Tales of Wyre

Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 08-24-2003

Church and Steeple - Part 2


Nhura uttered a string of black profanities when she received the news from Koilimilou that Crosod had fled back to Shadow, and was, by now, probably dead. The hunting party descended into the woods of Hethio, two leagues from the ancient dolmens at Groba. A madness fell upon the birds and animals as they fled from the umbral sidhe and the creatures which accompanied them: griffons, the chthonic thing, and the Lamia Jetheeg – another sorceress of no mean ability. Koilimilou was incapable of subsequently scrying the Wyrm, which only made his death seem that much more likely. Threxu’s demise was all but certain.

Frustrated, and aware of the fact that it might prematurely attract undue attention, Nhura nonetheless instructed Koilimilou to scry Eadric of Deorham. Although the Lillend was aware of the general location of the Ahma’s stronghold, a lock upon him and a subsequent clairvoyance would pin him down. The Cambion’s efforts drew a blank.

Nhura cursed, and ordered Koilimilou to call and bind as many demons as she was capable of. A bitter argument ensued, but Koilimilou finally relented. Previously, she and the Lillend might have been well-matched; but now Nhura wore Irknaan’s mantle, and was unassailable by any magic which the Cambion possessed. As dusk fell, under the Lillend’s watchful eye – lest she order the creatures to turn upon her Queen – Koilimilou struck a series of bargains with profanities against which the soil of Wyre heaved in revulsion. Throughout, Nhura was poised to invoke destruction upon the Cambion if she spoke even a phrase out of turn.

Soneillon watched from behind a tree-trunk some fifty yards distant, hiding, invisible, and in the shape of a diminutive woodland spirit.
She had not anticipated Nhura’s determination, nor the resources at the Lillend’s command – albeit vicariously. Neither had the Succubus considered the lengths to which Nhura would go in order to assert her claims to Afqithan – in her retinue were knights loyal to Samodoquol and Menicau, and they needed to be suitably impressed.

The Queen of Throile passed into the unconscious world again, and returned her attention to Eadric. The mental landscape of dreamers in Hethio was fraught with hideous nightmares, the significance of which none understood.


**


In the topmost chamber of the Steeple, the Ahma sat closeted with Titivilus, probing the Infernal Duke on a variety of subjects, but retaining a healthy sense of scepticism with regard to any answers that he received. When they returned to the matter of Soneillon, Eadric stayed true to his words with Titivilus at their first meeting: he preserved a total honesty in communication. He was struck with the realization that whether the Devil adhered to the same premise was, in the final analysis, irrelevant.

"You would advise me to use her," Eadric said. "To slake my lust, draw upon her power, discard her when her utility has expired, and move on."

"That is what I would do, Ahma. I am not you, however. I lack your moral baggage."

"You lack compassion."

"If you prefer," Titivilus sighed. "Although I thought we had already agreed as to its redundancy as an effective tool."

"That is because you also lack the ability to understand it," Eadric smiled.

"As your understanding of compassion is obviously far more developed than mine," Titivilus laughed, "then perhaps you should also extend it to Graz’zt. And every other Demon and Devil between Azzagrat and Nessus. Set yourself up as a shining beacon of Love, Ahma, and watch as, no doubt, repentant fiends flock to your warm smile and welcoming arms. I will remain at the back of the line and observe as Astaroth and Moloch, like pubescent girls, shyly jostle for their places and anxiously think ‘will he choose me next?’ I think not."

"Your mockery does you no credit, Titivilus, and merely reveals the fear that you experience in the face of that which you no longer comprehend but secretly long to become reacquainted with. I am not crippled by my doubt, but draw strength it. You resent me, because I am mortal but still you are forced to acknowledge my spiritual authority. I see the limits of your perspective – the ‘Adversarial’ paradigm – and recognize the partial truth which it contains. But you fail to transcend the dichotomy of total self-determination and absolute surrender to the Will of Oronthon: they are identical. Accompany me later to Morne, and I will introduce you to the Sela. I guarantee your safety – I would happily defend your right to speak with him."

"No, thank-you," Titivilus replied calmly. "Although I’m sure I appreciate the offer. Maybe another time – in an aeon or two."

"The door to the Fane will remain open."

"And I will remain outside," the Devil finished. "Now, Ahma, before I grow weary of your proselytizing, and my mood becomes less accommodating, let us turn to ‘mediation.’ You are ready for me to act as a go-between in communicating with Soneillon?"

