a league around;
brighter than the midday sun, causing fear and consternation amongst the Cheshnite forces
arrayed against them.
Columns of smoke hung static in the air from conflagrations started by Mulissu’s
lightning; whatever primal storm the savant had tapped, its eddies were potent: demons
seemed no less subject to her
discharges than anything else.
With the removal – in fact, the final demarcation – of the Tree’s Interdiction,
extradimensional travel was again possible. But in his stomach, the Alienist knew that all
methods of such movement were
contained in terms which were thoroughly Green. If he plane shifted, it would necessarily
be to somewhere Green; if he teleported, the medium through which he moved would be
somehow Green. If he opened a gate, Mostin had no doubt that something disagreeably
Green would step through it.
Except for Uzzhin; Outside; the Other. Glancing at Nwm, the Alienist understood that the
Preceptor was – in fact – now very firmly identified with the principal source of his own
limitation. The struggle which had begun between them so long before might soon
become unpleasant if not carefully managed.
Mostin sighed. Now political necessity moved him, and he despised politics. Still, it
behoved one to bargain from a position of strength, and he would pay with his own ichor
if it meant asserting his continued freedom to conjure pseudonaturals.
So he made a choice. In a matter of seconds, Mostin emptied his reservoir utterly. First, he
invoked a wish to reconfigure his transvalent armamentarium.
“It is time,” the Alienist intoned. “Horrors will befall them.”
Mostin cackled, and a huge amorphous [concept] appeared. It flailed [concepts], and more
[things]. It was something more obscene than any there before – living or dead, mortal or
immortal; saint, demon or celestial – had ever even imagined. Contact with its mind, if
such it possessed, challenged the Alienist’s already tenuous grasp on reality.
[Mostin]: Slay enemies in this order [equation]
He made a dimension door to Guho’s position and focused a most potent spell. She was
gathering energy for a ritual.
Time began again; reality buckled as Mostin caused to occur a sound which should not be
heard. Guho
– the Worm that Walks – dissociated into a combination of color, noise and more obscure
elements.
This time, he had struck at her essence; a powerful coercive impulse, unmaking her mind
from the inside, dissolving the quiddity of her form. Mostin shook from the exertion; ichor
dripped from his maws, and two pseudopodia caught fire.
In the space of a moment, four more temporal discontinuities passed across his
consciousness; other mages using time stops and unleashing deadly combinations of
spells.
He turned to observe the Ú; the monstrosity he had conjured from beyond the Periphery of
Ghom. It had set about the Kesha-Dirghaa – the ritual theurges. It wrought such carnage
amongst the enemy that he knew that it, and it alone, was sufficient to guarantee
domination of any battlefield – barring, perhaps, the arrival of a vastly augmented Visuit.
Many of the demons were simply vanishing. Others were fleeing as best they could. In the
event, the Butcher was occupied elsewhere.
**
After Rishih had fled, Ortwine cut her way through the remains of his guard, and assumed
a position near Nwm. Despite his disgust at the thing which Mostin had conjured, the
Preceptor gazed in
fascination as it annihilated the enemy.
A messsage reached the sidhe; sent by Rhul on the scream of a dying ancestor: the Butcher
was in
Mulhuk, wreaking bloody havoc. Jaliere had barricaded himself into his forge; Rhul
himself had eluded
her.
She looked at Nwm. Then at Lai.
The Preceptor nodded wearily, and opened a path.
[Nwm]: We are going to contain Visuit. Join us at your earliest convenience.
“What?” Eadric yelled.
*
In Nizkur, Nehael stood silently, her hand resting upon the bark of the Tree, observing a
half-dozen events with her mind’s eye. Soneillon had seized Deorham and demons were
flocking to her; Temenun
was about to embark on some venture of his own without regard to either Kaalaanala or
the other
immortals – or at least so Nehael surmised; the Claviger had adjusted certain aspects of
the underlying morphic, sending the practice of Sorcery into a generational decline; Visuit
was loose in the Bole of Shades, and about to wreak havoc.
And now Yeshe made an appeal. She relayed the information in an instant to Teppu.
“It is not to you,” the fey sighed.
“Do you mind…”
He stopped time.
Nehael continued. “Then to whom? Or what? To impotence?”
“To the Void.”
“To a Goddess.”
“You are considering intervention?” Teppu sighed. “I admit, sometimes your actions
confound me.”
“Things are simpler than you might imagine,” Nehael shrugged. “In any event I do not
intervene; rather, as Ortwine rightly observed, I intercede.”
“And is the face you present to her your dark one? I do not believe I have seen that.”
“You might find yourself less well-disposed toward me. But she will apprehend it whether
I will it or no.” As time recommenced, she turned pale.
Mostin.
**
**
All was silent, and motionless.
The Ahma glanced down, and saw himself nearby. Lukarn was poised to strike down his
foe.
Inwardly, he scowled.
“Let me have her,” it was Nehael’s voice. She was here; potent. She seemed to draw on
the full power of the Tree; he felt she could break the world in an instant and remake it
with a thought.
“A command?” He asked wrily.
“An entreaty. I beg mercy.”
“What will you do with her?”
“Do? Nothing. I do not need to do.”
“Are there others whom I should expect you to abduct to safety?”
She sighed. “A prayer was offered. What would you have me say? Do you hate her so?”
“I am the Ahma, not Nehael; I can hate heartily. What will happen to her?”
“She will have an opportunity to reevaluate.”
He had the urge to laugh. “This scene is reminiscent of more than one prior. The answer is
still yes, I imagine. Your reasons are your own, but I am curious.”
“I am invoked. Consider it restitution for your violation at Khu.”
Violation?
“It is not a perspective you will find easy to appreciate.”
“I imagine not.”
**
**
Yeshe waited, powerless, as the blade descended and her enemy smote her; a burning
agony; black fire sprang from her helm. Her immortal body did not break, but she
crumpled to her knees from the
strength of his blow. Now, even her inner sight began to fail. Ancient blood flowed, and
she felt her life ebb out of her.
Prama-Adhyaapikaa, apraapya pralayah Taamaseva anuman; Great Preceptress, if I am
denied
extinction permit me to persist only in the mode of Darkness.
She knew he would finish her. She fancied that she felt the wind which ran before his
blade as it cut the air.
The blow never came; an eternity might have passed.
Slowly, impressions began to form; first in her mind, then through her eyes: vague
shadows. A greenish light.
A tree.
No: The Tree.
Praartha! I beg you! Taamaseva, praartha! .
“That is denied you,” a voice said firmly. “And would be in any case. You are in the
Womb of Qinthei.
You stand before the Tree. I am Nehael.”
“You presume to judge me?” Yeshe smiled weakly as her senses returned. “Or suborn me
to your cause?”
“You invoked me. I interceded: I asked the Ahma to stay his blow. He indulged me. Had
you died with my name on your lips, you would have been mine for a while ere I released
you again into the world, or kept you here: I spared myself the dilemma. Did you not
know? I am the Image of Uedii. The World is Mine.”
Yeshe cursed Nehael roundly: the Binder felt her strength was quickly returning to her;
this place bestowed some remarkable regenerative power.
“You are welcome,” Nehael said easily. “I will not trouble you further. You may stay or
go, as you please. Nothing threatens you here; more importantly, nothing is threatened by
you.”
The Goddess vanished from Yeshe’s perception.
Yeshe stared at the Tree.
A rustle behind her made her hurl a death spell instinctively: its power manifested as a
barely audible hiss.
“That doesn’t work,” the voice contained an air of condescension. “Rumor has it that
Oronthon’s Adversary managed acorns.” Its owner’s hide was dry and leathery, almost
wooden. As tall as a man, it might have been some forest spirit. It had restless power;
Yeshe could feel it.
“What is your agenda?” Yeshe demanded.
“To dominate.”
“You were Rimilin,” Yeshe intuited.
“I am still very much Rimilin,” Rimilin bowed with exquisite sarcasm. “Although, for a
while I was not. I have acquired a new skin. I am adapting to circumstances.”
This one I can deal with, Yeshe knew.
“Gu- analas yet abide near the Blackthorn,” Rimilin ventured. “The ludja will soon
awaken. When it does; deeper shades of Green – more perylene – will be revealed. The
Ak’Chazar knows this.”
“What else?” Yeshe demanded.
“In Wyre, we have a custom regarding the exchange of information; I will forego it on this
occasion, as a courtesy: the Urn is here. At the Ahma‘s principal abode in Western
Trempa. Soneillon has it.”
The Urn. “And why is Rimilin still here? ” She asked, suspiciously.
The wizard nodded toward the Tree. “I have yet to discover a compelling reason to leave.”
The Binder snorted. “You are weak. Trapped.”
“Certainly not; at least, no more than you – as you will discover. You merely need to find
a compelling reason to leave.”
**
The Ahma watched on in horror as the Ú acted upon the shattered Cheshnite ranks. It
neither entirely devoured, nor tore asunder, nor engulfed those whom it touched; hideous
transformations overcame
some of them. His own knights recoiled from it.
A great, basso profundo noise emanated from it, flattening the enemy troops in a wide
swathe for a furlong ahead. Others were routing away from it now; what had been
intended – or at least, Eadric had foreseen – as a quick, hit-and-run attack, was turning
into a decisive victory, and in a matter of moments.
As he offered a prayer of thanks to both Tree and Sun, an ominous shadow rolled across
his mind. He glanced around. Where was Nwm? And for that matter, Ortwine?
Mostin alighted next to him in human form, but still appearing to Eadric through the Eye
of
Palamabron as a writhing mass of tentacles. Nearby, Hlioth looked at the Alienist and his
conjured servant with utter revulsion.
“Get used to it,” Mostin smiled wearily. “Next time there will be three of them.”
[Mazikreen]: I seek audience with the Ahma.
Eadric groaned. What now?
**
Queen Soneillon was occupying Kyrtill’s Burh. Many hundred demons had joined her.
Eadric received the news by saying nothing, and squinting.
The succubus who brought it – Mazikreen – was alluring even by the standards of her
species, and
possessed a grace of movement which rivalled that of Ortwine. Eadric did not know it, but
she had
once herself been Queen of a dismal realm which no longer existed. Wielding wide
dominion, Graz’zt had tried – and failed – to seduce her. He had bribed her with more
success.
“What of Caur, and Hawi, and the others?” Eadric finally asked.
“They remain unmolested, by command of Soneillon.”
The Ahma examined Mazikreen’s face. The Queen of Throile, he knew, played a slow
game.
[Mostin]: Do not presume to understand her. She has achieved a great rapture.
Mostin was mad; Eadric had no idea what he meant.
[Mostin]: Soneillon, not this one.
[Eadric]: I still fail to understand.
[Mostin]: There are some facts regarding Soneillon of which I have not yet had the
opportunity to
apprise you.
Mazikreen smiled. “Soneillon thanks the Ahma for his continued hospitality. She asks me
to remind him that he has always been a gracious host, and that she has always acted with
restraint and decorum when lodging with him. She assures him that his servants, the
townsfolk of Deorham, and the
numerous pilgrims nearby are currently quite safe.”
“Tell her they had better remain so,” Eadric growled. “I will hold her personally
responsible for every last bad dream experienced during her presence.”
[Mostin]: You are willing to suffer this indignity?
[Eadric]: What choice do I have? I cannot open another front at present. And something
remains
unspoken.
The Blackthorn, he knew.
**
**
In the shades of the courtyard, hard beside the sanctum sanctorum which Kaalaanala had
taken to herself, a Tree stirred. A single shoot unfurled upon a slender, thorned twig. Eight
hundred miles away, near Deorham, another whispered in response. At Kyrtill’s Burh, the
Sun seemed to dim. Standing atop the Steeple, clad in protective darkness, Soneillon
stiffened and felt a frisson run through her. At last.
In Jashat, Kaalaanala vomited black fire. Her effluvia took form, and sped westward
towards Fumaril in an orgy of fiery destruction, heedless of the limit which had previously
circumscribed her.
**
**
Beneath Mostin’s Infernal Tower, amidst the dead and striken, Eadric prepared to mount
Narh again.
Something was encroaching at the limit of Lukarn‘s light. It was coming from Jashat,
moving at terrible speed; molten earth was being churned a thousand feet into the air
above it, where it evaporated in a
disintegrating fire.
“No.” Mostin guessed the Ahma’s intent.
“Then what? What is it?”
“We fly,” Mulissu said. “Get everyone wind walking. I will give the order to evacuate
Fumaril.”
She vanished. A number of other mages – including Daunton – took the opportunity to
absent
themselves.
” Huhng,” Mostin groaned. “There are others.”
“Other whats?”
“Effluxions. Avatars. It would appear that Kaalaanala is feeling a little less coy than
previously.”
“I must return to Fumaril.”
“Forget Fumaril. There is no time. We go north, to Galda.”
“I will not yield Fumaril,” Eadric thundered. “We return. You think of something. And
where the hell are Nwm and Ortwine?”
“Not in this world,” Mostin snapped. “I should have told Daunton to do an interplanar
version. Alas, I cannot think of everything.” He forced a calm upon himself, and spoke
slowly, as though to a child.
“Eadric: we have to go. Fumaril is lost. Mulissu understands this. Even if you could get
there in time, you could not organize the defense; even if you could do that, it would be
swept away. Eadric:
Kaalaanala’s avatar. Do you understand?”
” Ortwine! ” The Ahma screamed.
I hear your prayer. We are in Sisperi; in Mulhuk. With Visuit. Actually, a little help might
be useful; her
mood is terse. I have tried winning her with banter, but she does not seem amenable. Go
[here].
Mostin jerked his head; a great gate in his tower opened. “Come on.”
Eadric cursed. He quickly despatched devas as messengers to the garrison at Fumaril and
to the main camp at Galda: respectively, flee and fortify.
He gave the order, and a swift mist flowed inside the tower. The Ahma himself was last,
gazing at the torrent of dark fire as it drove down on them. As Lukarn was sheathed and
borne within, the light dimmed and all was again gloom and shadow.
The tower vanished.
Inside, the illumination was ruddy; a great marshalling hall beneath a lofty, vaulted
ceiling. Mostin was in human form.
“I am feeling uneasy,” Eadric said.
“This will be tricky,” Mostin conceded. “But I have a strategy.”
“And that would be?”
“We stay alive for twenty-four hours more,” the Alienist replied. “Tomorrow Mostin the
Metagnostic will be fully rested.”
The gates of the tower swung open.
Eadric inhaled sharply. Before him, a slender Aspen reared; surely the most elegant tree he
had ever seen. An exuberant joy possessed him.
“Don’t get too carried away,” Nwm said drily. “It isn’t helping any.”
“I have lost Fumaril.”
“Fumaril was a feint,” Nwm spoke through gritted teeth. “Visuit is here.”
“Fumaril was no feint. Where is Ortwine?”
“With Lai. Attempting to draw the Butcher away from Jaliere’s forge; he has sealed
himself in with his smiths. Rhul is seeking aid from Saes; I do not rate his chances.
Ortwine appears to be demonstrating loyalty.”
A sensation impacted on Eadric’s perception; then another; then another.
Akma..kma..Akma
“What?”
“Your priests are invoking you for protection,” Nwm nodded. “I hope you don’t disappoint
them.”
“What are my chances?”
“Dismal,” Nwm smiled sympathetically.
* Qematiel is the swiftest of all wyrms, and may be the fastest of all flying creatures
(barring some pseudonatural aberrations, which might not exactly “fly”). She can move up
to 7500ft in one round at full speed: Qematiel can fly about as fast as an F-16.
Sovereignty
Qematiel approached Morne through the air from the west, the morning sun lending a
golden
adumbration to black and scarlet scales. She plummeted a thousand feet and alighted in an
explosion of Hellfire within the Temple courtyard, her rider taking pains to avoid any area
where
the Faithful were gathered. Hallowed ground hissed and smoked, and all fled screaming
from the
wyrm’s presence, save a quartet of the Anointed only: young paladins with glowing faces
charged
with guarding the gate to the precinct.
“Begone, you idiots,” Shomei gestured as she slid from Qematiel’s neck. They obeyed
without hesitation. She whispered, and vanished beyond perception.
Shomei paced softly but rapidly across a lawn toward the Yew. Pulling off a glove, she
stretched out her palm, and placed it on gnarled bark. Awareness was boundless. The
universe seemed to breathe
with a slow, measured pace. The scion itself was a tunnel of green light, leading to a
heaven of
limitless wisdom.
She inhaled sharply, withdrew her hand, and glanced about; her eyes now resting on an
unremarkable patch of grass in the shade of the transept. There, the I had stood. Shomei
walked over toward the place, and knelt upon the ground. Pulling away turf in clods, she
dug down eight
inches into soft earth with her fingers. Next, she carefully retrieved a wrapped canvas
from within her robe, untied it, and withdrew a cutting.
She placed the seedling in the hole she had dug, and even before she had packed the earth
back in
place, she felt it stretch, twist and slide in her hand: radicles quickly sought moisture;
twigs grew upon a slender sapling.
Power surged.
Dozens of other trunks shot up around her; wrapped in their own glamour, she knew they
were
imperceptible to all mortal senses. A coppice of Hazel within the compound of the Temple
of
Oronthon in Morne. Shomei conjured a once-devil, Haril, and tasked him with the
maintenance of
the grove; she then became visible again to sight.
Guards were moving around the periphery of the courtyard; Shomei was aware of others
beginning
to gather upon the enclosing walls.
The wizard ignored all present, made her way around to the great, carved valves which led
into the Fane, and gestured; they swung inward noisily. Within, light glowed warmly and
incense hung
heavy in the air. Those at morning prayer or in meditation were roused.
Kicking off her slippers, Shomei the Infernal – to the curiosity of those present – strode
down the nave. She handed her rod and robe to a bewildered scrollbearer who quaked
beneath their power,
and reverendly – or perhaps cautiously – approached the apse. Before her, the vacant
archiepiscopal throne and the great altar of Oronthon. She made a single, fluid ritual
prostration, and rose
smoothly.
In an act later viewed as blasphemy, reconciliation or rededication – depending on one’s
point of
view – Shomei proceeded to swiftly burn characters in Old High Borchian into the arch
above the
exedra which contained Oronthon’s Holy of Holies, in a script both elegant and precise.
Her
revelation itself was by no means unambiguous, and was the cause of much subsequent
speculation; the grammatical vagaries of Borchian lending additional uncertainty to her
words:
Gaírn Spâhidan Omnisapient Will [is Mine]
Waírdan Kanist Wistim [I am] Becoming [is] the Refuge of Being
And then, upon the great solar orb, as if in refutation of the central transmetaphysic of
Saizhan itself:
ÍM
SAIZHO
WAÍRTH
I AM. I SEE. I BECOME.
She muttered irritably to the priest as she took back her artefacts, turned, and cleared her
throat. She spoke in a clear voice to those within the Fane: a bold declamation which
echoed in the vaulted
ceilings:
” Swah Qith Oronthon. I am reiterating your credo, not denying it.* You are in danger of
falling into dogmatic nihilism; a perennial hazard if you emphasize negatory dialectics. I
am offering a
cataphatic serum for your malady. Don’t worry: the irony isn’t lost on me. Cease your
solipsisms!
Your praxis is insufficient by itself; the Truth is not enough: you lack agency.”
Shomei departed without ceremony, her slippers chasing her and returning to her feet as
she exited the Fane.
Reconsidering, she turned on the threshold, and subjected the golden eagle which reared
above the
newly-engraved orb to a powerful transmutation. Its talons retracted, its wings became
elevated as though about to take flight, its head drew back and gazed directly upwards.
She then disintegrated the throne.
Better, she thought.
Outside, a crowd gathered. The wyrm Qematiel had coiled herself about the Yew and
clung tightly
to it, her annihilating fires subdued. The dragon’s eyes – though they still retained their
vast and ancient malice – seemed to possess a certain peace; she was permitted to remain
until nightfall.
The Infernalist gazed at those assembled: in her mind’s eye, they became a conflagration
of light.
Flames of Oronthon, returned from the Serenities, threatening to overwhelm her with
radiance.
“Do you even know?” She asked them. “I think it’s time someone told you.”
The light smiled, and was occulted again.
Shomei scowled. With profound effort of Will – and the extent to which she recognized it
as other
than her own perplexed her – Shomei turned her thought upon them. She groped as
through the
flimsiest of veils; a subtle vapor concealed the apprehension of rarest truth. It eluded her.
“Become what You Are!” She hissed at them in frustration.
Silence.
Shomei considered her options. It would seem that more pressure must be applied.
Pausing for a
moment to gather her focus, she tapped her reservoir and reality shifted. She then issued a
sending: I invite you to join me. There will be no compulsion, but I will remain the senior
partner. Our association may end whenever you choose.
Instantly, Irel, Who Smites – the last and greatest of the dark episemes – appeared before
her.
Shomei – a connoisseur of the Infernal aesthetic – gaped at his beauty despite herself.
Here was a perfect being: fallen without sin; cradled by the Green, not imprisoned within
it. Oh, Mostin. I owe you for this.
She considered briefly, grasped her rod, and struck the ground. A peal of thunder sounded
as a gate opened. “Come,” she raised an eyebrow and gave a sidelong glance. “We go to
visit Azazel first.”
Shomei’s estimate of diabolic forces previously deployed on Avernus amounted to four
hundred and
thirty-four legions, including those of the independent magnates. Azazel had brought more
than two hundred more – mostly pit fiends and horned devils – from Nessus itself,
immediately subsequent to the I‘s translation. Their current status intrigued Shomei; the
extent to which they retained their infernality in varying degrees was curious: some –
including the rulers of the Quarters – had
become powerful feys. Others – such as Azazel himself and those accompanying him –
seemed to
enjoy a more protected status. Regardless, the general structure of their hierarchies
remained intact: they represented a potential for power; perhaps the greatest and certainly
the most coherent
anywhere within the bounded cosmos.
Shomei and Irel vanished through the gate into dark verdancies: the Thickets of the Four
Kings where the Hazel and Holly- ludjas held sway.
**
The witch floated in the air, a half-mile above the eastern gates of the city. Bells and
alarms were ringing frantically; the air around was thick with wind walking djinn and
whichever fortunates they had managed to take with them. Below her, in shadow, the
masses teemed in the streets and sought
to flee the encroaching fire. All available magical aid had been lent to speed the
evacuation; it
remained woefully inadequate to the task.
Mulissu silently lamented. There was no time for anything, even to conjure Ha’uh – which
might have at least forestalled the shape which now bore down upon the city. It was as
though a great
plough were being dragged at uncanny speed across the dark land toward Fumaril; the
furrow it left was an open wound in the earth, the sides of which smoked and vitrified. At
its approach, a
vibration caused the foundations of the city to shudder; the sound rapidly became
deafening, and
houses began to topple.
There is no scion at Fumaril, Mulissu grimly observed.
The gate below her exploded into molten rubble.
As her subjects – those whom she had sworn to protect – began to perish by the thousand,
she
pushed all sense of grief and horror from her mind lest it overwhelm her; not one jot of
remorse
would she let herself feel. The Tyrant of Fumaril gazed on, expressionless.
She studied her enemy with implacable calm.
**
Kyrtill’s Burh darkened as clouds gathered in the sky above it. Within two leagues – an
area which included both the town of Deorham and many outlying farms – animals were
transformed into
misshapen, brooding things by the awakening Blackthorn scion. The land seemed to drift;
shadows
erupted and passed without warning. Buildings stretched and twisted. Trees grew shaggy
and
thorned. Of feys, all but the most wicked and insane fled.
In the public lounge of the Twelve Elms, Soneillon sat and pondered. Her demons were
growing restless – most were currently contained in a demiplane of her devising, and only
a handful attended her directly. Ilistet, she had promised a steed; Mazikreen had taken a
liking to Afqithan, and Megual would need to be bought off. The Goat was remaining
hidden and inscrutable; probably making
magic. She must somehow seek to either placate or compel them all, but she could not
afford to
anger the Ahma quite yet, and loosing them on eastern Wyre would surely incur his wrath.
She motioned with her mind and gestured to the barkeep to bring her more wine. It
seemed to be
affecting her; Soneillon wondered as to whether she had acquired some measure of
mundanity.
When the bottle arrived – delivered by a flabby boy with an apish gait and an empty look -
the
demoness smiled languidly.
Soneillon made herself receptive. From far beyond the known – such as it now was – an
impression
reached her; concepts superimposed upon disquieting sound.
:: Beware of Shomei. We know her. She seeks to coerce the I with the Hazel. She will seek
the Urn:: The demoness entered a potent divinatory fugue. To her, the world – all that is
the case, and that had been a great deal – had changed into a small and unfamiliar but
nonetheless exciting finitude. Much was new again and unexplored, with possibilities
untapped. And now the Fires of Death in Jashat
had erupted in fourfould manifestation, spewing Void into reality.
The first and most violent effluxion was in the process of ravaging Fumaril: of the eighty
thousand inhabitants, some fifteen hundreds had escaped. Much of the city was already
gone, and burning
rivers now ran between mounds of ash and slag; clouds of steam rose from the harbors.
Soon,
Soneillon knew, the abomination would tire of its revels and sink down through the mantle
to
become a dark fire at the heart of the world.
A second manifestation, Kaalaanala had leaked into Dream; the Claviger would tolerate it
but must
necessarily move to contain it. Carasch and other Chthonics raced along a great bough of
the
Blackthorn into the nightmares which surrounded it. Soneillon sensed them as they
brushed
Delirium; the urge to join them was almost irresistible.
The Third Effluxion, a winged infernal shrouded in unlight, took flight. It sped to an island
in
Pandicule, a place far beyond the Claviger’s purview, there to enlist powerful spirits –
things now neither entirely demon nor fey – which had been seduced by the Blackthorn-
ludja. At that same moment, within the Grotto of the Articles, Gihaahia manifested, even
as the Claviger itself
plummeted into Dream. Taking stock as consciousness recrystallized, the Enforcer’s
perception
reached out toward the southern boundaries of her remit. Soneillon felt the awareness pass
through her and test the limit of the Blackthorn’s ward; the ludja itself flexed, repelling
Gihaahia’s efforts.
The Fourth and last – an image of the dark and hooded form of the goddess, wreathed in
corrupting
flames – stood momentarily before the altar of itself in meditation. Its senses probed
reality.
Without word or gesture, it caused space to fragment and dragged forth a great Chthonic
anala, binding it into the shape of a fiery steed. Faster than a hurricane, it then rode north,
an emissary.
Soneillon scowled. That bitch better not come here.
A pulse. The demoness started. It was emanated by the scion at the nearby keep. To soothe
her?
Allay her concerns? She tasted an exquisite anguish; a sudden satiation of unbecoming. It
struck her as a heady ecstasy of the utmost purity.
Immediately, a presence in her mind. Her mental defenses slammed into place; Soneillon
transformed herself and arose in might, clutching the Urn. A shockwave blew a hole in the
roof of the inn as she launched herself skywards: protective void blossomed around her;
tendrils of
madness lashed the air wildly.
All of her hatred, the entirety of her, focused into an execration directed at this interloper
in her field of apprehension. There was a brief mental silence.
[Nehael]: As you wish. But take care where your senses roam.
Soneillon cursed.
**
Hummaz lolled, wine-soaked, upon a great stone chair. Nymphs slept nearby in exhausted
bliss. The
Wild God of the Woods raised an eyebrow as something flitted across his vision four
leagues
distant.
What’s this?
He reached out, grabbing a diminutive fey and dragging it toward himself. The creature
was dressed strangely, possessed of one arm, and had an unwinking eye in the middle of
its forehead. Hummaz
absorbed its thoughts and history in a trice. An enigma.
Hummaz grunted and replaced the odd creature. He was thirsty, and his head pounded.
Where was
the wine?
Wine?
“Wine!” He bellowed. His temper was rising.
Every fey within a mile instantly heeded his call. Wine began to arrive; in bottles, cups,
flasks and kegs.
Hummaz drank eight deep draughts and relaxed again. But not entirely.
Something wasn’t quite right.
**
In Northern Soan, in the world of Sisperi, it was known that the gods warred in the
Heaven of
Mulhuk. At first, Lai’s priests blamed the machinations of Saes, the goddess of death; the
truth was later revealed by oracles to be otherwise: a foreign war-goddess – Visuit – was
attacking the
Nireem.
Dark spirits – awakened by the passage of the interloper through the Bole of Shades – now
stalked
the fields of Soan. Steadings were attacked by evil sprites; gentler woodland spirits fled.
Crofters barred their doors and nailed their shutters. Prayers were fervently offered: to
Ortwine, Rhul, Lai and Akma. A few invoked Ninit, but the Rider was oblivious,
galloping wildly along Faerie strands
west of Nizkur.
Akma sent his furies to intercede; winged avengers with great maces and flaming swords
drove fell
monsters back into shadow. The faithful rejoiced.
In Mulhuk itself, events were less happy.
**
[Eadric]: You cannot suppress her wards?
[Mostin]: No
[Eadric]: Conjure a…whatever that was?
[Mostin]: No
[Eadric]: Open a gate?
[Mostin]: There are no celestials or devils to invoke. I will not call a Horror using
something as vulgar as a gate: anything of any use to us would simply ignore my
commands and pursue its own trajectory.
[Nwm]: Invoke Nehael.
[Mostin]: I most certainly will not. Besides, there’s no point. She doesn’t ever do
anything, anyway.
[Eadric]: She owes me for Yeshe.
[Mostin]: And what exactly did she do with Yeshe?
[Hlioth]: Do? Nothing. She left her with Rimilin.
[Eadric]: What?
[Hlioth]: Neither Rimilin nor Yeshe will leave the presence of the Tree until their time. I
suspect that that whether they are “alive” or “dead” is not necessarily germane from the
Tree’s perspective.
But Cherry will not snatch them. This is good.
[Eadric]: The Cherry is waking?
[Nwm]: Amongst others. Big trouble. It won’t be long. The Aspen here is still sleepy.
[Eadric]: And Nehael knew this?
[Hlioth]: As the Image of Uedii. Nehael is, herself, merely an agent: an echo of an aspect.
That is worth remembering.
“I am confused,” Eadric sighed.
“As am I,” Mostin confessed.
“Cherry and Blackthorn.” Nwm explained. “These are the moot of Cheshne and Uedii: the
Abysmal ludjas, so to speak; negotiations are tense. My bowels register it uncomfortably.”
“You feel this? And yet Nehael is somehow blind to it?”
“Eadric,” Nwm sighed, “Unlike the Ahma, I am wise: I see little purpose in burdening
objective reality with my internal processes. I have occasional intuitions; Nehael is more
empathic: perhaps she is too close to it. Visuit. Kaalaanala. Goddess grows darker.”
[Ortwine]: Yes she does. And a little help would be appreciated here.
[Lai]: Soon.
“But Nehael is an echo of what?” Eadric asked, exasperated. “And to which ludja is she
inclined?
Hlioth, with all respect, please speak more directly.”
“Of her own Sovereign Viridescence: her higher octave, which is still not Uedii. If we
prevail, you may see. As to loyalty? To all and none. The Tree is there for Nehael, not vice
versa.” Hlioth glowered at him, and considered. “Imagine this picture: Tree in its entirety
as an aegis bequeathed by Uedii to protect Nehael from the Apparition of Demogorgon.
The surface of the shield, facing
outward, carries a veneer of cherry and blackthorn: the wood is weak and apt to splinter
and ablate under violent passion or disintegrative fire. Nonetheless, it dissipates the shock
of an attack.
Beneath, lacquered bands of hardwoods - oak, elm and ash – lend strength, flexibility and
hardness.
In all, twenty varieties of wood comprise the shield; taken as a whole, the construction is
impenetrable.”
“And how long must this shield endure?”
“An aeon or a moment, what does it matter? It will last for as long as it needs to. Thinking
big is nice, but none of it helps us deal with Visuit,” Hlioth observed. “Or the Blackthorn’s
waxing power.
Our troubles are just beginning. Effects are no longer preceded by causes; Cheshne moves
in
tandem with Tree’s shadow, seeking to Apparate. Yes, the Tree itself is indestructible;
Nehael,
unassailable. Unfortunately, this is not true of the rest of the world. We neglected to
quickly plug a
certain cosmic hole.”
She scowled at Mostin. It irritated him – mostly because she seemed to know more than
him. But
also because it made him feel guilty: it had been within his power to greatly curtail the
menace. Had they only returned to Azzagrat, and sealed the gates. But that was now the
prior reality.
“Where are the Blackthorn scions, Hlioth?” Eadric sighed.
“In Jashat and at Deorham, you know. One now grows northeast of Cirone, at the place
where
Shvar Choryati was ended: its roots sink into the crater floor.”
Nwm groaned. “That scar should have been healed but there was no time; the landscape is
blasted; trees flattened for a mile.”
Hlioth ignored him and continued. “The scion at Cirone remains dormant for the time
being, but will likely not long remain so. One – as with each – is in the vicinty of the
Great Ludja itself: each of those scions is subdued; dwarfed in significance, but each ludja
is thus ever-present. One is as yet unaccounted for.”
“None in the realm of Hummaz?” Eadric seemed suspicious.
“No, no, no,” Hlioth shook her head. “Pine, Linden, Willow; Hazel and Holly; Hawthorne
and a Cherry – yes. And a Yew. But there is no place for the principle of elimination in
relation to
Hummaz; he is too fecund.”
“I suspect it will be Fumaril,” Nwm grumbled. “Or Afqithan. There are already powerful
resonances there.”
[Ortwine]: It damn well better not be. Now?
[Lai]: A little more patience.
[Eadric]: Do we have a plan?
[Mostin]: I’m thinking.
[Ortwine]: Hurry up!
[Mostin]: You need a nine hundred. I have it. It’s ugly.
**
This gnat was becoming annoying. Visuit stood upon the heaped bodies of minor godlings
and revered ancestors.
Purposely vexing the augmented war-goddess was not an activity which Ortwine
undertook lightly.
Lai had been with her to begin with, but as soon as news had reached them that Mostin’s
tower had
arrived, the goddess of magic had vanished to organize the ritual which Nwm must
inevitably lead.
Ortwine – swifter and more elusive than a zephyr – had succeeded in briefly distracting
Visuit from
her main purpose: the Butcher was intent upon smashing her way into the forge of Jaliere.
However, Visuit’s attention could not be captured for long: when it became clear that she
could not engage
Ortwine at her own choosing, but her enemy could inflict no harm upon her, Visuit simply
returned
her focus to the divinely barred portals.
They would not yield.
Visuit cursed, her spittle smoking like acid. Runes flared; the flower gardens nearby
wilted. She
turned her attention to the black rock around the doors: it was harder than adamant. With a
titanic effort, she hewed a great shard away from the wall.
Ortwine hurled Heedless; it clattered noisily off of Visuit’s helm. The war-goddess
bellowed in fury, leaped a hundred feet, and brought her hideous weapon smashing down;
her enemy was not where
she was should have been. But had she been…The sidhe raised an invisible eyebrow.
Ortwine taunted her. Visuit, unperturbed, sliced reality open with her weapon; darkness
emanated
from a gate into a dismal realm.
Ortwine groaned. Through the rift, dark feys now poured, each raised to a wicked
eminence in the
presence of the Blackthorn. Many had once been sidhe. Now they were much worse.
She began to charm or dominate those that she might, in an effort to turn them against one
another.
Visuit resumed her assault upon the rock.
**
Nwm observed that there were only twenty-three spellcasters amongst the flamines and
scrollbearers. Spells were all but spent. Every reservoir – including his own – was
exhausted. He
considered Mostin’s solution.
“You will give me everything. I am going to burn as hot as I can,” he said to them. “This
means that you will burn as well. As I am more practiced at burning than you are, all of
you will die
immediately. You will enjoy a brief spell in Rûk: a relatively agreeable underworld, as
underworlds go. Sombre, quiet self-reflection is the order of the day. Some of you may be
temperamentally
inclined to remain there; otherwise, I will return you at the Ahma‘s request. In any event,
the experience of burning will embed itself on your souls and permanently traumatize you.
If any of
you now wish to reconsider your contribution, I advise you to speak up.”
The predictable silence which ensued reassured Mostin of the utility of religious
fanaticism. Nwm
turned to those who would not participate in the ritual, and would therefore survive it.
“It is impossible to say how long we will have; I am hoping for twenty seconds before
Visuit’s protections reassert themselves. Please be assured that speedy action is of great
importance.”
The rite which then followed was an horrific scene: Nwm screaming; an inferno of green
fire which
consumed all but he.
The Preceptor perceived her. Energy moved from him; a tendril of green power, suffused
with
magic, rupturing space. Distance was meaningless. He struck the Butcher remotely with a
dispelling, sealing the gate near her and suppressing the Voidwrought wards erected by
Kaalaanala.
Simultaneously, as though grasping a rope with his own awareness, Nwm dragged those
present
through a green vortex, directly into Visuit’s presence.
