Shemeska
Adventurer
This one won't be getting updated here quite as often as the 1/week rate of the first ongoing storyhour. However I will be writing it up concurrently with the campaign, unlike the 2 year lag with the 1st one. I'm still trying to come up with a decent name for this campaign and its storyhour, but it's going to be different from the 1st one which was pretty much (Wherever you go, there's a 'loth). The 'loths aren't the focus of this one, though they will show up as it applies.
This storyhour and its campaign take place roughly 150 years after the events of the first storyhour. However you won't need to know the results of the 1st one to follow this one since I'm trying to focus on a different section of the planes so as not to get repetative on themes here.
That said, keep in mind that as this progresses there may be spoilers for the 1st storyhour, but I'll try to write this in such a way so as to minimize those. This first post contains very very few real spoilers. My players especially are advised to read at their own risk. It doesn't give anything away, but you will be aware of the existence of certain things that may develop into metaplot later on depending on how it develops and what you do.
But here you go, hope that you enjoy:
The battered, ancient landscape of the fractured cube hung suspended in the void of Tintibulus, the 3rd layer of Acheron, slowly tumbling through the darkness. Nestled upon the surface of the continent sized hunk of iron, something moved to keep pace with the turning of the surface in order to stay suspended in the shadow of one of the larger cubes that hung in the sky like a black sun.
The mobile fortress moved like a living thing, and perhaps it was in some ways, though it was constructed of steel and stone, rather than bone and sinew. And rather than living flesh, flush with life, it was held together by the unholy union of tens of thousands of mortal corpses, suffused with the grim touch of negative energy that washed through its veins like slowly pumping blood. The fortress was insensate and uncaring to the ring of the cubes that echoed through the eternal night above, below, and all around, like the bells of a choir of fallen angels still pining for their lost glory.
But while the fortress may have been oblivious to the logical disharmony of the crash of the cubes of Avalas and Thuldanin, the occupants of the vessel were not. Four of them in all, brought together by little more than the mutual fact that they were all, in their own unique ways, exiles. All of them sat in silence and gazed up through the glass dome above their heads, watching the dim and distant glow of the cubes above them slowly turn like cold, dead stars.
“And another year closer…” The second of the Pentad, the one known only as Death, whispered softy as their moment of somber silence in respect for their missing and imprisoned fifth member ended.
“Once more, as we have every five minor cycles of the gears, we meet again. Still four of five, but still resolute in our mutual, disparate aims, we come together to reaffirm our views and report on the progress that another cycle has brought to us.” The soft voice of the one known only as The Visionary rippled over the chamber.
The first of the two heads of the one known as Tyranny glanced at the porcelain mask over the speaker’s face, nodding, as his other head still stared up at the darkness above. “Much has occurred, though precious little of it directly at our instigation.”
The telepathic whisper of it known as The Risen answered, “If you feel that way, then you’re thinking far too conventionally. Look upon the Astral and the chaos that swirls in the silvery void. True, it may not be directly at our instigation, but we stoke the fires and grow ever closer to the goals of at least one of us.”
Death nodded and a wash of silvery, filamentous light erupted from beneath the hood of his robe as he moved and smiled.
The Risen continued, “And your own actions of late upon the Waste have served a purpose, even if our eyes are not concerned with the yugoloths in the slightest.”
“Not yet at least.” Tyranny’s second head said ambitiously, its mandibles clattering.
“Of course, that begs the question of what to do at all currently regarding the ‘loths. How do we approach or handle the… events… that transpired there?” Death whispered with yet another wash of silvery light from under his hood.
The Visionary answered quickly with neither emotion in her voice, or showing on her mask, “The same as the ‘loths themselves: we act as if nothing has happened whatsoever. If nothing has happened then there is no need to rationalize, make excuses, or answer questions regarding it. The ravaged status quo is unblemished so far as we need concern ourselves.”
“But,” She continued, “As the Risen has said, our eyes are not concerned with them. The other fiends are of course, another matter entirely, be it they in general, or certain of them in specific…”
The Visionary’s hands began to shake as she paused and inhaled deeply. The others gave her time to recover from her memories, given that the Risen and Tyranny experienced emotions very much differently from her, given her status as the only mortal among their ranks, and that Death no longer had the capacity for true emotions.