"I require the benefit of your perspective in order to better inform mine. You are adept at dealing with fiends, and penetrating their motives."

"That much is true," Titivilus smiled archly. "Am I to act as a chaperone to you also, lest you feel an uncontrollable urge to bed this demoness?"

"You have a singular sense of humour."

"And your track history speaks for itself. Nonetheless, my raillery may be pertinent – Soneillon is said to possess a peculiar way of eliciting sympathy."

"So I have discovered," Eadric said wrily.

"Now?"

"Now," the Paladin nodded.

Titivilus issued a sending. Three seconds later, Soneillon manifested. Dreamstuff swirled briefly around her – nightmares and visions of horror, which rapidly faded to nothing in the waking world. As before, her form – that of a Trempan peasant-girl – evoked a complex reaction in Eadric, despite a knowledge that it was entirely superficial.


*

"Charmed, I’m sure," Titivilus bowed with mock politeness.

"Is there any particular reason why I should not extinguish this gnat?" The Succubus asked the Paladin.

"If I thought it would carry any weight," Eadric replied, "then I would say ‘because he is divinely mandated.’ As I know that you recognize no such authority, I will simply say ‘because I ask you not to.’ I have requested the services of Titivilus as an arbiter. He is, in a manner of speaking, my guardian angel – albeit a fallen one."

"I may have misjudged Oronthon’s sense of the absurd. This monster is hardly a disinterested party, Eadric. Still, he risks much by being here alone – I wonder how he is being recompensed. Where are Murmuur and Furcus, Devil? Three together might pose a challenge to me, but one alone is an easy target."

"Alas, they lack my boldness and appetite for adventure," Titivilus replied, "and my legal expertise," he added.

Soneillon tilted her head inquisitively. "You wish for a formal compact then, Eadric?"

Eadric shook his head. "I wish for a third opinion – however partial. I am also highly dubious of the extent to which you would regard any compact as binding. You seem oblivious to most other established fiendish conventions."

Soneillon moved closer, and her eyes bored into Eadric. "You are perceptive. I wonder if Nehael recognized your potential for transcendence when she was first attracted to you, or she saw you merely as a redeemer and was romantically fixated? She was always somewhat idealistic."

Eadric squinted. "What do you know of her?"

"I knew all of the succubi in Graz’zt’s harem, Eadric. And the mariliths, the lamias, and every other shade of fiendish slut that he could lay his hands on. Each bitch is more wicked and depraved than the last, although, no doubt, each has her charms. When one spends a million years as his chief concubine, there isn’t much that one doesn’t discover."

"And you, Queen Soneillon?" Titivilus asked with an amused expression. "How wicked and depraved are you? I would almost say the wickeder, the better, from the Ahma’s perspective. He has a powerful urge to heal, you know. It continues to lead him into all kinds of trouble."

"I will tolerate your presence, but will brook neither innuendo nor veiled insults, Devil. This creature is a viper, Eadric – do not let his apparent openness and easy mannerisms deceive you. His only goal is your damnation, and if he can use me as a vehicle to achieve it then all the better for him."

Titivilus was about to speak, but Eadric held up his hand to stay him. "My circumstances are unusual," the Paladin said to Soneillon. "And it would seem that established mores do not apply to me. Somehow, I have been appointed a role in determining what is right from what is wrong, although I fail yet to fully understand my place in the new order. Damnation itself may be an outmoded concept – Saizhan is beyond such categories."

"You will be your own judge, Eadric. You know this. Who could be harsher?"

Eadric swallowed. He felt distinctly uncomfortable. Despite her subtleties, Soneillon seemed to possess an uncanny knack for presenting stark truths in uncompromising terms.

"I do not understand what motivates you," Eadric said.

"That is part of my appeal," she replied. "I am disappointed that you severed the connection between us: had the spell I wrought not been negated, you could have met me in Dream. What do you fear?"

"His lust confuses him," Titivilus said, "and he is unused to acting for the simple purpose of sensory gratification. Evil and pleasure are intimately connected in the Ahma’s mind: Temple conditioning is hard to shake off, even when one is the Breath of God."

"The Devil’s words have some merit," Eadric nodded. "I would also add, however, that Dream is something which I have little understanding of. In Afqithan, the Duke offered to act as a mediator between myself and the Loquai and their allies – I assume that he included you in the equation. I refused him for the same reason that I was dubious of encountering you in Dream – it was not a familiar environment. I prefer reality to be more tangible – there are enough variables to deal with already."