In those next few moments – a matter of seconds, which passed as though they might be
years –
Eadric finally came to grasp an appreciation of the raw power which Mostin now
possessed. Almost
entirely bereft of spells, the Alienist became instead a formidable physical opponent, a
dozen
hideous tentacles setting about Visuit, pinning her arms, legs, head. With all of her
augmentations subdued, the wizard now outmatched the war-goddess.
Lukarn ignited as it sprang from its scabbard.
Her plight was impossible. Mostin grappled her; tentacles crushing the goddess through
her armor
and pinning her. She growled in fury as the others set about her, and hacked at her.
Butchered her.
“Take her,” Eadric invoked Nehael as Visuit fell. Now he understood.
War had passed. But at hideous cost. And he had broken a vow; demonstrated his own
limit. He
knew in his heart that not all of those who had perished in Nwm’s immolating spell would
fly to the Serenities. Not every martyr would find his reward. And each of those which
might would be
nonetheless diminished.
**
Rimilin observed the Tree. Its leaves whispered in a gathering wind. The World changed
again.
**
**
Tozinak – appearing as a hook-nosed creature of medium stature with tufted feet and silky
wings –
returned to his island manse with a sense of profound relief. Mostin’s insane schemes had
almost
rendered him dead again. The wizard understood in a moment of clarity that, although a
coward, he
was possessed of a genuine peaceful demeanor: the Alienist’s actions never failed to
perturb him on any number of levels simultaneously. Daunton had insisted on a drink;
Tozinak had been inclined to agree. The afternoon had been spent regaining a semblance
of calm.
As he shuffled into his cluttered study – a large space with a lofty ceiling, crowded with
papers, alembics, and other apparatus of unguessable purpose – his skin tingled and his
nose turned blue in alarm.
A succubus of extraordinary presence relaxed, supine, on his favorite couch. Tozinak
froze, emitting a high-pitched squeak.
“I believe you can guess who I am,” Soneillon smiled, lifting her head.
Tozinak nodded meekly.
“I’m just across the lake there,” the demoness sat up and pointed with her wingtip. “At
Deorham.
We’re practically neighbours.”
Tozinak swallowed.
“Which is nice. I’ll be stopping by. To see how you’re progressing on inscribing A Flame
Precedes the Aeon for me.”
“Ah,” Tozinak finally said.
“What is your price?” Soneillon asked unexpectedly.
“Oh.” Tozinak half-exclaimed. “I-I had assumed…”
“That this was extortion? Consider what you desire. I will grant it. I will return tomorrow.
But you may begin the inscription at your earliest convenience.” Soneillon vanished
The wizard retired, flustered and palpitating, to his herbaceous borders. What did he
desire? Really, nothing which he did not already have; or simply to be left alone. This was
Mostin’s fault: Tozinak had previously shunned contact with all conjured entities; he
judged that none were possessed of a facility which outweighed their price.
As he descended a small, uneven set of steps and rounded a corner, he began to
hyperventilate. A
tree where none had stood prior. Suspended, before his face, on a branch laden with their
weight.
Cherries.
Tozinak reached out and smiled as he picked one and popped it in his mouth. It was
exquisite; his
mind seemed to melt. He yearned impossibly, although his longing had no discernible
target.
Cherries. He knew he was safe. She would not come back. She was scared of the cherries.
He would
have to go to her. Bring her his spell. And cherries.
**
**
Dusk fell.
Nehael, the Image of Uedii, manifested discreetly in the Temple precinct in Morne: she
had been
invoked by no few of those present for protection. She wore only a simple robe of green,
and
melded effortlessly into the throng; now the courtyard was packed with many hundreds.
Lamps
were being lit; vigils set: the wyrm was a portent of unknown significance.
As the sun sank behind the western hills, the dragon stirred. Unseen, Nehael approached,
laying her hand upon Qematiel’s great snout; the calm which emanated from the goddess
was irresistible. An
impulse. Immediately, the crowd began to disperse – the attention of each suddenly drawn
to some minor elsewhere.
Shomei appeared, unnoticed by the mortals present.
“You are mustering an army,” Nehael observed. “For what purpose? Who is your enemy?”
“Always myself,” Shomei smiled as she mounted the dragon.
“I did not foresee the union of these scions; you will make the Holly- ludja jealous.”
“I am the Archivist of Hell: the two seemed a natural fit. As for the Holly, it hates enough
already: it needs no prompting.”
“There is no Hell.”
“There is for me.”
“Exercise compassion,” Nehael advised.
“It is not my forté,” Shomei admitted. “But I am not unprincipled.”
Nehael fixed her with a look. “Answer me a question: what do you know of the I‘s
translation?”
“What is there to say? Will has been ceded to the Hazel; the I now acts from Instinct.”
“I think we both understand that things are a little more complicated,” Nehael seemed
unimpressed.
“Truth is always so,” Shomei was ironic.
“A piece of the I is unrevealed,” Nehael said. “It is disguised as something else; or the I is
hedging its bets.”
“Such is the instinct for Self-preservation,” Shomei agreed. “But whatever it is, it is here
by the grace of the Tree; its nature is necessarily mixed.”
“It is a Flame,” Nehael remained impassive. “An Iota. Oronthon’s memory of the
Nameless Fiend, so to speak; or his preconception of Antinomos. The Flame which must,
perforce, become Itself. It is a paradox: a Flame is pure; it cannot Fall. You seek it. And
which laws will you set yourself against if you find it?”
“Not all laws are unequal,” Shomei smiled grimly. “The only Law which presently matters
is that of the Claviger. Its oneiric whimsies are too much to endure. Other laws may be
subject to scrutiny in due course.”
“You would look to assume this role?”
“This is already my role,” Shomei sighed. “I am Exempt; the Agent of Will. Who else is
better qualified?”
“You are not exempt from the Enforcer’s mandate.”
“The devil sitting by the Hazel begs to differ.”
“He is not entirely a devil, nor was he entirely Outside. The World is changed.”
“Outside? So Gihaahia now protects Wyre only from Mostin?” Shomei said archly. “That,
at least, is reassuring.”
“And Vhorzhe.”
“Yes. And from Vhorzhe. I am beginning to believe that she may need some help.”
Nehael was exasperated. “The [I]I[I]‘s nature is now a visceral urge for satiation. You
cannot contain Hummaz.”
“I will subdue him.”
“Shomei…”
“Will you trust me, or not?”
Nehael was silent: the memory of the Antinomos, reflected back at her. She approached
the Yew, laid her hands on it. Its bark was warm, but from its own, inner heat; no trace of
the wyrm’s fire remained on the tree.
“You are sincere, but I am sceptical,” Nehael remained in contact with the scion. “If you
fail, and enrage Hummaz, things will go ill.”
“I am no fool. I am not yet ready for this task, nor shall I attempt it until I am. I am not the
Adversary, Nehael. But I might become what he should have been. Think on it.”
Wreathed in Hellfire, Qematiel took to the skies and thundered away to the southwest.
The Goddess turned. Nehael grasped a living stave of Hazel and willed after Shomei as
she
departed.
Compassion!
The impulse echoed through a hundred worlds; Nehael blazed, and for a fleeting instant,
the Aeon
manifested: an eleos. A sigh rippled through the Green as the Butcher fell in Mulhuk.
[Nehael]: She is mine. I claim her.
All of significance heard her. Hummaz, maybe the only one who might, did not contest
her. A
naked, powerless spirit, Visuit fled briefly through the underworld of Rûk and into the
presence of the Great Tree- ludja in the Womb of Qinthei.
At the Veils, the Mistresses screeched in hateful impotence.
*“Thus Spake Oronthon [to me],” words which were typically only uttered by Oronthon’s
divine oracles in the heyday of Orthodoxy; her “reiteration” may also be interpreted as a
rebuttal of Nothing Is, Nothing Is Not, Nothing Becomes. Shomei’s assertions are
unequivocally outrageous in all regards.
Midwinter Goddess
After the fall of Visuit the Butcher, Nwm lingered for a day in Sisperi in order to aid Lai
with the resurrections. Mostin removed his tower to eastern Nizkur, attaching it again to
his manse – now the home of Orolde and Mei. Rhul and Mesikammi travelled to Afqithan
to assess the danger in that
realm with Ortwine. Eadric returned with Hlioth, his saints and remaining knights to
Galda, there to receive mixed news.
Prahar had withdrawn his cavalry – their raids had been punishing for both sides in the
conflict –
and established a more distant perimeter. Obfuscatory magicks prevented Temple scriers
from
penetrating the Cheshnite ranks and determining their exact movements, but it was known
that the
main host was again marching, taking many hours to pass through the gates at Thond.
“She can be no worse than Visuit.”
“You should not underestimate Dhatri,” Hlioth cautioned. “She is a symbol. An all-
consuming mouth and gullet. She has had long to prepare; she must time her momentum
precisely. The Pall is more than half expired, and there are too few now amongst the
cabals to renew it: many have died;
some have moved to new centers of power. But she has had a month to work her
necromancy
uninterrupted. And a million ravenous undead accompany her. Sheer numbers may
prevail.”
“And when they meet the perimeter established by the scions?” Eadric asked.
“A test occurs.”
“Then our lever must be at this point.”
“We have a brief lacuna,” Hlioth advised him. “Use the time wisely.”
**
Mulissu sat in Mostin’s – now Orolde’s – study, brooding. A fire burned steadily in the
hearth, and the smell of musty books and burned toast filled the air. Outside, snow piled
heavily against the
window, diffusing the afternoon light as it streamed in. The savant had been absorbed in
her own
thoughts since witnessing the destruction of the city she had sworn to protect. Mostin
could not
determine whether it was guilt, rage, or some other emotion which consumed her and had
caused
her fugue.
“Crumpet?” The Alienist asked, proudly presenting a long fork which displayed an over-
charred circle of dough.
Mulissu sighed, and took the proffered dainty, scraping off carbon before smothering it
with butter and jam.
“We need to find a way to eliminate the effluxia,” she remarked distractedly.
“That would involve finding and confronting,” Mostin observed. “I suspect that our
energies would be better deployed elsewhere.”
“I assume that you are speaking of your Ú s”
“I am,” Mostin nodded sagely. “I am also of a mind to reengineer the Quiescence to allow
for selective teleportations amongst those whom I designate. Furthermore, Daunton
informs me that a number of wizards are willing to demonstrate a more unified front in the
face of the latest events.”
“Which?” Mulissu sounded suspicious. “Why this sudden reversal?”
“The threat is now more imminent. Daunton himself, Hlioth, Jalael, Wigdryt, Gholu, Creq,
Droom, Poylu, Troap, Muthollo, Sarpin. Even Waide. Tozinak appears to be sulking, and
refuses to answer
Daunton’s sendings.”
“And Shomei?”
“Her path, as always, is her own,” Mostin sighed. “But Sho is willing to participate.”
“And her sibling?”
“Still awaits her pseudogenesis: as to that, I have given thought to a spell.”
“What did you have in mind as a basis?”
[Mostin]: Look: A_N = \int D\mu \int D[X] \exp \left( -\frac{1}{4\pi\alpha} \int \partial_z
X_\mu(z,\overline{z}) \partial_{\overline{z}} X^\mu(z,\overline{z}) \, dz^2 + i
\sum_{i=1}^N
k_{i \mu} X^\mu (z_i,\overline{z}_i) \right)
[Mulissu]: You can reduce it to this: A_N = \int D\mu \prod_{0<i<j<N+1} |z_i-
z_j|^{2\alpha k_i.k_j}
[Gihaahia]: You are both idiots. Use this: \int_{-\infty}^\infty \exp({a x^4+b x^3+c
x^2+d
x+f}) \, dx = e^f \sum_{n,m,p=0}^\infty \frac{ b^{4n}}{(4n)!} \frac{c^{2m}}{(2m)!}
\frac{d^{4p}}{(4p)!} \frac{ \Gamma(3n+m+p+\frac14) }{a^{3n+m+p+\frac14} }
[Mostin]:!! (Gratitude)
[Mulissu]: Eleven dimensions works for me. I suppose that’s as good a place to start as
any.
[Gihaahia]: Don’t disappoint me, Mostin.
“What is her involvement in this?” Mulissu asked, confused.
“I have no idea,” Mostin was dubious. “She has never evinced any interest in my work
prior to now.
Although, she reconfigured Daunton’s transvalent repertoire, and bestowed the Instant
Convocation on him. Perhaps she will do the same for me?” [Inquiry?]
…
“Apparently not,” Mulissu said drily. “Still, you have something to work with. What will
you need?”
(Calculation).
“You, me, Sho, Orolde…and Mei herself. That is all.” Mostin was dumbfounded.
“Where is Mei?”
“In the parlour,” the Alienist said intensely, his eyes rotating in excitement. “I will inform
her immediately. Her time is close…two or three days will be enough.”
“Can we afford even that much?”
“Mei has placed her trust in me without question!” Mostin was aghast. “I won’t fail her
now.”
“You are an odd one,” Mulissu sighed. “I don’t believe I’ll ever understand you.”
**
The errand-runner was beside himself with terror. Only moments before, archons had
apprised
Eadric telepathically.
” Ahma, a messenger from Shomei the Infernal. He purports to be one Yeqon; he styles
himself the Fifth Prosecutor.”
Hlioth scowled. Shomei was making a point. No Goetia so grand as the binding of one
such as this
had ever before been accomplished. Prosecutors, Antagonists – among the greatest of
fiends and the most recondite. Signatories to the pact. Now atavisms, whom Shomei alone
possessed the power to
conjure and coerce. The Agent of Will had dispatched him as an errand-boy.
Oronthon! Eadric swore silently and reflexively upon encountering the devil.
Yeqon towered above him, and – saving Hlioth – none others amongst those present might
even
approach the devil, such was the magnitude of his presence. A fallen seraph, close kin to
Enitharmon: vast, dark wings shrouded his form. The Fifth Prosecutor had been brooding
in grim
obscurity for an aeon, hatching impossible schemes for the renewed assault upon Heaven.
A Heaven
which might be no more; or one so far removed from thought and knowledge that it might
as well
no longer be.
Yeqon knelt and sat upon his heels, his eyes meeting the Ahma‘s.
“What do you want?” Eadric sighed.
The Fifth Prosecutor briefly pressed his forehead to the ground at the Ahma‘s feet.
” Saizhan,” the devil replied.
Eadric squinted suspiciously. “Then it is to the Sela you must speak, not I.”
“In due course,” Yeqon’s voice was calm and mellifluous. “But what I want and why I am
here are two separate questions. My mistress has sent me as an ambassador; she is
reconvening the Dark
Choir. Bolstering its numbers. She asks that you remember your prior words to her, and
that you
continue to trust her.”
“Pah!” Hlioth spat.
Eadric raised his hand, and addressed the Prosecutor. ” Reconvening? With what? Only
Irel remains.”
“No devil is lost to Shomei the Infernal,” Yeqon replied. “But some are more freshly-
fallen. Did you not stand with Rintrah above the Blessed Plain?”
The Ahma recalled the Migration of Light he had witnessed; that some of the Host, in their
haste to enter the burgeoning Viridescence, had crashed in smoking ruin. But to where?
“Into the Thickets of the Four Kings,” Yeqon read his face precisely.
“Nets cast by the Hazel?”
“Yes,” the Fifth Prosecutor answered. “And the Holly.”
[Hlioth]: Beware this devil, Ahma. Blackthorn may rot and putrefy and eliminate; Hazel
dominate and involute; Cherry lust and crave. But, for sheer wickedness, none can match
Holly.
“And which words would Shomei have me remember?” Eadric asked wrily.
“That you need not miss the opportunity of a good friendship,” Yeqon replied.
“And I assume that some demonstration of my friendship is asked for?”
“Those arms and armor which you have under guard. Of Visuit the Butcher; Yeshe the
Binder;
Prince Graz’zt.”
“She suggests I release these items to her?” The Ahma was incredulous. “Is there even any
savage enough to bear Visuit’s sword?”
“I, for one,” the devil said steadily.
Eadric scowled. “I would speak with her directly.”
“She is presently indisposed, but I will convey your request,” Yeqon bowed, and departed
in a pillar of dark fire.
“Indisposed?” Eadric turned to Hlioth.
“Shomei conjures,” the Green Witch replied. “Goddess help us all.”
He issued a mental summons to his steed.
“Wherever you are going, I can get you there faster,” Hlioth observed.
“I need to ride,” Eadric replied.
Straddling Narh, he sped away.
*
As he rode northwards, winter began to assert itself: not merely by virtue of latitude, he
noted, but because of distance from the unnatural energies which lay over the whole of the
Thalassine and
Wyre’s southern marches. He reached Hrim Eorth by mid-morning; by noon he had passed
Groba
and was galloping over frosty fields in Hethio. In the wan sunlight, Nizkur loomed.
Narh knew the route well, and required no prompting from Eadric. The forest – although
quiescent by season – seemed unusually subdued. With barely a faltering of pace, the
stallion ran through
webs and thickets impenetrable to those without permission: the Green bulwark which
surrounded
Qinthei, the Womb of the Goddess. Snow blanketed the ground; the air was frigid. A
slender figure
stood waiting beneath the Tree. Eadric reined in before her. Nebulous figures – the barely
perceptible shades of vanquished foes – moved like mist in some adjacent world, but did
not seem
to register his presence.
Steam rose from Narh‘s flanks and nostrils; Nehael extended her hand, rubbing the horse’s
muzzle, tugging at his forelock, and sending him into an ecstasy.
“I come for counsel,” Eadric dismounted and bowed.
“Come,” she said. “Walk with me.”
*
“The thing which destroyed Fumaril – Kaalaanala’s avatar – what has become of it?”
Nehael paused and pointed at the frozen earth beneath her feet. “It is below us. A cancer at
the heart of the world. It will irrupt again if the goddess at Jashat becomes sufficiently
angry.”
“Mostin said there were others,” Eadric grimaced.
Nehael nodded. “One rages amid nightmares; another has set itself up in mockery of the
Enforcer; the last…may prove the most dangerous.”
“You offer little reassurance,” the Ahma said bleakly. “This last – what can you tell me of
it?”
“It is her,” Nehael spoke carefully. “The Fires of Death. Or as close as you will come to
encountering her without actually meeting her. She may bring cohesion to the remaining
hierophants amongst the Cheshnite sect. She is abroad, but I do not know where, or
exactly why.
Powerful magic obscures her.”
“Even from you?”
“Especially from me.”
“And there are no limits imposed upon her actions? Why was I led to believe that
Kaalaanala was confined; her remit strictly curtailed?”
“So it is,” Nehael scowled. “Or all of Wyre should burn.”
“Then is it as Nwm asserts? That the Goddess grows dark?”
“Our mood is various,” Nehael observed laconically. “Or had this fact escaped you?”
“The movement is chaotic. I cannot find purchase,” Eadric stopped walking.
A long silence followed.
“What of Soneillon?” Nehael inquired archly. Her gaze penetrated him.
Eadric replied with a pointed look. “It is a meeting which I am content to forestall for as
long as possible.”
“I ask because you should expect her. She perceives your Flame, albeit indirectly; she
knows how bright it burns. She covets it, or is drawn to it like a moth. And it is
Midwinter; the Sun is weakest.”
“Your words are not comforting. Mostin informs me that she has undergone a ‘great
rapture.’”
“Her power is formidable,” Nehael said plainly. “She is her own locus: of Dream,
Oblivion, Delirium – imbued by the Blackthorn. Trace her passage, Eadric: she has been
celestial, infernal,
demonic; unbecome, a nightmare; something impossible, now perylene. More infinities
collide in
her than can be counted. She may be insane – psychotic – by your standards, but to
characterize her as evil would be to reduce her complexity to a single dimension. Although
I believe you already know this.”
“You sound sympathetic.”
“That would be natural: it is who I am. She is as I, maybe, on a different path. Perhaps we
run contraparallel; each anathema to the other. Force cannot overcome her now, unless
some sovereign
strength is invoked. And it is she who is in possession of the Urn.”
“Then how would you suggest that I deal with her?” He groaned.
“Naturally,” Nehael laughed, “…naturally. But I see this prospect somehow disturbs you?”
“She remains my greatest weakness,” Eadric acknowledged. “Or one of them.”
“Maybe less than you are hers. And what of Shomei?”
“Must you always be so perceptive?”
“Goddess is manifold,” Nehael smiled. “And little escapes my notice. Perhaps you
understand Nwm’s dilemma a little better.”
“Shomei makes inquiries in my direction to gauge my disposition.”
“You sound sympathetic,” Nehael remarked drily.
“I am,” Eadric admitted. “Insofar as I trust her; I understand her.”
“As she was, maybe. But as she is?”
Eadric considered. “Shomei is always in process; I think she would reject any static
characterization.”
“I have spoken with her,” Nehael’s voice was subdued. “She has set herself tasks which
are suitably unattainable. My concern is that she may drag the World into ruin in her effort
toward self-mastery.
Her revelation within the Fane at Morne: what is your reaction to that? ”
“I am unsure,” Eadric said apprehensively. “Although I find myself in a state of at least
partial agreement with the Irrenite faction, and how they have chosen to interpret it.”
Nehael raised an inquisitive eyebrow.
“They are calling it the Third Turning of Saizhan.”
“The Third?” A look of mild puzzlement crossed the face of the goddess. “Did I miss
one?”
” Skôhsldaúr, the Gate of Demons,” Eadric explained. “I am designated as its unfortunate
patron and exemplar. And there are enough demons left in the World. Faheth, any advice
you have to offer on how to proceed would be appreciated.”
“You choose now to name me thus?”
“It is how I would relate to you.”
Nehael sighed. “Somehow you must impress the notion of compassion upon Shomei. She
still
conflates it with sentiment; she needs to understand that it is rational.”
“I was unable when she was mortal; how am I to believe that it will be possible now that
she is a devil?”
“I didn’t say it would be easy,” Nehael smiled. “I, for one, have met with little success.
But, as you have pointed out, she is in process.”
“And otherwise?”
“Exercise compassion yourself. You cannot teach what you do not demonstrate.”
**
Nivorn – a rocky peninsula eighty miles long, extending into the sea to the east of the
conflict – was attached to Wyre by a broad isthmus and boasted impressive natural
defenses. Much of its coast was sheer cliff, pierced by a handful of protected harbors. An
encircling row of peaks enclosing a high plateau, cloven by a wide, deep lake comprised
Nivorn’s interior.
Successive Wyrish kings had attempted to annex the foreland; all had met with failure. By
their own vows, the lairds were bound in tribute to Morne. In practice, it had not been
exacted for generations from most: like the inhabitants of Ardan – to whom they were
related – the Nivornese were
generally considered intractable, often maniacal, and best left to their own devices. They
feuded interminably amongst themselves; vendettas a thousand years old still raged. A
previous king,
Tulgus – regarded as the greatest of the Gultheins – had established a line of border forts
in
southern Wyre to prevent major incursions; drunken raids to abduct womenfolk and
livestock still
occasionally occurred, but were immediately met with fierce punitive strikes. An uneasy
truce
prevailed.
It was upon a densely wooded island within the lake – called Sooile by the natives – that
Temenun
had elected to establish a stronghold, placing himself under the protection of the Cherry
which now grew there.
The Tiger’s choice to defy the other immortals – and the Fires of Death herself – was not
made
lightly. But Temenun was ever his own master; he would not bow now, even to a Bhiti
such as Kaalaanala, and throwing himself at the mercy of the Cherry – on the surface a
highly risky
proposition – was made in full consciousness: whatever dark prolepsis had served the
Ak’Chazar
for twenty millennia and had prompted him to his action, was the same faculty – the only
thing, in fact – that he had come to trust.
His Naztharunes, who may have numbered in the dozens or in the thousands, accompanied
their
overlord without question. A clique of Anantam magi – those most uncomfortable with the
current political climate and the direction offered by Anumid – also joined him. His
armored legions, for
the most part half-giants from Danhaan, the Tiger had left to whatever fate might befall
them – such were the vicissitudes of service to an immortal such as Temenun.
Only hours after he had established his redoubt – a region of twisted vines and briars, from
the
center of which the Cherry scion itself emanated invisible lures across the island – news
reached the Tiger of Kaalaanala’s fourfold effluxion, and he breathed a silent sigh of
relief. Here, at least, he was now safe from the Embassy; the last, most potent, most
deadly of the avatars. The one which
might force him to do the bidding of the Fires of Death. The others – even Idyam – would
necessarily capitulate to whatever demands were imposed upon them.
Thoughts of Void, of Tamasah – the final darkness – he allowed to slip from his mind.
Nothing was so pressing; or rather, Nothing now seemed less pressing. The poisoned fruits
which grew nearby –
familiar fruits, from beyond the southern deserts – were a source of comfort to him. And,
finally, it was warm.
Temenun relaxed. Throile was but a footstep away. Perhaps he would pay a visit: the
jungles there
held many secrets. And Soneillon’s cabal – now that their mistress had abandoned them –
might
prove amenable if offered sufficient inducements.
**
It was dark when Eadric returned to Galda. Wearily, he dismounted and gave an ironic
smile: Narh was tireless, and despite having been ridden hard for six hundred miles that
day, the steed seemed fresh as though led from a month’s pasturing. He realized that he
himself had had no real rest for weeks – since long prior to his own reincarnation. Eadric
unharnessed the stallion, bade him run free until dawn, and trudged through the camp on
foot, his saddle cast over his shoulder. Bestowing nodding blessings upon sentries as he
went, and a glare in the direction of rowdy Ardanese
mercenaries celebrating the winter Tagamuos, he made his way to his pavillion.
He pulled the heavy fur drape closed across the opening to the tent, and illumination was
dimmed; canvas filtered the light of campfires to a dull, flickering glow. Eadric unbuckled
Lukarn, set his shield upon its stand, threw off begrimed armor, and sat for an hour in
saizhan before entering the Fultum meditation: a steadfastness in the face of all doubt, and
a protection against forces – or impulses – which might otherwise assail him.
He lit a narrow taper and placed it on a simple altar with a winter garland, and offered
prayers to the Eleos: for the protection of the souls around him; for the safe passage of
those lost at Fumaril; for mercy upon those within the orbit of the scion at Deorham; for
the succour of his servants and those within his own household. Finally, he arose,
extinguished the light, and cast himself, exhausted,
onto his pallet. As visions and half-remembered ideas played across his consciousness, for
a fleeting moment, the recollection of an insight which had been instrumental in shaping
his understanding of the World.
Immediately, the familiar scent of lotus and sandalwood as lips and hair brushed his
cheek; a soft body pressed eagerly against him. An oval face. Eyes, like pits of ravenous
darkness. Power, as he had never before sensed. Somehow, Eadric wondered whether he
had himself, in fact, invoked her.
“This tack will not be effective,” he said plainly.
“May I stay?” Her whisper conveyed urgent need.
“I am in no mood to argue, Soneillon. I am tired. Let me sleep.”
Fingernails briefly threatened to become talons – or something far worse – and then
relaxed.
“As you wish, Ahma.” Her eyelids closed; a fuliginous wing cracked open and
encompassed him, settling over him like a blanket.
“Your egregiousness would seem undiminished,” Eadric sighed. “Although I see you are
not otherwise as you were. What do you hope to achieve by this? Do you really expect me
to trust any
façade which you present to me? That I can say with surety that you have not previously
placed a
spell on me? Perhaps I’m now to believe that I am the last thread of sanity to which you
cling?”
But the demoness was silent; she was already enmeshed in some chthonic nightmare.
Or do not. Again, as always, her passivity – her apparent vulnerability – confounded him.
In the dim light he studied her, touching her neck and shoulders uncertainly and tracing
brutal scars: the legacy of wounds bestowed by his own hand. After so long, were they
real, or an artifice? Was she?
Did it matter? And what reason did he actually have to doubt her? Had she ever been
anything other than entirely honest with him? No, he was obliged to concede. Saizha,
Ahma?
One must encounter the Void on its own terms.
She stirred uneasily.
He closed his eyes, and slept.
*
Midwinter Goddess - Part 2 (and 3)
“How many is that?” Teppu asked.
Nehael groaned. “Too many. She is out of her mind. I make three Antagonists; six others
who were
once episemes; around fifty recently-migrated devas – most of whom were exemplars. She
began
conjuring pit fiends and malebranche – presumably for heavy lifting tasks – but would
appear to be taking a break. She seems to be avoiding magnates from the traditional order
– for the time being, at least.”
“Does she have a purpose? What did she reveal to you?”
“Little,” Nehael shrugged. “She will be hard-pressed to control them all.”
“Do you believe that she will make an immediate bid for the Urn?”
“Shomei is not one for procrastination,” Nehael sighed. “But nor is she ignorant of the
difficulty of the task. She will weigh probabilities carefully.”
**
**
When he awoke, it was light. Her face was inches away. He groaned.
An eyelid flickered open. Void bored into him.
“Why are you here?” He asked.
She stood slowly and stretched, her wings unfurling to their maximum extent – and briefly
darkening reality – before retracting. She turned to face him.
“I get lonely,” she smiled, tilting her head. “Sometimes, cold.”
“And how did you circumvent the wards?”
She laughed. “I dream, Eadric.”
Casting her eyes around the interior of the tent, her gaze settled on Lukarn. She raised an
eyebrow.
Before he could mouth an objection – faster, even than he could articulate the thought to
do so – she had moved and drawn the weapon from its scabbard. She seemed to absorb its
light effortlessly.
“I remember you,” she whispered to the sword, running a forefinger along its fuller. “You
don’t like me very much, do you?”
“I notice that your scars seem to have vanished,” Eadric observed without humour.
“They come and go,” she replied vaguely. She brandished Lukarn deftly, flipped the blade
over and caught it by the tip between two fingers, presenting him with its hilt. “Did you
wish to cause more?”
“No.” He set the sword down firmly next to him. “And I doubt this weapon is adequate to
the task, in any case.”
“Move up,” she kicked his feet. “It is time you understood a few things.”
He drew his knees in, and she sat, cross-legged upon the narrow pallet, sable wings drawn
around
her like a bat. From beneath them, her hand appeared holding a plain clay jug. She placed
it
squarely between them.
“It is unremarkable, would you not say?”
Eadric was silent; his perception twisted and span.
“For a long while,” the demoness continued, “I wondered why Kaalaanala did not simply
take it from me. I was there when she reified, Eadric: it was glorious; something to behold.
At any rate, the question puzzled me: I know that I would have certainly taken it from her,
had our roles been reversed.”
“And have you determined an answer?”
“No,” she shrugged. “I gave up looking for one. There comes a point where one must
concede that
there are things which cannot be known; and there are too many plausible theories: the
Aeon forbade it; Cheshne forbade it; a deal was struck between Uedii and Cheshne – are
they different, in any case? And so on, and so forth. The Urn has great power, Eadric – of
that there can be no doubt.
In the hands of a goddess such as the Fires of Death, its destructive – which is to say its
generative potential focused toward an absence of matter and energy – would be great.
But her remit is limited: she cannot leave Jashat, nor her direct influence extend beyond it:
she is the black dart, stuck in Uedii’s green shield. Aggravating, unbalancing, but
ultimately unmoving. And she lacks a certain
perspective required to realize the Urn in full. Perhaps a deeper Void perceived this truth. I
cannot say.”
“And this perspective is something which you possess, I presume?”
“Not exactly,” Soneillon replied unexpectedly. “I aberrate, Eadric. My path is not
conventional, as you may have noticed. The Urn is a great boon to me, but I also lack a
certain something. The demiplanes which I created which abut Throile – which still
persist, incidentally – were the labor of many years. Entities with more…wherewithal…in
this regard are empowered to make more
effective use of the Urn’s generative power.”
Eadric gave an inquiring look.
“That would be your other girlfriend,” Soneillon smiled innocently.
*
“It becomes more complicated,” Soneillon continued.
“I had a feeling it might.”
“What do you know of the I?”
“I mislike the direction of this conversation already,” Eadric sighed. “Enough to know that
it would be foolish to be complacent regarding its motivation.”
“The I is tenacious,” Soneillon nodded, “and will seek to survive despite all other
indicators to the contrary. It fragmented in order to preserve itself, with a notion to
recombine at a later time. And a vehicle – something exempt from the normal rules – to
allow this to occur.”
“Shomei?”
“Yes. Your other other girlfriend.” Soneillon said lightly.
Eadric grunted. “I am tired of hearing this. Nehael also accused me of as much.”
“Then the green bitch is not entirely stupid,” Soneillon gave a sweet smile. “Not
everything is about sex, Eadric. At least, not in the beginning.”
“I do not regard Shomei in this fashion.”
“Yet you evince a particular sympathy for her perspective?”
“She is complex. As to our philosophical differences, we reached…an understanding. I
care for her
wellbeing.”
“And you find her attractive?”
“She is comely enough, I would say.”
“And she, you?” Soneillon pressed on, evidently enjoying the line of questioning. “How
does
Shomei the Infernal relate to the Ahma, who is – or at least was – central to her
paradigm?”
“I cannot speak to that,” Eadric sighed. “She has never demonstrated anything other
than…” He
paused, and considered.
“A measure of doubt crosses your face.”
“I had simply not considered that she is even capable of being driven erotically. It seems
somehow… beneath her.”
Soneillon laughed, and it seemed warm and heartfelt. “Ah, Ahma. No wonder you
interested me so: you are truly guileless. And you attach such virtue to chastity; a line of
examination which we might pursue at some later time. Shomei is fired by deep passions,
Eadric, and to suggest that she is
somehow asexual or frigid is to misunderstand her absolutely. But her lovers have been –
and
remain – devilish, for the most part; I realize that these are not the social circles in which
you are wont to move. And her façade is well-practiced: she is discreet; no brazen harlot.”
“Where is this leading, Soneillon?”
“Consider your subsequent interactions with her in the light of this perspective, and form
your own judgment.”
“But why do you speak of Shomei at all?”
The demoness cast her eyes downward, toward the amphora which sat between them.
“Shomei wants the Urn?”
“That girl always had ideas above her station,” Soneillon sighed. “The devils which she
currently
conjures will be deployed against me. She will make her move in due course.”
Eadric was aghast. “Deorham…”
“Will likely be a violent and unpleasant locale. By the way, I have done nothing to harm
your thralls
– I’m sorry, you’d prefer a euphemism – although many have been altered by the scion.
But my own demons are becoming impatient: at some point, I will need to either deploy
them or disband
them. Think on this, and we’ll come back to it. May I go on?”
Eadric nodded grimly.
“Shomei needs the power offered by the Urn in order to master Hummaz,” Soneillon
continued. “To consolidate the various components of the I; to make herself whole. I’m
disappointed that Nehael did not share this information with you; still we each have our
own agenda.”
Eadric scowled. “It was Nehael who suggested that I remain open to discourse with you.”
“I despise her less already,” the demoness raised her eyebrows.
“You are not seriously suggesting that Nehael is manipulating me against my best
interests?”
“Of course. To promulgate empathy is her agenda. That may involve a lack of full
disclosure.”
“As your agenda is to sow dissension and madness?” Eadric smiled, and shook his head.
“No. But we’ll come to that.”
*
“It gets more complicated,” Soneillon warned.
“This should be good.”
“There is a spell – A Flame Precedes the Aeon. It was dictated by Rintrah the Messenger
to Jovol the Grey; the wizard Tozinak currently has it in his possession. It is
conceptualized in terms of
Urgic altitudes, and requires that a naked iota of Radiance be present, and the Urn also,
and one who has shaken off their reality – several times, in fact. Its timing is also crucial –
certain
astrological windows must be observed.
“I see that you were not aware of the origin of this spell,” Soneillon sighed, and continued.
“Nor, indeed is Tozinak. The Regents of the Purifying Wind bestowed it upon Rintrah –
episemes lack
aptitude for this kind of magic; it was, in fact, formulated in the Sovereign Sphere. But it
was
contrived in the Infinitudes; in the Mind of God – your God. Or your previous god; your
bent would seem more theacentric of late: a tendency I am obliged to commend.”
A look of sheer bewilderment crossed the Ahma’s face.
“You have a question?” Soneillon seemed amused.
“This spell can somehow be used to create a set of circumstances which allow the wielder
of the
Urn greater latitude in exercising its generative power?”
“No,” Soneillon smiled. “The spell summons Pharamne. At which point all other
considerations are
moot.”
“The Dragon coils around the Tree…”
“Where have you been, I wonder?” Her surprise seemed genuine.
“What else do you know of this spell? How do you know so much? Mostin spoke of it.”
“It has preoccupied my thoughts for some time; I made inquiries. Mostin has seen the
pattern in the broadest sense, but does not understand the specifics of the language. I have
asked Tozinak to
transcribe it for me. But there has been a complication. In the form of the Cherry.”
“And why, precisely, are you telling me all of this?” Eadric’s head throbbed. “It would
seem to be contrary to your interests in all regards.”