“What of The Imprisoned?” Tyranny asked them all as he conjured forth a diagram of the planes in the center of the room, focused on the inner planes.
“That question has raged on our minds for the past century, ever since his whispers to us ended. His jailors are powerful, that is certain.” Death replied.
“If they exist.” The Visionary said slowly, “And I know more than something about jailors…”
“It is up for debate, but I may have some way of testing that. We shall see in the next cycle.” Death answered.
There was a distinct pause as their collective thoughts wandered to the circumstances surrounding the loss of their fifth member. It was every bit as much a member of the Pentad as they were, and it had been as valued a partner in their mutual goals since the formation of their order. Still, its silence was lengthy and weighed heavily on them all.
“And of the Astral? It seems that the status quo has simply been shifting back and forth from one side to the other.” The Risen spoke, breaking the silence.
“Not forever it won’t. Our contacts in Slaan, Ilkool Rrem and the City of Devourings have made that abundantly clear.” Death said with a whisper.
“And if it does, when they enter the conflict, what side do we support? Though the answer seems obvious to me.” The Visionary responded.
“As you said, the answer is obvious. Our own side.” The Risen replied swiftly and with a maw of fangs flashing in the subdued light.
“Though admittedly I am predisposed to certain specific persons, if not their entire side. Past debts and all, though the past may swiftly be catching up with them if the other business I had referred to in my sending before today have even a shred of truth to them.” Death said as he clasped his glistening, ethereal fingers together in a semblance of prayer.
“And what of Object 105?” The Tyrant asked bluntly and abruptly.
“Please do not speak of it so casually…” The Risen said as its eyes glowed in the shadows where it sat like twin lamps in the gloom of Hades.
Death gave a deep breath before answering, “We have leads on material linked to it, but the archives have been expunged and stripped bare of any reference to its existence. Njul is dead and seemingly unwilling to return to life to answer our queries, and the once and current factol who was responsible for that fact seems to have been responsible for the purge. The Sodkillers have washed their hands of it entirely.”
The Tyrant nodded and spoke, “Ortho seemingly has nothing on the matter and I am nearly certain that it was done without the Harmonium’s prime material power base even being aware of its existence. The Arcadian and Sigilian branches of the faction have also been similarly purged of any records of the period. However while I am certain that they existed, like the Sodkillers, they seem to have divested themselves of culpability.”
“They would… as if willing it to be so would divest them of their sins…” The Risen’s eyes flickered with inner flames.
“Calm yourself. There’s nothing you can do regarding it at present till we know more. Besides, entry into Sigil seems out of the question for you, and me for that matter, and something makes me think that Ortho would have nothing to do with you, current status or not.” The Visionary said in the direction of the Risen.
The Risen gave no reply, but the tension was reduced drastically.
“But earlier, you mentioned other material. From the scraps that we have found so far, what does it suggest?” The Visionary asked of Death.
“They were afraid of it, horrified enough to rewrite history, whatever it was, and they have sought to erase it from existence these past hundred years. I am keenly interested for my own reasons, as is the Tyranny, but I have begun to worry of late that there are others involved in this as well. It takes much to worry me you understand…” Death responded.
The Risen nodded, “Indeed.”
“Object 105 was important to them, and then something happened and it was buried. It was forgotten and nearly erased from history, and for reasons that are not entirely certain, everything that touched it has suffered nearly the same fate as it.”
“An entire cube does not simply vanish, and I of any of us should be keenly aware of that. What in the name of Marsallin did they do?” The Tyrant questioned.
“I have my theories, and most of them are my worries.” Death said coldly.
”I hear Him, though but dimly at times. He whispers to me in the darkness of my heart and I am afraid. I am afraid that I will not hear Him clearly, and that I will ere in my actions. I fear that my interpretation of those commands may be false, and He demands and deserves better from his chosen. But I do not speak this to my flock, to His faithful. No, no I do not. Truth and control do not matter, only that their illusion exists.
I listen to the darkness and there He rages! His fury at Her is ceaseless! Who is She!!? Who does She think She is to deny both birthright and destiny? What does She hide and what does She want? She fears us, She fears my Love, but why?”