"That is a specious argument," Soneillon smiled, "but, as I have said, I am no philosopher and prefer not to be drawn into ontological debate. It would be a terrible thing if my intellect succeeded in denying the possibility of my own existence."

Eadric laughed despite himself, before staring at her with a mixture of wonder and suspicion: was her humour genuinely self-deprecating, or merely an affectation assumed for his benefit?

"We should address the question of Graz’zt," the lightness in the Demoness’s tone had vanished. "Are you now ready to hear the worst?"

"I don’t understand."

"Nehael, Eadric. Do you wish to know what has become of her?"

Be careful, Ahma, she lies almost as well as I.

"No doubt you will take a perverse pleasure in relaying this information," Eadric sighed.

I do not take my pleasure thus, sweet Eadric. "Nehael is currently held in a cell of adamant, deep below Zelatar, in immensely powerful magical bonds, and subjected to pain that you cannot begin to comprehend – Graz’zt is particularly skilled and inventive in these matters. She is guarded by the Nalfeshnee Trakkao – who administers punishment on the Prince’s behalf." Soneillon’s expression was one that, if offered by any other, the Paladin would have interpreted as genuine empathy and sorrow.

This whore is outrageous!

"Proceed," Eadric said coldly, scowling at Titivilus. He was beginning to feel sick.

"Violation of the body is only the beginning, Eadric. There is a limit to the trauma that even Demonic flesh – once fashioned of Empyrean stuff – can sustain before it loses all ability to renew itself. And Nehael is fragile – she has already relinquished much of the strength that was native to her. Little of her as you remember her remains, and her physical form has been stripped away: she consists now largely of essence. As to the integrity of her personality, who can tell? He may have broken her altogether. Prolonged pain of that magnitude often leads to madness and evil – such is the way of things."

"I fail to see what benefit relaying this information conveys to anyone."

"You should be prepared for the worst, Eadric," Soneillon answered. "She may be unrecognizable – not merely her form, but who she is. I would not keep this information from you, and later hear that you were deceived or misled by me."

Titivilus raised an eyebrow.

Outside, the storm raged.

Eadric looked at Soneillon. "I would request a brief moment to confer with my counsellor."

The Demoness nodded, and casually lay down upon one of the narrow pallets, lazily stretching her arms above her head.


**


Within the sanctuary, Nwm sat motionless, his perception reaching outwards through the weather system that he himself had conjured, and rapidly engaging in a series of penetrating mental glances towards his environment.

Eadric was masked from his faculties, but the creatures who were near him were not. Titivilus appeared to the Druid’s inner vision as a familiar set of dissonances which, when combined, left no doubt in Nwm’s mind as to the identity of the Devil. The other outsider – which defied conventional classification – seemed to be a shadow of the real, a fantasy which eluded direct scrutiny, but whose presence could be inferred by its effects on the Green in its vicinity. Soneillon, Nwm mused.

He furrowed his brow in concern. Eadric was playing with high stakes. Attempting to force some epiphany, no doubt, or construct a radical synthesis which would inform his direction.

The Druid found himself reflecting upon Jovol, the Injunction – both in letter and in spirit – and his own words to Mostin earlier that evening. A niggling doubt began to grow in his mind, quickly becoming an irritation with Eadric’s actions, and a realization that his own role in events had been too passive. The time for calculated inaction was passing.

Too many realities were in conflict, and the new one, offered by Tramst, did little to assuage Nwm’s concerns. Saizhan was too cerebral for his liking, despite its claims of relevance and immediacy. It was as though the devotional heart of Oronthonianism – however distorted and misaligned – had been ripped out and replaced with a philosophy which elevated the dialectical process itself to deific significance. Not that the majority of Oronthon worshippers would even notice, Nwm thought. Most would continue with the rites that they had observed for several hundred years, oblivious to the fact that their incarnate deity – or, rather, one aspect of him, his ‘gnostic intellect’ (whatever that was) – had utterly refuted half a millennium of dogma.

Nehael had spoken to him long before of a ‘Middle Way’ which avoided the extremes which had characterized Oronthonian thought and practice – of all thought and practice. Yet Nehael had rejected the Celestial Order a second time, when none other than Rintrah himself had offered to escort her back to Heaven. Uedii had calmly accepted her in the face of reason and expectation – an outsider to Nature’s order, admitted to her inmost secrets.