“Because you are the Ahma, Ahma. You are incandescent: I see you with clear eyes. I am
mad –
didn’t you know?”
“And you trust that I will not somehow use this information against you?”
“Dear Eadric,” Soneillon touched his face. “Trust has nothing to do with it. Do you not
understand?
You cannot hurt me unless I allow it – which I might, in a certain context, if it gave you
pleasure. At least, you cannot hurt me yet. I am beyond your power. You still insist on
seeing things in terms of good and evil; we and they; this and that: you need to put these
notions behind you. There are
simply factions in the World: they move; interact; communicate. But the World itself is an
innocent playground, Eadric. Things are as they are.”
“And what is your agenda with regard to this spell?”
“It is through me that the shadow of Cheshne seeks to manifest; and thence, through the
Urn, to bring an end to reality. But there is something which you need to understand.”
“Why do I get the feeling that this is the crux of your argument?”
“It is not my agenda. I do not want this, Eadric. I have no desire to be the architect of the
annihilation of the World. I do not wish to marry the Cherry to the Blackthorn in myself;
to invoke the Apparition and bring an end to all things. I have avoided the Cherry for that
reason, amongst
others. ”
“Then what do you want, Soneillon?”
“I want to play, Ahma. I just want to play. I like things just as they are.”
“You are beyond mad, Soneillon. And you intimate at ‘truths’ which I can barely begin to
comprehend, much less accept. Tell me this, and this simply: why should I believe you? ”
“Cheshne is not her shadow, Eadric. Nor is she her cult. And, as I said some time ago –
and had you been paying attention, and less intent on smiting me, you might have heard it
– The Void Shines; still, I would not deny you your passions. I precipitate both pain and
joy, Eadric, and in bliss
transcend both. I am the Fruit in the Void; the Mango in Cheshne’s Mouth.”
*
“You may be the most dangerous entity I have ever encountered.”
“I am flattered, and will not argue the point. But you answer me this,” Soneillon fixed him
with her gaze – and he knew that it alone might deprive him of his very existence, were
she so to choose.
“Have I ever, to your certain knowledge, either directly or indirectly, caused an innocent to
come to harm? Unless you count Hlioth amongst the innocent, which would mark you as
an idiot in my
mind.”
“There are tales…”
“There are many tales, Eadric. Answer the question.”
“No,” he groaned. He knew that whatever the Blackthorn had caused to pass, was beyond
her power
to control.
“And if not by my action, then how will you judge me?”
“I cannot,” he conceded.
“Thank-you,” she said. She rose and replaced the Urn in its hiding place. Her humour
seemed to have left her.
“Soneillon…”
“Think on it, Eadric. In some ways, it was a disappointing night; in others, it was all I
needed.
Besides, I am patient. I should probably leave, now – I would hate to cause a scene.”
“Why do I…”
[Shomei]: You asked to speak with me directly, Ahma. May I translate to your location?
[Eadric]: Very well. Give me a minute. Come alone.
“Eadric,” Soneillon spoke swiftly and earnestly, “if you come to Deorham, I will act as
guarantor of your safety. You need not fear the scion; I can ward you from its influence. I
have not interfered with the chapel; it is no less holy to me than to you: something which
was difficult to impress upon your brother. Also, the mattress there is larger and more
comfortable.”
She dissolved into mist.
Orm? He sat for a moment in a state of utter confusion.
“Another devil to see you, Ahma,” the voice of a messenger spoke presently from outside
of the tent.
He closed his eyes, and breathed deeply. “Show her in.”
**
**
“Sandalwood?” Shomei caught the scent in the air. She glanced around, absorbing the
minutest
detail of the tent’s interior in an instant. It seemed barren; her host was half-clad.
Eadric looked at her. He had not seen her since that fateful day in Afqithan when three of
the
Akesoli had dragged her screaming, dissociate form into Hell. Ortwine had encountered
her since, but Eadric found the sidhe’s description – however eloquent – did not do
Shomei justice.
A robe of purple so dark as to be almost black shrouded her slight frame; within it, fields
of stars seemed to fall in perpetual torrents. Upon her forehead, she bore the intimation of
a mark or brand which, if observed directly, faded from view. Her features were otherwise
her own – although in
some fashion she blended the qualities of her two simulacra, as though they were her
precursors and not her magical progeny. Infernal now by nature, without question, but also
much more; she
was at ease with her own power in a way which he had never before thought possible.
Something
about her – and recently, Eadric knew – had simply ignited. She was sheer, dynamic force.
“You cannot trust her,” Shomei said directly.
“Perhaps not. Questions of trust seem to preoccupy me of late. You do not bear your rod.”
“I am not here to coerce you, Ahma.” She retrieved Lukarn from the pallet, slid it into its
scabbard, and handed it to him with a raised eyebrow.
“No,” Eadric took the weapon. “You are here to ask for my permission – my blessing if
you will –
for an assault upon Soneillon. I cannot grant it, Shomei. It would mean the destruction of
all of
western Trempa.”
“She sits on an army of demons; I cannot believe that you would simply endure this
imposition.”
“Demons which have yet to demonstrate any ill-will toward my….subjects… on the part
of their
mistress.”
Shomei looked sceptical. “If she has found her way back into your bed, Ahma, you might
also consider that your judgment is impaired.”
“Ngaarh!” Eadric groaned.
She inspected her surroundings, looking for a place to sit.
“Ahma,” Shomei ventured, choosing to redirect the conversation, “your accommodations
are
spartan and unwelcoming. If I might…?”
“I had not given thought to it; I require little. Do as you wish, if you would prefer more
easement.”
She made the briefest gesture, and the interior of the tent transformed into an opulent
pavillion, festooned with deep blues and vermillions. A table lay replete with exquisite
wines and confections;
sumptuous leather chairs, chests, wardrobes and velvet couches appeared; his pallet
became a wide bed, draped with furs. Eadric’s armor sprang from the ground onto a stand,
perfectly burnished.
Exotic rugs from Bedesh carpeted the floor, and incense burned upon a small altar; the
scent of
cinnamon hung heavy in the air. A purplish light – with no discernible source – suffused
the place.
“I confess, I like my creature comforts,” Shomei smiled, seeming to relax. She poured a
goblet of
kschiff and handed it to him.
Eadric took it suspiciously, then downed the liquor in a single draught. His head span.
“Whatever she said to you, Ahma,” Shomei continued, offering him a candied chestnut, “it
would be unwise to afford it too much credence, until you have had time to reflect. I don’t
doubt that she
evoked some compelling vision of the World, with disparaging – and highly plausible –
remarks
made regarding my disposition and motivation.”
She opened a dresser, and presented him with a heavy robe of ermine.
“That is an accurate assertion,” Eadric nodded in gratitude, drawing the vestment about
himself, and sinking into a chair. “Shomei, I should like to ask you some questions.”
“Of course,” she sat opposite, hands folded lightly in her lap.
“How do you propose to overcome Hummaz, Shomei?”
“You have spoken with Nehael, then?”
“No – yes. But it was Soneillon who informed me of your plan.”
“I do not have a plan yet, Ahma. Merely a direction; a course which I must inevitably
chart. There are signs along the way – I write them myself.”
“And Pharamne’s Urn is one of these signs?”
“Indeed,” Shomei nodded. “I would venture to suggest that this artifact is also far safer in
my hands than most others.”
“Others such as Soneillon?”
“Soneillon is advised by Vhorzhe, Ahma – a monster who was once Mostin’s mentor, and
who now persists in a state of pseudodaemonic insanity. Uzzhin penetrates every aspect of
her mind and her formless form. Would it be correct for me to assume that she did not
evince this particular aspect of her psychology – nor her physiology, in fact – in your
recent exchange?”
“She did not,” Eadric admitted. “Presumably in order to spare me undue stress.”
“That would be one way of explaining her motivation,” Shomei gave a small smile.
“Soneillon is fully conscious of her own psychosis, Shomei.”
“Yes, Ahma. She is. Doesn’t that fact concern you?”
She held the flask of kschiff above his glass and gave an inquiring look.
He nodded.
*
“Your intervention in the Temple is causing a stir,” Eadric remarked. “The Irrenites are
already enshrining your words as doctrine.”
“In which case they are missing the point entirely,” Shomei sighed.
“Your revelation is rather opaque.”
“I should hope so. The principal point of revelation is to make people think.”
“And you do not believe your act was rather…presumptuous?” Eadric inquired.
“Yes. And necessarily so. Many of those who practice Saizhan are slipping into a kind of
existential torpor. They need to wake up.”
“Is it your understanding that Oronthon inspired you to this course of action?” Eadric
asked.
“In a manner of speaking; although I do not locate Oronthon external to myself after the
fashion of Orthodoxy.”
“I understand,” Eadric nodded.
“Let me ask you, Ahma: has the Sela made comment on my actions?”
“He inquired as to the aesthetics of your inscription.” Eadric smiled.
“And?”
Eadric laughed. “Upon hearing that your script was in keeping with the prevailing design
of the
Temple interior, seemed satisfied.”
“Good,” she poured more kschiff.
*
“Do you have an erotic interest in me, Shomei?”
“You are drunk, Ahma, and it is not even mid-morning. Perhaps you should stop.”
“No, pour me another. The question stands.”
She sighed, and refilled his goblet. “I see things primarily in terms of alliances, Ahma; I
am rational, and eminently practical. I enjoy physical recreation as much as the next devil,
but I am not driven by my carnality, insofar as I do not let it dictate my choices.”
“Not dictate,” Eadric suggested, “but inform?”
“Perhaps,” she acknowledged. “But I have no need of a lover, Ahma, if that is what you
are
suggesting.”
“I am not. You have infernal servants who fulfill this role?”
“Yes.”
“And as to a spouse?”
She set her glass down. “That, Ahma, is an entirely different proposition. Marriage is an
alliance.
Connubial duties must be taken very seriously, especially amongst immortals – where a
dispute can
last for decades, and the results of a spat be felt for a millennium. Is this interrogation
leading somewhere specific?”
“No,” Eadric said hastily. “I am merely attempting to ascertain your motives with regard
to me.
Both Nehael and Soneillon have suggested that our association goes beyond conventional
friendship.”
“You are the Ahma and I am Shomei the Infernal. We are both agents of cosmic change.
How could it not?”
“The old order has vanished, Shomei, and I am still unsure of my place in the new. What
is my role in your reality? What is the Ahma to you?”
She pondered briefly. “A few days ago, I etched words into the archway in the Great Fane
in Morne; I burned yet more into the solar orb. I planted a Hazel scion within the Temple
precinct…”
“You did what? ”
“A Hazel, Ahma. I assumed you would have heard. Regardless, my acts and words
describe a vision
– my vision – of how things should be. When I stood upon the threshold, a great force
moved through me; it was of me, and yet not: Will was manifest in its fullest form. It was
directed at the Illuminated who were gathered there, and sought to enkindle them; to bring
their Flames to
realization. It was inadequate to the task. I revised my strategy, in the light of something
which I already knew to be fact: my energies must be devoted toward my Self. If I deviate
from this Truth, I will fail.”
“And now you have set this fire in yourself,” Eadric observed. “It is immediately
apparent.”
“It is a beginning,” Shomei said softly. “And I am always beginning, Ahma. As to your
role, consider those of Morne who returned from the Serenities. Because when your Flame
ignites, Ahma, you will illuminate all of Wyre – and beyond. It will induce a torrent of
Radiance which will make the cascade at Khu appear as a child’s squib in comparison.
God will breathe into them all.”
Eadric stared at her, incredulous.
“And yes, I would consider an alliance with one such as that desirable.”
He swallowed.
“As for compassion,” Shomei added, “a topic which I am grateful you have avoided to this
point: I believe that it is something which I would be willing to learn to practice, in the
interests of
preserving good relations.”
She smiled, and took a long sip of kschiff.
*
Midwinter Goddess – Final Part
There was a barely audible sound; a persistent hum, which suffused perception.
Are you asleep again already? The peasant-girl from Trempa looked up at him. Ah, but I
know this dreamscape well: you have been drinking kasshiv.
The flat of his sword lay across her shoulder, two feet from the quillons. She smiled and
raised an eyebrow as she turned the weapon slowly upon its edge with her fingertips; its
weight broke her
skin, causing her to hiss. A trickle of blood stained her white tunic.
His hands shook. She reached forward and clasped them, steadying them.
Like this. She drew the blade toward herself, gradually opening a wound; cold iron sank
down into muscle and sinew. Her breath became rapid, and she clenched her teeth. Blood
flowed freely over
her. He moved to pull his hands free, but her grasp tightened. Do not stop.
He felt the blade bite into bone, and turned his face away from her. His stomach churned
and
heaved.
Look at me. Eadric…please…
He forced his gaze back to meet her eyes, and her grip threatened to crush his wrists.
Press. He drove down hard, shearing through her collar-bone. She sighed, and shuddered
gently; Void glazed
over, and she collapsed in convulsion. Blood pooled rapidly around her.
This is too much, he thought.
No. It is the same. She crawled forward, insensible, and clung to him.
Eadric awoke at two in the afternoon in a cold sweat. His head pounded.
*
“In Shûth.,” Nwm handed him a glass of mint tea, “kschiff was originally considered a
sacrament. It is unfortunate that it has achieved the status of an inebriant amongst wealthy
aristocrats in the
Thalassine and further north.”
The Preceptor poured himself a small glass of the astringent liquor, savored its aroma,
took a sip, and placed it aside.
“I might add,” he continued, “that attempting to match Shomei’s prolific consumption is a
losing
proposition – this would have been true even before her recent metamorphosis.”
Eadric moaned and sat up, shivering. He pulled his ermine robe around himself.
Nwm gave a wry smile. “But I am glad to see that the worldly goods which she bestowed
upon you
are also functional.”
Eadric groaned and lay back down again.
“And how goes the dialogue with Cheshne, Ahma?”
Eadric gestured him away.
**
“Ah, the Goddess,” Nwm’s eyes twinkled merrily. “What can one say? She is elusive, yet
ever present; demanding and forgiving; cold and passionate. Mother, lover, sister,
daughter. She is
flirting with you; presenting her many faces. You should feel blessed.”
Eadric grumbled. His face was still pale. “Since when have you included Soneillon – or
Shomei, for that matter – in your ever-expanding category of Goddess?”
Nwm smiled, and popped a fig into his mouth. “I am not the Ahma.”
“And Gihaahia?” Eadric asked. “Do you include her too?”
“I am not a wizard,” Nwm shrugged.
“Shomei’s taste in furnishings cannot be faulted,” Ortwine observed calmly, uncoifing her
hair and relaxing into a couch. “And you have an excellent selection of wines and victuals
– some of these
are the finest diabolic vintages and are no longer available. I think it’s time you placed this
childish desire for frugality firmly in your past; and I see no particular need for
abstemiousness whilst you are campaigning.”
“The chestnuts are rather good,” Nwm agreed. “And these little pistachio confections are
simply
delightful.”
“For an ascetic, you have expensive tastes,” Eadric said sourly. “Also, you seem overly
eager to
deify any female who crosses your path.”
“Not I,” Nwm laughed. “This conversation will inevitably lead to an examination of the
Ahma’s psyche. Do you still wish to proceed?”
Eadric grunted.
“Shomei’s case is well-made,” Ortwine seemed serious. “And it is high time you began to
look to
marriage as a means of securing power, Eadric. You are an eligible bachelor-godling; you
are
saintly, with impeccable credentials. You have your pick of any number of immortals and
goddesses
as a potential mate – most of whom are admittedly depraved or mad. Or of poor estate,
such as Lai.
Shomei is a fine prospect, in comparison.”
“Indeed,” Eadric stood abruptly and opened a dresser, pulling out a doublet and hastily
donning it.
“She has a superb sense of style,” Ortwine looked on approvingly. “And someone
certainly needs to
manage your wardrobe.”
Eadric turned. “It is an article of clothing, Ortwine. Or perhaps you’d like to marry me and
see to my fashion needs?”
“I am haughty and aloof. I am also fastidious in matters of personal hygiene. We would
make an
unhappy couple.”
“Of that, I have no doubt.”
“Consider the military leverage offered by the Wyrm, Eadric,” Ortwine continued. “As
well as
Shomei’s conjurations. They would bring a massive strategic advantage in any dealings
with the
Cheshnites. You said yourself that Shomei would take any matrimonial duties seriously; as
your
wife there is no question that she would lend her full support to your cause. Hell is no
mean dowry.”
“Keep talking, Ortwine,” Eadric pulled Lukarn over his shoulder, fastening his baldric.
“I am not persuaded that you are really listening,” the sidhe sighed. “What is this sudden
urgency about?”
Eadric exited the tent. Dusk was falling, and hundreds of campfires had already been lit.
Narh was waiting for him; he flung his saddle over the stallion’s back, and swiftly
tightened the cinches.
Ortwine followed. “Where are you going, Ahma?”
“Home,” Eadric replied.
“Do I really need to point out to you that home is the arbor of a highly questionable scion?
Eadric.
Use your head.”
He mounted Narh and rode away.
“He is unstable,” the sidhe remarked.
Nwm smiled. “The thought of her gnaws at him. Or have you altogether forgotten what
it’s like?”
“To be ruled by irrational, seething passions? Of course not. But he, of all men, needs to
master
them. His political responsibilities far outweigh all other considerations. And she can’t be
that good.”
Nwm guffawed, and slapped Ortwine across her back. “Responsibilities? A word I thought
I’d never hear pass your lips in a hundred incarnations; the World is truly on its head.
Come: while Eadric
seeks annihilation we should avail ourselves of his wines; I fancy that I spied a bottle of
almond liqueur. And as an ascetic, I am dependent upon the largesse of my feudal master.”
“Will you make no effort to intervene in this absurdity? He’ll listen to you.”
“No,” Nwm replied. “He won’t.”
“Very well,” Ortwine sighed. “Just don’t touch me again.”
**
[ Faheth]: Are you then set on this course of action?
[ Ahma]: Yes.
[ Faheth]: I would say that you are one who experiences pleasure from bestowing it; from
seeing and knowing that it is felt. That you do not derive satisfaction from causing
suffering.
[ Ahma]: I would certainly hope that to be the case.
[ Faheth]: And when inflicting pain also elicits joy? Can you still feel happiness in the
same measure?
[ Ahma]: I do not know.
[ Faheth]: And can you tell the difference between deriving pleasure through causing
suffering, and deriving pleasure from evoking bliss which is caused through suffering?
[ Ahma]: That would seem to be the pertinent question.
[ Faheth]: This is no parlour game, Ahma, practiced by the bored wife of some thane from
Hethio for her idle amusement; nor a wanton thrill offered by a drunken streetwalker. No
brand of
masochism is so extreme: she will ask you to do great violence to her; to push her
repeatedly to
death and beyond. It may break your mind.
[ Ahma]: You dubbed her insane and evil, yet still you asked me to find a way to her.
[ Faheth]: She is insane by your standards, not mine; as to evil, who can even say what
that means anymore? And I ask and have asked for nothing; but whatever you ask, I will
grant it to the extent of my power. The Eye of Cheshne will be blinded by the Sun for a
few days more; but understand
that the Sun is weak: place your trust in the Eleos.
[ Ahma]: And if my efforts prove inadequate, what then? Nothing is lost. She has her
demons to look to.
[ Faheth]: Demons are sadistic, Ahma. It is not the same thing at all. And Nothing will be
lost.
**
Narh reached the Blackwater Meadow and crossed the Nund two hours before midnight.
The road to Trempa was thronged with tents and makeshift hovels; those displaced from
Deorham and
Hernath. A sickness had descended on them: Urgic mendicants moved amongst them,
administering
aid where they could. They implored him; Eadric remained for the best part of an hour,
emptying
himself, before resuming his journey.
Ten miles from Kyrtill’s Burh, and reality darkened; not yet within the inner ambit of the
scion, but beneath a wider compass which the ludja itself had set around its sapling. The
presence of Nehael vanished from his mind; he knew that she was now blind to what
transpired, unless the Blackthorn
itself were to grant her vision.
He cast around for some sign; his eyes were drawn to The Follower, a star considered
auspicious
and which – in marriage with the Sun – marked the fullness of spring. It shone, steady and
calm,
close to its zenith. He took it as a portent, even as a glamour settled over him: a mantle of
darkness
– bequeathed, he knew, by Soneillon – to protect him from the warp which emanated from
the scion
at the keep.
His gaze penetrated the night, and he entered a twisted phantasmagoria, where angle and
distance
seemed meaningless; things crawled and festered and rotted: the Blackthorn was the
quintessence of putrefaction. The town of Deorham had become a shadowy parody of
itself, and although shapes
and rumors intimated that many of its inhabitants remained there, all, the Ahma knew,
were changed. He shunned it, and spurred straight for the Burh. For home.
As he crossed the bridge, Narh’s hoof fall seemed muted and empty. The shadow of the
Steeple fell on Eadric and the stallion shook, unwilling to go further: a vast shape roosted
there, a guardian of terrible power recently bound by the mistress of the Urn for her
protection. Carasch, he knew, for what other could it be? The great chthonic was crouched
in silent vigil; the Ahma felt the demon’s scrutiny settle upon him as a lance of pure
malice. He dismounted, whispering words of
reassurance, and slowly led Narh forward.
At the gate, Mazikreen stood waiting. Eadric said nothing, but fixed her with his gaze as
he pressed the steed’s reins into her hand. She lowered her eyes. The courtyard beyond
was dim and hazy; all
sound was subdued. He passed beneath the arch and trod swiftly to the keep proper,
averting his
eyes from the place outside of the chapel where he knew the scion reared. Opening the
heavy door,
he made his way through the hall, up the companionway, and to his rooms.
All within was darkness: profane, silent and absolute. At the centre, a naked singularity
churned in space; a deeper void into which ens vanished, and around which madness
accreted in tendrils. It contorted, seeming to fold outwards from within, assuming more
apprehensible form.
“Welcome home, dear.” Soneillon manifested in the shape of the peasant-girl, and struck a
light. A fire ignited in the hearth. His chambers seemed unchanged since his last visit,
many months prior.
She smiled. “I notice you did not bring your cherub’s eye: is there something which you
did not
wish to see?”
“I was not sure what you’d want to show.”
“That is considerate of you. Are you here to play, then?”
“No, I am here to reach you.”
She cocked her head and raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Well…the Ahma is bold; perhaps
he has been drinking kasshiv again. That is no trivial undertaking, by any measure. She –
the first one, that is – knows that you have come, of course?”
“Yes.”
“And she offered some kind of blessing, I presume; an article of empathy and compassion,
couched
in terms of my need?”
“Soneillon, does it matter?” Eadric asked. “That is a perspective which I must hold true in
any
event. You know this.”
“From you, I will endure it – at least, provisionally. But not from her: she understands me
better than you. And consider your supplication to Cheshne and the Void, because make
no mistake: that is what this is. If you have doubts or would prefer lighter fare tonight,
now would be the time to
articulate these feelings.”
He remained silent.
“Will you then do as I beseech of you?” She inquired.
“Yes.”
“And will you trust me?” She asked archly.
“I must.”
“You need not sound so enthused, Eadric. Do you speak out of feeling, or from some
misplaced
sense of obligation?”
“It is a choice, Soneillon.”
“Very well, then.” Her mood became at once both serious and playful. She approached,
drew a thin
stiletto fashioned of cold iron, and pressed it into his hand.
*
At Deorham, the Sun reached its nadir on Midwinter’s night, even as, at Khu, the Eye of
Cheshne
did likewise and Soneillon waxed to power. Above, The Follower – the star of the Eleos –
shone serenely at the midheaven, and the Dragon coiled yet tighter around the Tree.
In Nizkur, Nehael awoke to her full potential; to Sovereignty. Her sight penetrated the
World.
**
Perspective (Midwinter Goddess: Epilogue)
[Nehael/ Eleos]: Shomei…
[Shomei]: Piss off.
**
Mostin stood upon the veranda with Mulissu, watching as the shape approached at
incredible speed
from the south through the swagging winter skies.
Qematiel landed in an inferno, obliterating trees within a swathe a hundred yards across,
and setting many more ablaze. A great gout of steam erupted as snow melted and boiled,
blown outward by a
shockwave of ionizing gas. Shomei leaped down, and strode towards them; the frozen
earth
shuddered and ignited at her passage. A gale of hellfire preceded her.
“She is upset,” the Alienist observed.
“I should probably go,” Mulissu said.
“That might be best,” Mostin agreed.
The savant discreetly absented herself.
Shomei paused at the bottom of the steps, closing her eyes tightly and clenching her fists.
She
slowly mastered her rage. The flames subsided.
“Would you like tea?” Mostin asked.
She glared at him. His hat began to smoulder.
“Enough!” Mostin thundered, casting off his headgear and stamping on it. “I will tolerate
the
damage to my shrubbery, but this is my favorite felt. Control yourself. And don’t think
you can
intimidate me with your dragon; have you ever seen an Ú?” The vowel was pronounced
with undue length, and accompanied a tilted head and a mad stare.
The fire left her. She suddenly seemed exhausted.
“Gooood…” Mostin said. “Now. Perhaps you should slow down; I think you might be
pushing
yourself too hard.”
“I want the Urn, Mostin,” she sighed.
“Well, yes dear. We all want the Urn, don’t we?”
**
“Marriage?” Mostin scoffed. “Don’t be absurd. Wizards don’t get married; matrimony is
for
inferior beings. You are letting your infernality dictate your actions above your proper
calling. And your social graces are also suffering.”
“He is the Ahma. It would be a sound alliance.” Shomei lounged. She was intoxicated.
“But
Soneillon has him all confused and irrational again. I even offered to practice
compassion.”
“You are too religious, Shomei,” the Alienist grumbled. “That’s your problem. It’s always
been your problem. All of this nonsense about God and now compassion. Interfering with
their doctrine
because you think that their mystical claptrap needs reformulating. And planting trees?
Your
automagnification is all very well, but you’ll end madder than Hlioth at this rate.”
“Nehael is manipulating him,” Shomei sighed. “He seems oblivious; he’s elevated her to
the status
of Oronthon’s empathic function because of some off-the-cuff remark which the Sela
made to Nwm. And he has such potential, Mostin. Meanwhile, he empowers her instead;
she just sits back and waits for him to bring her the Urn. Her lack of agency – or rather her
persistent need to act through him – is beginning to annoy me. She is so disingenuous.”
“She would be the first to admit to her own inertia,” Mostin nodded. “Have you
considered
approaching Soneillon non-violently?”
“She is unlikely to surrender the Urn willingly, Mostin. The Ahma is of the opinion that an
assault is unwarranted; Soneillon’s demons have yet to wreak havoc. And now he is at
Deorham, indulging
her whims and demonstrating compassion; which Nehael sucks out of him like some green
vampire.
I can’t stage an assault while he’s there.”
“Why ever not?” Mostin inquired. “Not that I’d like to see any harm come to Eadric.” He
hastily
added.
“He is the Ahma, Mostin.”
“I do not understand,” the Alienist sighed.
“It is a religious thing, Mostin. You wouldn’t.”
“Well, no. I suppose not. Would you like to stay for supper? I plan to infuse Mei with
pseudostuff tomorrow, and would like your opinion on the formula.”
“Sorry, Mostin,” she stood uncertainly. “I should probably go; I have more devils to
conjure. And
I’m sorry about the hat,” she dusted it off, and placed it on her head. “Do you think it suits
me?”
“Yes,” Mostin replied. “But you can’t have it.”
“A shame. Thank-you, Mostin. You’re a good influence on me.”
“Yes. I am.”
She walked unsteadily towards the door.
“And Shomei?”
She turned to face him.
“If you set yourself against the Claviger, I will be forced to protect the Articles. Just so
we’re clear.”
*
Obsession – Part 1
Mostin stood with Hlioth in what remained of his rose garden the day after Shomei’s
passage. He
had surprised himself by the fact that he had contacted her – a significator in the Web of
Motes had prompted him. He had been astonished when she had actually accepted his
invitation.
“Despite her protestations to the contrary,” the Green Witch said to Mostin, “she is, of
course,
jealous. Not necessarily in some conventional, lovestruck way – I am not sure that Shomei
is capable of experiencing romantic feelings per se – but rather simply because she cannot
get what she wants. Actually, on consideration, they might be the same thing anyway.
Regardless, she is exhausted, unhinged, volatile…and very, very dangerous. She is utterly
fixated on the Urn, because it is the most direct route to power. I might also add that the
heiress of Hell is twenty-seven years old; she lacks a certain perspective which millennia
bring.”
“How old…” Mostin began.
“None of your business,” Hlioth interrupted.
Mostin bit his tongue. The crone seemed relatively agreeable today, and her demeanour
was
notoriously fickle.
“In any event, she is also vulnerable – just shut up, Mostin and let me finish – specifically
with regard to the Holly, which has yet to show its face beyond the Thickets and the
Realm of Hummaz
and which she must, somehow negotiate.”
“No more trees,” the Alienist moaned. “Please.”
“Yes, Mostin,” Hlioth smiled disagreeably. “More trees! There are a lot more trees and
you’d better start getting used to the idea. Now, you may be one of the most abominable
creatures within the
confines of the creation, but – or perhaps, because of this fact – you also have a certain
relationship with Shomei which may allow you to curb her excesses.”
“By and large, I rather appreciate Shomei’s excesses,” Mostin sighed. “But in this case,
you may be correct.”
“And what, may I ask,” Hlioth inquired, “prompted you to seek my advice in this matter. I
assume that is what you are doing – am I correct? It is not as though you and I have had a
glowing friendship these past twenty years.”
“An intuition prompted by the Enforcer’s intervention in my spell formulations,” Mostin
admitted.
“But one subsequently corroborated by the Web of Motes: that Shomei intends to
challenge the Articles. I projected a catenary which took her straight into conflict with
Gihaahia – although she needs both possession of the Urn and mastery of Hummaz in
order to secure certain victory in this confrontation; she may attempt it without the latter. I
am of the opinion that the Injunction is worth protecting; the fact that you and I are having
this conversation is testament to that fact.”
“Are you suggesting that the Claviger is implementing some kind of defensive
contingency through
the Academy?”
“It may have been its plan from the outset,” Mostin nodded. “We cannot gauge its
prescience.
Gihaahia is not invulnerable; the Claviger itself currently dreams – it is containing the
Second
Effluxion.”
“Well,” Hlioth breathed a sigh of relief. “Perhaps things are not as bad as I anticipated.”
“Perhaps not,” Mostin nodded. “Mei – I should say Pseudomei – is a test case; you should
see her:
she is so beautiful. But consider multiple Mostin pseudosimulacra. And how beautiful they
will be.”
A look of profound horror crossed Hlioth’s face.
“The formula is based on Gihaahia’s own premise,” Mostin continued enthusiastically. “I
am glad that the Enforcer – in fact, the Claviger – is finally looking to Uzzhin as the
source of ultimate unmeaning. Anyway, Mulissu’s inside: let’s have some tea; you’re not
such a bad old stick, after all.
And as you’re here, Hlioth, do you think you could repair my shrubbery? I’m not very
good at that
sort of thing.”
**
“Eadric’s problem,” Ortwine opined, “is that he cannot relate to women. As a woman who
was a man, I have a unique perspective in this regard.”
Nwm nodded. Ortwine had consumed an excess of infernal wine over the course of
several days.
The Faerie Queene had lost all of her inhibitions, and seemed the very model of one – or
several –
of her former selves.
“Allow me to continue,” Ortwine smiled. “Consider Despina – yes, that’s a name you
haven’t heard
for a while. He placed her on a pedestal; notions of courtly love – fine amour – and all that
chivalric bullsh*t. Unreachable; unattainable. Unrequited love. ”
Nwm nodded. He had consumed no small quantity himself, relaxing his normal guard
against
inebriation. It was, after all, the winter Tagamuos.
“When she disappoints him,” Ortwine continued, “he demonizes her – let’s dub this phase
Nehael I.
Nehael I is the realization that she is bad, but may be trying to be good. Are we in
accord?”
Nwm nodded.
“You intercede,” Ortwine smiled. “Good job – at least, I think. Nehael is removed from
the
humdrum divide between Heaven and Hell, and becomes Nehael II. Did they get it on, I
wonder?”
“You can ask him when he gets back,” Nwm interrupted. “If he ever gets back.”
“’I don’t think so,’ is the answer.” Ortwine sighed. “Nehael II is abducted – unattainable
again, you see?”
Nwm nodded.
“He broods, and encounters Soneillon – let’s call her Soneillon I. Sound good?”
“Aren’t there prior iterations?’
“Just think like Eadric,” Ortwine replied. “Soneillon I is one hundred per cent wicked and
naughty –
he likes that. But he can’t be that. Is that a fair assertion?”
“I must concur,” Nwm nodded.
“Simultneously, he develops an ‘intellectual’ cameraderie with Shomei – Shomei II, I
suppose, after you reincarnated her . Now, let’s be honest, Nwm. When has Eadric
developed an intellectual anything?”
“He’s not stupid,” Nwm objected.
“No. But he’s pretty green – especially when it comes to women. Anyway, Soneillon I
dies – or
whatever she does. Shomei II is lost. What does he do?”
“He wages war?”
“Precisely,” Ortwine smiled. “Except he’s encountered Nehael again, and now he deifies
her.
Nehael III. Note that he still can’t have her.”
“And Shomei?”
“When she reappears, she will be inserted into the conveniently vacant role of Adversary,”
Ortwine touched her nose. “Shomei III. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Mostin invokes
Soneillon –
Soneillon II – from wherever she wasn’t – in order to fuel his magic, and then sends her
hurtling
into delirium. She quickly becomes Soneillon III and then Soneillon IV in short order –
the crazed, Urn-bearing Soneillon whom Eadric is now brutalizing in some awful rite. By
now, Nehael has also become Nehael IV – I assume you felt what happened the other
night? At this point, she is utterly beyond reach. ”
“Where is this leading, Ortwine?”
“You seem to forget, I am a goddess, Nwm – Ortwine IV a – and I have a perspective you
cannot.
The energy isn’t flowing in the direction that Eadric, or Nehael, or Shomei – or Soneillon,
for that matter – expected. In fact, maybe she is now Soneillon V. Because Cheshne is
waking. She no longer dreams. ”
Nwm stared at her.
“Don’t worry; it’s not as bad as you think. But my original assertion about Eadric and
women
stands. All of which brings me to the real question,” Ortwine raised an eyebrow. “What do
we know
about Eadric’s mother?”
“Not much,” Nwm perked up. “But now I think we might be getting somewhere.”
**
Qematiel wheeled in the air, a mile above the Academy and its grounds. The Hazel scion –
tucked in a remote corner of the thousand-acre estate and obscured by a distortion – had
cordoned an area in its vicinity. It was a lattice of interwoven demiplanes which formed a
perilous snare around
Shomei’s cottage, itself a portal to the labyrinthine repository of diabolic knowledge
which she had inherited – or appropriated. Many powerful devils – and more recently-
fallen celestials – abode in the skies nearby, preferring to remain invisible, awaiting the
bidding of their mistress.
Below, the diminutive figure of Shomei the Infernal walked deliberately across a wide
lawn, and
stood before the doors to her former abode – now the seat of Wyrish High Arcanie, with
the Articles of the Injunction displayed prominently above its entrance. She inspected
them briefly before
making the merest gesture; the valves swung open silently, and she entered within.
To her approval, the infernal aesthetic was largely unchanged; midnight blues, indigoes
and maroons predominated. Columns of black marble, shot through with streaks of
carnelian supported
lofty ceilings. A soft light overspread the interior; all elements blended into a harmonious
whole. A spined devil flapped past quietly on some mundane task, its eyes wide at seeing
its former mistress returned. The atmosphere was calm, subdued and studious. She paused
briefly and inhaled. There
was value here, she knew; but more concrete and purposeful direction was required.
A young mage exited a study hurriedly, almost colliding with her. He froze; his first
instinct was to worship her. With a thought, she quenched the outward signs of her Fire:
mortals were apt to
overreact when in her presence, and she sought no veneration. Shaken, the wizard moved
away
slowly, his eyes still fixed on her.
She made her way to the library: the vast collection which she had acquired in a previous
lifetime, now swollen yet further by contributions made by other mages. It seemed paltry.
Lesser wizards
cast sidelong glances at one another, or whispered to colleagues in nearby booths: she was
known to all by reputation; to a few – whose heads remained conspicuously lowered – in
person.
Shomei selected a blank section of wall in a nook beneath a mezzanine, and set forth her
power,
causing an archway to appear. Those nearby craned their necks to see what might lie
beyond:
shelves which seemed to go on forever, crammed with scrolls and codices. Her thought
summoned
Ugales – a devil of mild temper – and placed him behind a desk beside the newly-forged
portal.
She spoke directly into the mind of every arcanist within a league:
My other library is now also available. There will be a fee.