The silvery void of the Astral, perfect and timeless, was sullied and impure. If to view the void was to touch the serene face of a god, it would have had a mote in its eye. The Astral was aflame with war. Distantly the Psurlon city of O’pak’shael burned in the glowing serenity of that vast and pure emptiness. A million githyanki knights swarmed above the rubble, intent on the extermination of every living thing that had once called the city home. The githyanki screamed out their devotion to Gith and Vlaakith while their hearts yet lingered on the ashes of Tu’narath, itself a funeral pyre to all that was and all they were.
They screamed their rage up into the unending vault above and below, stretching out to infinity on all sides around them. They screamed out their promises of unending death and misery to the enemies of the People out among the uncaring corpses of the dead gods, all of them drifting in eternal somnolence.
Distantly, the massacre was watched in contemplative silence by a being who had witnessed their enslavement to the Illithids eons before, watched their rebellion and rise, watched their disintegration and the Pronouncement of Two Skies, and now he watched them once more, stumbling towards apotheosis.
But the being, the Guardian of the Dead Gods, He formerly known as Anubis, cared little for the rage and bloodshed of the mortals. It would pass, and his thoughts ran towards other, deeper things at present. Besides, he was not alone as he hovered in the void and mused over what stretched out before him.
Anubis pondered the implications of it all as he sifted among shadows and memories that swirled within the winds of the void. He listened to the whispered thoughts, joys and pains of the forgotten, honored dead and to the echoes of what was and would be through the color pools, those keyholes of creation. Anubis listened to the psionic pulses that dimly echoed through the dead and atrophied synapses of the Elder Brain Collective that had been silent since the days of Penumbra.
He watched as the latent connection between they and the Godbrain, Ilsensine, fired and twitched. It was thinking, just as much as he was, pondering both the war in the Astral and that something else that Anubis and his silent companion also watched in the dim, flickering light of the flames of O’pak’shael. The other didn’t speak, but Anubis heard and understood anyway as he touched the surface of the colorless pool.
Finally, after he had brushed his fingers against the surface, Anubis turned to his companion and spoke. “There is no such thing as a quiet death. There is only a long, slow, lingering twilight and the rage against the coming darkness. But perhaps we are all simply ashes and embers, flaring brightly for a time before scattering our dust on an uncaring wind.
We are forgotten and then we are gone. At least that was always my impression before you showed me otherwise.”
And then he was gone, slipping through the surface and into what lay beyond. The other only nodded and said not a word.
This storyhour and its campaign take place roughly 150 years after the events of the first storyhour. However you won't need to know the results of the 1st one to follow this one since I'm trying to focus on a different section of the planes so as not to get repetative on themes here.
That said, keep in mind that as this progresses there may be spoilers for the 1st storyhour, but I'll try to write this in such a way so as to minimize those. This first post contains very very few real spoilers. My players especially are advised to read at their own risk. It doesn't give anything away, but you will be aware of the existence of certain things that may develop into metaplot later on depending on how it develops and what you do.
But here you go, hope that you enjoy:
****
The battered, ancient landscape of the fractured cube hung suspended in the void of Tintibulus, the 3rd layer of Acheron, slowly tumbling through the darkness. Nestled upon the surface of the continent sized hunk of iron, something moved to keep pace with the turning of the surface in order to stay suspended in the shadow of one of the larger cubes that hung in the sky like a black sun.
The mobile fortress moved like a living thing, and perhaps it was in some ways, though it was constructed of steel and stone, rather than bone and sinew. And rather than living flesh, flush with life, it was held together by the unholy union of tens of thousands of mortal corpses, suffused with the grim touch of negative energy that washed through its veins like slowly pumping blood. The fortress was insensate and uncaring to the ring of the cubes that echoed through the eternal night above, below, and all around, like the bells of a choir of fallen angels still pining for their lost glory.
But while the fortress may have been oblivious to the logical disharmony of the crash of the cubes of Avalas and Thuldanin, the occupants of the vessel were not. Four of them in all, brought together by little more than the mutual fact that they were all, in their own unique ways, exiles. All of them sat in silence and gazed up through the glass dome above their heads, watching the dim and distant glow of the cubes above them slowly turn like cold, dead stars.
“And another year closer…” The second of the Pentad, the one known only as Death, whispered softy as their moment of somber silence in respect for their missing and imprisoned fifth member ended.