Saizhan. The Middle Way. The Dialectic. What had Eadric said that Titivilus named it? – Ahh, the ‘Path of Lightning.’ A suitably Left-handed spin on things. And Shomei had been moved on some level – but Shomei was Shomei, and carried her own fears and ghosts with her.

Somehow, Nehael was central – although, somewhere in the details, this had been conveniently forgotten. She had been the first to seek the reconciliation and transcendence of opposing Truths. She possessed a profound wisdom which the Druid missed.

Nwm sighed. If he understood the Green – and he was by no means certain of his own ability in that regard – then it would act accordingly through him. Would the tension between Oronthonianism and Uedii worship persist, although on a more rarefied level? Saizhan seemed to be a practice reserved for the educated classes. What relevance did it possess for a farmer, or for a trapper? What did they care for the much-vaunted ‘dialectic of negation?’

Retreat from the world into a life of contemplation was a luxury that few could afford, and was bought with the sweat and toil of Uediian peasants, however indirectly. The Church might be in the process of disestablishment, and its taxes lifted – as the Ahma had promised – but its principal funds still derived from the contributions of wealthy aristocrats. And their money was stolen from the farmers.

I suppose I should speak with Tramst, at some point, he thought. Although I fail to see what he could tell me that I don’t already know. Still, I should give him a chance. I might be pleasantly surprised.

The Druid returned his attention to the Steeple, where the Green warped uneasily around the interlopers.

I am sick of this. I am sick of them, being here, interfering.

He glanced at Mostin, who was fussing – attempting to arrange his padded mat to his satisfaction. Shomei was on the verge of sleep.

Nwm stroked his beard, and wondered how things would unfold.


**


You are enamoured.

Somewhat. But it will pass.

You haven’t used Palamabron’s Eye to interrogate her.

She subscribes to a different Truth. What use would it be?

[Laughter]. It is your truth which matters to you, Ahma, not hers.

You are incorrect.

Perhaps your lust blinds you.

No, it doesn’t, although it would be easier for you if it did. You are afraid of her.

[Irritated]. As should you be. She can annihilate you with a moment’s thought.

That is not what I meant. You are afraid of what she represents.

[Condescendingly]. And what may that be, Ahma?

An escape from the prison that you have created for yourself.

Your moralizing is becoming tedious, Ahma. Has she then escaped Oronthon as well? Has she placed herself beyond the infinite – your view of the infinite. Is she outside of his purview? That sword cuts both ways, Ahma. What is not Oronthon?

I will not be drawn into monistic thought.

You are avoiding the issue.

The issue is no longer a concern of mine. It is a road which leads nowhere. Now can we please consider the matter in hand – that of Soneillon. What is your opinion of her?

You are projecting your view of Nehael onto the Queen of Throile, Ahma. You have been seduced by her eloquence, wit and her – not inconsiderable – physical charm. You are confusing the two succubi in your mind. Both fly in the face of convention, and both have seized – or created – their own truth.

Are her words regarding Nehael’s current state plausible?

Utterly plausible. This does not mean that they are entirely true, however.

Do you believe that she is deceiving me?

If I told you either ‘yes’ or ‘no,’ then you would – quite rightly – question my motivation for doing so. I will therefore say ‘I do not know,’ although you might also suspect that I am withholding an answer for some unknown reason. In fact, I do not know.

[Wrily] How hard it must be, to be Titivilus. Are there occasions when you speak the plain truth, and no-one believes you?

If I speak the plain truth, then it is invariably in an effort to deceive, so the point is moot.

Would you advise a formal compact, in order to insure me against any ill will that she might bear towards me?

As you pointed out yourself, she may not regard such an agreement as binding.

Does she have a history of compacting that you are aware of?

I believe she prefers informal arrangements, such as with Irknaan.

That is not reassuring.

[Wickedly]Of course, she may be attempting to avoid a compact precisely in order to give her greater latitude in her dealings with you later on.

Your mind is truly tortuous.

Why thank-you, Ahma.

*

"Have you reached a decision, Eadric? Will you trust me?"

"I will never trust you Soneillon, because I will never understand you. You are both too alien and too human for comfort. I will, however, temporarily suspend my doubt – and possibly my better judgement. If you betray me – to death or perdition – then I will hold no ill-will towards you. The fault will be mine alone."

She smiled, and offered her hand. "Come with me. I will show you what we have to work with."