She passed through the portal. Abruptly, a door of adamant appeared and slammed in
place.
The devil smiled benignly, and began to sharpen his quill-pen with a pocket knife.
**
**
All was Void. Perfect. Empty. Absolute. It was timeless; an aeon of aeons. A moment.
Breath moved, and a light kindled. It grew to fullness, and blazed, sovereign. A rumour
became;
formed around it. Refulgence drew her forth.
Ens crystallized as a violent spasm.
Blood – ichor – her own, she knew – soaked everything. He sat in the meditative posture
to which
she had become accustomed; his blade rested across his knees. It and he were drenched
with her.
The gore vanished with her passing thought.
“Anvashochah. Maa. Tvayiv viikshya varca,” she murmured, because she felt it.* And
then she questioned herself; whether her words were real, or were spoken merely to
comfort him.
He moved to leave; she reached out and gripped his wrist. Please. Stay.
He nodded.
She smiled languidly, and drew him toward her.
And wondered if he hated her.
*You are lamenting. Do not. In you I have apprehended the Sun.
Obsession – Part 2 (Inversion)
“A ludja,” Hlioth explained, “acts – or does not – according to its nature. Around each of
its saplings it creates a circuit in which its own concerns are afforded precedence, but it is
not willful –
with the exception of the Hazel, of course: willfulness is its nature. There is nothing
stopping
Shomei from entering the ambit of the Blackthorn at Deorham: it will not assault her. Or,
at least, it will not single her out for assault; its concerns are with all of the processes of
decay. The warp which emanates from it – the corruption, if you prefer, although I am
reluctant to characterize any natural process in those terms – is an unfortunate side effect.
Things rot quickly there: matter, mind and space. Shomei possesses magic enough to
prevent its general effects.”
“And if Shomei – or I, for that matter – were to take an axe to the scion?” Ortwine
inquired.
“You would perish,” Hlioth said simply. “The manner of your passing would likely be
ugly. A scion
will preserve itself through reflex, and in the unlikely event that a scion is actually
threatened, the ludja itself will react to protect its sapling. In the case of the Blackthorn, it
might simply squash you. Or you might instantly decompose. Or it might deploy many
chthonics, who roost in its
branches – when they are not scuttling hither and thither in Dream. The Blackthorn can
transfigure them – as it has Soneillon. They are most potent, and would flay you.”
“And Carasch is one such?”
“Carasch is Carasch,” Hlioth replied opaquely. “Cheshne looks out for him.”
Ortwine pondered. “And if, somehow, one were to destroy a scion – before it could react,
so to speak. What then?”
“Another would grow in its place,” Hlioth chuckled.
“And if one were to assault the ludja directly? To destroy it at the root?”
“Another. Would grow. In its place. The Great Ludja is the root of all. And it is Reality.”
Ortwine sighed. “Is there no manner in which these things can be curtailed? Restricted?
Contained?
Manipulated?”
“Certainly,” Hlioth replied unexpectedly. “To assert the higher paradigm. That capacity
which Nehael possesses, but will only demonstrate in compassion; which Hummaz enjoys,
but has no
interest in using – except to gratify his immediate urges. Which Kaalaanala cannot realize;
toward which Shomei strives; which has not been revealed by the Ahma.”
“And Soneillon?”
“My eyes cannot penetrate the Void,” Hlioth smiled.
“And the Oak and the Elm – here at Galda?” Ortwine was dubious.
“They are a potent combination; they embody physical characteristics – physicality itself –
or two thirds of it. The hardness and temper of the Ash is absent. But strength, resilience,
pliability,
resistance to decay – yes. Kaalaanala’s sight cannot penetrate the compass set by the
ludjas around the scions, and they are vibrant; things which are dead will have a difficult
time here, as will things which are predicated on non- Ens – which is obviously to our
advantage.”
“I was denied their protection when I made an appeal. Despite Nehael’s intercession. I am
less than confident in their benevolence.”
The Green Witch shook her head. “You are ascribing a quality – or a lack of it – which is
inappropriate to these ludjas.”
“Then what was the obstacle to their action?”
“You are the Hazel’s bitch, Ortwine,” Hlioth sighed. “I am not privy to the internal politics
of the Trees. Either way, Shomei will not forget that fact.”
“And this impenetrability to sight around the scions? It is selective. What motivates it?
Deorham is invisible to me. Morne is not. Nor is here at Galda. But Jashat is. There are
also other areas which are…opaque.”
“To you, maybe,” Hlioth shrugged. “But not, any longer, to the Eleos. There is no veil
through which she cannot now see, except those of Cheshne herself. And you ascribe
motivation to all
Trees, which implies will – your perspective is too corylian. Although that is to be
expected.”
“Yet the Hazel itself does not shroud the Academy?”
“It has not been so implored – or directed. Yet.” Hlioth said with narrowed eyes. “It might
be
construed as an overt act of aggression on the part of Shomei. The Enforcer would be less
than
pleased.”
“And Nehael’s perception extends to Jashat? The Temple of Cheshne?”
“The Fires of Death and all of her avatars are transparent to the Eleos, Ortwine. To
Compassion.
Something which Kaalaanala is likely to resent.”
“Does this make sense to you?” The sidhe asked Nwm.
“Of course,” the Preceptor replied. “What is unclear?”
“Never mind,” Ortwine sighed. “What are we now waiting to do?”
“Eadric has been gone for three days, and is unresponsive to any efforts at communication.
We will make a reconnaissance,” Nwm said in a matter-of fact way. “Of Deorham and its
environs. I, for
one, am curious to see what transpires beneath a Blackthorn’s pall.”
“Is everybody mad?” Ortwine groaned. “Why can’t we just ask Nehael?”
“Her concerns have become more global,” Nwm replied.
“In which case,” Ortwine said drily. “She is even less use than previously.”
“You may be surprised on that count,” Nwm smiled.
**
[Daunton]: You should probably come to the Academy.
[Mostin]: Why?
[Daunton]: Just come, Mostin.
*
“As you can see,” Daunton observed, “things are rather out of hand.”
A long queue of chattering wizards had formed before a desk, behind which a scholarly
devil sat.
The fiend was haggling with an enchantress over the precise conditions for access to a
number of
obscure dweomers.
Mostin barged his way to the front of the line, over the objections of many who stood
there, and
shoved the wizard aside. Daunton followed uncertainly.
“Please take your place in an orderly fashion,” the devil looked up towards him.
Mostin twitched.
“I am conducting legitimate business on the part of Shomei the Infernal, as her broker,”
Ugales
sighed. “Her rights are protected.” He pointed – not to the Articles, but to the Academy’s
own
protocol guidelines.
“Bah!” Mostin turned to walk away.
“But I am also instructed to inform you that access is unrestricted in your case,” Ugales
smiled.
Many voices were raised in protestation, including Daunton.
Mostin swiveled on the spot, licked his lips, and looked through the portal.
“Mostin,” Daunton tugged on his sleeve. “Mostin!”
“Oh very well. This is irregular,” Mostin nodded. “Some our punctilio with regard to
brokerage may need revisiting. You should convoke the Collegium. A course of action
must be decided.”
“As Chancellor of the Academy,” Ugales added, “and President of the Collegium,
Daunton the Diviner is also allowed unrestricted access.”
“Oh? Really?” Daunton asked, gazing through the doorway. “Come Mostin, we must
inspect these
forbidden tomes, to determine if they represent a threat to our work here.”
“Quite,” Mostin agreed, as he followed him through.
**
Teppu grinned, bundling his few magical oddments – each of which was quirky, and of
particular
interest only to himself – into a cloak, which he tied to a gnarled oak staff.
Nehael – the Eleos – stood nearby and watched. Her expression was one of sadness.
“I will miss you,” she said. “Yet not, of course. I will miss your presence. It is comforting
to me.”
He bowed smoothly.
“When you see Nehael again, she will remember you, but she will not be the same,” she
looked at him. “Try to remember that. It is a relationship you will have to forge anew.”
“I have experienced something similar many times myself,” he laughed. “I’m sure she will
be
perfectly delightful.”
“Perhaps. But not in the way you expect; her method of ending suffering – her compassion
– is particular.”
“A paradigm can absorb many paradoxes,” he shrugged.
“I’ll see you if you die.” She kissed him on the forehead. “Try not to,” she added.
The Eleos took three paces backward toward the Great Tree- ludja and smiled. “Assume
an active stance, and do not compromise your truth. Give her your wisdom freely; she will
need it. And do
not concern yourself too much with the Aeon; it will take care of itself. Always find the
Middle
Way. And remember that you are much loved.”
She – and the Tree – vanished to perception. The Womb of Qinthei was closed.
Teppu sighed. All things must end.
Moments later, Nehael appeared: an avatar, emanated by the Eleos. The Image of Uedii,
her eyes remained green within green, but her garb was scarlet.
“Teppu?” She asked.
“Red?” He asked, and bowed again.
“I will need a horse and a sword,” she remarked. “Where can I find these?”
**
At dusk, a shadow slid furtively through the grounds of the Academy; potent magic
cloaked it from
the dark exemplars which whirled beyond perception in the skies above. It crept from
stock to bole to trunk, seeking to move forward, but always, somehow, vexed in its efforts.
Once or twice it
espied what it thought might be a light but, upon skulking toward it, seemed to lose its
bearings, or become snagged in some briar.
Shomei the Infernal watched the figure silently. From its movements, it was a Naztharune,
but she
knew that surely Temenun was not foolish enough to send it against her: what could he
hope to
achieve? Its purpose must, therefore, be otherwise.
In an inkling, without word or gesture, she dispelled its wards, dominated it and drew it
toward her with telekinesis. Their eyes suddenly alerted to the presence of the tigress,
devas with cobalt skin and flaming swords were instantly all about her.
Shomei wrenched its thoughts from its mind and prepared to unleash a ruthless barrage of
flensing upon it. She analyzed meaning and intention, paused, and instead turned it upon
its head; it hovered five feet above the ground. Shomei approached so that the
Naztharune’s eyes were inches away.
She held out her hand.
It reached within its vestment with backward palms, withdrew a bunch of tumid cherries –
deep
scarlet in color – and placed them in her grasp.
“Tell your master that I will give his offer due consideration,” she smiled. “But that, at
present, I have no nuts for him.”
She righted it and released it. It slunk away into the night.
Your concern is appreciated, she spoke drily into the minds of the fallen celestials. But
really, I can look after myself. You may return to your stations.
Shomei withdrew to her cottage and pondered, her mind quickly dissecting new data.
Temenun’s
ritual pool was not insignificant, and if he was in the process of co-opting Soneillon’s
former
succubi in Throile as well, then he would emerge as a major player.
She poured herself a glass of kschiff, threw off her cloak, removed her slippers, and
relaxed by the fire. Shomei examined the cherries and sighed, placing them on a silver
platter. The marriage of
Will and Desire was the last thing that she needed; really, that was where it had all gone
wrong last time.
Hours passed in contemplative reverie; finally, she roused herself and stood. With a
thought, she
translated to Galda, appearing before the Tabernacle.
Sercion’s hand moved to his weapon, but she presented an open palm.
“I wish to speak with the Sela,” she said.
“Come in, Shomei,” a voice said warmly from within. “You know you’re always
welcome.”
She exhaled slowly, and drew the heavy curtain aside. The Sela sat in meditative posture
within.
“I am not here for moral instruction,” Shomei said tersely.
“Then you are fortunate that I do not offer it,” the Sela smiled. “Shall we begin where we
left off?”
Shomei nodded.
*
Obsession – Part 3
“Your friends have arrived,” Soneillon raised an eyebrow. “In the village. They are warded
against perception – poorly. Are we entertaining, tonight? Should I send Carasch to greet
them?”
“You sense of humor is singular,” Eadric smiled, but his face was etched with pain, as one
who has experienced great anguish. “Who is here?”
“The Uediian and the sidhe – and also Hlioth. I have killed her once already; perhaps she
liked it and is returning for more. Mostin is not with them; I suspect he is avoiding me: he
still owes me
Graz’zt.”
“Why did they not simply issue a sending?”
Soneillon gesticulated vaguely. “I confess that a number of signals have been deflected.”
“How many?” Eadric squinted.
“I did not count. Besides, it’s better that you have company on your return to Galda. Your
horse is ready; Mazikreen has taken care of him. She has become rather attached.”
“He seems to have that effect. You are a curious creature, Soneillon.”
“Yes?” She fastened a garland of black lotuses around his wrist.
“What will you do now?”
“I will brood and pine desperately, Eadric. Or perhaps I should instead fortify my position
against the coming storm – which may blow from any number of directions, or from all at
once. Shomei
musters her devils; the Fourth Effluxion is moving – I do not relish that meeting. Dhatri’s
host is marching. Desire – the Cherry – is active. And your first girlfriend has a new
persona; we’ll see
how that plays out. Let’s hope that you don’t like her more than me.”
“Of what do you speak?” He asked suspiciously.
“I would hate to spoil the surprise,” she replied drily.
“Shomei may still be open to dialogue,” Eadric suggested. “I have not given up on her.”
“Maybe. Or she may simply dominate you at your next encounter; she is the assertive
type.
Although, perhaps you’d like that too.”
“You are impossible.”
“Thank-you,” she gave a small nod. “I try not to take things too seriously.”
“You need not remain here.”
“I am not tied to this place, Eadric; I come and go as I please. But prudence demands that I
strengthen a bulwark, and this one is better than most. And it would appear that Nehael –
your
Eleos – has been of some use after all; she has struck a delicate balance, which
compromises neither my solidity here, nor your attachment to this particular plot of earth.
I should ask you to thank her for me when you next pray to her, but I won’t; it would be an
inauthentic request.”
“Do you care to explain?” He asked.
“You will discover when you leave. Don’t you ever like surprises, Eadric?”
“Generally, no,” he said grimly. “It would appear that the lacuna has passed. If another
should arise, I will return.”
“Of course you will, Ahma.” She smiled darkly. Her eyes were fathomless voids. “And
things need not always be so harrowing; your courtesy and forbearance have earned my
gratitude. But I have known you in death: you are now mine. And I don’t share well.”
She pressed a scarf of black samite into his hand, and curled his fingers tightly around it.
*
Fresh snow had fallen, blanketing the courtyard; the winter sun was wan. Eadric looked
upon the
Blackthorn cautiously, as if his gaze alone might invoke malignancy from it, but it seemed
subdued, as though its song had changed in some way. He closed the door to the keep
behind him, and turned
to pull a handful of dead ivy away from the wall, but green leaves had begun to shoot. He
paused,
confused, and lowered his hand.
Eleos, he knew, and understood Soneillon’s words.
The Ahma made his way to the gatehouse, and slowed to regard the Steeple where Carasch
roosted; the demon seemed not to have moved a hair’s breadth. A shadow of darkness
passed across his
mind; again, the same feeling of dread and foreboding oppressed him, as he felt the
chthonic’s eyes follow him. He shook it off with effort, and trudged forward.
“Nice horse,” Mazikreen handed him the reins to Narh. “Come again.”
Eadric climbed into the saddle, rode through the gate, across the bridge, and straight for
Deorham.
He did not look back to the Burh.
Within, Soneillon brooded.
**
“You knew,” Ortwine glared at Nwm. “And so did you.” She glared at Hlioth.
“Yes,” Nwm laughed. Beer-foam clung to his beard; the Twelve Elms was thronging with
activity.
“I did not. This irks me,” Ortwine continued.
“You are attuned to darker currents, Ortwine,” Hlioth sighed. “And none of us can see
everything.”
“These benches are still filthy. And why is there a hole in the ceiling?”
“Should we go to the Burh, I wonder?” Nwm mused.
“We wait,” Hlioth replied. “He will come here, or will not. She can see us.”
A short time passed, and Eadric entered.
Hlioth quickly spoke a spell, masking the Ahma from the inevitable attention – and
subsequent religious hysteria – which his presence was likely to provoke.
He nodded in gratitude, and sat.
“Gods, you look terrible,” Ortwine observed. “I’d offer a quip, but even that seems
inappropriate.
Nice bracelet, by the way.”
Eadric shook his head.
“Did you encounter the rot? How was it?”
“Ugly.” Eadric scowled.
Ortwine sniffed her wine disapprovingly, and placed it on the table. “Nehael seems to have
reversed it. But the cordon set by the ludja is still in place. We are inscrutable; although
apparently not to Soneillon. Did Nehael communicate with you regarding her intervention
here?”
He shook his head. “At Galda, I invoked the Eleos; I prayed for the safeguarding of
Deorham – of all within the Blackthorn’s range. I must assume that she listened; or she
chose to act thus anyway.”
“A goddess who listens sets a worrying precedent,” Ortwine remarked. “And if Shomei
comes here
now?”
“I may have to forbid it outright,” Eadric replied.
“Forbid? ” Nwm asked sceptically. “One does not forbid Shomei the Infernal anything. If
you set yourself up as Law; she will be forced to confront you.”
“She will not attack me. I am the Ahma.”
“Are you sure?” Nwm inquired.
“No,” Eadric admitted.
“Is there an alternative?”
“I would prefer to avoid conflict here. Attempting another dialogue with Shomei is the
first step.
But I will not have Soneillon assailed for no reason…”
Ortwine groaned. “You are blind, Eadric. This girl has you mixed up.”
“…other than the fact that she possesses something which Shomei wants. Yes, Ortwine?
You are about to present some solid, ethical case? A sound reason why I should allow half
of Trempa to
perish in smoking ruins, whilst demons and devils run amok and Carasch slugs it out with
a half-
dozen fallen seraphim? I am sorry, but because Shomei wants is not a compelling
argument to me.”
“Carasch? ” Ortwine asked.
“I was coming to that. He is at the Burh. Climb up the ridge above the North Road; you
will see him perched on the Steeple.”
“And he will see you,” Hlioth said. “I advise against it.”
“And Soneillon is the innocent party, here?” Ortwine spoke contemptuously. “There is no
greater demon than this one, Ahma.” The religious appellative was pronounced with some
derision.
“I know it well!” Eadric snapped. “He has haunted my imaginings for longer than you
know; since
first I heard his name. And now he is at the Burh? Do not worry, Ortwine; the irony is not
lost on me. And trust me: in person he is worse than in your darkest nightmares. I do not
doubt that he
could extinguish all life within a hundred miles – but, as of yet, no rampage has ensued.”
“And you are confident that your psychotic inamorata is trustworthy?” Ortwine exuded
pure acid.
“Or even capable of containing this monster? This is where I question your judgment,
Eadric.”
“Soneillon asked me one question – and one only – to which I have attached value
throughout this:
If not by my action, then how will you judge me? . For one who advocates repeatedly and
in varied guises for Shomei’s case – and I suggest you question your own motivation in
that regard – the notion of agency and its implications should strike a particular
resonance.”
The sidhe smiled coldly. “Let us hope that your suspense of judgment – and your action –
is
vindicated.”
Nwm coughed. “You said yourself that Cheshne was awakening, Ortwine. That Soneillon
is not
who she was.”
“And at no point did I suggest that I trusted her,” Ortwine groaned.
“There is something else,” Hlioth spoke through gritted teeth. “Shomei seeks to woo the
ritual pool offered by the Academy, and bribe leading members of the Collegium. Mostin
has committed
himself to protect the Articles – and curiously enough, I believed him, because he believed
himself
– but until the Articles are actually threatened, he will not act. Gihaahia will prompt him;
she is leaning on him – and Daunton. In the meantime, he may try to reason with Shomei
– he may be the only one who can slow the meteor. Or she may attempt to sway him; and
she is the superior
rhetorician.”
Nwm nodded. “She is smarter than Mostin. Shomei presses hard against every barrier. She
tests her
exemption to the limit. For what it’s worth, I don’t think she’ll strike here until Dhatri
reaches the envelope of the scions at Galda. I suspect that she will force you to choose,
Eadric, or split your force. And perhaps I should keep my mouth closed in future, and
learn from the Ahma’s mistakes: if the wizards do find a goddess in Gihaahia, then a reign
of dark magic is imminent.”
“Her parentage is mixed,” Hlioth said archly. “She is the daughter of Astaroth and the
Void; it might behoove us to remember this fact – it is apt enough. Forces other than the
Claviger may be seeking to manifest through her.”
“We are a muddled and incestuous pantheon,” Ortwine sighed.
**
:: Mostin ::
Begone, Vhorzhe. I have nothing to say to you.
:: Soneillon has abandoned us, Mostin ::
I don’t blame her. Now, begone! .
*
“Roses of life? ” Daunton grinned broadly, brandishing a scroll. The two wizards were
closeted in an obscure nook of Hell’s library. Mostin wondered if they might need a spell
to find their way out
again.
“I am beginning to understand Shomei’s strategy,” Mostin sighed. “We will spend the next
thousand
years searching for and transcribing exotic dweomers, whilst she suborns the Academy
and uses it
for whatever she wants. And we shall be perfectly happy. How long have we been here,
anyway?
“I have no idea,” Daunton mumbled. He brushed dust off a green tome entitled The
Fortification of the Skin. “It’s a shame Rimilin is gone. He’d like this one.”
“Why are we even here?” Mostin asked. “We don’t need any of this.”
“No, you don’t.” Shomei had appeared from nowhere behind them. Daunton started. She
seemed
inordinately calm and focused. “And you have been here for nine hours. But there are
transvalents; some were struck by the Adversary. Would you care to see them?”
Mostin twitched. His heart pounded. “And you have not committed them to your
armamentarium?”
“There are more than a few. Most are beyond my ability – or yours – to cast,” she smiled.
She did
not need to add the word yet.
“Proceed,” Daunton said enthusiastically.
“Your library persona is an agreeable one,” Mostin observed.
“This is my passion, Mostin. You know this. I am most me here; I would not have you
think that a quest for raw power has blinded me to what is important for my I – which is,
and remains, the pursuit of knowledge. Now, follow me.”
She led them through winding corridors, past dens and studies, between stacks of books
and down
flights of steep stairs. They skirted repositories and scriptoria; passed through secret
panels and hidden doors. All was silent, and musty. Finally, she produced a small key and
opened an iron
postern at the rear of a room crammed with scrolls. They descended yet more stairs, until
they
reached an open space. Ahead was an area of dead magic. Shomei gestured for them to
proceed; the
Alienist paused uncertainly.
“I would not cut the claws from the cat and then leave him at home with the fox,” Mostin
said
through narrowed eyes.
“Mostin…”
He assumed his pseudonatural shape.
“Then you will have me at a disadvantage,” she sighed. “Because the cat just became a
wolf.”
The hall beyond was cavernous, a hundred fathoms tall, and stretched as far as Mostin’s
many eyes
could see ahead of him. Their footsteps – and his slitherings – echoed within. In the
vaulted
ceilings, great ruddy lights glowed at intervals, illuminating the contents: countless slabs -
of
adamant, marble, alabaster, steel, jade and obsidian - attached by clamps to soaring cables.
A vast infernal apparatus controlled the assembly above; pulleys, derricks and sheaves
arranged with
impossible intricacy.
They followed as Shomei made her way to a booth which contained an array of levers and
switches.
She initiated a complex operation; wheels span, gears ground, and a single slab – a
hundred yards
distant – slowly swung out into the chamber and towards them.
When it reached them, she lowered it into a waiting channel: it was a plaque of diabolic
steel, three feet wide and six high. As she released its clamp, another, like a vice,
contracted to grip it. It stood upright before them. Daunton gaped. Mostin reached out, and
ran a pseudopod over the embossed
glyphs and sigils. It was a thing of beauty.
The Irrefutable Argument, it read. It was a spell which had been in effect when the
Nameless Fiend had precipitated the Fall; when unnumbered billion celestials had been
seduced to his cause.
“This is Knowledge, Mostin. This is my legacy; I am the librarian of Hell.”
“Yes,” he quivered. Shomei read it as a nod.
“I am making an appeal to you.”
“I understand,” he hissed. Shomei heard it as a sigh.
*
Daunton sat within her study; Shomei poured kschiff. Mostin stood, looking at the Accord
which hung above the mantlepiece.
“Temenun has offered an alliance.” She nodded toward the cherries which still rested on
their plate.
“He suggests that I marry the remaining Hazel scion to a Cherry which grows in Nivorn. I
am
reluctant to conflate Will and Desire for obvious reasons. But with his Anantam and the
succubi in Throile – who bear no great love for their former mistress – I am looking at the
twelve-hundredth
order. I can do a lot with that.”
“But you would prefer to use the Wyrish Academy,” Mostin finished for her. “Because
they are
known, safer, more passive – but they also represent the body which Gihaahia is mandated
to
uphold.”
“Touché,” Shomei raised her glass. “I find it hard to believe that the Enforcer will censure
a
majority, if it comes to infraction.”
“I don’t,” Daunton grumbled. “She is a tyrant, not an elected representative.”
“I have tried the more wholesome route,” Shomei sighed. “I cannot make headway. The
Ahma is stubborn and irrational, and refuses to engage with his own potential. Those who
practice saizhan are difficult to inspire – except the Irrenites, who are a small minority and
whom I have yet to
approach. I do not feel compassion – and I am not one wont to make empty gestures. I
went to see the Sela yesterday.”
Mostin groaned. “You are certainly exhausting all avenues. What is it with you and
Oronthon,
anyway?”
“I cannot explain. I was confused, angry and depressed. His perspective is beyond all
others. There is no judgment in him.”
“And he offered a solution? Or absolution?”
“Actually, neither. He offered tea. And a mirror to look in.”
“And what did you see?” Mostin asked cynically. “Note that I do not afford much
credence to his
mystical posturing.”
“That my I is relational, and does not exist in a vacuum,” she shrugged.
“That is all?” Mostin scoffed. “I might have told you that.”
“But you didn’t, Mostin. That’s the point. Regardless, I need help – not compactees and
servants
and indentured mages, but willing partners. To retrieve the Urn. To master Hummaz. To
correct the Morphic and end the Claviger-Enforcer’s tyranny. To propagate knowledge. Is
this goal not
worthy?”
“And you would have me play Belial to your Adversary,” Mostin said acidly. “Did the
Sela also whisper in the ear of the Nameless Fiend before the Fall?”
“Actually, I think you would know my answer to that.”
“It is no surprise, then, the spell which you chose to show us,” the Alienist remarked.
“There is a certain symmetry; it is hard to deny.”
“And you would then elect yourself as the new arcane factum?” Mostin inquired drily.
“I am a librarian, Mostin. It is only natural.”
**
Obsession – Part 4
Turel and Rumyal – two infernal seraphim – and Irel, Who Smites, passed swiftly through
the skies
above the frozen River Nund; three flights of dark exemplars accompanied them. Warded
and
augmented by Shomei, all were inscrutable to any but the most probing eyes. They flew
east, and
skirted the compass of the Blackthorn near Droming. Irel gyred and broke away. The
mighty deva
cast his gaze – unrivalled amongst celestial princes, fallen or otherwise – toward Deorham
and
Kyrtill’s Burh, one of Wyre’s holiest sites: the birthplace and earthly dwelling of the
Ahma. It was impenetrable; his sight could not pierce the shroud which Soneillon had set
about the place.
Twelve miles distant, the demoness herself stood upon the Steeple beneath the shadow of
Carasch –
a smoldering void which had yet to erupt to blistering rage – and stretched lazily. The
great chthonic had seen them . Was Shomei baiting her, or testing the limit of her
perception? Or was this a simple reconnaissance? Soneillon considered: to act would be to
disclose; to ignore, to dissemble.
She chose to act.
Carasch turned his thought on them, casually smashing their protections.
Soneillon materialized within the main flight and spoke a soundless syllable, unleashing
oblivion.
Turel and Rumyal, Great Antagonists who had previously offered counsel to the
Adversary himself,
were instantly extinguished along with eighteen devas.
She disappeared.
Irel alone remained.
Soneillon reappeared, and her speed was blinding. Tendrils of void lashed the fallen
prince,
stripping away ens like vapor, and flinging his mace from his hands. She hissed, and drove
him into the ground in a tempest, claws sinking through his throat and chest and pinning
him. Ichor steamed as it poured from his massive frame, staining the snow black; his
strength ebbed from him.
She paused, and smiled.
“My, but you are the pretty one,” Her eyes widened and her wings curled. “And you are
unbound; without compact: I believe she likes you – how delicious! It is so tempting to
steal you. Alas! My heart belongs to another. But now I am feeling tender; she may keep
you. Invoke your mistress by
name.”
The deva was silent.
She raised an eyebrow. “Presently, I am keeping you from dying, Irel, and it would be sad
to lose
one as beautiful as you. Do you trust that your spirit will fly to the winds; or will it go to
the Tree-Bitch for reallocation – perhaps, as a wood-gnome or troll? Heaven is lost to you,
and there is no time to show you the Void. She may save you – if she cares for you.
Speak.”
“Shomei,” he choked. Ichor welled in his mouth.
She brought her face close, and her grip relaxed. She moved over him.
“Good…” She breathed softly in his ear. She lifted her head and smiled at Shomei, whose
infernal
perception had been drawn there.
Soneillon gently withdrew her talons, and vanished.
**
Shomei tapped her fingers. She picked up a bottle of kschiff and hurled it against a
bookcase.
Hellfire crawled over her.
Mostin smiled unsympathetically. “You’re in way over your head; she has fifteen billion
years on
you, and she enjoys this. Perhaps you are beginning to appreciate the magnitude of this
task?”
“How did she see them?”
“I could not say,” Mostin replied. “Probably a transvalent. She may have allies.”
“I spent a third of my reservoir repairing Irel’s wounds. They just wouldn’t heal. His
cohesion was…wrong.”
“You are fortunate she simply obliterated the others,” Mostin observed drily.
“If you were to send your Ú s…”
Mostin became irritable. “Shomei, you may be exempt from the Injunction – and I say
may be, because much has yet to be tested – but one thing is certain: I am not. You asked
me here for advice, and I will give it to you: let this go. You are simply unprepared for this
endeavor; if you do actually attack her and she survives and escapes do you really think
that she will calmly forgive? Do you
think Eadric – I’m sorry, the Ahma – will? Now, I am going to offer you some perspective
again, because it is apparent to me that at this point that she has acted with the utmost
restraint with regard to you…”
“I don’t need this, Mostin…”
“… by not already annihilating you. And if you don’t think she could have accomplished
this, had she set her mind to it, then you are stupid. Perhaps Eadric has restrained her;
perhaps her perspective is other than we can guess. And she let you keep your favorite toy;
although what you
see in those hideous, feathery monsters is beyond me.”
Shomei glared at him. “She drew first blood, Mostin, not I.”
“And I think she might cite provocation as a reasonable defense; frankly, I would be
inclined to
agree with her. You are the lawyer; what do you think? Perhaps we should ask Gihaahia to
mediate
– although Soneillon’s exemption with regard to the Injunction is not in question. Do not
give her a casus belli. ”
“I cannot slow now, Mostin.”
“You must!” He was exasperated.
“No; I cannot. It is what I am. ”
“Then you should repair to your library,” he said grimly. “Or stay safely within the
compass of the Hazel, because if you begin this and then step beyond its bounds – and are
not prepared to finish
what you’ve started – then she will find you and extinguish you. You will make a prison
for
yourself, Shomei; and that is symmetry.”
“Will you aid me?”
“I am disinclined,” he replied.
“If you were to speak to the Ahma; find out what transpired at Deorham. He has returned
to Galda…”
“I will not spy for you Shomei. If you have questions for Eadric, ask them yourself.”
“Mostin. Please. Then use the Web of Motes. At least let me know what I’m dealing with
that I haven’t foreseen.”
He stood and sighed. “I will contact you in one hour. Do not ask me for anything else.
Here.”
He took off his hat – his favorite ochre felt, with its wide brim somewhat charred – and
placed it on her head.
*
Exactly one hour later, Shomei received a sending which contained only one word:
Carasch.
She sat and tapped her fingers. Time elapsed.
She translated to Galda for the final time.
**
“I see you bear your rod,” Eadric said dubiously. “Are you here to coerce me this time?”
“It is a preventative measure,” Shomei explained. “May I sit?”
He gestured toward a chair. “I am not about to assail you, Shomei. I’m glad you came. I
have been
considering how to approach you.”
“Ahma, I lost twenty of my best devils earlier today in an unprovoked attack by your
lover.”
“Unprovoked?” He asked sceptically. “Would you like kasshiv? It’s all I have left – Nwm
and Ortwine drank everything else.”
“Yes.” She raised an eyebrow at his pronunciation. “My servants were reconnoitering over
Trempa;
they were beyond the compass of the Blackthorn.”
“I did not realize a formal exclusion zone had been established,” he said drily, pouring a
goblet for her. “Shomei, I have been pondering how to deal with this situation and I’m at a
loss. I cannot seem to appeal to you; I cannot risk forbidding you for fear of provoking the
Antinomos in you to an immediate response: I do not wish to come to blows with you. But
you are flouting every law
conceivable: Wyrish, magickal, ethical and religious. What would you have me do?”
“Enkindle your potential, Ahma. But you do not seem interested in assuming this
responsibility.”
“That is a larger question which we may return to,” Eadric sighed. “In the meantime I
must consider the wellbeing of those whom I am charged to protect; I am Earl Marshal of
Wyre, Shomei: I must
defend it, regardless.”
“You know that Carasch is aiding her, of course?”
“He is her watchdog. I have encountered him. He is terrifying. It is not germane to this
discussion.”
“I lost two seraphs in her ambush, Ahma.”
“They ceased being seraphim at the beginning of the last Aeon, Shomei.”
“Yet the Ahma would place himself as a shield before this chthonic abomination?” She
asked.
“No,” he groaned. “But he would place himself as a shield before the inhabitants of
Trempa. There
are limits on the number of devils which even you can conjure and compel, Shomei. If you
send
them in waves, will she be able to kill them quicker than you can call more? Or perhaps
you will
muster a large force, and she will entrench further: and the longer the buildup, the worse
for
everyone.”
Shomei looked hard at him. “Not all devils need to be compelled, Ahma. Only a key few –
and then, only persuaded. I could end this all very quickly.”
His eyes flickered nervously. “I do not follow.”
“Azazel still bears the standard; two hundred legions accompany him. There is no longer a
Celestial Interdict.”
A look of horror crossed his face. “You would do this? Raise that banner over Wyre?”
“I would prefer not to, but I must have the Urn, Ahma.”
“By invoking the eschaton? And you dub Soneillon psychotic?”
“She is,” Shomei smiled thinly. “I am merely determined. And the eschaton has been and
gone, Ahma. We are what’s left.”
“And if I were to demand of you – command you – how would you respond?”
Shomei shook her head. “Please do not force me to make that choice, Ahma. It would not
sit well with me.”
“Indeed? For one who asserts the Ahma as central to their paradigm I am sure it would
cause you some discomfort.”
“I simply wish you would embrace the larger reality.”
“Then perhaps we should force the issue.” He stood grimly and drew Lukarn, gripping it
below the quillons and presenting it in censure. It illuminated the interior of the tent. “By
the authority…”
“Please, Ahma…”
“…vested in me as Ahma; the Breath of God manifest in the world…”
“Ahma…”
“…I hereby command…”
“Eadric. Do not…”
“…that Shomei…”
Her Flame ignited. She brought the full force of her will to bear through her rod; it was
colossal, and should have overpowered him. Instead, there was a resonance, and a
reflection, which Shomei
experienced as a great gale blasting over her. His pavillion and its contents were gone,
blown to the four winds. Both Shomei’s eyes and those of the Ahma became wide in
astonishment; a cluster of lotuses in the garland which he wore on his wrist had turned to
dust: Soneillon had warded him, and he hadn’t even known it.
Devas and archons appeared all around him, summoned by his thought, but her presence
paralyzed
them; they would not strike her, only worship her. He smote her repeatedly, but her
exemption protected her. Her will recommenced, unleashing a cyclone of hellfire focused
on herself which
could not touch him, but which slowly burned the garland to ash.
He spoke a holy word; again, exemption sustained her.
The firestorm increased in intensity; still the lotuses burned away. The devas were
incinerated.
Nwm – alerted and now present – struck her with a sonic of tremendous power, which
echoed for
miles. She weathered it, and her focus did not falter; she hurled the Preceptor aside with
telekinesis.
The last blossom turned to soot. Finally, she gripped Eadric’s mind, and dominated him.
“I’m sorry, Ahma. It’s a preventative measure.” She wept.
Abruptly, both Shomei the Infernal and the Ahma vanished.
**
**
The goddess strode ahead impatiently.
Teppu followed, anxiously. “What should I call you?”
“It does not matter – call me what you wish.” Her manner was disconcertingly brusque.
“You were Nehael before,” he suggested.
“Then call me Nehael.”
“But you are no longer the same.”
“Then call me something different,” she sighed.
“May I choose a name?” He suggested.
“Why not?”