“Once more, as we have every five minor cycles of the gears, we meet again. Still four of five, but still resolute in our mutual, disparate aims, we come together to reaffirm our views and report on the progress that another cycle has brought to us.” The soft voice of the one known only as The Visionary rippled over the chamber.
The first of the two heads of the one known as Tyranny glanced at the porcelain mask over the speaker’s face, nodding, as his other head still stared up at the darkness above. “Much has occurred, though precious little of it directly at our instigation.”
The telepathic whisper of it known as The Risen answered, “If you feel that way, then you’re thinking far too conventionally. Look upon the Astral and the chaos that swirls in the silvery void. True, it may not be directly at our instigation, but we stoke the fires and grow ever closer to the goals of at least one of us.”
Death nodded and a wash of silvery, filamentous light erupted from beneath the hood of his robe as he moved and smiled.
The Risen continued, “And your own actions of late upon the Waste have served a purpose, even if our eyes are not concerned with the yugoloths in the slightest.”
“Not yet at least.” Tyranny’s second head said ambitiously, its mandibles clattering.
“Of course, that begs the question of what to do at all currently regarding the ‘loths. How do we approach or handle the… events… that transpired there?” Death whispered with yet another wash of silvery light from under his hood.
The Visionary answered quickly with neither emotion in her voice, or showing on her mask, “The same as the ‘loths themselves: we act as if nothing has happened whatsoever. If nothing has happened then there is no need to rationalize, make excuses, or answer questions regarding it. The ravaged status quo is unblemished so far as we need concern ourselves.”
“But,” She continued, “As the Risen has said, our eyes are not concerned with them. The other fiends are of course, another matter entirely, be it they in general, or certain of them in specific…”
The Visionary’s hands began to shake as she paused and inhaled deeply. The others gave her time to recover from her memories, given that the Risen and Tyranny experienced emotions very much differently from her, given her status as the only mortal among their ranks, and that Death no longer had the capacity for true emotions.
“What of The Imprisoned?” Tyranny asked them all as he conjured forth a diagram of the planes in the center of the room, focused on the inner planes.
“That question has raged on our minds for the past century, ever since his whispers to us ended. His jailors are powerful, that is certain.” Death replied.
“If they exist.” The Visionary said slowly, “And I know more than something about jailors…”
“It is up for debate, but I may have some way of testing that. We shall see in the next cycle.” Death answered.
There was a distinct pause as their collective thoughts wandered to the circumstances surrounding the loss of their fifth member. It was every bit as much a member of the Pentad as they were, and it had been as valued a partner in their mutual goals since the formation of their order. Still, its silence was lengthy and weighed heavily on them all.
“And of the Astral? It seems that the status quo has simply been shifting back and forth from one side to the other.” The Risen spoke, breaking the silence.
“Not forever it won’t. Our contacts in Slaan, Ilkool Rrem and the City of Devourings have made that abundantly clear.” Death said with a whisper.
“And if it does, when they enter the conflict, what side do we support? Though the answer seems obvious to me.” The Visionary responded.
“As you said, the answer is obvious. Our own side.” The Risen replied swiftly and with a maw of fangs flashing in the subdued light.
“Though admittedly I am predisposed to certain specific persons, if not their entire side. Past debts and all, though the past may swiftly be catching up with them if the other business I had referred to in my sending before today have even a shred of truth to them.” Death said as he clasped his glistening, ethereal fingers together in a semblance of prayer.
“And what of Object 105?” The Tyrant asked bluntly and abruptly.
“Please do not speak of it so casually…” The Risen said as its eyes glowed in the shadows where it sat like twin lamps in the gloom of Hades.
Death gave a deep breath before answering, “We have leads on material linked to it, but the archives have been expunged and stripped bare of any reference to its existence. Njul is dead and seemingly unwilling to return to life to answer our queries, and the once and current factol who was responsible for that fact seems to have been responsible for the purge. The Sodkillers have washed their hands of it entirely.”
The Tyrant nodded and spoke, “Ortho seemingly has nothing on the matter and I am nearly certain that it was done without the Harmonium’s prime material power base even being aware of its existence. The Arcadian and Sigilian branches of the faction have also been similarly purged of any records of the period. However while I am certain that they existed, like the Sodkillers, they seem to have divested themselves of culpability.”