Eadric stepped backwards suspiciously. "Nhura is still loose. I must deal with her first – assuming that you still refuse to intervene and discourage her. I need time to prepare."

"This will take only a short while. I will return you in an hour or two."

The Paladin shot a glance towards Titivilus. The Devil’s face was totally impassive.

Eadric groaned and, tentatively, reached out to touch her. She dissolved, and seemed to flow both into him and around him.

The nightmares of demons – which raged all around – were impotent against the Void which cradled him, and bore him to Throile.

originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 10-07-2003

***


Mostly Nwm


Nwm fretted. It was nearly midnight, the two fiends had departed from his field of consciousness, and Eadric had not returned to the chapel. The fact that the Paladin was mind blanked did not help matters – it was impossible to discern whether he was in the vicinity or not.

When Gheim returned through the open window, the Eagle confirmed that the Ahma was no longer in the Steeple by dropping Lukarn at Nwm’s feet.

"The room is empty, although his armour is still within. Do not make me fly in search of him, Nwm – or at least calm the wind somewhat, if you do."

Nwm scowled. He feared manipulation and betrayal by either the Infernal Duke, the Succubus, or both. The possibility that the two fiends might be in cahoots with one another also troubled him.

Iua glanced at the Druid. Other than Nwm, she was the only one of the group still awake.

"Should I wake Mostin?"

Nwm shook his head. "What use would it serve? Eadric is unlocatable. We just have to wait. Stay here – I’ll be back presently."

He opened the chapel door and strode into the storm.


**


Nwm’s contention that Nhura could not mount an effective assault upon Kyrtill’s Burh until the next day was based on incomplete information, and a gross underestimate of the power at the Lillend’s command. Likewise, Mostin’s belief that the screen invoked by Shomei, together with the dimensional lock would prove a sufficient protection for the few hours they needed, was equally flawed.

Nhura was resourceful, merciless, and never one to cede the initiative in any conflict in which she was engaged. Five teams of demons conjured by Koilimilou – each consisting of a glabrezu and a succubus – had been dispatched, and one pair finally returned with useful news for the Lillend.

At Koilimilou’s command, the fiends had systematically scoured the countryside in Western Trempa, looking for Deorham and Kyrtill’s Burh, which – after questioning local farmers in an outlying stead near Hernath – was revealed to a succubus to be only twelve miles distant.

Elated with the news, the demoness slew several families in a fit of glee, before returning to her dark mistress and her even darker queen.

The castle, it appeared, was hidden by a powerful illusion, and at the centre of a highly localized weather system. The nearby village of Deorham, however, was plainly visible. The glabrezu had penetrated the screen about the keep with its vision, but subsequently retreated upon finding a quartet of devas – appearing from nowhere – which had hewn at him with their flaming swords.

When the glabrezu returned, eighteen seconds later, it was in the company of four others of its kind, five succubi, three summoned vrocks, and the creature Hazihe – the chthonic babau originally enlisted by Irknaan, and now serving Nhura.

The rewards promised to the fiends by Nhura were lavish, and included a diamond circlet of immense value, an Azer blade of fabled power, a cloak of displacement, and a robe of stars.

The demons were well motivated.


**


As Nwm began to walk the short distance across the courtyard to the base of the Steeple, one of the devas – his name was Saphrez, although the Druid neither knew nor cared – manifested before him. Nwm was bathed in light from the holy aura which surrounded the deva.

"There are demons abroad," the Celestial announced. "Where is the Ahma?"

Nwm cursed, and shook his head.

"I suggest that you retreat within."

The Druid dashed back through the doors, and yelled, jarring Shomei, Ortwin and Mostin from sleep.

"Demons. We must act now."

Blearily, Mostin invoked a wall of force.


In the courtyard, confusion reigned. The demons were materializing, but only the glabrezu – possessed of an extraordinary perceptive faculty – could readily pierce the screen which protected the area. Through force of will, the babau Hazihe summoned sufficient insight to mentally overcome the illusion. Neither the succubi nor the vrocks were capable of clear perception, however. Despite a knowledge that they were standing within the castle walls, all they saw was a rocky knoll.

The deva Tarquam, somewhat disoriented by the sudden appearance of numbers of demons – some of whom appeared very confused – nonetheless reacted quickly. He spoke a holy word, instantly sending two succubi and a glabrezu back to their Abyssal home.