“Names are important.” He explained.
“Are they?” She asked.
“Yes! Stop!”
She stopped, and smiled at him. “Do you have one for me?”
“You are not so different,” Teppu laughed. “Where are you going?”
“This way,” she said.
“What is this way?”
“What I need.”
“What…”
”Good,” she said. A horse stood waiting; a varnish roan mare. Strapped to the saddle was
an arming sword. A bow – with flowers tied around its limbs – was fixed around its cantle,
and a quiver of red-fletched arrows hung from its skirt.
Teppu raised an eyebrow. “That bow is…”
“Yew.”
“And the arrows…”
“Hazel. ”
“And the sword…”
She drew it, and it rang; runes were etched into its blade: Trúa.
“Compassion?” He asked.
She shook her head. “Pity, Teppu. One cannot slay with compassion.”
“Where are you going now?” He asked.
“South,” she smiled.
“Why…”
“The dead are there Teppu. Are you coming?”
“Certainly,” he replied uncertainly.
She climbed into the saddle, picked him up, and deposited him behind her.
Moments later, they were at Cirone. Ahead, the Pall of Dhatri loomed.
**
Obsession – Final Part
She hung, naked and motionless in the void, gazing at the world. Behind her and beyond
her, an
infinite expanse of emptiness stretched.
Wyre was blanketed in snow, a heavy veil which pressed upon its wide provinces and
muffled the
verdancies which pulsed beneath. It ranged from gold through deep crimson, west to east,
as dusk
stole across the frozen landscape below.
Further south, greens prevailed; and then a great fume of corruption, surrounding a perfect
circle of blackness: the Pall of Dhatri. A red dart was moving within it, like a surgeon’s
knife attempting to excise some cancer, the roots of which ran too deep. Nehael, yet not.
Suuratamanyu? * she
considered; an obscure and ill-defined bhiti – if such it was – or merely another
manifestation of Aliikaghana?
She did not care.
She turned her eyes to the Sun and observed it impassively; she understood its radiance:
no longer feared it. It regarded her with disinterest, as a parent who has surrendered a
child and watched it grow separate, but from a great distance. It did not offer anything,
and all she had gained had been apart from it. But neither did it condemn: its judgment
was suspended, as though in regret of
previous choices it had made. An admission, perhaps, of its own fallibility.
It began to sink over the Western Ocean, and an intense display of color ensued; the
atmosphere split the light into its component parts like some deific prism: every element
of the spectrum was revealed. For the briefest moment, the rumor of an Idea: a vast wyrm
– serene, yet energized; a
perfect, infinite potential – coiled around the world. Then, just as suddenly, it was gone.
The
luminary vanished. Beyond – now free from its glare and glamour – the ruddy Eye of
Cheshne
pulsed.
She descended through aurorae, plunging rapidly through the thermosphere. Meteors
flashed to
incandescence around her; she outpaced them, dropped through noctilucent clouds and felt
their
crystals caress and cool her. Her plummet came to rest at an altitude of twenty miles. She
cast her glance downwards.
Lights were kindling in a city: an unfolding sevenfold symmetry, spontaneous yet
inevitable. Her
eyes followed a thin line which ran south and west into rolling hills, apprehending an
involuted knot in a deep hollow.
Then she remembered that she was a demoness, and that she was angry.
*
[Soneillon]: You have one hour to evacuate the Academy.
[Many Wizards]: !
Sendings buzzed across Wyre. Twenty minutes elapsed.
(Far to the north and west, in an obscure corner of Nizkur).
[Mostin]: This demonstration is unnecessary, Soneillon. Shomei has marginalized herself
by her
own actions.
[Soneillon]: Oh, there you are.
Soneillon appeared within his study, a writhing mass which pinned Mostin, spreadeagled,
above the
fireplace.
“Don’t try and wriggle, Mostin,” a childlike face materialized, and then a body. “Or I’ll
have to hurt you. You may have more tentacles than I, but mine are far nastier.”
A tendril reached inside his robe, flipping open pouches in his belt of many pockets, and
searching until it retrieved a sphere of adamant, ten inches in diameter. She shook it
vigorously, until Graz’zt’s countenance appeared.
“Well, look who it is,” she smiled. An expression of horror crossed the face of the demon
prince.
Her form became fully humanoid – that of a small child, which she had chosen in previous
dealings
with the Alienist – as she secreted the globe on her person. Mostin dropped
unceremoniously onto
the floor.
“Now that that’s settled,” she hopped into a chair, and dangled her legs, “you have around
forty
minutes to convince me not to level the estate. I will not name her, and would advise the
same of
you: it would draw her attention here – funny how that comes around. But she has my
boyfriend, and I want him back. ”
*
Mostin sighed. “Destroying her former abode would achieve nothing, Soneillon – except,
perhaps, to irritate her.”
“That would seem as good a place to start as any. You are fuelling my argument, Mostin,
not
dissuading me. You need to think more like a demon.”
“She may also invoke the Hazel,” Mostin continued. “In which case, no effort on your part
will
penetrate its cordon. And do you really want an Academy unified in defense under her
leadership?
She has been seeking to co-opt the ritual pool; this would hand it to her on a plate. And in
defense she would even receive the sanction of the Enforcer.”
“That is far more persuasive,” the demoness conceded. She issued another sending.
[Soneillon]: I’ve changed my mind.
Three hundred miles away, scores of wizards breathed a collective sigh of relief.
“Less than a minute. Not bad, Mostin.”
Mostin groaned. “You had no intention of destroying the Academy, did you?”
She shook her head.
“You tracked my sending to its source. Circumvented my obfuscations. You are a devious
one.”
She hopped down, and ran over to him. Her form changed, and she threw a dozen tiny
tentacles
around his knees. She looked up with multiple huge, doe eyes welling with tears.
“Will you help me get Eadric back, Mostin? Please?”
“You are insufferable,” the Alienist replied.
“You are not an erotic creature, Mostin; I must adjust my tack accordingly.”
“I am no more paternal than I am erotic,” Mostin observed.
She sighed, and once again became a succubus. “Will you help me or not?”
Mostin shook his head. “She is within Hell’s library, Soneillon; it is separate – part of the
prior infinity. Eadric is also there. There are two doors, and both lie within the Hazel’s
ambit. You cannot touch her while she remains there. I have been inside, with her
approval: she may come and go as
she pleases. There is a tight net around the ‘front door’ – a cottage very close to the Hazel
scion itself – the area where she performs her conjurations. The ‘back door’ – so to speak
– is within the library of the Academy. Only Ugales has permission to enter and leave; he
retrieves obscure spells and tomes for ambitious mages in return for outrageous pledges.
The back door is currently closed
anyway.”
Soneillon gave a suspicious look. “How do you know that Eadric is in the library, Mostin?
Presumably your divinations cannot penetrate it.”
“A wizard does not reveal all of his means.”
“And how did you anticipate certain events in Afqithan?” She persisted.
Mostin sighed.
“Do you have a thing which helps you?”
“Yes,” he grudgingly admitted.
“Can I see it?” Soneillon smiled.
“Well…”
Soneillon raised an eyebrow, and slowly revealed Pharamne’s Urn. Mostin’s eyes rotated
in his skull.
“Mostin. You have to show. No wonder you don’t have a girlfriend.”
“Very well,” he produced it. “It is called the Web of Motes. Although I think every wizard
in Wyre knows I have it – I’m surprised that you didn’t hear already.”
She shrugged. “I tend not to mix with wizards, Mostin. They are usually dull – present
company
excepted, of course. And you will help me. With this mote-thing of yours, you can
determine whether or not she is in her library, am I correct?”
“Yes, but it makes no difference. How difficult is this to explain…”
“Because you can help me,” she smiled. “In fact, I believe you are the only one who can.”
“You are not listening, Soneillon.”
“Yes, I am, but you’re not. She is a devil. I cannot conjure devils, Mostin. But you can.”
“She is magnified, Soneillon. Binding such an entity is a different proposition altogether.”
“My reservoir is deep, Mostin. It is yours.”
He considered; Shomei had gone too far, there was no denying it. His mind rapidly
processed
transvalent algorithms, finding various solutions.
“You will not annihilate her,” the Alienist exhorted.
“Mostin, be reasonable…”
“I mean it, Soneillon. She is a colleague, and a fellow intellect. Let me handle her.”
“Oh, very well,” Soneillon sighed.
“I will need a week to devise the formula.”
“A week? Wyrish wizards are so slow.”
“And I will need the Urn,” Mostin smiled madly.
Soneillon’s eyes narrowed. “No you don’t, Mostin. We both know that.”
**
“Do you purpose to keep me here indefinitely?” Eadric raised his eyebrows. He sat easily
in the
posture of saizhan within a forcecage in Shomei’s study. A fire – of cut hazel logs –
burned slowly and steadily in the hearth.
“Only until I have the Urn, Ahma,” Shomei was curled nearby in a comfortable chair,
reading. She did not meet his eyes.
“And you still address me by the religious appellative. You are an unlikely abductress,”
Eadric
observed. “And an even more unlikely Adversary.”
“That moniker is defunct,” she sighed.
“Your actions would indicate otherwise. Should I officially brand you as such? I do
determine
doctrine, after all.”
She shifted her position, and took a sip of kschiff.
“If it would be easier for you, I will be silent. Or perhaps you could dominate me again.”
“I take no pleasure in depriving you of your will, Ahma.” She raised her head and looked
at him.
“Of all things, that, at least should be clear about me.”
“But you did, Shomei,” he replied.
“I must judge necessity, Ahma; for my Self, no other can.”
“And, in hindsight, was your judgment correct?”
She placed the book down, open, on the table beside her. “If you are asking whether I have
experienced remorse, then the answer is yes: I am not beyond that. But what is done is
done. The question of what to do next preoccupies me now. Such is my nature.”
“You would seem to be missing a moral compass, Shomei.”
She gave a small smile. “I do not need one, Ahma. My lack of kindness is perfectly
balanced by my lack of malice. My temper needs some work.”
“And if jealousy and hatred come to rule you? What then?”
“Then you and I will have both failed, Ahma, but for different reasons.”
“Yet jealousy and obsession have characterized many of your actions of late.”
She stood, approached the forcecage, and knelt, drawing close. Her presence was intense,
focused and calm. “Are you speaking of my reaction to your liaison with Soneillon, or to
my efforts to gain the Urn?”
“You do not take well to being thwarted, Shomei. And the union of opposites is something
which
you yourself once gave me advice regarding.”
“Ahma, there are many hieroi gamoi. Some are fleeting; some enduring. Some take place
within a paradigm; others – such as that of the Reconciliation – span infinities; others
beyond infinities even into the ineffable. I do not deny your experience of Soneillon; it is,
in fact, an articulation of truth far beyond Magnitude as the Urgics would understand it.
But it is not ultimate in the sense that nothing is ultimate, and whether it is even enduring
remains to be seen. I am pragmatic, and could only offer you a paradigm, Ahma; to shape
the reality which we inhabit. To make it better.”
Eadric laughed bitterly. “Something which Azazel and his two hundred legions can help
you
achieve, I presume? Your argument is beginning to sound more than a little deluded,
Shomei.”
“Do not interpret the transparency of my thought to you as an articulation of intent; there
are other avenues which I would prefer to exhaust first. Understand that I began with the
most moral from your perspective: an alliance with you. I do not practice saizhan, Ahma.
My method is otherwise. It is for me, and me alone. It can be neither learned, nor taught. I
must invent it myself as it evolves; at critical junctures, I have looked to others – including
both you and the Sela – for help, but the solution must always be mine.”
Eadric shook his head. “Your reaction to my anathematization of you – to engulf me in
hellfire and coerce me – would suggest to me that this relationship is far from clear to you.
My word is Law; but you accept none but your own.”
“It is a paradox I grapple with. I do not wish to be branded your Adversary, Ahma. To
become what you most hate. I strive only to realize my potential.”
“And you somehow insist that I am capable of a similar feat; this awakening of my
potential to
which you refer. Yet it demands embracing some harsh and violent truth for you; a willing
sacrifice of your own humanity. Something which I am unprepared to make.”
“I am a fiend, Ahma,” Shomei smiled.
“But you were not always so.”
“Nor were any others. Deep down, I have always wanted to be a devil, Ahma. I think you
know this.
And no such sacrifice is necessary from you: you are the Ahma. One reason why seeing
you
confined thus saddens me.”
“Then you might release me.”
She sighed. “If you were to affirm that you would make no efforts to assail me or escape,
then I
might grant you exit from that box. But I would prefer not to dominate you again.”
“I will so vow. Although I am unsure if my assent is tantamount to my endorsing your
actions.”
“Life is full of paradoxes, Ahma.” The forcecage vanished.
“A little freedom is a precious thing,” he stood and glanced around.
She gestured. “The library is that way, Ahma. All the devils are gone; I’m the only one
left. Call me if you get lost. I will hear you.”
“I cannot help but like you, Shomei.”
“I know. It makes it difficult.”
She returned to her book.
*Wrathful Mercy
**
Day 1 – Antiphon
Nwm and Ortwine stood waiting before the fortified gates at Galda, and watched as the
rider
approached from the south. She, her horse and her harness were caked in blood, ichor and
entrails
so thick that the muck might need to be scraped clear with a trowel rather than washed
away; her
visage was altogether terrifying.
As she approached, the Preceptor noticed that she carried another with her: a diminutive
figure who clung desperately to her waist, barely able to remain upright in the saddle. She
reined in, reached behind her, and lowered him gently to the ground. Her small companion
shivered and stood
unsteadily.
“Hello, Nwm,” Nehael said, “Ortwine. Teppu is tired, and I think he’d like a bath. Where
is
Eadric?”
Ortwine looked at Nwm and raised an eyebrow.
*
“Eadric is very popular with the ladies, these days, Nehael.” Ortwine gave a caustic smile.
“And I must say, red rather suits you; I can see that it is also a practical color.”
They sat around a campfire: one of hundreds which burned in the encampment. The
goddess had
acquiesced to a cantrip to clean her of the foul-smelling gore which had clung to her, but
which had seemed not to perturb her in any way; it was, in fact, for Ortwine’s benefit that
she had agreed.
Teppu was wrapped in a blanket, asleep.
“I had hoped to speak with him; to discuss the reconquest,” she threw off her boots.
Ortwine cast a sidelong glance at Nwm, who shrugged.
“Might I assume that you lack the prescience of your previous sister-avatar; now, your
mother-
deity?” Nwm inquired. “I am unaccustomed to explaining anything to Nehael; usually the
information flows in the other direction.”
“I slay, Nwm,” she said simply. “This is the persona that you get: I make no apology for it.
It is necessary. I don’t have time for magic or plots or webs. I am the counterpoint which
Uedii must chant to contain the corruption; her image reflected through the Eleos: the
enlightened, engaged, dynamic face of compassion. I am unsentimental, and occasionally
ugly on the surface. Nor am I as
Tree-ish as my former self; actually, I prefer horses.”
She lay down on her back in the wet earth and looked upwards. The Follower was soaring
in the
east, flickering through the smoke in the air. Some time passed before Nwm spoke again.
“You are aware that Eadric is currently being held by Shomei the Infernal?” The Preceptor
queried.
“Well, I imagine I might have been, had I thought about it.” She thought about it. “I see. I
suppose I could go and talk to her.”
“Could? ” Ortwine gave a quizzical look.
Nehael raised her head, leant on an elbow, and smiled. “Eadric is confused, Ortwine. It is
his
defining feature. He gets himself into these situations; I’m not really convinced that my
becoming involved at this stage would help. He should have followed my advice, and
simply exercised
compassion.”
“In which specific instance?” Nwm asked.
“He shouldn’t have censured Shomei, Nwm. It didn’t help. Really, he just lost his temper
and
became offended and pious. It’s always been an issue with him.”
“Mostin is working on a solution.”
“Yes. Mostin may aggravate the problem further,” Nehael remarked.
“And this assumes that Soneillon does not become unhinged in the interim,” Nwm added.
“Ahh, Soneillon,” she lay back down. “Another situation.”
Ortwine stared hard at her. “For an avatar of compassion, you seem very free in your
criticism of those absent.”
“I would say the same to him – or her – were either here, Ortwine. As you have rightly
implied,
malicious gossip is incompatible with my nature. And frankly, the march of Dhatri’s host
and the
Embassy are of more concern to me at present than Eadric’s convoluted emotional life. I
put an
arrow in the latter earlier today; she knows I’m here well enough.”
“Then that is some good news.” Nwm grunted approvingly.
“She will not make the same mistake again.”
“By the Embassy, I assume you are referring to Kaalaanala’s final effluxion,” Ortwine
sighed. “And each time I say that name I am nervous; in case I draw her perception to
me.”
“The Trees protect you from that faculty here, Ortwine.”
The sidhe gave a stony look. “Had the Trees here been more comprehensive in their
protection –
and not allowed dreaming demonesses and exempt devils to penetrate their cordon - then
this entire fracas might have been avoided. I think we may have placed too much faith in
their effectiveness in protecting the Ahma’s moral fibre.”
“On the last count, I am inclined to agree.”
“So will you speak to Shomei?” Nwm inquired.
“Well. Are you asking for my intercession in this?”
“I don’t know,” Nwm admitted. “Should I?”
“Probably not,” Nehael replied.
“Then I suppose I won’t,” Nwm sighed. “But if I had, what would you have done?”
“Nothing,” Nehael smiled. “Which is the best that can be done at the moment. Ask me in a
few days
– things will probably unravel even more before they come together again. ”
“A prescience?” Nwm asked archly.
“Call it what you like,” Nehael shrugged. “I experience it as a vague notion. And today
was too
much for this one; he is too gentle.”
The goddess stood and removed her cloak. She folded it and placed it under Teppu’s head.
**
Eadric did not see Shomei – who had exited the cottage in order to perform conjurations,
and sealed it behind her – for the entirety of the next day. After quickly becoming bored,
he ventured forth to wander alone in obscure and musty corridors within the limitless
repository which was Hell’s
library. Ruddy candles burned with infinite slowness in deep sconces, barely illuminating
the
interior. It was eerily silent and – except for the occasional tome which itself exhibited
some sign of sapience in addition to its malignancy – there was no question within the
mind of the Ahma that he was alone.
Eadric was not a scholar; or rather, he had never had the time to pursue his scholarly
interests: the art of war had demanded most of his attention throughout his life. The
weight of infernal knowledge oppressed him, but more by virtue of its sheer volume than
by its evil content. He considered the
magnitude of Shomei’s commitment to the task of knowing the library; surely she must
have read only the minutest fraction of the books contained within it. It seemed an
impossible undertaking to
master even its geography; to familiarize oneself with its contents would take a life’s age
of the universe, or more.
It did not take him long to become lost, despite – what he had been sure – were his own
meticulous precautions to the contrary regarding his bearing and distance from Shomei’s
study. After a brief
period of anxiety – during which he considered that his aimless wandering might, in fact,
be his
eternal lot – the Ahma determined that he would climb – the notion of ascent being
comfortable and familiar to his inner aesthetic. Whenever a staircase – whether a narrow
spiral, steep ladder, or wide companionway with sweeping balustrades – presented itself to
him, he would eagerly scale it. At
times, he would backtrack in frustration: his path would lead to a hidden nook, a suite of
chambers or dark, diabolic cloisters with no other exit, and he would search out some new
way. He
entertained no notion of destination in his efforts, except up. Yet the light became no
brighter; the atmosphere no less oppressive. There was no relief to be had, except in the
act of ascent itself; a metaphor which struck him as particularly apt, given the nature of his
hostess – or gaoler.
After what must have been many hours – all sense of time having long since left him –
Eadric
stumbled upon an archway within which a grate of adamant bars had been set. Dire runes
were
carved in warning above the threshold; symbols which, although they posed no threat to
him, would have slain any devil of lesser stature who might have approached them. He
looked at the bars: no
keyhole or aperture of any kind was present. Peering through the grate, only darkness was
present
beyond. Eadric ran his fingers around the archway, searching for some secret mechanism.
Nothing.
He illuminated the space beyond with daylight. A narrow tunnel, extending ahead as far as
he might see.
Mustering all of his strength, he gripped the grate and tore it away from the archway,
placing it
ruefully against the adjacent wall, conscious that he had committed some gross act of
vandalism
against the integrity of the place – then berating himself for entertaining any notion of
guilt in the context of his current predicament. Lighting the passageway at intervals, he
proceeded for a
hundred yards until he came upon another archway – this time unblocked by gate or door.
A sound
threatened to overwhelm, until he recognized it. Some trap had been triggered; a holy
word of great power. Eadric gave an ironic half-smile; fiendish interlopers – not the Ahma
– had been on the mind of whoever had set the device: a barely-visible glyph which
throbbed in the keystone above.
He entered into a low chamber perhaps ten feet on a side, and illuminated it. On shelves or
chained to the walls were books with tarnished covers; they had been neglected and
forgotten for many
epochs. Ancient books. Forbidden books. Books whispering secrets best left untold. He
opened one,
and thumbed its metalline pages – Meditations on Radiance; and then another – Divining
the Light; and then another – The World of Men to Come. He tilted his head.
They were celestial books, penned by great devils – then seraphs and other episemes –
before the
Fall.
He sat, and began to read.
**
Soneillon hovered high in the skies above the Academy, beyond the compass of the Hazel-
ludja, and gazed at the shifting patterns around the scion. She was hidden – more
effectively, she knew,
than the fallen celestials who had come to spy upon her at Deorham – but was, herself,
unable to
penetrate the layers around the Tree below. A nest of hemi-demiplanes, through which a
tortuous path wound to Shomei’s cottage: invulnerable to her magic and sight. The
concursion which was the
library’s ‘front door.’
There were many devils in the skies below her; of that, there could be no doubt. But they
remained invisible; their numbers and type unknown. Six more days must elapse before
Mostin could
complete his arcane equations; a formula which would incorporate only herself, Mulissu
and Nwm:
the Alienist had indicated that he trusted no other – including Ortwine, whose duty to the
Hazel was suspect – to be part of it.
She scowled, and retreated to Deorham; she considered that, were she to abandon it and
Shomei to
locate her beyond the stronghold , that some force brought against her might overwhelm
her and
deprive her of the Urn. Extinction was of no particular concern to her, but being bound –
by Shomei
– remained a possibility, however remote. The Infernalist would need a sizeable ritual pool
in order to guarantee success, and would need time herself to devise a suitable rite – and
some safe location in another world, from which it could be conducted.
Mostin had elected Sisperi as his venue. But Mostin might fail, whatever his mote-thing
told him.
Soneillon considered the time she had before the test came. She allowed her anger to
subside, and
gave thought to entrenchment: should it become necessary, it would be as well to be
prepared.
The demoness began in earnest to fortify both herself and Kyrtill’s Burh with powerful
spells.
**
Shomei sat by the fire, reading, when Eadric entered. His route to her study was not
something he
could accurately recall; there was no doubt in his mind that she had guided him back by
some art.
She raised her head as he entered. “Did you find what you were looking for?”
His eyes narrowed. “I found; although I was not looking for it.”
“That is often best,” she nodded.
There was a brief silence.
“I may have caused some…structural damage,” Eadric confessed.
“Don’t worry, Ahma. I’ve already repaired it.”
She returned to her book.
*
Day 2 – Down
“You are very small, Shomei,” Eadric observed.
“Yes, Ahma.”
“Is this an hereditary trait?”
“My flesh is infernal, Ahma.”
“But your prior incarnation – upon which your present body is based – was… slight. At
least, the first one was…or… What I mean to say is that I know nothing of your ancestry.
Is your lineage magical?”
She gave a quizzical look. “It was; yes, Ahma. Sorcerous, actually – although several
generations removed. And aristocratic. With a dash of fey – which is never a bad thing for
an arcanist, and may account for my small-ness.”
“And your parents?”
“Were devout and faithful,” Shomei said drily.
“And what became of them?”
“Devils killed them, Ahma.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“I conjured the devils, Ahma,” Shomei explained.
“Oh.” A look of horror crossed his face.
“I was young,” Shomei was nonplussed. “It was an act committed without principle.”
“How young?” Eadric asked.
“Five, Ahma.”
His eyes widened. “Five? Your parents had angered you in some way?”
“They took my books away, Ahma. I wanted them back.”
“Oh,” Eadric nodded uncertainly. “Perhaps they thought your books were dangerous?”
“They were, Ahma.”
“Apparently so,” Eadric raised an eyebrow. “And after you had…well…”
“Murdered my parents?” She asked.
“Yes…”
“I got my books back, Ahma.”
“But in terms of your upbringing, Shomei.”
“My servants looked after me.”
“No other relatives? No guardian?” Eadric asked, aghast.
“I did not need them. My servants were devils, Ahma.”
*
“Yesterday, you went up; will you go down today?” Shomei inquired.
“Exactly how closely have you been monitoring my movements, Shomei? And did I
stumble upon
the celestial repository, or was I directed to it?”
“I did not manipulate you toward it, if that is what you are asking,” she replied. Her
answer seemed genuine. “I knew of it, but have not had the leisure to investigate it. But
the library has a habit of presenting certain books or collections; if you were directed, then
it was not by me. As to monitoring – not in the way you might think. I am aware of where
you are and where you have
been, if I call you to mind. I can encourage you to take certain paths – as I did in your
inbound journey yesterday when I perceived that you wanted to return – but in your
explorations, you were
following your own impulses. I was busy with my conjurations.”
“Would you suggest going down?”
“I make no recommendation,” Shomei answered. “You could go straight, or left, or right,
or
backwards; or some combination of any of these – including up and down – but these are
harder to
track. Only going down is an easier route to focus upon; you are new to the geography.”
“I suspect that the willful act of descent would be harder for me,” Eadric remarked.
Shomei shrugged. She exited the cottage, and sealed it.
Eadric sighed.
**
“They seethe and swell like a great, purposeful ocean of malice,” Nehael explained. “They
are
without number. There is nothing left for them to consume except each other; hence they
must
move. The greatest – Idyam and Dhatri herself, together with the Embassy – remain near
to the centre. Rishih, Naatha and Prahar are closer to the periphery of the mob. They are
only forty miles away – would you like to see?”
Nwm nodded grimly.
Ortwine looked sceptical. “How?”
“I can show you; Nwm knows what I mean. The experience will not be pleasant.”
“Very well.” The sidhe gave a resigned sigh.
Perception expanded to embrace reality within sixty miles. To the south, a festering tide of
corruption of such magnitude that it seemed as though the World could not sustain its
weight. Nwm reeled. Ortwine staggered and vomited.
“And you experience this all of the time? ” Ortwine groaned. She vomited again.
Nehael smiled.
“How did you get close enough to shoot?” Ortwine asked her, regaining her breath. “Was
she not alerted?”
“Yes,” Nehael nodded in a matter-of-fact way. “But she did not withdraw. She struck me
with fire.
Coming within a league was difficult. The press of corpses was thick; it was hard to
aim…”
“Wait. You can shoot from three miles?”
“I can shoot from six, Ortwine; as long as I have a clear aim – I didn’t.”
The sidhe wiped her mouth and raised an eyebrow. “This, I have to see. I assume that your
missile
struck its target unerringly?”
“I shot eighteen arrows at her before she could react,” Nehael replied. “Only one found its
mark.”
Ortwine looked at Nwm. “I think we’re seriously out of our depth.”
Nwm stared at Nehael. “And Teppu…how did he fare? I mean, I have never seen him so
weak.”
“He died five times. It was difficult for him. And each time I brought him back as himself
again – it is hard for a self-incarnate such as he.”
“Why was he even there? Could he meaningfully affect the outcome?”
“A little, perhaps. But each of us can only do a little. I do not enjoy what I do, Nwm;
really, he was there for me. So I didn’t have to be alone. He is kind.” She smiled.
“And today?” Nwm asked. “You will both ride out again?”
Nehael shook her head. “I would spare him the experience.”
“If you require a consociate,” Nwm said, “I will gladly offer myself.”
“I think you should also remain,” Nehael suggested. “Teppu is here; Hlioth is nearby;
Mesikammi is on her way. The Temple is all but spent of power, and the Ahma is missing.
You should give thought to the defense here; a quarter of the Cheshnite host will be here
within a few days.”
“Only a quarter?” Ortwine asked.
“It is more than enough to contain Galda,” Nehael explained. “The rest will bypass it
altogether, and head north, straight for Wyre. And I have a companion in mind.”
The sidhe heard a soft hoof-fall, felt hot breath on her neck, and turned. Narh had
approached, and was nuzzling her eagerly.
“Me?” Ortwine inquired. “Undead are not my specialty.”
“If you are willing, I could use the company.” Nehael smiled. “Besides, you said that you
wanted to see me shoot.”
“Two against a million would seem to be a rather uneven match.” Ortwine observed drily.
“If it were only a million, our impact might be more significant,” Nehael replied.
“If I die, take note that I am perfectly content with this form; I do not wish to be a
buckawn or a sylph.”
“Duly noted,” Nehael nodded. “Unless Hummaz snatches you first.”
Ortwine raised an eyebrow. “A joke?”
“No,” Nehael strapped her sword across her back. “It is unlikely, but it is as well to be
prepared.
Stay close to me; you will encounter every conceivable type of undead, and some you
have never
imagined. You are goddess: the deathshriekers cannot touch you, but beware the crawling
heads and
famine spirits; many can abide my aura, and they may bite your head off.”
“Eadric, you moron,” Ortwine muttered under her breath, and mounted the stallion.
**
Eadric descended rapidly; he leaped down staircases, over banisters and through shafts
which gave
to lower floors. His heart pounded, and he wondered if there was a bottom to be found; no
top had been revealed to him on the previous day, but he was also certain, in his own
mind, that the library was finite. It did not appear to bend – inasmuch as he did not come
back to some place which he had previously visited – and it seemed sensible to him that
the entrance from Shomei’s cottage
should be closer to the bottom than the top, and that the bottom must, therefore, be more
accessible.
But he found no root; no foundation to the library: only a dismal, perpetual declivity into
measureless depths filled with books. Again, all sense of time eluded him, but he knew
that his
plunging into the library’s bowels had consumed him for many hours; he had descended
for miles.
Eadric paused to consider his predicament: ascent might take him days; he would need
Shomei’s
help, this time. But to ask her for anything…the notion sat uncomfortably with him. Had
she
returned? Or would his whispered entreaty to her interrupt her work? And why should the
notion of
distracting Shomei from her purpose – to overrun Wyre with devils for the object of her
own self-aggrandizement – cause him conflict, in any case?
He sat upon a stone bench within a niche in a damp wall, and cleared his mind. From his
pocket, he withdrew the scarf of heavy black silk which Soneillon had bestowed on him
and pondered. The
magics which the demoness had placed on the garland of flowers had eluded Shomei’s
perception;
he wondered if the samite might hide some similar secret. He needed a dream, perhaps,
and she
might manifest through it; but there were no dreams here. The prior infinity in which he
found
himself was cut off; isolated.
Eadric replaced the scarf and stood. He would wait a little while longer. He removed a
hellish
candle from its pricket and willed light upon it, illuminating his surroundings with a more
substantial brightness; the radiance was at odds with the general character of the place. He
walked a little way, rounded a corner, and found himself looking over a balcony into a
wide amphitheatre.
Some kind of devilish lecture-hall or auditorium; Eadric wondered what kind of lessons
might have
been expounded within its circuit. After searching for some time, he found his way down
and made
his way to the lectern – a morbid pulpit, wrought of steel and bone – upon which a book
lay open.
Its language – being an archaic dialect of Infernal – was unfamiliar to him.
He thumbed its hide pages and looked at dense text interspersed with curious pictograms
and
symbols, wary that he might inadvertently hex himself or invoke some latent malevolence.
Still, the book somehow seemed less wicked than its surroundings. Recalling Shomei’s
words regarding the library’s tendency to present certain tomes, the Ahma closed the book,
removed it from the lectern, and tucked it beneath his arm. He ascended several levels,
found a quiet cloister and scanned its
pages for some clue as to its meaning, but could determine none. Finally – and again, time
seemed
to have drifted by without measure or meaning – he sighed.
“Shomei,” he spoke in a clear voice.
She appeared presently, and raised an eyebrow. “You have been gone a long time, and
come very
deep indeed, Ahma. These collections are hardly known to me.”
Eadric held out the book.
Shomei took it, and scanned its cover. She flipped its pages; her eyes widened in
incredulity.
“I felt this tome was significant,” the Ahma explained. “It was on a rostrum in a hall not
too far from here.”
Shomei stared at him suspiciously. “It might be deemed an heretical codex, from a
conventional
diabolic perspective. Here.”
She ran a hand over the book, and returned it to him.
The Reattainment of Luminance, it read.
“There is no author,” Eadric remarked.
“No. The author had no name, Ahma.”
Eadric handed it back to her, and smiled. “Then I believe it is for you. The Sela once said
to me that for you to surrender yourself to bliss would be the ultimate antinomian act.
Perhaps the prior I entertained similar notions?”
She gave him a dubious look. “I will read it. But entertaining a notion and acting on it are
two very different things. I confess I am weary, Ahma; if you wish to return…”
He nodded, and the scene changed abruptly: they were back in her study. As always, the
fire burned; the scent of cinnamon hung in the air. It seemed familiar, comfortable, safe.
Shomei placed the book on a table, threw off her robe and uncorked a flask. Eadric knew
that she was exhausted; that she
had emptied herself that day. He wondered if he might overwhelm her.
“Would you like kschiff?” She asked.
“No. But thank-you.” Eadric removed his shoes, sat, and entered saizhan.
When he arose, he saw that she was curled, asleep in a chair; the flask of liquor was empty
and
barely a dram remained in her glass. The Reattainment of Luminance was open on its last
page; she had already finished it. He took it from her hand. The pages were still wet from
her tears.
Eadric sighed, covered her with the robe of meteors, and returned to his meditations.
*
Day 3 – Rest
[Mulissu]: You should be working.
[Mostin]: I am taking a break; my head is full of iterated functions and I cannot
concentrate.
[Mulissu]: You are looking at motes, Mostin. That hardly qualifies as relaxation.
[Mostin]: It is for me. Look [here] and [here] and [here].
[Mulissu]: You will need to decipher for me. My Motish is rusty.
[Mostin]: There are two sets of exclusory paradoxes relating to Eadric.
[Mulissu]: This [here] is Shomei?
[Mostin]: Yes. Notice that all sixteen remaining infernal seraphs are now bound to her
mote; sixty other once-episemes; almost a thousand exemplars. No force of this power has
ever before been
assembled by a mage; nor yet a cabal. Nor one of this concentration even deployed since
the Fall –
if then.
[Mulissu] (Impressed): How?
[Mostin]: I should mention that this is three days hence, not now. Regardless, her valent
capacity for conjurations is prodigious.
[Mulissu]: Her mote is in tight resonance with Eadric.
[Mostin]: Their dance is subtle, and many layered; there are elements which are
antagonistic,
amative, paternal, mutually didactic, dominating, religious and companionable. The
relationship is complex.
[Mulissu]: All relationship is complex, Mostin; that is why sensible wizards avoid it. I
assume that this dark, brooding bomb-beneath-a-blanket is Soneillon? There is a field of
blackness behind her.
[Mostin]: That is the Shadow of Cheshne. And this hungry node of void is Carasch.
[Mulissu]: Demonstrate your paradoxes.
Mostin stabilized the resonance between Shomei and the Ahma, and progressed the Web of
Motes
accordingly; the numerous devil-motes in her vicinity began to flicker and slowly fade.
[Mulissu]: That would seem to be…
[Mostin]: Wait.
The darkness behind Soneillon’s mote seemed to crystallize through it; hundreds of motes
began to
vanish. A tide which swept through the Web extinguishing everything. Only one mote –
that of Nehael – remained.
[Mulissu]: That future would be best avoided.
[Mostin]: Here is another.
Shomei’s mote was transfixed. The darkness receded, but the devil-motes began to
disperse and
recombine, forming new resonances and extending outwards in a net which permeated the
entire
Web. Tension increased, until motes began to crash into one another.
[Mostin]: That was a hypothetical war, fought between Yeqon and his devilish saizhan-
advocates, and the Antagonist Armaros; both of these infernal seraphim are currently
beneath Shomei’s thumb.
If I bind her, they will factionalize and attempt to assert themselves as soon as their
compacts come to term.
[Mulissu]: Reverse the Web. Do not allow the compacts to expire, and assume only a brief
binding of Shomei.
He did. Shomei’s mote erupted, and drove toward Soneillon; those of the fallen episemes
detonated
spectacularly around her. Futures began to bifurcate rapidly; Mostin held Shomei to a tight
course, and Soneillon’s mote vanished, and then reappeared. Shomei acquired new
intensity and plunged
immediately toward an energetic mote of deep jade, impacting it and shattering it.