“They would… as if willing it to be so would divest them of their sins…” The Risen’s eyes flickered with inner flames.
“Calm yourself. There’s nothing you can do regarding it at present till we know more. Besides, entry into Sigil seems out of the question for you, and me for that matter, and something makes me think that Ortho would have nothing to do with you, current status or not.” The Visionary said in the direction of the Risen.
The Risen gave no reply, but the tension was reduced drastically.
“But earlier, you mentioned other material. From the scraps that we have found so far, what does it suggest?” The Visionary asked of Death.
“They were afraid of it, horrified enough to rewrite history, whatever it was, and they have sought to erase it from existence these past hundred years. I am keenly interested for my own reasons, as is the Tyranny, but I have begun to worry of late that there are others involved in this as well. It takes much to worry me you understand…” Death responded.
The Risen nodded, “Indeed.”
“Object 105 was important to them, and then something happened and it was buried. It was forgotten and nearly erased from history, and for reasons that are not entirely certain, everything that touched it has suffered nearly the same fate as it.”
“An entire cube does not simply vanish, and I of any of us should be keenly aware of that. What in the name of Marsallin did they do?” The Tyrant questioned.
“I have my theories, and most of them are my worries.” Death said coldly.
***
”I hear Him, though but dimly at times. He whispers to me in the darkness of my heart and I am afraid. I am afraid that I will not hear Him clearly, and that I will ere in my actions. I fear that my interpretation of those commands may be false, and He demands and deserves better from his chosen. But I do not speak this to my flock, to His faithful. No, no I do not. Truth and control do not matter, only that their illusion exists.
I listen to the darkness and there He rages! His fury at Her is ceaseless! Who is She!!? Who does She think She is to deny both birthright and destiny? What does She hide and what does She want? She fears us, She fears my Love, but why?”
***
The silvery void of the Astral, perfect and timeless, was sullied and impure. If to view the void was to touch the serene face of a god, it would have had a mote in its eye. The Astral was aflame with war. Distantly the Psurlon city of O’pak’shael burned in the glowing serenity of that vast and pure emptiness. A million githyanki knights swarmed above the rubble, intent on the extermination of every living thing that had once called the city home. The githyanki screamed out their devotion to Gith and Vlaakith while their hearts yet lingered on the ashes of Tu’narath, itself a funeral pyre to all that was and all they were.
They screamed their rage up into the unending vault above and below, stretching out to infinity on all sides around them. They screamed out their promises of unending death and misery to the enemies of the People out among the uncaring corpses of the dead gods, all of them drifting in eternal somnolence.
Distantly, the massacre was watched in contemplative silence by a being who had witnessed their enslavement to the Illithids eons before, watched their rebellion and rise, watched their disintegration and the Pronouncement of Two Skies, and now he watched them once more, stumbling towards apotheosis.
But the being, the Guardian of the Dead Gods, He formerly known as Anubis, cared little for the rage and bloodshed of the mortals. It would pass, and his thoughts ran towards other, deeper things at present. Besides, he was not alone as he hovered in the void and mused over what stretched out before him.
Anubis pondered the implications of it all as he sifted among shadows and memories that swirled within the winds of the void. He listened to the whispered thoughts, joys and pains of the forgotten, honored dead and to the echoes of what was and would be through the color pools, those keyholes of creation. Anubis listened to the psionic pulses that dimly echoed through the dead and atrophied synapses of the Elder Brain Collective that had been silent since the days of Penumbra.
He watched as the latent connection between they and the Godbrain, Ilsensine, fired and twitched. It was thinking, just as much as he was, pondering both the war in the Astral and that something else that Anubis and his silent companion also watched in the dim, flickering light of the flames of O’pak’shael. The other didn’t speak, but Anubis heard and understood anyway as he touched the surface of the colorless pool.
Finally, after he had brushed his fingers against the surface, Anubis turned to his companion and spoke. “There is no such thing as a quiet death. There is only a long, slow, lingering twilight and the rage against the coming darkness. But perhaps we are all simply ashes and embers, flaring brightly for a time before scattering our dust on an uncaring wind.
We are forgotten and then we are gone. At least that was always my impression before you showed me otherwise.”
And then he was gone, slipping through the surface and into what lay beyond. The other only nodded and said not a word.
***
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