Seconds later, Hazihe – a yawning void which pulsed with unlight – leaped upon him, ripping effortlessly through celestial flesh with claws and maw, and, in the blink of an eye, permanently extinguished the deva’s shining essence.

Nazaihemaht and Rôrex, the two other devas in the courtyard, both pronounced further holy words in succession, banishing yet more of the fiends screaming back to the lower planes. Hazihe, two of the glabrezu, and one of the succubi were unaffected.

From within the confines of the chapel, Mostin grimaced as he heard two power words echo within the courtyard above the noise of the storm. There was a brief pause as the demons dispatched the devas, and then the glabrezu ripped the doors of the chapel off of their hinges.

One tried pushing forwards, but encountered the wall of force.

The other attempted to teleport into the sanctum behind where the party stood, but could not penetrate the dimensional lock.

Ortwin smiled, and stuck his finger up.

"I think that gesture may be a little premature," Nwm remarked drily.


**


The Void embraced him. It was warm, soft, yielding, welcoming. It showed its power through its capacity for absorption – which had no limit – and a profound silence, free of all worry and distraction. Eadric felt as though he teetered upon the edge of oblivion, and was vaguely surprised that the threat of annihilation did not seem so terrible. Beyond, fear and madness – the thought-forms and unconscious ravings of fiends – seemed a universe away. He wanted Nothing. He needed Nothing.

She is deadly. This truth is too easy. [Thought fails. Bliss. Emptiness.]

He corporeated again within an opulent chamber, draped with crimson and fuligin. It was replete with fantastic art of a most abstract and disturbing nature – although what it portrayed, he could not tell. Dimension seemed warped and unnatural, as though curves existed where none should, and angles played at the corners of his mind only to disappear when observed directly. His perceptions buckled with layered dissonances. Nearby, a small silver bell hung from a delicate chain.

Soneillon had assumed a guise that her servants and thralls were familiar with, and Eadric swallowed. No longer a young girl, but a demoness of indeterminate age. Still beautiful, but cold, aloof, serene, worshipful; at ease with the terrible power which she commanded. She was as tall as he was, and wore only a diadem studded with black jewels.

The Succubus smiled disarmingly, and, for the Paladin’s benefit, modestly shrouded her form with her sable wings.

"Welcome to Throile," she said coyly. "I have been somewhat neglectful, and there are matters that I must attend to – do not be alarmed, I will return very shortly. Strike the bell if there is anything which you require – Helitihai will meet any need that you might have."

Although the word any was not pronounced with undue emphasis, it still carried a meaning beyond the obvious.

Eadric sighed. "I would ask two things. First, that you do not present an expurgated view of this place in order to protect my feelings – my actions must be made in full consciousness, and the more that is hidden from me, the less I will feel inclined to trust my judgement. I am in the Abyss, and I do not expect to encounter scenes which I find agreeable. Second, I do not wish to linger here too long – I am a willing ambassador, but I have other responsibilities that I must meet before I can commit to any course of action in Throile. I would feel uncomfortable if my stay lasted beyond an hour – an hour in Wyre, to be clear."

"Your concerns are duly noted, and I will observe your wishes. If you would prefer, you may accompany me now. But you should be warned: there are things here which you would regard as obscene, debased and insane. You are likely to be offended."

"I’ve come this far," Eadric pointed out. "I will reserve judgement."

"It will still shake you to your core."

Eadric found that she was right. The suffering there knew no limits, and the pleasure derived by those who inflicted it was transient, grotesque and depraved. It was, after all, the Abyss.

He earnestly hoped that he would never become inured to it.


**

The demons had vanished from view, although they still appeared as nearby blots within Nwm’s mind.

"Is he mad?" Ortwin groaned. "He didn’t take his weapon with him? Where is he?"

Nwm shrugged. "Presumably with either Titivilus, or Soneillon. Or perhaps both."

"I hope the former, for his sake," Shomei sighed. "This is tedious. I am utterly depleted, and so is Mostin. And this dimensional lock may now prove more a prison than protection. How many are out there, Nwm?"

"Four. One is very unpleasant. There are no celestials within range – they’re either destroyed or fled."

"I suspect that we are in no shape to deal with the chthonic," Shomei swallowed. "This is very bad news."

"We are safe unless they can disintegrate the wall of force," Mostin replied. "Don’t panic quite yet. We have twenty minutes or so before it collapses. I have time to prepare a banishment and a another spell or two.*"

"Can you issue a sending to Ed?" Ortwin asked.