[Mostin]: This is a typical catenary. If she can gain the Urn, her mastery of Hummaz is all
but guaranteed, and she knows it. Her Fire is only half-actualized at present; if she can
further unlock the Antinomos, Shomei will be unstoppable.
[Mulissu]: Before or after Hummaz?
[Mostin]: Before, with the help of the Urn.
[Mulissu]: And what is [ this? ]
[Mostin]: It is an anomalous catenary.
[Mulissu]: Progress it.
[Mostin]: [Here]. It does not lead anywhere. It is inert.
[Mulissu]: Progress it further.
Resolution. Shomei’s mote pulsed, and expanded. It shone steadily: an isolated monad,
around
which a bright corona formed. It regarded those in her vicinity benignly.
[Mulissu]: What is it?
[Mostin]: Perfection. A complete integration of her Flame.
It did not move, but the significator for Hummaz – seemingly magnetized – migrated and
was
drawn into orbit around Shomei’s lambency; its revolutions slowly deteriorated until it
was silently absorbed.
Motes exploded in a million directions as thought and color surged toward Mostin,
shattering his
inner vision and challenging the foundation of his prescience. A vibration of utter,
draconic,
profundity.
[Mulissu]: Mostin?
…
[Mulissu]: Mostin…?
[Mostin] (Wrily): That was the Aeon. It just reminded me that it knows I am looking.
**
Ortwine collapsed onto the ground. She was covered in blood and guts. Nwm looked at
her
approvingly.
“You have done good work, Ortwine,” the Preceptor nodded. “How many times did you
die?”
“Only twice,” Ortwine grunted. “I feel I did well; my instinct for self-preservation must be
better honed than that of Teppu. Narh died nine times; he doesn’t seem to care: he just
keeps going.
Nehael turns animals into suicidal fanatics, although I think that he may be like that
normally.”
“And you?”
Ortwine nodded. “Her presence is exhilarating; it cannot be denied.”
“If the fear of death is removed, it is remarkable what can be accomplished.”
“Empty words, Nwm,” Ortwine shook her head. “The fear of pain remains. And Nwm, for
pity’s sake: I am a queen and a goddess. Can we have no better accommodations than this
wet earth?”
“If you wish for something more comfortable, you will need to find a wizard.”
“It does not have to be lavish, Nwm. Just something.”
Nwm gestured, and wood flew together to form a small, crude hut, open on one side which
faced
the fire.
“Bed?” Ortwine asked.
Nwm shook his head.
“Moss?” Ortwine asked.
Nwm nodded. A cradle of soft moss grew within the shelter.
“Adequate,” Ortwine crawled into it. “And where are the wizards? Where is Mostin? And
I thought the Academy were supposed to be more invested in events now?”
“Shomei’s actions have them in a fluster,” Nwm replied. “They are fragmented and
nervous. Mostin
is preoccupied with his work.”
“What work?”
“I believe a conjuration of some kind,” Nwm smiled.
“Another terrible beast?”
“Doubtless,” Nwm nodded.
“And your own preparations for defense?” Ortwine asked. “Have you accomplished
anything
worthy?”
“That remains to be tested,” Nwm sighed. “We are stacking spells as fast as we can –
which is
slowly – but, frankly, everyone is empty. And if the Fourth Effluxion can bring all of the
remaining Cheshnite ritual power to bear, she will likely smash the net like so many
eggshells.”
“If?” Ortwine inquired.
“She may not be predisposed toward ritual magic. One of the other immortals may need to
take the lead in directing the cabals against our countermagicks; this would work in our
favor. If she can
focus them through herself, her assault will be powerful.”
“You cannot determine which?”
Nwm shook his head. “Her obfuscations are difficult to pierce; she seems opaque to most
divinations, and only so much energy can be directed to trying to penetrate them.”
Ortwine groaned. “My suspicions are not good, Nwm. Still, I suppose a spell which
counters a
spell, is one less spell which burns a swathe of people.”
“That is my philosophy also,” Nwm nodded.
“She burns very hot, Nwm.”
“You encountered her then?”
“Twice,” Ortwine nodded. She fell asleep.
**
Shomei struggled with difficulty to regain consciousness, and stared across the room from
beneath her robe. Narcoma still clung to her.
“Thank-you for not snapping my neck, Ahma,” she remarked sleepily. “I was not sure if
your word was binding, if offered to fiends.”
“It is not,” Eadric was laconic. He approached her and regarded her.
She seemed tiny. He knew that she was still vulnerable: her reservoir was depleted; almost
all of her valences unoccupied. She had allowed her most potent wards to expire, for the
purpose of more
conjurations. He wondered how many superior planar bindings she was capable of in the
course of a day, now that her Fire had ignited.
“Technically, one hundred and thirty-three,” she replied lazily and unexpectedly to the
unasked
question. “Although even I am not so dedicated. And I did not realize that my valent
condition was so apparent to you.”
“Your thoughts are undisciplined when you drink too much kasshiv,” he observed. “And
your mind makes connection without your volition.”
She briefly lifted her head. “I do believe that your pronunciation of that word is an
affectation, Ahma. Speaking of; do you mind…?” She pointed at the cabinet where the
kschiff was kept.
“I merely emphasize its proper ritual purpose.” He retrieved another flask and filled her
glass to the brim. “Which you might remember, from time to time.”
Shomei drank deeply, smiled, replaced her glass, and shifted her position. “There are no
dreams
here, Ahma. Its effects are purely soporific. We all need a little oblivion, now and then;
something I’m sure you can appreciate.”
“How was your book?” He asked.
“Complicated.” She furrowed her brow.
“It seemed to evoke an emotional response,” Eadric remarked.
“Yes, Ahma; I am capable of them.”
“Can you readily communicate its contents? Even in the broadest terms?”
“It would be difficult,” she sighed, closing her eyes again. “It would require that you are
familiar with a sevenfold hermeneutic; unfortunately, the Infernal Septiga takes some time
to master.”
“I feel you are being evasive, Shomei.”
“Yes, Ahma,” she yawned.
“Should I assume that some personal article was touched?”
“I don’t know, Ahma.” She raised an eyebrow with effort. “Would you care to talk about
the totality of your experience with Soneillon?”
“I am not sure that that would be appropriate.”
“Because it is deeply intimate, or because you feel it would leave you open to subsequent
manipulation?” She asked drowsily.
“Point taken,” he replied.
“Perhaps I will speak again later; when my guard is not so low, and I have had time to
consider.”
“That seems only reasonable,” he conceded.
“And then, so can you,” she mumbled and smiled.
“Unfortunately, that seems equally reasonable.”
“I am sorry for your confinement, Ahma. And I have been rude; given no thought to your
need for space. I will do something…” Her cogency was beginning to leave her.
“Don’t mention it,” he replied drily
“And thank-you again for not killing me, Ahma,” she muttered.
“I thought about it,” Eadric sighed.
“I know.” She reached up, fumbled, and patted his hand.
Shomei returned to sleep.
Eadric shook his head and opened the cabinet where his host-cum-gaoler kept a plentiful
supply of
kschiff and other beverages. He sniffed a number of them – some seemed even more
dubious than Shomei’s drink of preference – before settling upon a bottle of Bedeshi
brandy.
He put his feet up and sat for a long while by the fire, considering his circumstances.
Shomei’s
choice to allow herself to be vulnerable – because there was little doubt that every action
committed by Shomei was one of willful choice – spoke of complexities which
compromised him, and with which he felt ill-equipped to engage. He did not suspect any
calculated program of seduction,
although there was an inevitable sympathy which arose through knowledge and revelation
of the
other; she had made herself transparent to him, and trusted him. Her I, to him, had become
a Thou.
He felt warmth – even gratitude – despite her actions, and an odd feeling of
protectiveness; as
though she were something altogether precious: he knew that she should be cherished.
Really, I have always preferred fiends, he thought. They were just more interesting.
His mind drifted; he was oblivious to events in the world outside, and wondered what
transpired at Deorham, in Morne, at Galda. He pondered, at length, about Soneillon: only
days had passed since
he had left her; it felt like months. Her reaction to his predicament concerned him.
Eventually – having consumed half of the bottle – a deep, dreamless sleep claimed him.
*
When he awoke, Shomei was already gone. Eadric stood and looked at the wall: a heavy
timber
door had appeared, where none had been before. He narrowed his eyes in suspicion: what
lay beyond was, no doubt, for him – Shomei had indicated as much, and apparently, she
recalled vague
commitments made in even the most inebriated state. He slowly opened the door,
expecting some
vast, opulent suite of rooms bedecked with furs and exotic fabrics.
Instead, he found four small, modestly-furnished but well-lit stone chambers – not too
austere, he noted – and a space which might be a shrine or meditation room, were he to
make it so.
Still, a prison was a prison. He sighed.
A book sat upon a table. He read its pristine cover – embossed in contemporary Wyrish –
and
laughed despite himself:
Infernal Hermeneutics – An Introduction
*
Day 4 – Intercession?
“Although I am incarcerated, I still feel as though I should thank you for providing me
with
chambers,” Eadric said.
“Then you certainly should, Ahma.” Shomei sat with a look of intense concentration on
her face.
She was carving a block of Hazel-wood with a slender knife; chips and shavings gathered
at the
floor beneath her feet. Her hands were a blur, moving with uncanny speed and precision.
“You seem to have none of your own,” Eadric observed. “Yet you have a reputation for
ostentation.”
“In quieter days, I have more time for relaxation,” she nodded.
“Then there is some place in the library set aside for you?”
“I make rooms here as I feel the need, Ahma. It is no great matter. A parlor, a drawing
room, a hall or bedchamber.” The wood had begun to assume the form of a human-shaped
figurine.
“You also sleep more in quieter days?”
“Yes. But I sleep by the fire, Ahma.”
“Ah,” he nodded. “Chambers for entertaining your devilish lovers, then.”
“Yes, Ahma.” She regarded him with amusement. “Do I detect a note of judgment in your
voice?”
“I am hardly one to judge,” Eadric replied.
“Indeed, Ahma.” The wood in Shomei’s hand had become a recognizable female shape,
with slender limbs.
“And mortals?” He inquired. “They hold no interest for you?”
She paused and raised an eyebrow. “This line of questioning is becoming personal,
Ahma.”
“I apologize. I did not mean to embarrass you.”
“You will not. Mortals are frail, and lack stamina, Ahma. ”
“Then devils are…adequate to your needs? You have not sought to look beyond the
Infernal?”
“Only once, Ahma.” Shomei blew hard upon the carving, and dust flew from it. She wiped
it in her robe, and smiled. “I was declined, if you recall. But adequate? – yes; devils might
surprise you with their tenderness, and are subtle and inventive in all matters.”
She presented a statuette to him. It was exquisite: a work far surpassing genius; its line and
proportion were perfect. An Eleos with her left hand raised aloft, bearing a star; a clod of
earth, from which flowers sprang, was in her right.
“This is extraordinary,” he gaped. “Although, I admit, your choice of subject matter is
perplexing.
Why do you need an idol?”
She shrugged. “Art is art, Ahma. And it is for you, not me. I do not require an external
focus, but should you feel the need for an object of veneration, then you have one.”
He felt it; it made his hands tingle. “It is enchanted?”
“Of course, Ahma. It was carved by Shomei the Infernal from the wood of a Hazel scion.
How could it not be?”
“Thank-you,” he nodded. He placed it gently upon the table.
“I should be about…”
“…your conjurations.” Eadric sighed. “Yes, I know. Shomei, is there nothing which I can
say or do
to dissuade you from this course of action?”
“I do not believe so, Ahma.”
“I cannot beg, cajole, threaten or otherwise impress my frustration and unhappiness
regarding your choices upon you?”
“No, Ahma.”
“Then my words have no meaning to you?”
“In this, they cannot,” she shook her head, and stood.
“Why not? I am the Ahma in this matter no less than any other.”
“We have had this conversation already, Ahma.”
“Perhaps we should have it again.”
“Things were going well,” Shomei groaned. “Why do you bring me back here?”
“Because you need to be here, Shomei. The Reattainment of Luminance? What was it to
you? What did you read?”
“Another time, Ahma.” She was becoming irritable; angry. Hellfire slowly began to crawl
over her hands.
“No. Now. I want to hear it.” He held her wrist. His flesh burned; he ignored it.
“Ahma, do not force me to…”
“There is no external force acting on you, Shomei. Only your own choice.”
“Please let go of my wrist, Eadric. You will hurt yourself.”
He nodded. “Now we’re getting somewhere…”
There was a knock at the door.
Her fire died abruptly; she extricated her hand. Eadric gave a puzzled look. “Were you
expecting
someone?”
Shomei sighed. “No. But there is only one person who can treat the Hazel’s cordon with
impunity,
Ahma.” She walked to the door and opened it.
Nehael – or rather a Nehael – stood there, her hands held behind her back. It was not a
Nehael with whom the Ahma was altogether familiar.
*
“Am I interrupting?” Nehael asked.
“Yes,” Shomei answered. “We were having an argument.”
“May I come in?”
“Yes,” Eadric interjected before Shomei could speak.
“Hello, Eadric,” Nehael smiled. “Thank-you, but that choice is not yours to make.”
“Where are your weapons?” Shomei inquired. “Shouldn’t you be shooting ghouls or
something?”
Weapons? Eadric had the distinct notion that he was behind the times.
“I should still like to come in,” Nehael insisted.
“Shomei?” Eadric looked at her.
“Very well,” Shomei sighed, waving her in.
Nehael entered, and regarded the figurine of the Eleos. “You are no mean talent, Shomei.”
“You have something behind your back?” Eadric asked.
“This?” Nehael produced a sprig of Holly. Eadric’s hackles rose. “Yes; I found it nearby.
It’s been growing there for a little while. Didn’t you know?”
“No.” Shomei scowled.
“It may be connected with the seven hundred fallen exemplars who are nearby,” Nehael
suggested.
“Seven hundred? ” Eadric asked in horror.
“Shomei works fast, Eadric.”
The Infernalist gave a nonchalant shrug.
“The Holly scion is not yet awake,” Nehael added. “But there again, Azazel is not here
yet, either. I am surprised that you invoked me at this late stage.”
“I was not aware that I did,” Eadric sighed.
“Not you, Eadric.” Nehael picked up the statuette of the Eleos and handed it to Shomei.
“Devotional art made from a Hazel by the Antinomos for the Ahma is likely to gain my
attention.”
“You are not the Eleos,” Shomei observed.
“I was the nearest available avatar,” Nehael smiled.
Shomei replaced the figurine on the table. “If you believe that a red dress and a bad
attitude are likely to impress me, you can think again. You will divert me from my purpose
no more effectively
than the Ahma.”
“No, Shomei,” Nehael sighed. “That I will not. The choice is yours. It always is. May I
speak
briefly with Eadric?”
“Yes. He is right here.”
“Alone, Shomei?”
“But of course,” Shomei replied acidly, gesturing toward the timber door. “He has his own
cell,
now.”
“Thank-you.”
Eadric sat in stunned silence.
Shomei ushered them away, and poured kschiff.
**
“It is good to see you,” Nehael smiled. She had declined a chair, and sat on the floor in
effortless
saizhan. There was a dynamic quality about her that Eadric had not before encountered;
she seemed entirely grounded and embodied. He recalled Soneillon’s words, and
understood that, although spoken lightly, they had not been altogether in jest.
“I am bewildered, Nehael.” Eadric confessed.
“I have come to expect it,” Nehael nodded.
“You sit in saizhan…”
“I am a syncretic deity, Eadric.”
“Your posture is better than mine,” he added.
“Things are moving rapidly, Ahma. You need to resolve this situation as quickly as
possible and return to Galda.”
“I have been trying.”
“Where are you in your dialogue with Shomei?”
Eadric sighed. “I do not know. I cannot fathom her. She is complex.”
Nehael nodded. “She is a devil, Ahma, and an I. Prior to that, she was the most gifted
mage of her generation – perhaps of any generation. Complex does not even begin to
cover her.”
Eadric sighed. “She chose to trust me: she left herself completely vulnerable to me; I
might have
slain her, and spared us all from what will likely ensue.”
“But you did not.”
“No.” Eadric said. “It would have been an act of violation against Truth. She is utterly
authentic.”
“Nor yet did you marry her,” Nehael smiled wrily.
“I did not know her as I have come to.”
“Then you regret your decision?” Nehael asked with raised eyebrows.
“No. I regret that not all opportunity can be realized. But I made a choice. I stand by it.”
“I am sure Soneillon will be pleased,” Nehael spoke in a droll voice. “Or at least, not
wrathful and vindictive.”
“Self-preservation also informs my perspective,” Eadric admitted.
“And Nehael?” She inquired. “Where do you stand with regard to her? To me?”
“That relationship is different.”
“Why?” She asked. “Am I not desirable?”
Eadric looked at her and groaned. “Yes.”
“You somehow believe me less lustful?”
“Well…”
“Would you deem me less unattainable than previously?”
His head reeled. “Yes?”
“Do not worry, Eadric.” She laughed. “I am not pressing a claim upon the highly-coveted
Ahma.”
“That is a relief,” he sighed.
“But then again, I wouldn’t, would I?”
“No…?” He said unsurely.
“I am Compassion, Ahma. Possessiveness is not in my nature. Saizha? ”
*
“Are you quite finished?” Shomei asked irritably.
[Nehael]: This is what we exchanged [information].
Eadric stared at Nehael in disbelief. Shomei raised an eyebrow and analyzed.
“You need not look betrayed, Eadric,” Nehael sighed. “I do not hide anything for the
purpose of manipulation, and neither should you. And it was Shomei who invoked me, not
you. I will see
myself out.”
Nehael departed.
“Perhaps celibacy is best,” Eadric sat wearily.
Shomei handed him a glass of kschiff. “You would not be the first mystic to come to this
conclusion, Ahma.”
“What next?” He asked.
“Well,” Shomei smiled. “First, I will have a drink. And then I will return…”
“…to your conjurations. Yes. I suppose I should know the drill by now. Shomei, as I
didn’t kill you, I feel that you might indulge me. I should like some diabolic company in
your absence.”
Shomei looked sceptical. “Very well, Ahma. But I should warn you that devilish
courtesans can be difficult. Lagusuf might serve; her skin is…”
“Intellectual company, Shomei.”
“Very good, Ahma.” She considered briefly.
A gate opened, and a tall, strikingly beautiful female devil with violet eyes emerged. She
was clad in white; her hair was arranged in an elaborate coiffure.
“Shomei…”
“This is Nercamay, Ahma. An infernal muse. You need not be distracted by her full lips
and rapid, shallow breath. Nor her heady perfume and natural tactility. She is both
intellectual and company: she is a scholar of some renown; her mind is exquisitely
perverse and convoluted.”
“As is yours,” Eadric said.
“Thank-you, Ahma. Nercamay, you may attend to the Ahma’s needs: perhaps it might be
best if you made no attempt to seduce him; it may cause him undue distress. Did you have
some topic in mind
to discuss?”
“Actually, yes,” Eadric reached for the The Reattainment of Luminance. “You will give me
lessons in diabolic heresies, won’t you Nercamay?”
Shomei sighed. The Ahma was nothing, if not persistent. She exited the cottage.
*
Nercamay smiled gently, sat next to Eadric, and opened the book in her lap. She smelled
of jasmine and orchids.
“How familiar are you with the sevenfold hermeneutic?” She asked in a soft voice. Her
hand
immediately began to wander. Eadric replaced it.
“Very little,” Eadric admitted.
“It’s very warm in here, Ahma…”
“You are a devil; I am sure you will cope.”
“Are your chambers cooler?”
“Just read,” Eadric said through gritted teeth.
**
Day 5 – Seeing
Nercamay knelt. Eadric drew her knees apart – whilst carefully avoiding her gaze – held
her breast-bone, and pressed in the hollow of her back, straightening it.
“Good,” he exhaled. He stood, poured himself kschiff, and sat in a chair.
“I am not sure what this posture is designed to achieve, Ahma,” the devil looked at him.
“It does not seem very practical for the purpose of pleasure. I know many others, which
would serve better.
Unless you simply require…”
Eadric held up his hand. “It will help you concentrate. And you being over there, and me
being over here will help me concentrate. Look ahead, Nercamay, and slightly down. Not
at me.”
She did so.
“Place your fingertips together, thus,” he demonstrated.
“I cannot see. I may now look at you?”
“You may glance.”
She sighed and followed his instructions.
“You need to slow your breathing, Nercamay.”
“I do not need to breathe at all, Ahma.”
“Do so anyway,” Eadric instructed.
She complied.
“Are you comfortable?”
“Not entirely,” Nercamay admitted.
“Excellent,” Eadric smiled. “A little tension is good. Let us review what we have learned
to date.
First, that it is hard for me to remain focused if you drape yourself over me. Second, that
time is limited for me, in terms of what I need to understand. Third, that distinguishing
between the points of the Septiga is very difficult for me, as the fields seem to overlap so
much: the poetic and the functional I can grasp easily enough; the enigmatic I can see in
theory, if not in practice as I have no experience of Hellish mysteries; but discerning the
subtleties between the inflammatory, mephitic, vitiating, debasing and perfidious may be
beyond me.”
“That would make eight. The mephitic is synonymous with the debasing, Ahma.”
“Precisely my point,” Eadric nodded.
“Although they are unidentical in the Noniga,” Nercamay added.
“One thing at a time, Nercamay. Now, you may continue your explication.”
“The text of The Reattainment of Luminance is very abstruse, Ahma. I am not sure where
to recommence.”
“Might it help if I were to make specific inquiries?” Eadric asked.
“I think it may be the only way to proceed,” Nercamay replied.
“Let us concentrate on the functional at present; Shomei has asserted on numerous
occasions that her inclination is more practical than mystical.”
“I am not sure that function and praxis can be conflated in that way, Ahma,” Nercamay
opined.
“You are probably right,” Eadric nodded. “It is, however, where we will look.”
“And your purpose in this is the redemption of Shomei the Infernal?” Nercamay asked
dubiously.
Eadric shook his head. “No. Shomei charts her own course. And devils do not need to be
redeemed, Nercamay. They are already perfect, but are trapped in false perceptions. They
simply need to see. ”
Time slowed to a crawl. Eadric experienced a sensation; neither entirely a flash, nor a
vibration, nor an understanding; but something of each, and a certitude.
“I…” Nercamay stopped speaking; her expression relaxed, with a hint of mild puzzlement.
Her
breath became slow, purposeful, rhythmic. She cast her gaze around, and her eyes came to
rest on
him. She was serene; impassive. Eadric sat, and waited until he judged it had passed in
her.
She began to shake. He stood, walked over to her, and knelt before her.
“That was saizhan,” he spoke gently.
She was bewildered. “You also…?”
“No.” Eadric smiled. “But you experienced that you and I are not different; so in a sense,
yes.”
“Then this is not your natural mode of perception?”
“Arguably, it is the natural mode of perception. But remaining there is…difficult,” Eadric
said wrily, and shook his head. “The Sela always abides in perfect saizhan; perhaps
Nehael – I do not know. Memory of this experience may evoke powerful emotions in you.
If you wish to reflect, we
may end this discourse for a while. My chambers are available if you wish for privacy.”
“Would you like to…”
“No.” He said firmly. “And that temptation is now so much crueller, yet so much easier to
resist.”
“I do not understand,” she sighed.
He smiled ironically. “Our relationship has changed, Nercamay. From this point, I have a
duty
toward you, and a responsibility for your well-being.”
“I feel no less wicked, Ahma. Your sudden concern for me is vexing.”
He sighed. “Prior modes of perception do not vanish instantly, Nercamay. Consider
whether this
experience was of value to you; I would contend that it was, and that it is worth seeking to
repeat it.
Unless there is something more pressing, you should relax for a while.”
Nercamay considered. “The Reattainment of Luminance is many things, Ahma. An
argument and counter-argument; a technique or method; an entreaty; a prophecy; a
solution.”
“Concerning what?” Eadric inquired.
“I believe that the book is about Shomei. About devils. About saizhan. About you.”
He swallowed.
“Do you like fiends, Ahma?” Nercamay asked.
“Far too much,” Eadric sighed.
“You understand that I have done as Shomei bid me and have not, actually, attempted to
seduce
you?” She asked. “That my flirtations are meant in good humor?”
“Of course,” Eadric nodded. “I play the game well enough. I mean no disrespect
Nercamay, but I
have met some who would put you to shame. And consider why you feel a sudden impulse
to
communicate the truth to me in such comprehensible terms, Nercamay; you may find that
it is not
unconnected with your insight.”
**
The wind was bitter; Soneillon stood on the Steeple and scowled. Carasch had alerted her
to another interloper; this time, a solitary figure north of the town of Deorham, wearing a
bright yellow cloak.
Its form was in the region of fey; its gender, indeterminate; its progress, circuitous and
unhurried.
Tozinak, she knew. The wizard seemed completely unwarded, and apparently oblivious to
the danger he was in. The demoness surmised that he must be under the Cherry’s spell,
although what,
exactly, that entailed was unknown to her.
She invoked a potent protection, and appeared close to his location. He was crossing a
bridge over a frozen stream, plodding knee-deep through the snow which had drifted
there. Upon spying her, he
smiled and waved, and hurried toward her position.
Soneillon held up a hand. “Wait right there. What are you doing here, Tozinak? You’ve
just decided to deliver the spell to me? Color me suspicious, but I smell cherries.”
Tozinak nodded enthusiastically. He held up a bunch of ripe, luscious fruit.
“Is there no artifice to you at all?” Soneillon asked in an exasperated voice. “You
desperately need lessons in deceit and guile.”
“None. I love you, Soneillon.”
Soneillon sighed.
“Here,” Tozinak withdrew a thin plaque from within his robe, and placed it upon the snow.
He set
the cherries upon it.
She swallowed; there must be some hidden trap. “Would you mind withdrawing a little
way,
Tozinak. I am feeling shy.”
“Of course, my love.” He moved back ten yards.
She approached cautiously and inspected the plate, but touched neither it nor the cherries
which sat upon it. The symbolism seemed apt; the references Urgic. But all was unrealized
and unfulfilled; as though some profound absence were to be invoked.
She regarded him suspiciously. “Is this the spell which Jovol bequeathed to you?”
“My transcription may contain some creative license,” Tozinak admitted. “Or even
interpretative
errors. But the elegance is undeniable; I am sure you will agree. I love you, Soneillon.
Will you marry me?”
“I will need time to consider, Tozinak,” she raised an eyebrow. “Currently, the Ahma is my
paramour. He may not take kindly to a rival.”
Tozinak seemed mortified.
“But he I am sure he will be willing to release me,” Soneillon quickly added. “Given our
particular circumstances.”
Tozinak breathed a sigh of relief.
Gingerly, Soneillon touched the plaque; a profound sense of nonentity was immediately
conveyed to her.
“Thank-you, Tozinak,” she said. She lifted the tablet, and allowed the cherries to slide off,
into the snow. “Have you given thought to the boon which I promised you?”
He smiled hopefully.
“I will get back to you,” she nodded. How very odd, she thought. The spell had been
modified; of that she had no doubt. She would examine it upon her return to the Burh, but
without question it
invoked an Apparition, and not a Aeon. And it was given freely; impressed upon her, in
fact.
Briefly, she wondered how? No matter. More pressing events concerned her.
*
[Soneillon]: Are you done, yet?
[Mostin]: Do not interrupt me! Now I have lost it. Almost; I am finishing the aesthetics of
the auditory display.
[Soneillon]: Mostin. Time is of the essence. Such details may be omitted.
[Mostin]: They may not.
[Soneillon]: Do you foresee any problems?
[Mostin]: No. Well, perhaps Nwm. He seems unsure of his commitment. Nehael’s latest
avatar may
be leaning on him. He has been forced to conceal certain things from Ortwine, which also
does not
sit well with him.
[Soneillon]: Can we find another?
[Mostin]: I trust no other, Soneillon. Shomei has offered substantial bribes to most of the
Collegium. I surmise this because many are conveniently indisposed.
[Soneillon]: Can she use their power offensively against me? Would the Enforcer
intervene?
[Mostin]: I believe that she would prefer not to put it to the test quite yet. But she will
draw on them to augment herself and her devils. And her dragon. Heavily.
[Soneillon]: How long do I have, Mostin?
[Mostin]: That is rather difficult to predict. Futures are becoming unstable. Eadric’s
interaction with Shomei is generating new catenaries.
[Soneillon]: I see.
[Mostin]: Tomorrow is the earliest that we can attempt the rite. I have selected a suitable
site in an unpopulated area of Soan, in Sisperi. I have tried to keep it brief – ten minutes or
so. But we will be vulnerable during that window. Punching through her wards will take
tremendous focus and power.
There will be a lot of backlash; and a lot of pain.
[Soneillon]: Thank-you, Mostin. That’s very sweet of you.
**
**
Shomei set her rod upon its stand, threw off the robe of meteors, and uncorked a flask of
kschiff.
She sank into a chair by the fire. Eadric was on a couch, absorbed in Infernal
Hermeneutics.
“Where is Nercamay?” She asked.
“She is resting,” Eadric nodded toward his chambers.
Shomei raised an eyebrow, and filled a glass. “How is Infernal Hermeneutics?”
Eadric lifted his head. “For a subject so dense, convoluted and impenetrable, it is a
remarkably clear and concise exposition; it touches on frameworks with which I am
familiar. I might almost believe
that it was written for me.”
“Good,” Shomei nodded.
“You wrote this book.”
“Yes,” Shomei acknowledged.
“How long did it take you?”
“Not too long, Ahma. I wrote it in my head while I was putting my boots on.”
“Yet there are some dialogues in which you will not engage,” Eadric observed.
“Sometimes, the written word is easier, Ahma. And sometimes, it is necessary to begin at
the beginning.”
“You believe that I should read The Reattainment of Luminance myself, then?”
“Of course,” Shomei replied. “Your experience of it will differ from mine.”
Eadric groaned. “And how do you suggest I approach this most subtle of diabolic texts,
given my
total ignorance in matters of infernal scripture?”
“Without prejudice, Ahma. Because the enigma may speak to you, if nothing else does.”
“Do I really have time for devilish enigmas, Shomei? How long – in your reckoning –
before I need to be at Galda?”
She was silent.
Eadric nodded appreciatively. “Well this is something new. Shomei the Infernal is at a
complete loss for words. She will not even dissemble.”
“I resent your implication. I do not employ deceit in my dealings with you, Ahma.”
“Very well,” Eadric said. “But let us continue this line of investigation. Given the fact that
you are now making military choices for the Wyrish Crown and the Temple – and I am
assuming that Prince Tagur will be appointed to command in my absence – how long
before Galda is invested?”
“Two days hence. If you have not returned, Nehael can lead them in your absence.”
“Can she? ” Eadric asked sourly. “Whatever her individual martial prowess is in battle,
Shomei –
and I’m sure it is considerable – it is not the same as coordinating fifty thousand Templars,
footsoldiers, bickering aristocrats, and Ardanese hooligans. Something which I’m rather
good at,
even if I do say so myself. I would suggest I’m already late. In my absence, I would
appoint Tagur.
Perhaps you would be so kind as to communicate this to the Small Council for me?”
“I have no wish to become embroiled in politics, Ahma. My goal is the Urn.”
“Yes, Shomei. That is abundantly clear. And such arbitrary lines you draw with regard to
politics, when it suits you.”
“Why are you purposely seeking to anger me, Ahma?” Shomei asked irritably.
Eadric smiled. “Well, our discourse does seem to be most productive in that climate; I
need to rile you to certain point, in order to stimulate moral conflict in you. I wouldn’t be a
very good Ahma otherwise, would I?”
Shomei looked at him and sighed. She picked up the kschiff and two glasses, and moved
onto the couch.
“Drink,” she said, pouring.
“Kasshiv is not the answer to everything, Shomei.”
“It helps,” she said. “And your consumption has not exactly diminished. What did you do
to Nercamay?”
“She experienced saizhan,” Eadric replied. “She is integrating.”
Shomei shook her head. “You are an insidious influence, Ahma. You have begun
corrupting my devils.”
“We touched a little on The Reattainment of Luminance afterwards,” he added.
“I’m sure she has her own perspective,” Shomei sighed, leaned back, and closed her eyes.
Eadric observed her reaction and continued. “The notion of perfection seems to be alluded
to frequently; it may also have been my choice of the word perfect in the context of her
particular understanding at that moment which impelled Nercamay to saizhan.”
“Such synchronies occur.”
“Although, she understood perfected primarily in terms of Urgic dignity. The Sublime
Essence of the Flame.”
Shomei remained silent.
“Will you speak to me, Shomei?”
“I would prefer not to,” she smiled.
“Perhaps I should continue speculating, then? As your eyelids are closed, I will gauge
your facial expressions; as you pointed out, you do lie poorly for a devil.”
She opened her eyes and glared at him. “You are relentless. That road is closed to me,
Ahma. There can be no perfection, and I had not even considered my potential in those
terms until I read that accursed book; sometimes my Will drives me without my full
cogniscance: I am an imperfect I. ”
“What is the obstacle?” He asked.
“Would you like the poetic or the functional?”
“Whichever suits you.”
“A little of each,” she said drily. “Ansus anamik ahman nihabaída. Into me, God would
not
breathe.”
“I see.”
“You have made your choices, Ahma; do not repudiate mine.”
“It seems I cannot,” he sighed. “Shomei, what I feel…”
“Don’t, Ahma. What you feel is merely what you feel; what you do is what you do: and
that’s the point. Here.” She handed him a goblet. “Drink.”
“You are very wise, Shomei.”
“Yes, Ahma.”
They drank.
*
“I cannot readily see a solution to this problem,” Eadric sighed.
“You have certainly made things very difficult for yourself, Ahma. ” Shomei nodded.
“Although, I admit, on some level I am sympathetic to your efforts. You are trying to hold
three truths in balance; this is no trivial task.” With a flourish, three balls appeared within
Shomei’s hand: one black, one green, and one deep indigo.
She span them with a conjurer’s finesse and handed them to him one by one “You need to
find a
new perspective in order to resolve your trilemma, Ahma. Then you will be able to
juggle.”
He squinted. “A clever analogy, Shomei, but I foresee problems. This one,” he held up the
black
ball, “will stick to my palm. This one,” he showed the green, “is difficult to catch. And
this one,” he presented the indigo, “is apt to pursue its own trajectory, regardless of where
I throw it.”
“Then you will have to concentrate very hard, Ahma.”
He looked at her. “Are you suggesting that some kind of accommodation is possible?”
“The black ball may be less kindly disposed to view things in those terms, but yes, Ahma;
Nehael’s philosophy in this regard has merit,” she shrugged.
“I am incapable of such a feat,” he shook his head.
“Your frame of reference needs to change before you can make such an accommodation,
Ahma.”
“And how do you suggest that I might achieve this?” He asked.
“Sovereignty would be my solution, Ahma, with Regency as an intermediate step. If you
deify yourself, you will no longer be bound by conventional mores.”
“A route which you make sound so simple, Shomei.”
“I imply nothing of the sort,” she said through narrowed eyes. “But nor can I see how you
can
challenge Kaalaanala without it. And think, Ahma, your romantic problems will be solved:
each of your women can have an avatar, and there will be no squabbling.”
He shook his head.
“Of course, Soneillon is greedy, and will probably want three Ahma s.”
“Shomei…”
“Which, at least, might fill her needs and shut her up.” She smiled and raised her glass.
He sighed. “You can be a very wicked devil, Shomei.”
“Thank-you, Ahma.” She gestured, and a door appeared in the wall beside the fireplace.
“A new chamber?” he asked.
“Yes, Ahma.” Shomei stood and picked up the kschiff.
“May I see?” He inquired.
She raised an eyebrow. “That was the general idea, Ahma.”
“Ah,” he nodded. “Shomei, I am still your prisoner.”
“Yes, Ahma. But you are drunk on kschiff; I am taking advantage of you.”
“Why now?” He asked.
“Tomorrow, I must fight, Ahma; as you said, you will need to be at Galda. It would be
unprincipled for me to detain you much longer.”
“Shomei, I…”
“Don’t, Eadric. Yes or no?” She offered her hand.
He took it. The rest followed. Her tenderness astonished him.
*
Day 6 – Confrontation
When Eadric awoke, Shomei was gone. His stomach turned, and a sense of foreboding
gripped him.
He leapt up and hurriedly entered the study.
The air was cold. The door to the cottage was open, the fire had guttered and gone out;
morning
sunlight streamed in. Eadric ran outside into the snow; a long, narrow area, hemmed in on
all sides by a dense thicket of Hazel. There was no sign of her, but a large patch nearby
was bare of frost and had been scorched with such heat that the earth had vitrified;
Qematiel must have alighted there, he knew. He heard footsteps behind him, and turned to
see Nercamay; she carried a heavy robe. She
drew it about him to cover his modesty.
