Tales of Wyre

The Nodality - Part 2

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.

Intermission

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.

This and That

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.

Diplomacy +24

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.’

Mostin: The Gathering

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.

The Rape of Morne

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!

The Second Descent of Grace

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.