Nercamay smiled gently. “She asked me to tell you that the fence will be passable by
noon, and you will be able to leave; that she will try her best to keep damage at Deorham
to a minimum. And in
the event that you don’t see her again and she does not have the opportunity to harangue
you, to
look first and foremost to your own enkindlement: that you should gaze upon the Sun,
because
Isthu Sa.*”
“How long has she been gone?”
“Less than an hour, Ahma.”
“Did she reveal her specific intention to you?” He asked.
“She was meeting with a clique of a dozen wizards which included Jalael, Muthollo and
Daunton;
thence to Deorham.”
“Shomei! ” He called, the force of his will behind her name. He knew that she could hear
him. She ignored him.
He invoked the Eleos. Nehael. Goddess. Oronthon – last.
Nercamay shook her head. “She is her own Self, Ahma; she will brook no intervention on
her behalf on the part of another.”
“I refuse to accept this circumstance,” he sighed.
“I do not see that you have much choice, Ahma.”
“Can you leave here, Nercamay?’ He asked.
She shook her head. “The area is locked.”
“Unsurprising,” Eadric smiled grimly. “Can you issue a sending?”
“No, Ahma.”
“Is there no way for you to reach anyone?” He asked, exasperated.
“I am a muse, Ahma; I appear in dreams.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Then that will have to do. What time is it Nercamay?”
“Dawn was two hours ago, Ahma.”
He cursed, and made his way back inside into his chambers. Eadric retrieved the figurine
of the
Eleos, and then rummaged through drawers in the study until he found the knife with
which Shomei had carved it. He exited the cottage again, and sat upon a rude stool; all the
while, Nercamay
watched uncertainly.
“I need you to communicate with someone who sleeps at this late hour; Ortwine is a likely
target.
She prefers to rise just before noon.”
Nercamay entered a brief trance, and shook her head. “Ortwine does not sleep Ahma.”
Eadric sighed, and wracked his brains. “Try the goddess Lai.”
Again, a brief pause. Nercamay nodded. “I touched her; she seemed confused that no
message was
forthcoming.”
“Good,” Eadric nodded. “Dream again. Tell her to wake up, to contact Nwm and to
instruct him that
the Ahma will require immediate reembodiment.”
“Ahma, I…”
“Do so, Nercamay.”
She complied.
He touched the statuette of the Eleos, invoking her for protection, and handed Nercamay
the blade.
“I cannot kill myself, Nercamay. It is antithetical to my nature. If you…”
“I know where to put a knife, Ahma,” she said drily. “ I am a devil.”
There was a brief, white-hot pain. Blood stained the snow.
Nercamay sighed, sat by the body of the Ahma, and entered saizhan.
**
Mostin had chosen an abandoned croft in a heavily wooded range of hills in Soan. None
had gone
there since the infestation of Graz’zt’s demons had scoured Sisperi; some few – mostly
babau and
leaping demons – remained, but had been quickly slain or driven off by Nwm. The
binding site was
an overgrown stone silo which lay half below ground, into which a steep set of moss-
covered steps
gave; the interior was damp and cool. Mostin had prepared an area ten feet in diameter,
and drawn a diagram of baffling complexity with celestial silver and salts; items which
were becoming
increasingly difficult to procure with the removal of the Empyrean from reality as
currently
described.
Little of the remaining symbolism was traditional in nature. Shomei’s exempt status –
together with her magnification – made unconventional adjuncts and trappings a
requirement. Gone were the
blasting rods, holy water and other typical Goetic tools; Mostin had based the rite off of
the Articles of the Wyrish Injunction, and would invoke the Claviger in testimony to
Shomei’s confinement. It
meant working with oneiric ideograms describing various substrates of Dream; conditions
to which
Shomei might be vulnerable, but of which he, himself, had little experience. He fretted
and paced
and muttered.
Nwm – still conflicted in his feelings, but grimly conscious that the binding was probably
necessary
– watched dispassionately. The choice to keep Ortwine in the dark – because of her
connection to
the Hazel – also left him with a sour feeling in his mouth. But Hlioth’s words – that
Shomei would leverage that relationship – could not be ignored. However mad, the
crone’s insights were almost
unerring in matters Tree-ish.
Mulissu descended through a large hole in the domed ceiling and sighed. “Will this take
much
longer, Mostin?”
“Trust me when I say that it would be best to get it right the first time,” the Alienist replied
acidly.
**
No viridescent devas waited for him. There was no Yew; no mountain; no fresh, resin-
scented air.
Only a frigid void. He was distinct from it, and illuminated its merest fraction; its vastness
humbled him. He gazed across an immeasurable distance at the World; it seemed tiny and
insignificant. He
waited. His knew that his own light and heat might sustain him for an eternity. He hoped
they would not have to: he was utterly alone.
A familiar voice called to him. He sighed, and leapt toward it, intent upon descent into the
Green and the body which he knew awaited him. Something – a claw made of color –
rushed at him and
seemed to snatch him, drawing him aside. A visage made of potential, dynamic and
shifting, and
wise beyond all conception, held him and observed him without emotion.
Do not forget that you are still frail, it said to him.
It hurled the Ahma downwards like a meteor; briefly, his essence fragmented into a
quintillion parts and streamed into the World, which gathered them together again.
He awoke with a start, not to Nwm’s face, but to Nehael’s.
*
Eadric stood at once. His surroundings were familiar: the interior of the tabernacle. The
Sela sat nearby in meditation, but did not regard him.
“That was a riskier strategy than you might imagine,” Nehael sighed.
“The stakes are high. Where is Nwm?” He asked.
“He and I are in unspoken disagreement,” Nehael smiled, handing him clothing, which he
hastily
began to don. “He believes that neutralizing Shomei is necessary. He has travelled to
Sisperi with Mostin and Mulissu in order to bind her. Soneillon will act as a sink for
Mostin’s spell. He would have waited until after this was accomplished before
reincarnating you – probably as a mule.
Fortunately, I knew that you were dead; I suppose if you invoke every deity you can
conceive of,
someone is bound to hear.”
“Why do you believe this to be an error on Nwm’s part?”
“First, because Shomei’s survival hinges on the word of Soneillon given to Mostin – and I
suspect
that she views it as somewhat less binding than when given to the Ahma, for whom she
has a rather intense and possessive love. She knows, Eadric – how can she not, after what
you have shared?
Your recent actions may have led her to now view Shomei as a substantive threat to your
affection.”
“And the second reason?” He groaned.
“The second reason is that the first reason does not matter, Eadric,” she handed him
Lukarn.
“Because Shomei will throw her full weight at Deorham before Mostin even has a chance
to begin
his spell; you can be assured that Soneillon will remain there until the last possible minute
for her own safety. Even if she subsequently made her way to Sisperi, Shomei would
follow her with
Qematiel and her devils and attack before the rite could be completed. She might hound
Soneillon
through a dozen worlds and wreck them in her passing. Of course, Shomei wouldn’t be
attacking
today at all if it weren’t …”
“…for my recent actions.” He sighed. “I feel as though I’ve made a terrible mess of
things.”
“Well, then at least we’ve made some progress,” Nehael nodded.
“How long do I have?”
“Fifteen minutes,” Nehael smiled.
“What if the rite were to proceed without Soneillon’s involvement?” Eadric asked. “With
me acting as guarantor of Shomei’s safety?”
“You would need to find a very selfless, willing caster of some magnitude with an
untapped reservoir to act as the sink,” Nehael replied.
“Can you…”
“Do not look at me, Eadric. I am red; magic is not my forte.”
“Is there any…”
Teppu coughed gently and entered the tent. Eadric gave a hopeful look.
Nehael sighed. “Yes, Eadric. Teppu is capable.”
“Then I must go now…”
“One moment,” Nehael interrupted. “Teppu’s reservoir was reserved against the imminent
danger of
the Cheshnite horde and the Fourth Effluxion, which looks like [ this].”
Eadric staggered as the magnitude of the threat was revealed to him.
Nehael nodded. “So please bear that in mind when you choose to spend it elsewhere.”
“Why must I always be the one to choose?”
“Because you are the Ahma, Eadric,” Teppu smiled jovially. “A job which no-one else
wants.”
The Sela stirred. “Do not forget that you are still frail.”
“Sela, I…”
Tramst held up his hand. “Remind Shomei that the Flame needs nothing and is always
Perfect,
Eadric. It cannot Fall. ”
He nodded.
“And Ahma,” the Sela continued. “I don’t think you’ve done too badly, given the
circumstances.”
Nehael raised an eyebrow. “The Sela is much kinder than I; I am merely compassionate.”
“Will you come?” Eadric asked Nehael.
“No, Eadric.” She smiled. “I am going to go and shoot ghouls; which is, to say, my job.
But I’m sure Ortwine will accompany you; she has a bone to pick with Nwm.”
“Nehael,” he began. “Concerning Soneillon…”
“At this point, Eadric, my practical advice would be to grovel.”
“Noted,” he said.
**
[Mostin]: We are ready.
[Soneillon]: You are too late, Mostin.
*
Qematiel gyred in the skies above Trempa. Shomei considered.
Between them, Soneillon and Carasch might have a total of seven transvalents of up to the
four-
hundredth order available. Shomei herself had two remaining, and of only the two-
hundredth, but
her most powerful infernal minions had a large array of superb dispellings which, if
intelligently managed, might open a gap in Soneillon’s defenses and reveal a line of
attack. Shomei could then
use time stops and bring a barrage of hellfire acid storms to bear against Soneillon before
she could react; hopefully enough to end it. Shomei knew that careful deployment of her
devils was vital.
There was no doubt that the chthonic balor had seen the first wave which Shomei had
dispatched;
the six-winged Aristaqis and fifty exemplars would test the potent wards which shrouded
Kyrtill’s
Burh, and attempt to goad Soneillon into precipitous action.
Shomei could not afford to be indiscriminate in her attack; any volley or assault which
happened to catch the Blackthorn in its area would result in the certain and immediate
extinction of the devils responsible, as the reflex of the scion – or worse yet, the ludja
itself – snuffed them out.
Her mind was linked to that of Aristaqis and followed his thoughts, although no direct
sight could be conveyed to her within the suppressive ambit of the scion. The eight flights
which preceded him described an arc a quarter-mile across; their positions and velocities
understood by Shomei as an
abstraction of constantly changing coordinates and vectors.
As though to demonstrate to Shomei both her own, sheer physical prowess and her
willingness to
engage immediately and without intermediaries, Soneillon appeared directly within the
flight path
of Aristaqis and deep within the ranks of the exemplars who accompanied him. The
demoness set
about the infernal seraph instantly, eschewing magic for a more direct attack. He dwarfed
her with his mass, but Void struck as a storm of tendrils which lashed at him. Before he
had even the chance to swing his weapon, he had been reduced to nothing; all trace of ens
had been removed. His blade
– a nine-foot flaming sword etched with infernal runes – plunged from the skies and sank
into a
bank of snow.
Shomei cursed. She hadn’t expected Soneillon to act that impulsively. The remaining
devas hurled themselves at the demoness, but Soneillon shrugged them off; she preferred
no further engagement
at that time, and vanished. Shomei ordered the devils to reform and press on.
Shortly after, they encountered the outermost of the defenses around the keep; an
impenetrable
barrier of force.
*
Soneillon had learned many tricks, and had drawn freely upon the power of the Urn to
entrench and fortify her position. Nested magics surrounded the stronghold, each more
complex than the last.
The outermost ward was a paling not unlike that which she had erected in Throile, albeit
of more
modest scope: a force encountered as a solid barrier with a diameter of a mile at the center
of which Kyrtill’s Burh – the stones of which had been reinforced to the point of magical
adamant – was
situated.
The entire area was a dimensional cordon of such power that no magic within Shomei’s
grasp – or
so Soneillon judged – might break it; within, a veiled discontinuity was hidden, large
enough for the demoness to facilitate the summoning of her minions, and for her to flee if
it became necessary. Six invisible nets, debilitating screens which would afflict those who
attempted to press close, further surrounded the bastion; each was protected by a
metaward designed to stave off aggressive
dispellings which were focused upon it. Two inner screens – wrought of blasphemy and
keyed to the annihilation of devils – provided the tightest defense. Symbols adorned the
flags of the courtyard; scribed on walls and doors were glyphs describing ruin and
insanity.
Within the chapel – her gap within the dimensional lock – Soneillon began to summon her
lesser kin in an unending torrent; chthonic succubi who seemed as dark reflections of
herself, some degrees
removed in power but formidable nonetheless.
[Mazikreen]: The Paling is down.
Soneillon ignored her; the demonesses began to take flight. They harried the devas who
were now
moving forward in determined waves.
Powerful dispellings began to target her defenses.
Shomei deployed the main strength of her devils, striking from east, south and west with a
focus
upon negating the transvalent screens. An erosion of the wards began, but the dimensional
lock remained intact, impervious to the superb dispellings which struck it. Fallen
exemplars and episemes pressed forward relentlessly.
The Infernalist stopped time, teleported to a distance of a mile from the keep, and struck it
with a yet more potent dispelling, shattering the tight inner cordon. Still, the lock endured.
Shomei swore, retreated beyond range, and waited.
Time recommenced. Devils surged toward Kyrtill’s Burh.
*
Realizing what had happened, Soneillon opened the mouth to an adjacent demiplane; a
confined
space where several hundred demons – including Abyssal nobility whom she had
suborned – had
been kept locked in close proximity to one another for far too long. They erupted with a
fury which was utterly indiscriminate; an explosion of malice and spite which poured out
into the world, intent on doing violence to whatever was nearest. Soneillon augmented
them with a powerful spell.
Within the courtyard, the black axe of Carasch now moved in great arcs, cutting through
swathes of
the dark celestials who flung themselves at him as though they were butter. His
annihilating fire – a shroud of unbeing kindled by magic to greater intensity – burned
those of lesser stature away before they even came close to him. None could withstand
him.
He uttered a syllable; three Antagonists perished, along with a dozen other episemes: ash
and
smoke, borne away on a mordant wind. And another; a storm of blasphemous void
scoured the keep
and the countryside beyond of devils of less than once-exalted status. And a third;
Armaros,
Shomei’s captain – reckoned greatest of the Thirteen – perished beneath it.
Hellfire engulfed him; he weathered it.
*
At the last, Shomei had thrown the wyrm at the engagement. She circled above the keep,
breathing
great gouts of fire, carefully avoiding the scion. Demons disintegrated in droves; more
than a few devils were caught in her discharges. Ahazu and Dhenu, once great Abyssal
magnates, burned away
within a line of destructive breath. Carasch prepared to engage her; Soneillon bade him
otherwise.
The merlons on the Steeple melted as Qematiel unleashed ancient hellfire upon it,
obliterating
demons who jostled in the air above it. The dragon screamed; Soneillon had set about her
neck, and Void pierced her scales. Qematiel powered vertically upwards, twisted her head,
unleashed breath
which should annihilate, groped with her claws. She thrashed wildly in the skies.
Soneillon clung tenaciously, enduring the heat, and drank of Qematiel’s being: the
quiddity of the wyrm began to falter; she was slowly unmade. Her ascent arrested; she
began an erratic plummet,
her head and tail spinning over, end to end. As they fell, the demoness moved over her and
came to rest on her muzzle between her eyes; the world reeled around them both as she
transfixed the wyrm
with her gaze.
[Soneillon]: We are not so different, you and I. But your time has passed; you no longer
belong.
This is the Void [thus]. It is peace. It is your right. Do you wish it?
[Qematiel]: I cannot remember it.
[Soneillon]: Choose to trust me, or not. I will slay you either way.
[Qematiel]: I will take it.
“You were something glorious,” Soneillon smiled gently, stroked the wyrm’s great snout,
and kissed her.
Qematiel – first, last and greatest of the hellfire wyrms, and the paragon of her kind –
vanished in a dark fire into oblivion.
Soneillon returned to the melee.
*
[Yeqon]: Almost…
Shomei turned to Irel, Who Smites – the only episeme whom she had not deployed into
the combat,
and raised an eyebrow.
“Stay here,” she instructed.
A superb dispelling of incredible power struck Soneillon.
[Yeqon]: Now. [Go here]
Shomei sensed her moment and stopped time, teleporting into the doorway of the chapel
amid the chaotic fight which was underway. She paused momentarily to gain her bearings;
Soneillon was in
the process of slaying another seraph – the Prosecutor Pineme – and demons and fallen
celestials
clawed or hewed at one another nearby.
The Infernalist’s left hand began to coil temporality, a slow, purposeful movement which
repeated
time stops at regular twelve-second intervals. Her right charted a faster counterpoint,
building hellfire in a rapid crescendo. There was no margin for error; if Shomei’s
concentration faltered or she risked even one of her temporal interruptions to stretch
beyond its safe duration, Soneillon, she knew, might finish her in an instant. But Shomei
gave reality no opportunity to recommence.
Energy coalesced. From a subjective perspective, Shomei continued her motions for more
than two
minutes; outside of her bubble, no time had passed. The continuum in her vicinity
threatened to
snap under the pressure which she applied to it. Sweat poured off of her, as an unrealized
maelstrom of power grew to incredible intensity. She emptied herself utterly. All power,
all will, focused on a single Moment. That which must be done; that thing which she must
have.
She teleported to a distance of twenty miles, beyond the range of the perception of
Carasch.
Time began again.
Soneillon extinguished Pineme. A fraction of a second later, there was a detonation and
she was
engulfed in hellfire of unimaginable heat; an exquisite pain, which burned Void itself and
pushed
her to the brink of annihilation – where she teetered – but not quite beyond. The strength
which she had sapped from her recent conquests had buoyed her to a point where she
could withstand it; she
sighed. This girl is such a tease, Soneillon thought.
[Shomei]: Well?
[Yeqon]: No. What now?
…
[Yeqon]: Mistress?
…
**
Shomei hurled herself at an invisible barrier in a fury; Hellfire surged from her in waves as
she
raved. Beyond the confining circle stood Mostin, Teppu, Mulissu and Nwm; somewhat
removed,
Ortwine watched without emotion. Hindmost, the Ahma, who regarded her with concern.
Shomei fumed within the thaumaturgic diagram and glowered at Mostin and Eadric. The
Alienist motioned; the others made their way in some relief from the chamber. He waited
until her
turbulence had subsided to a point where she could communicate.
“Very clever, Mostin,” she finally nodded, looking at the glyphs which contained her.
“Finding the apposite symbolism was difficult,” he agreed. “But I think I did a good job.”
“Will this argument be a presentation from both of you at once or a sequential attempt to
change my perspective? How did you get out, Eadric?”
“Nercamay killed me; Nehael resurrected me.”
“Oh?” Mostin inquired. “The muse? What is she like?”
“Quite charming,” Eadric nodded.
“You treat death lightly, Ahma,” Shomei smiled. “I cannot afford to.”
“I do nothing of the sort,” he said stonily. “How much collateral damage did you cause,
Shomei?”
“I? – None. All of my actions are intensely focused, Ahma – as you know. I do not thrash
wildly about. Soneillon’s demons, on the other hand, are no doubt running riot.”
“The universe does not consist entirely of you, Shomei.”
“Yes, Ahma, it does: that’s precisely my point.”
“And the I as relational?” Mostin asked. “Didn’t your Sela mention something like that to
you in one of your more religious moments?”
“You have already been in dialogue?” Eadric was astonished. “You haven’t been
communicating
very well, Shomei.”
“It’s none of your damn business.” Shomei said.
“When will you assume some responsibility, you petulant child? ” Eadric thundered.
Mostin raised a hand. “It seems that I must act as arbiter of your passions as well, Eadric;
perhaps a little restraint is in order?”
“I…” Eadric began, and then calmed himself. “Yes, Mostin; thank-you. Shomei, the Sela
asked me to remind you that the Flame needs nothing. It is always Perfect. It cannot Fall.”
She looked uncertain. “I am not sure what…”
“It is my function as the Ahma with regard to you to impress this point upon you.”
“Your perfection is certainly achievable, Shomei,” Mostin agreed unexpectedly. “The Web
of Motes revealed as much. But there is some kind of gap which prevents the catenary
from forming. I cannot intuit precisely what the gap is; its order is Aeonic and thus
inscrutable to the Web.”
“I do not understand…”
Pharamne’s Urn landed in the dirt near the Alienist. Mostin twitched. Shomei gaped.
Eadric turned his head and swallowed.
Soneillon smiled and approached. She had appeared in the guise of the Trempan peasant-
girl.
“There is your gap, Mostin. Ah…don’t touch it; my gesture was purely for dramatic
effect.”
“Soneillon…” Eadric began.
She struck Eadric’s face soundly with her palm, flooring him. Mostin winced. Soneillon
sighed,
drew close to the thaumaturgic diagram, placed her hands behind her back, and inspected
Shomei as
though she were an exhibit on display. She arched an eyebrow.
“She is very short, Eadric,” Soneillon remarked, turning to him.
“You are very strong,” the Ahma stood groggily. He realized that she had never, before,
committed any act of violence against him.
“I am not sure what you mean by the Urn being the gap,” Mostin licked his lips and
looked at the amphora at his feet. “It is merely a source of great power. It is some kind of
impediment to her Self-realization? ”
Shomei sat within the diagram and groaned.
“I do believe your short friend just had a little epiphany,” Soneillon smiled at Eadric.
Shomei sighed. “The power is the problem, Mostin. The Urn is external to and greater
than myself; it is of the transcendent order, and is not- I. Possession of it – and a focus of
myself upon it – and my own perfection – which must necessarily be described in terms of
I – might be deemed mutually exclusive. I can choose one route or the other.”
“And you would deem perfection preferable?” Eadric asked.
“Well obviously, yes.”
“This irony should be preserved for all posterity,” Eadric observed drily.
Soneillon approached Eadric. He gave a nervous smile. Her eyes bored into him. “You
seem to have
lost my token, Eadric.”
“Well, I…”
“No matter. I have another.” She reached within her pocket and withdrew a scarf of black
samite
which cracked as she unfurled it, causing him to start. “For the time being, you remain
mine.” She spoke through gritted teeth and tied it tightly around his wrist, cutting off his
circulation. “Let’s see if you can go a week, this time.”
“Soneillon, I…”
“Later, dear.” She smiled sweetly.
The demoness turned back toward Shomei and regarded her with a mixture of scepticism
and curiosity; the Infernalist appeared to have regained her focus, and seemed calmly
absorbed in
herself. Soneillon slowly walked toward the circle and looked intensely at her. She placed
her foot within, scraping dirt across the diagram and breaking its confining power.
“Do not…” Mostin gave a horrified look.
Soneillon spoke softly. “Drishhtavanaasi varca avadhya tvamayaa. ”
“Leika kunnan sauili Thiudan, kuntho. ” Shomei replied. “Sezho saizhia thatei saizhio.
Antharuhthan? Saizhi? ”
“Nitya iisi. ”
There was a pause. Fear gripped Eadric.
“I do like Irel,” Soneillon remarked. “I didn’t see him.”
“Yes, he’s sweet; I kept him back. He smites, you know.” Shomei stood.
“Really? How intriguing. Perhaps I might borrow him?”
“I am sure some arrangement can be made,” Shomei nodded. She gave a sidelong glance
toward
Eadric. Soneillon caught the exchange.
“But not before midsummer.” The demoness reached down, picked up the Urn, and smiled
at
Mostin.
“Mine, ” she said.
*Thou art That
Exchange Between Soneillon and Shomei
This is rendered for the purpose of the story in the Tongue of Shûth (Soneillon) and the
ancient Borchian dialect (Shomei); at this point, Eadric knows only that something has
been communicated:
Soneillon: “I cannot (bring myself to) harm you because you have seen the Sun as I do.”
Shomei: “If you refer to his potential to realize that Sovereignty, I understand. I saw that
you have seen the thing which I have seen. And the other one? She sees?”
Soneillon: “She always has.”
Soneillon’s Bitch-Slap
Soneillon’s famous bitch-slap was made against a flat-footed Eadric and consisted of the
equivalent of a surprise action trip attack followed by a full tendril attack routine to
subdue.
The attack was glossed (or ‘skinned,’ to use modern parlance) as a single slap.
Eadric sustained 780 points of nonlethal damage and was knocked prone.
Effluxion – Part 1: Annihilation
[Nehael/ Eleos]: Soneillon…
[Soneillon]: …
**
Nehael shot.
Eadric sat upon the rampart of the outer defense at Galda with his back against the parapet
and
regarded her. She had been standing in the same position for more than nine hours,
discharging
arrows with an unwavering rhythm which seemed to measure time itself. The goddess had
loosed
thirty-three thousand and eleven missiles; she had killed thirty-three thousand and eleven
ghouls: Nehael herself included the Abyssal type, ghasts and bonedrinkers – as well as
several more obscure varieties of undead – in the rather broad category of ghoul. Eadric
could not see the ghouls which Nehael had targeted; they were more than five miles away.
“Don’t you get bored?” He asked.
Her pace slowed; she drew a single arrow and released it. At the limit of his hearing, an
earthquake rumbled. She resumed her previous rhythm.
“That would seem a more effective strategy,” he observed.
“It is,” she replied. “But I do not wish to create a fault zone.”
“Exactly how many are there, altogether?” Eadric inquired.
“Altogether?” Her measure did not falter. “About fifteen million. Coming this way? Only
around
four.”
“Fifteen million?”
“That’s just the ghouls,” Nehael continued shooting. “The vampires, spectres, wraiths and
other
heliophobes remain under the Pall of Dhatri for the time being; as soon as its magic fails
and they find safe holes, they will begin to migrate north and operate by night.”
“Safe holes?”
“Villages which have been evacuated and overrun,” Nehael explained.
“But why such enormous numbers?” Eadric asked.
She smiled, but the tempo of her archery remained unchanged. “The Thalassine was a rich
and
populous region, Eadric; now everyone is dead.” As her bowstring hummed, the last word
was spoken with what may have been anger: an emotion which Eadric could not recall
Nehael having
before evinced.
Ten thousand yards away, a ghoul dropped to the ground, its throat pierced by an arrow.
“Nwm informed me that you believe that some kind of reconquista is possible,” Eadric
spoke dubiously.
She nodded. “It is both possible and desirable. It also requires that you grow up.”
“You deem me…unready?”
Nehael nodded. “Your values are childish from my perspective. The world you would seek
to build
requires a more objective love.”
“Nehael, when we spoke at Shomei’s cottage, you implied that some potential existed
between us…”
She shook her head, and continued shooting. “Still, you are fixated on these quaint
notions. What
you inferred was not what I clearly stated. Whatever lustfulness I might possess, I would
not cause suffering to any.”
“You speak of Soneillon?”
“Why not? Soneillon is no less deserving than any other.”
“And your own needs?”
“There is no I, Eadric. That is Shomei’s province.”
He groaned. “I cannot hold these contradictory truths. I wish only to relate simply.”
A look of exasperation crossed her face. She drew an arrow, nocked it, turned, and aimed
it toward him.
“You wouldn’t…” He said nervously.
She shot it into his leg. Eadric screamed in agony.
“Are you insane? ” He gasped with wide eyes.
“No. You are being selfish, Ahma,” Nehael said calmly. “You need to lose that.”
“For a deity of compassion, you have some pretty strange ideas.” Eadric groaned and
shook.
“Well, that would be the wrathful part,” she resumed her previous rhythm, shooting at the
southern horizon.
“And as to the causation of suffering? What do you call this?”
“Pain, Ahma.”
“A simple remonstration would have been sufficient,” he spoke through a clenched jaw,
and winced
as he tried to extract the arrow.
“I am not the Sela, Ahma,” she replied. “I do not have the time or luxury to be kind to you,
and algesis may impel you. Leave the dart; I will see to it in due course.”
“Even so…”
She paused, and sighed. “Eadric. You need to put this romantic nonsense behind you; it
cannot
dictate your thoughts or actions. One may not discriminate as to where to apply
compassion, only how, and sentimental notions will interfere with your capacity to
demonstrate it most effectively.
Concentrate. The pain will help you focus.”
“I…”
“No.”
He entered saizhan. The pain remained, but was only one amongst millions: the living, the
dead; birds, animals; faeries, demons, celestials. Their combined magnitude was
unguessable, and the
totality struck his awareness as a barrage of sensation which screamed torment and misery
at his
very substance, overwhelming his identity. But the fundamental perspective observed it
calmly, and did not falter.
“Much better.” Nehael spoke softly, and knelt beside him. She carefully removed the
arrow; no
mark of the wound remained. He looked at her, and a kernel of desire for her began to
form;
immediately, his sense of self reasserted itself. The Moment was gone.
He inhaled sharply, and stared at her in amazement. “You perceive this suffering always?”
“It is always there.” She laughed.
“How do you bear it?” He felt utterly chastened.
“No I could, so it is a non-issue. Do not worry. Midwinter has passed; the days are
lengthening. The Sun is returning.” She smiled.
Nehael stood, and shot.
**
Thousands of tents and pavillions comprised the camp at Galda, occupying an area of
some eighty
acres. It was enclosed by a crenellated stone wall forty feet thick and sixty high which had
been
erected by the diligent efforts of a hundred flamines and scrollbearers over the course of
several months. Walls of stone and indentured elementals summoned by Uediian priests
had completed the initial construction; the entire edifice had been augmented and
hardened by Nwm, Mesikammi, Teppu and Hlioth to withstand both physical and magical
assault. The Preceptor had raised seven
enormous bastions around its circuit, two of which flanked the single gate of adamant
which gave
access to the place. Upon the outer face of the valves were the most potent symbols ever
wrought: runes of Tree and Sun which described a swift demise for things which should
already be dead.
The camp was removed from the town proper – of comparable dimension – at a closest
distance of
around a half-mile; an outer earthwork faced with stone and with a circumference of more
than a
league encompassed both. The walls of Galda town itself had likewise been buttressed;
most of its natives had departed some weeks earlier. The two were connected by
teleportation circles and tree portals to allow the swift redeployment of troops.
Nwm stood within the centre of the encampment beside a muddy field which had been
cleared of
tents, soldiers and horses, and sighed. Although it pained him, there was no denying the
logic of
Mostin’s suggestion; it would save resources, and nothing within the combined power of
those
present could rival it for effectiveness. The Preceptor gave a resigned look to Hlioth, who
returned one of equal sympathy.
[Nwm]: Very well. The space is ready.
In the middle of the camp at Galda, a three-hundred foot tall edifice of infernal adamant
appeared, blotting out the sun and immediately drawing the attention of everyone within
the circuit of the
stronghold. Massive bartizans flanked a central tower, from which machiolated platforms
and
corbels depended. Wide nozzles of unknown purpose protruded from its walls.
There was a brief silence, and then a tall doorway opened onto a balcony at a height of
thirty
fathoms. Six creatures with many mouths and appendages slowly floated out, bobbing in
the breeze,
and blew on clarions: a discordant fanfare of tremendous volume which shook the ground
and made
all who heard it nauseous. Great purple drapes unfurled; lights of every known hue – and
some of
wholly unfamiliar color – strobed brilliantly in the sky. Mostin – wearing an ornate puce
mitre,
three feet high and bedecked with jewels – strode forth onto the platform, and spread his
arms wide.
“I have arrived,” he announced to the world.
*
Around thirty wizards – including eight from the ruling body of the Collegium – had
accompanied
Mostin, on the condition that they might abide within the tower and come and go at their
leisure: a stipulation supported by Daunton, who recognized the relative safety of Mostin’s
fortress. Mostin
had grudgingly assigned suites to Waide, Jalael, Muthollo, Creq, Droom, Troap, Sarpin
and
Daunton himself. Lesser mages had been forced to share chambers; despite the enormous
extradimensional volume of the Infernal Tower, Mostin preferred to keep a large portion
out of bounds.
The presence of the wizards was met with mixed emotions; many of the more
conservative and
influential Templars viewed them with suspicion or disdain. Ortwine received them
graciously, and
immediately procured a well-furnished pavillion from Troap, with whom she had enjoyed
long-
standing good relations. Their presence in the camp, the sidhe nodded appreciatively,
would inject a much-needed civility into affairs; even with the numerous Wyrish
aristocracy, the prevailing religious sobriety was far too austere for Ortwine’s tastes.
Eadric spied a dimimutive figure who walked purposefully through the camp, wearing a
cloak of
deep blue – Irknaan’s cloak, he knew. His leg still tingling from its recently-experienced
trauma, he intercepted her, intent on determining her disposition.
Sho turned to him, and raised an eyebrow. “Yes, Ahma?”
“It has been some time,” Eadric regarded her with curiosity. “I am intrigued: your vehicle
– Goetia
– would seem to be a path with its end in sight. Your maker has a certain…dispensation in
this
regard; but other wizards do not have the luxury of calling upon the previous Hell.”
She looked at him that way. It made him feel distinctly uncomfortable.
“There will always be devils, Ahma,” Sho answered. “You should not trouble yourself on
that count.”
“I do not mean to offend, Sho, but there is a question which I would like to ask you.”
“My ego is robust, Ahma,” Sho said drily. “You are unlikely to cause me discomfort.”
“Do you have a religious vision, Sho? Some article of faith by which you abide?”
“No. I am a wizard, Ahma; such notions are uncommon amongst my kind.”
“And devils?” He asked. “Their…perspective is one for which you have some special
sympathy?”
“Devils are tools, Ahma,” she replied. “But I confess a certain fondness for some of them,
especially those who might be deemed high in the Old Order. ”
“You speak of Azazel and his ilk?”
Sho nodded. “They are of a particular vintage.”
“Hence my comment regarding Goetia as an increasingly obscure vehicle.”
Sho raised an eyebrow. “The world is smaller than it used to be, and two hundred legions
is a lot of devils, Ahma.”
“Yes, I suppose it is.” His expression was one of concern. “Do you consider yourself…
unique, Sho?
Authentic? I ask because there are certain resonances with your progenitor.”
“I am very much my own self, Ahma,” she gave a quizzical look. “Whatever similarities
you perceive are entirely superficial.”
“It’s just that your personae are so similar.”
Sho shrugged. “A persona is exactly that, Ahma, and nothing more. Deeper truths are
more often concealed.”
“Shomei, I…”
“I am Sho, Ahma,” she smiled.
“Indeed; I apologize. There is a profundity surrounding you,” Eadric sighed. “In any
iteration. Do you have a goal, Sho? A purpose?”
“Only to become myself, Ahma,” Sho replied. “Although I have yet to define what that is
to my satisfaction. I am on the verge of transvalency; it may provide additional insights.”
He gaped. “Already? You are something extraordinary, Sho.”
“Yes, Ahma. I know. I will not forget it: of that, you can be sure.”
“And Mei? She is here?” He asked.
“She is within the tower,” Sho nodded. “With Orolde.”
“Are you…close? By which, I mean, do you hold her in any special regard?”
“No, Ahma,” Sho shook her head. “Sho is Sho and Mei is Mei. And Shomei is Shomei.”
“I see,” he said. “But both you and your sister – if that term is appropriate – have a
particular loyalty to Mostin.”
Sho nodded; her expression was one of mild confusion. “Of course. He has been a source
of
unconditional support. Mostin is uncommonly generous for a wizard, Ahma. His absurd
pomp and egotism are merely a persona. And he will always advocate for that thing which
he values most.”
“And what might that be?” Eadric inquired, raising his eyebrows.
“Potential,” Sho smiled. “And the will to realize it.”
**
The Embassy – the Fourth Effluxion of Kaalaanala – sat in her saddle and gazed north, her
sight
piercing all veils. The hood which framed where her visage might have been was empty:
within was
a blankness which admitted no light; an impalpable void. Disintegrating fire wreathed her;
an aura wherein all trace of being was extinguished. Although the shape of her mount was
equine, its nature was also chthonic: a powerful anala bound and confined by her terrible
will to serve as the steed for the avatar of the Fire of Death.
Undead surrounded her in numberless droves, driven unsconsciously by her intention into
some
coherence of purpose. Few amongst her living slaves might even approach her: Rishih and
Naatha –
feared potentates and great immortals in their own right – cowered in her presence.
Anumid
lavished praise upon her; an unctuous sycophant regarded with contempt amongst most of
the
remaining Cheshnite magnates, but still commanding the respect of the remnant of the
Convocations. A fourth part of Dhatri’s host accompanied the Embassy. The rest, which
moved with
the bloated goddess and the entourage of the demilich Idyam had struck out toward the
northeast
and crawled or lurched toward Wyre: a great swell of hunger which, now beyond the
darkness of
the Pall, was revealed as a relentless tide of death and putrefaction which consumed
everything in its path.
Galda was encompassed entirely; a cordon of rotting flesh at a distance of two leagues,
beyond the ambit of the scions which nestled in the vale north of the town. The Embassy
was acutely aware of
the diminishment which the Oak and Elm would force upon her undead minions, and had
prepared
magicks to counteract the effects of the Trees on her troops; until she had positioned
herself exactly for the assault, her spells were held in reserve. Three great hubs were
established – south, northeast and northwest of the Wyrish defenses – which, although
beyond the inner purlieu of the scions, still fell within the circuit established by the ludjas.
Magical scrutiny by the Cheshnites was denied by quercine power within the area, and
reconnaissance was achieved by flights of shadow demons,
succubi and palrethees: fiends which, by virtue of their scarcity, were now viewed as a
valuable
resource by the immortal elite.
Choach – returned again from his concealed phylactery – had entrenched in the
westernmost presidio. To Prahar’s chagrin, the Embassy had appointed the lich – despite
his own clear seniority in such matters – as her general above him: Prahar’s own
instability might make him a liability, and the situation was too precarious to risk a
whimsical assault by the great death knight, whatever his own prowess, or that of his
troops. The range east and north of Galda was commanded by Naatha,
with a bulwark of magi beneath Rishih, together with many of the staunchest remaining
demons and
those troops whom Temenun had abandonded. The southernmost concentration – the
largest by
number, if not in native power – Kaalaanala’s avatar had taken to herself directly: a sea of
rotten flesh which, when the time came, she would imbue with Void and ferocious hunger.
The Embassy bided her time for a while.
Void moved in deep, imperceptible currents.
**
Soneillon lounged upon the bed within the main suite at Deorham, studying the glyphs
etched into
the tablet which Tozinak had bestowed upon her, and considered their import. Some
agency was at
work, although she could not determine precisely what; it was neither Kaalaanala, nor the
Cherry itself – which, being comprised of lust, lacked volition in the conventional sense.
Something
hitherto unrevealed had prompted the wizard to transpose Jovol’s spell into a minor key; it
was no parody, and the artistry in the dweomer was immediately apparent to her. It was
also something
utterly beyond Tozinak’s capacity to achieve. And Tozinak still had the original spell – A
Flame Precedes the Aeon – locked somewhere within his Cherry-addled mind. Vhorzhe?
She considered.
The entity was capable, no doubt, although whether desirous was a different question
entirely.
The Apparition strove to manifest; of that, there could be no doubt. And other chthonic
forces were also active; impulses which she could not hope to fully comprehend.
Soneillon began to wonder
whether another Bhiti – one of an order comparable to the Fires of Death – might be
implicated. If so, the medium through which it was operating was obscure; if Delirium or
some approximal region of Dream, she should have felt it herself. If it were confined
within the Green – as was Kaalaanala –
then its presence would have been long known. Kaalaanala had been the reciprocal
payment; the
price forced by Void to tolerate the Abysmal ludjas. But what if some other balance had
been struck?
The demoness rose and exited the chamber onto a small stoop which overlooked the
curtilage
below. All of the structural damage had been repaired, and Carasch had been dismissed –
temporarily, at least. Most of her other minions had been slain or had fled, although a trio
of succubi once sworn to Graz’zt – Mazikreen, Ilistet and Chepez the Vicious – still
attended her. Around a
hundred demons remained loose in western Trempa, making mischief; none were of a
mind to
submit themselves again to the former Queen of Throile, and eliminating them or driving
them
away would be necessary to appease the Ahma – whose current mood of contrition
regarding her should probably be enjoyed for as long as possible.
Hard beside the chapel, the Blackthorn scion dozed; snow sat upon its barbed limbs, and
the
textures of its twisted trunk intimated at the very process of dissolution. Soneillon glided
down into the courtyard, folded her wings, and approached the Tree: its attitude toward
her – if its disposition could be described in such terms – seemed benign; somehow
sympathetic. She sighed. This Treeish-
ness was difficult to fathom. She pressed her hands against its bark, feeling its energy; an
inevitable
urge toward the ending of things. But not after the nullificatory fashion of Cheshne’s
unmanifest Shadow, the Apparition or Aabhaasa of Shûthite lore. More, a délabrement in
a helical stream which did not deny new beginnings. Cheshne was more than Her Shadow;
of this, the demoness had no doubt. She – the Void – was awake; no longer slumbering
within the bounds of ens as tenuously described by her oneiric form. And Soneillon, in
whom all infinities collided, might alone in her psychosis apprehend a great, dark,
devouring love.
A sudden urge overcame her.
Soneillon gestured, and the door to the chapel creaked open. Inside, all was again ordered
and
pristine, though nonetheless still profaned; the guts and ichor which had spilled in from
the conflict of the previous day had been scoured clean. She entered and extended tendrils
which seemed to
caress the floor, feeling the draught which issued from the crypt below.
Carefully, she lifted a three-hundred pound flag of granite and set it aside, revealing steep
steps which led down into a narrow space with a low, vaulted ceiling. She descended
slowly; a dozen
sarcophagi were crowded into the sepulchre, along with smaller caskets and urns: Eadric’s
direct
forebears, and uncles and cousins removed by degrees. She inspected those which seemed
the most
recent, brushing away cobwebs, until she found the one she was looking for: directly
below the
altar, a narrow funerary coffer of marble, unadorned except for its simple brass plaque:
THIOSTRI, Lady Deorham
628-656 TR
Dame of Witnung’s Chase
Daughter of Nân of Jaive
Beloved Wife of Moad Sauil, Baronet
And of Orm and Eadric, Mother
Soneillon folded her arms. “You would seem to have been a remarkable woman, Thiostri.
Your
elder son gave lessons to the Mind of Oronthon, and your younger is his Breath; the last
prosopopoeia of Radiance. And I do not believe in coincidences.”
She knelt, and lit an offertory taper. It flickered uncertainly as it illuminated the space,
wavering in the chill breeze drawn through cracks in the chamber’s walls. The demoness
focused and drew her
knife, opening a deep cut in her palm. She squeezed her fist, and ichor dripped onto the
sarcophagus. Potent magic coursed through her; even a vanished archetype might have
responded to
its entreaty.
“Tyakh, asrij svaam: an offering, my own blood. Were you a mortal woman, or one
divine?”
There was no sound; no movement; no shade which spoke. No thing. The taper guttered
and went
out. Peace, and an utter stillness. The darkness was perfect; unmarred.
Soneillon sat in silence. Pasyaami. Tvam jaane: I see. Thou, I know.
She pondered for a long while before finally cursing, standing and exiting the crypt. Her
form
altered, and her wings retracted and vanished: no sense in alarming the Oronthonists
beyond the
necessary. The demoness clad herself in sombre black – a high-collared robe which
encased her
form with an appropriate propriety – and drew her hair back after the fashion of an
Orthodox Sister.
Throwing a great, atrament cloak about herself, she dreamed her way to Galda,
manifesting
discreetly beside the war pavillion of the Ahma – a large affair which had been erected
after the
previous had been blasted away by Shomei. The daylight was waning; the voices inside
the tent were intense, agitated and full of worry.
Soneillon opened a heavy curtain of canvas and entered quietly; Eadric was taking counsel
with his captains: Saints, Talions, great magnates of Wyre and the chiefs among the
Illuminated. She
lowered her hood: her presence was at once both disquieting and magnetic. Her beauty –
which
familiarity had somehow caused the Ahma to forget – transfixed those who gazed upon
her; silence fell within. Eadric squinted; he had not encountered this particular façade
before. While her features remained unchanged, the masque of the coquettish peasant-girl
was entirely absent, replaced by a
solemn focus and composure. If anything, her assumed guise – which suggested modesty
and
abnegation – made the succubus even more alluring.
Saint Tahl the Incorruptible, who wore an Eye of Palamabron around his neck – the mate
of that borne by the Ahma – glanced toward Eadric. Immediately, he had apprehended the
truths which clashed within her, and knew who she was. Many others within guessed:
Soneillon’s eyes were
apertures through which form and Void regarded one another. Around the table, a dozen
hands came
to rest instinctively upon hilts and pommels, although the likely futility of any such
gesture was lost to none, and least of all to Eadric; he knew that she could kill them all
with a fleeting thought.
Soneillon said nothing; her face was impassive.
“A brief recess, Ahma?” Tahl inquired diplomatically. Inwardly, he grappled with the
multiplicity of forms which he could perceive in her.
Eadric nodded.
When they were alone, Eadric approached her and gave an inquiring look. “Perhaps I
should thank
you for not appearing naked upon the conference table. Are you here to ensure my
fidelity?”
She offered a hand. “Now is not the time for levity, Eadric. Come to Deorham.”
“Soneillon, we have only hours before the assault begins.”
“Come,” she insisted. She was nervous. “There is something you need to see. ”
He narrowed his eyes; this trepidation was most unlike her. “I assume I should be prepared
to be
upset?”
“You should just be prepared,” Soneillon advised. “Although, in retrospect, everything
makes perfect sense.”
“As you are making little,” Eadric opined.
“You spring from Void, Eadric; the Sun is born in the dark.”
He swallowed; the memory of his own, isolated, second death still haunted him: a monad
bereft,
surrounded by night. “If this is some effort to distort…”
Soneillon hissed. “Trust me, or do not! The choice is yours; and the via negativa is an
artifact of Saizhan: this is your description of truth, not mine.”
“Really?” He asked sceptically. “And how might you characterize that?”
“Ni thatuh, jah thata; ni bai, jah nih,” she half-smiled.
“You are most vexatious.”
“Waihtai ni, waírthi. The epistemic must become the ontic – or rather the meta-ontic.”
“And now even Soneillon would wax philosophical?” He groaned.*
“Only when all else fails,” she said drily. “How much do you really trust me, Eadric?”
Eadric looked at her, and shifted uneasily. He guessed her purpose. “You are proposing
annihilation; that if I strip myself of my self, my Self will kindle? You have offered me
this before, although its guise was more sinister at that time; the outcome crueller.”
“Times have changed.” She drew close; her fingers trembled as she reached out and
touched his
face. “Are both saizhan and extinction not unattainable?** It can be sweet, Eadric; death
and climax. But saizhan – if it is the transmetaphysic it purports to be – will sustain you.”
He sighed. “Must everything be couched in terms of death and sex?”
“Eventually. Am I not Soneillon?” She laughed. For a moment, the playfulness returned.
“And I
already hold you longer than I should.”
He looked at her curiously.
“Consider the Sun, Eadric. What is the Ahma – the manifest Breath of Oronthon in the
World – if not that light? That is your legacy. This time between the winter solstice and the
vernal equinox
should be yours; you will be Nehael’s from spring until midsummer. Properly, I do not get
you until autumn.”
He gawked. “And the summer months?”
“That would be your short friend.”
“It might have been nice to have been consulted in this arrangement,” Eadric grumbled.
“And if this is the ‘empty quarter,’ so to speak, then why am I still beholden to you?”
She stared at him, her eyes penetrating to his core. “Because I am the jealous one, Eadric.
I will always find it hard to let go. Besides, we started late this year. And this is your
arrangement – or an arrangement made to accommodate you. Now, will you come to
Deorham? Your third passing need not be final, merely complete.”
“And you would then call me back?” He asked. “You suggested before that if I jumped,
you might
catch me.”
“No,” Soneillon shook her head. “You must bring yourself back; Self-emanate ex nihilo. I
can only make a cradle for you; ease your passage into oblivion with soft words and a
warm embrace.”
“This would seem a task of more than middling difficulty,” Eadric remarked ironically.
“The Ahma is sempiternal, and will exist for as long as the World endures. I cannot
destroy it,
although I can deprive it of its physical dwelling. If Saizhan is what you claim it is, you
may cross the Abyss with impunity and wake on the other side.”
“Awaken to what?”
“To Regency, Eadric. To your own incandescence.”
“And what does that mean, exactly?” He asked.
“Amongst other things, that I will have cause to fear you,” she said ruefully. “Well?”
He sighed. “Do I need to bring anything?”
“Your self only.” Soneillon gave an ironic smile. A sacrificial robe appeared in each of her
hands.
“Now. Would you prefer black, or white?”
A mile to the south, Nehael paused briefly; the Ahma had all of the tools he needed: what
he did with them was up to him. She drew; her bow sang rhythmically again in the dusk as
she continued
to loose arrow after arrow into the hordes of ghouls which pressed ever closer.
*
Eadric sat cross-legged upon the sarcophagus and glanced suspiciously at the ichor which
stained it: a testament to Soneillon’s previous necromancy. “And here I was, thinking there
were no taboos left to break.”
Soneillon said nothing, and lit a black candle of invocation. Its flame burned the color of
soot.
“What, exactly, are you invoking?” He inquired.
“I believe you know the answer to that,” the demoness replied. She wore her most malefic
aspect
now: a shape of terrible darkness; ravenous, clawed and fanged, with pinions which
stretched to fill the chamber. Soneillon moved, and tendrils of madness and oblivion
writhed about her. She slid
forward suddenly, and Void held him in a vice. Kaalakamala, the Lotus of Death; she was
delirium, and despair.
Eadric swallowed. “Somehow, I think I like you best like this.”
She regarded him closely. “That is well.”
“Will there be pain?” He asked dubiously.
“If you like.” Her claws, razor-sharp, pricked the skin on his back.
“And if I don’t?”
“Then there won’t.” She relaxed her grip.
“That might be preferable,” he nodded.
She arched an eyebrow. “If you are having second thoughts, Eadric, now would probably
be a good
time to articulate them. Would you like to reconsider?”
“Yes. No. Proceed.”
As you wish, Ahma.
Talons sank into the granite lintel above his head and wings encased him, cocooning him
in
unbeing. Around him, form and substance disintegrated; he felt his strength begin to
slowly ebb
away. Like a heady wine, Soneillon drank ens from him, savoring its potency, until his
brilliance had dimmed to the merest flicker, a guttering lamp borne above a yawning
chasm without root or
essence. The magnitude of the Void was immeasurable; its profundity, unguessable.
Without fear or rancor, the Ahma gazed long and deep into the Abyss; she held him at the
brink of annihilation for what seemed an eternity: Aeons wheeled past him as infinities
were born, unfolded and died. He would have remained there indefinitely, and the impetus
to go further finally arose not from himself, but from her: she urged him on without her,
and he blessed her for it. Beyond
Nothingness, he beheld the shining emptiness which neither was nor was not: the
Fundamental
without category.
Seek the Dragon. She is waiting. . Void clenched softly, and snuffed out the last iota of
light. Ecstasy and death converged, and in that fraction of a second Eadric understood her
absolutely: what drove her, what she represented, what she must give up. He was
awestruck; the kius was resolved, complete. His body was instantly consumed; no trace
remained, save a scarf of black samite only.
Soneillon – drunk with radiance – lay down upon the tomb, her wings draped over its
sides, and
silently wept.
Finally, reluctantly, she roused herself and stood, once again assuming her human form
with its
funereal garb. She now had the bitterest task of all. Bile rose in her throat. She clenched
her teeth, closed her eyes, and reached out with her mind.
[Soneillon]: It is done. Nwm must conjure his herald in the hour before sunrise. Look to
the
Blackthorn at Deorham.
[Nehael/ Eleos]: (Empathy). Soneillon…
[Soneillon]: Save it.
The demoness mindfully folded the token, placed it within a pocket, and climbed the steps
into the chapel. She closed the door behind her and entered the courtyard. The air was cold
and the night
was moonless; the stars glistened above, whispering expectantly to one another. Soneillon
took
Pharamne’s Urn and placed it carefully within the bole of the scion; immediately, she was
diminished as its power left her. Veiling herself in shadows, she prepared to launch herself
skywards: for almost nine months, she would walk on dark paths until the Sun fell within
her orbit again.
The slightest breeze alerted her to the sudden presence of another; a statuesque figure who
towered above her. She turned and gave an inquiring look.
“It was indicated that you might like some company,” Irel bowed.
“Indeed?” Soneillon gave a small smile. “And yet it is not midsummer. Why has your
mistress
dismissed you?”
“I was never compacted, if you recall; she merely intimated that I might come. I believe
the Sela spoke with her and suggested it. I will leave, if you prefer.”
“I did not say that,” she said wrily. “But it may be that you cannot endure where I am to
go. I will wander through nightmares, Irel; into Delirium and beyond; Outside; through the
space between the
stars and into the Void.”
“Then you must strive hard to keep me safe,” the deva replied with an even humor. “That I
might
prevent you from straying too far.”
Soneillon looked up at him and sighed. “Thank-you, Irel. I think I should like that very
much.”
Eadric was gone, reduced to nihility. But the Ahma abode in saizhan. He would ignite with
the dawn.
A dawn which was still six hours away.
*Translational Note:
Ni thatuh, jah thata; ni bai, jah nih: Neither this nor that; neither both nor neither.
Waihtai ni, waírthi. : That which is not, becomes.
**The original kius regarding Eadric’s relationship with Soneillon was framed as Hwa
Soneo ith ni bai afhwapnan jah saizhan thau ni maht ist laiston? , i.e. “What is Soneillon,
if both saizhan and extinction are not unattainable?”
*
Effluxion – Part 2: Small Hours
The night air was motionless, and stifling. The stench of death filled it.
Wyrish troops manned the towers and parapets of Galda town and the nearby camp; elite
companies
of Templars mustered within the inner perimeter. Nehael – Red Nehael – rode alone along
the outer
rampart, her gaze turned south. Before her, a sea of undead seethed and roiled. Her mind’s
eye,
which could glimpse ten times further, encountered the same horror magnified a
hundredfold.
Still, she shot; each dart which she loosed now caused the earth to convulse, or grasses
and vines to grow in explosive violence. Her enemy perished by the battalion; legions
replaced them.
[Hlioth]: Now. Shoot [here]
Nehael shot.
The arrow struck the Earth, which shuddered. Hlioth, Teppu and Mesikammi set forth
their power: a
jade light began to kindle. First, as a pillar, it then erupted as a curtain of shimmering,
emerald fire which tore a course six miles in circumference, describing a circle centered
on the Elm scion to the north. Nehael watched impassively as it encompassed Galda and
penetrated deep into the undead
host, stretching upwards into a dome; her deific perception felt it sink beneath her feet.
The Green Witch had encapsulated them, sealing off a great multitude of the enemy
within. There was a slow
surge; a building vibrancy: Viridity coursed. Every atom was energized.
A million undead within the sphere desiccated: a charnel vapor which swiftly dispersed on
a
purifying wind. An uncanny green light and a profound silence prevailed – none other
amongst the
enemy might penetrate the barrier and enter within.
[Hlioth]: We’ll see how long that holds. But I am already weary. And Teppu is empty;
Shomei has
much to answer for.
[Nehael]: I see the emanation beyond the curtain. And she, I: she is less than a league
distant. She is angry.
[Hlioth]: I imagine I would be wasting my time if I advised that you wait till sunrise?
Nehael spurred her horse, Sura over the parapet, and rode toward the Embassy.
Cautious, and as yet unprepared for confrontation, Kaalaanala’s Fourth Effluxion
withdrew.
**
The spirit of the Eleos soared above the World. Dimensions – which were no more than
perspectives – cycled below her: Wyre, Faerie, Mulhuk, Throile; the Viridescent Heaven
of the
Ahma. The infarction which was Kaalaanala; and beyond, a great clamor at the Veils, as
their Mistresses hurled magicks of awful power. The Tree: enduring; oblivious.
On a mountain, the goddess manifested an avatar – a slender maiden, dressed in white –
and sat
beneath the Yew- ludja in perfect saizhan. Turning her thought to a prior infinity, she
grasped an idea, and Magnitude welled suddenly around her. A tempest of Radiance
ensued, the Ansin Leoma
or Lambent Presence of Oronthon: it illuminated the heaven with such ferocity that Light
alone
might be perceived. Its currents surrounded her, suffused her, became her.
Her focus narrowed, and a passageway opened. Enitharmon, Marshal of the Host, stepped
through.
He abased himself before her.
“Faheth,” he breathed. The light receded.
“Yes,” she said unsurely, shook her head, and gestured – she had always been Faheth. The
seraph rose smoothly; his frame – of perfect, titanic proportion – dwarfed her. But his
countenance
remained lowered in obeisance: he would not, or could not, meet her gaze.
She smiled and stood. “You might kneel,” she suggested.
He did so.
“That we might regard one another, not in deference,” she raised an eyebrow. The Eleos
reached up
and cradled his massive visage within her hands, inviting him to look at her. “Your sword,
if you please.”
Mindfully, he drew his weapon – more than twice as tall as she – from its scabbard across
his back, and proffered it upon open palms before her .
“Good,” the Eleos touched it gently. “This is no longer required.”
The blade, Shard of Thought, shivered instantly and was broken, its fragments wheeling
slowly and eerily through space before dissolving into a fine mist. She stretched up on her
toes and kissed his forehead, and the Seal of Truth and Agency which he bore vanished,
flaring briefly in her hand before being absorbed.
“The Thought has changed.”
Enitharmon sighed, as a great burden and responsibility left him forever.
“Your tenure is ended; all of your duties, discharged. I am now Sovereign; you may rejoin
your
peers.”
The greatest of celestials wept as joy overcame him. His spirit soared, engulfed by
Magnitude.
The consciousness of the Eleos shifted; the scene changed abruptly: the Ash- ludja
towered above her, deep within Nizkur. She was Green again.
*
She reached out with her thought and touched the Enforcer. Presently, a shape appeared
before her: a goddess of dark aspect with flaming red hair.
The Eleos scrutinized her. “I have a favor to ask. You succored Nehael once before with
regard to this one; will you aid me again?”
Gihaahia scowled. “You are the Eleos; you may mandate whatever you please. Why are
you
asking?”
“I am appealing to the Claviger: for a broader interpretation of the Wyrish Injunction, so
to speak. Is your Law not dynamic?”
“Yes. But I am its executrix, not its architect.”
“The Self begins its reascendance; you may find that you cannot not shirk responsibility
for the
choice.”
“The Self will be the cause of my demise – one way or another. Even now, the Claviger
prepares to
cleave to the Aeon. This is precisely to contain the ascendant I. The Morphic must be
preserved!”
“Let me mediate that exchange,” the Eleos smiled. “I will lend you a Tree in the
meantime. Now, will you help me?”
“Yes,” the Enforcer sighed.
**
It was an hour past midnight; the eerie green light evoked by Hlioth prevailed at Galda.
Yeqon, the Fifth Prosecutor, together with the once-seraphs Armen and Tumael and
nineteen former episemes,
knelt in the posture of saizhan before the Sela: he seemed to be bestowing some kind of
benediction.
“This is becoming increasingly surreal,” Ortwine whispered. “What is going on?”
“Shomei has released them,” Nwm explained quietly. “It would appear that these devils
are
predisposed to adopt the meditational practices of Saizhan with relative ease; Nehael
indicated that their mental discipline gives them a certain advantage.”
Mostin snorted. “Shomei has released herself. She has also dismissed Ugales and her other
responsibilities. Whatever these guilt-ridden devils subsequently choose to believe is
entirely their own determination; at least the burden of their development is no longer
hers. She has isolated
herself; the library – and the prior infinity – is currently closed. She is entirely focused on
her own Perfection.”
“And how long is this gnostic reverie likely to last?” Ortwine inquired.
“Seconds? Millennia? I have no idea.” The Alienist shrugged.
Nwm scowled. “I hope the latter, for all our sakes.”
Unexpectedly, Mostin nodded in agreement.
“Oh?”
Mostin touched his nose with a finger. “Whilst the pursuit of the Urn might preclude
Perfection, it does not hold that one who is Perfected cannot successfully pursue the Urn.”
“You believe she will resume her quest for the Urn?” Nwm was aghast.
“Yes. And she will surely succeed,” Mostin replied.
“And then?”
Mostin considered. “She will subsume Hummaz, banish the Claviger and rewrite the
Arcane
Morphic so that it is more to her liking.”
Nwm raised his eyebrows inquisitively. “Then she will Green-ify?”
“Certainly not…” Mostin hadn’t before considered the possibility. If she absorbed
Hummaz what
would actually happen? ; where the Web of Motes had promised an answer, the Aeon
would not permit him to look. “I believe any expression of Hummaz as part of a
‘composite’ entity in defiance of her Will would be deemed a failure by her.”
A vibration.
“She will assert quickly,” Ortwine hissed. “The Hazel stirs.”
Nwm swallowed nervously. “And Nercamay?” He nodded toward the infernal muse; she
sat in
tranquil reflection some distance from the others.
“Nercamay is eccentric, to say the least,” Mostin observed. “Eadric may have confused
her beyond
saving.”
Nwm smiled. “Our soteriological notions diverge.”
[Nercamay]: I concur. Actually, I am saved beyond confusion.
[Mostin]: ! Are you eavesdropping, Nercamay?
[Nercamay]: I am merely paying attention.
[Nwm]: Pay no heed to my cynical associates, Nercamay.
“I believe you are rather fond of this fiend, Nwm,” Ortwine raised an eyebrow. There was
a time
when her nature would have branded her anathema.”
“I have learned to make allowances,” Nwm looked pointedly at Mostin. “Besides, the
World is
more secure these days.”
Mostin tilted his head and stared. “You stand upon a mote of dirt which bobs in an ocean
of
pseudoinfinities and I am branded insane because I don’t cling to it?”
[Daunton]: You might want to return to the tower.
[Mostin]: What now?
[Daunton]: The Enforcer…
[Message interrupted]
[Gihaahia]: Make some tea, Mostin. I don’t have all night. And bring the Preceptor.
Mostin swallowed.
**
The Tiger dreamed his way west. Sharing his mind, thirty rebel Anantam and a clique of
succubi –
former initiates of Soneillon. The Throile Cabal itself had grown to a more than a dozen
bickering covens, and included many once subordinate to the exiled queen, as well as evil
wyrds, lamias, hags and eccentric once-devils. Loyalty was nonexistent and alliances
shifted rapidly, as the Cherry’s
transient urges to satiation were manifested through the Cabal. The faction which
supported
Temenun represented only one of many diverse and conflicting interests; he had no
illusion of
maintaining its cohesion for long.
Visions sped past: horrors and phantoms which lurked on the edge of nightmares; residual
energies from Dhatri’s massive necromancies which still lingered in the dreamscape.
Temenun drove through
them and skirted a deeper layer: the net of magic woven by the Claviger about
Kaalaanala’s Second
Effluxion. Its surface seemed absorptive and malleable.
The Cherry – which fed his desire – moved through him. As always, his basest instincts
were
tempered: his was to contrive a rational program to achieve his object of lust. The goal: to
rule
unthreatened in idle and despotic languor within a balmy paradise, where his every whim
was
instantly met. A modest enough ambition in the prior infinity, but one now which might
prove less
easy to realize. The Embassy, the largest threat to his designs – even Kaalaanala herself –
must be diverted: Temenun, in essence, preferred a period of easement to a moment of
destruction.
He squeezed around the bubble which isolated the dream larva, perceiving a continual
pulse of
ultramarine and sapphire which sustained its cage, emanated by the Claviger from the
deepest
arcane substrate. The Tiger strove to regard the source of the spell, but the Claviger
seemed as but a lens for the Dream of Magic itself, and indistinguishable from it. And to a
Dream, from beyond the Infinitudes, even the Aeon must bend.
Temenun corporeated. The scene around him was one of madness: a sea of slavering
mouths and
claws and undead flesh. A hundred yards away, ghouls were turning to dust in swaths
before they
could approach their target: a goddess in red who bore a slender blade. She had dismissed
her steed, and now fought on foot amidst a dense press. Those few who could withstand
her presence were
quickly dispatched by her steel as she danced serenely amongst them.
Instantly, she apprehended him. She leaped the distance between them, and landed before
him, the
point of her sword poised at his throat. She read his purpose in a heartbeat.
“Greetings, old cat.” Nehael spoke calmly, and lowered her weapon.
“Goddess,” the Ak’Chazar inclined his head politely, backward palms clasped before him.
“If
agreeable, you will be my liaison with the Uediian Preceptor and the Wyrish Academy. I
should like to meet with them. I will offer nine hundred now, for a return of two thousand
split into four parts –
the largest no more than seven hundred – within one month. I will also require certain
guarantees.”
“Is this an admission of my authority, Temenun?” Nehael asked.
“By no means,” the Tiger smiled, baring many fangs. “Merely a recognition of your
power, which is considerable. I have issues with any authority which is not my own.”
Nehael sighed. “You’d better behave yourself. And don’t provoke Mostin; he is anxious to
obliterate you. As to my prerogative – when I choose to wear black, be assured that you
will be the first to
know it.”
“It would suit you very well. Will you guarantee the oaths to which we testify?”
“For my enemy, you assume many favors.”
“Yeshe invoked the Goddess; now she is cocooned within Nizkur. I am cautious.”
“That was a different Nehael, to be sure,” Nehael smiled. “Have no doubt that if you
betray me then I will spare you the indignity of incarceration.”
“Your compassion is noted.” Temenun spoke wrily.
**
“Had you even noticed that Oronthon’s Ahma is missing?” The Enforcer inquired. She had
manifested as a lean, muscular goddess of early middle age. Nwm looked at her curiously;
there
was something Green protecting her.
“I had not,” Nwm admitted. “Is he safe?”
“He is dead,” Gihaahia smiled wickedly.
“Again?” Ortwine asked. “I did not realize that he and I were in competition.”
“And I did not realize that I had invited you to this audience.” The Enforcer tilted her
head.
“I forgive the oversight,” Ortwine smiled benignly.
“You, of course, realize that you will have more than one effluxion to contend with before
morning?”
Ortwine glanced sideways at Mostin.
“That would be unfortunate,” Mostin swallowed.
Gihaahia looked at Mostin as though her were simple. “If Kaalaanala is bending all her
thought and will here now, necessarily all of her avatars will converge. This is obvious,
yes?”
“Yes,” Mostin looked sceptical. “No, not really. What is your involvement here?”
She sighed. “Consider function, Mostin. The First Effluxion – the phaethon which
ravagaed Fumaril
– is Kaalaanala’s obdurate ire directed toward – at that time, actually mostly the Ahma and
Mulissu.
Although I suppose also you, for your Tower and your Ú.
“The Second manifested in resonance with the Claviger’s tuning of the Morphic; this
dream larva liberated many chthonics in the process. The Claviger has been forced to
suppress its action; the
avatar is effectively contained within a nightmare prison of the Claviger’s devising.
“The Third Effluxion is a reflex which embodies Kaalaanala’s frustration with the Law of
the
Injunction and its agent – namely me. You will notice that two of these emanations already
chart courses running directly counter to my interests.”
“And the Fourth?” Mostin inquired. “The Embassy?”
“A much more rational manifestation of hatred,” Gihaahia smiled disturbingly. “The Great
Dark
Fire has assumed the shape of a human – at least a semblance of one; she deigns to enter
the World of Men.”
“If this is leading somewhere specific…”
“A great Bhīti may efflux fivefold,” Gihaahia spoke impassively.
“There will be a Fifth?” Nwm groaned. “Why has it not already shown itself?”
“Its form will be contingent upon the stimuli which provoke Kaalaanala,” the Enforcer
stared hard
at him.
“She is holding an avatar in reserve,” Mostin sighed. “I can’t say I blame her – although I
suspect her choice is visceral, not considered.”
“Do you know the form it will take?” Nwm asked.
“Yes,” Gihaahia nodded. “It will be nuanced.”
“You knew there would be a Fifth?” Nwm looked to the Alienist.
“I had my fingers crossed that there might not,” Mostin waved his hand. He turned to the
Enforcer.
“You have still to reveal your purpose here.”
“I will be going into a brief stasis,” Gihaahia spoke steadily. “I should warn you that any
misdemeanors committed against the Injunction will be prosecuted enthusiastically when I
reanimate.”
“But…” Daunton opened his mouth for the first time.
Gihaahia silenced him with a glance. “I have yet to devise a suitable penance for your
sedition;
involving yourself with Shomei’s mischief. Consider yourself on probation. Perhaps I
should appoint a new president on my return?”
Tyrant, Daunton thought.
Her eyes flickered at him. He quailed.
“Why the hibernation?” Mostin asked.
“The Claviger needs that which has been lent to me returned to it – for a short while.”
“And who is supposed to uphold the Injunction in the meantime?”
Gihaahia shrugged. “The Academy must police itself. The Articles are clear enough.”
“We will need lawyers,” Daunton groaned. “How awful. Tyranny might be preferable.”
“I am dispensing some advice before I absent myself,” the Enforcer sighed, staring
pointedly at the Alienist. “The Embassy will need transvalents to penetrate your
spellwarp, Mostin; you can endure
her conventional magic – the same is not true of the rest of you; you will all die if she
targets you with spells. On the other hand, Mostin, if you attract her attention …”
“Such as by not dying,” Ortwine interjected drily.
“She will single you out…”
“And kill you, Mostin.” Ortwine finished.
“How do you abide this deity’s presence?” Gihaahia inquired of Mostin, glowering at
Ortwine.
“I close my ears,” Mostin nodded sagely.
“My advice, regardless, is give all thought to offense.”
“Oh, I already had,” Mostin nodded.
“There is a spell.”
“There is?”
“It is for Nwm; hence I required his presence here.” [Spell]
Mostin scowled. “This is an Enochia. It is also of the two thousand two hundredth order.
We don’t have that kind of juice; every reservoir is empty. We might get a twelve hundred
with every caster –
of every persuasion – participating.”
“And I will not invoke the celestial host,” Nwm said through gritted teeth.
“You could not if you tried,” Gihaahia smiled. “This is to conjure a sunwyrm. Here is the
mitigation.” [Formula]
Mostin looked sceptical. “This equation is illegal. You cannot simply cancel those
infinities to
balance it. And the backlash is preposterous. And where does this nine hundred come
from?”
Gihaahia raised an eyebrow. “I make the rules, Mostin. Temenun will approach you with a
deal.
Accept it.”
“Are you insane? The Cherry’s agenda… ”
Nwm shook his head and nodded in understanding at the same time, his chin describing a
figure-of-
eight. “Not exactly an agenda. It will amplify his desire, and the Rakshasa is
fundamentally lazy and vain; the Tiger wants to be left alone. Personally, I’ll settle for a
cat-who-naps.”
“Until a higher paradigm asserts,” Mostin sighed.
“What is this sunwyrm of which you speak? Its provenance?” Nwm asked.
“Mixed. Oronthon. Or Uedii. Or the Aeon emanates many forms. It is new.”
“A new despot?” Ortwine inquired.
“No. It is a herald; sometimes a rearguard. You must provide it with context.”
“A herald for whom?” Ortwine asked.
“The Ahma,” Gihaahia gave a ghastly grin. “You must invite him back, Nwm. The Sun.”
“Exactly how much backlash are we talking, here?”
[This much]
Nwm’s eyes widened. “Even I cannot burn that hot; I am a mortal: I would not withstand
it.”
“Your mortality is not relevant,” Gihaahia said dismissively.
“I am but a man.”
“Narh is but a horse,” the Enforcer retorted. “Yet superior to most. Am I a goddess? If so,
then heed my advice.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Choose a Tree,” the Infernal’s eyes narrowed. “Take refuge in it. You’ve been hedging
your bets.
It’s time you assumed a position.”
“I cannot align myself with some limited perspective; my purview must be broad.”
“I am talking of practical measures, Nwm, not philosophical commitments. There must be
some
quality which would be of benefit.”
“There are many.”
“Then choose. Now is your time. What now?”
Nwm sighed. “If one, then durity; the temper of the Ash.”
“Well, of course,” Gihaahia sighed. Her hand suddenly held a slender staff: it appeared as
though
hewn from a bough of living ash, with silver-grey bark still upon it. It drew Nwm’s mind
in; its
knots and whorls were harder than adamant.
The Preceptor held up his hands, and shook his head. “I do not own; I cannot accept such a
thing.”
She pressed it into his hand. “This is no thing, Nwm. It is the limb of a ludja. And who
said anything about ownership?”
His fingers curled around it, and his awareness exploded.
“You must hold something in reserve,” Gihaahia cautioned him. “These rest, not so much;
although
keeping enough of them alive might prove a challenge in itself.”
Nwm nodded, and gave a the Enforcer a puzzled glance; he knew that the same ludja – at
the behest of Uedii’s reflection – had extended its protection to her.
“The ascetic has a magic staff?” Ortwine inquired archly.
Without warning, Nwm struck her rump soundly with it, causing her to exhale sharply and
her eyes
to widen in indignation.
“No.” The Preceptor replied. “It’s just a stick.”
And so it was. The power was in him now.
“And when you return?” Mostin asked the Enforcer.
“I will resume my former duties. But the Claviger is binding itself to the Aeon; to
Pharamne. The
Morphic will be Transcendental and will not be overturned. Shomei cannot challenge it.”
“Shomei will find a way.”
“No, Mostin,” Gihaahia sighed. “She will not need to. She remains exempt.”
“And how long is this absence of yours likely to last?”
“As long as it lasts, Mostin.” Abruptly, Gihaahia vanished.
[Nehael]: Daunton. Mostin. Nwm. Temenun wishes to parley. He offers nine hundred –
with certain
stipulations, naturally.