The Alienist shook his head glumly. "By the time I’ve prepared it and cast it, the wall of force will be down. And even if I renewed the barrier and Eadric manages to return, he will be out there, and us in here. He cannot come into the chapel any more than the demons can."

"I still have a few tricks left," Nwm said wearily. His expression changed to one of horror as he shot a glance towards the open doorway of the chapel.

The demons had returned, and had brought Eadric’s small staff of retainers with them. Dwarfed by the looming presence of the glabrezu, the servants – valets and maids, stablehands and gardener – cowered in terror.

The huge demons proceeded to dismember and eat the cook. The succubus danced nearby.

"Bring out the Ahma," the Void called Hazihe demanded.

Nwm groaned. "This is intolerable. Why must it always be the innocents? Mostin, bring the wall down on my signal."

"You are joking, of course?"

Nwm began to cast a ward upon himself.

"Nwm?"

"Now, Mostin."

"Nwm, I…"

"Just for once, trust me Mostin."

The Alienist sighed, and reluctantly complied. The wall of force dissipated.

Nwm grimaced and struck his blackthorn staff once upon the flagstone inside the door. The slabs which formed the chapel floor began to crack. "She is tired of your interference," he announced to the demons, although it would have been spoken with equal vehemence to Soneillon, the Loquai, the devas, and perhaps even to the Sela himself.

Green fire blazed over the Druid, threatening to consume him. His skin blistered and cracked, his cloak ignited. His mouth, ears and eyes dripped a liquid that might have been blood, or sap, or both. A colossal discharge of viridescence emanated from him. His staff sank into the floor, burning in a brilliant flash of green, and the orb of storms which had topped it fell off and rolled away.

For the briefest moment, Ortwin fancied that he saw the silhouette of a woman in Nwm’s place: a shape of great girth and dignity; fecund, bearing a thousand swollen breasts.

The demons were transfixed with expressions of bewilderment – impaled through limb and torso on vast, thorny boughs which erupted from the paved courtyard, penetrating their hides and instantly slaying them. The corpse of the babau, Hazihe, flickered disconcertingly on the edge of consciousness: destroyed, nullified – whatever became of things that had already survived annihilation.

Nwm collapsed.

"I should like to sleep now," he said.

Mostin gaped. "I had no idea…"

Iua smiled wrily. "Thankfully, we are not all wanton braggarts."

The Bard scowled, and then rapidly dismissed his vision as the imaginings of tired eyes and a still sluggish mind. Besides, nobody else seemed to have noticed.



*


Nhura waited.

The Demons did not return. The Lillend attempted to reach them with magical sight. Nothing. They were gone.

She cursed, and glanced at Koilimilou. The Cambion was slumped exhausted, in deep trance. Nhura resisted the urge to slay her out of spite – Koilimilou was too useful – and glanced at Jetheeg.

The Lamia was, as her custom dictated, polymorphed into the form of a crone – approximately human in shape – but of great height, and possessing an unusually bestial and vicious aspect. Jetheeg was accustomed to riding a griffon, and if forced into physical combat – something which she was generally cautious to avoid – her hag-like form served her well.

"The demons have failed," Jetheeg remarked drily.

"Koilimilou will conjure more tomorrow," Nhura scowled.

"She will run out of potential compactees at this rate. Her patroness will be most displeased with her in any case – losing five glabrezu is an act of reprehensible carelessness."

"If Rhyxali cannot provide them then we will try another," Nhura countered. "Soneillon has…"

"Soneillon." Jetheeg scoffed. "Do not place too much trust in Throile, or its Queen. You are precariously perched, majesty," the word majesty carried the slightest hint of condescension.

"She may provide more of Hazihe’s ilk. She knows many names. I still suspect that she will pay a high price for the Ahma."

"If she ever deigns to answer your sendings," Jetheeg sneered.

"We will prevail," Nhura hissed. "Watch your tongue, Jetheeg – I am not above removing it. We know the exact location of the castle. You will issue more sendings tomorrow – Irzho is still here, somewhere in this world. He can be solicited – I suspect that he, like us, is now somewhat indifferent to Graz’zt’s rule. And give the Cambion an hour to conjure more demons in the morning. When we assault the place, we will be prepared. Others will be glad to compact – there are sweet rewards for those who succeed."

Jetheeg nodded – the promise was directed towards her as much as any other.


But, as later that night, Nhura rested – coiled around a tree of evil temper within the woods of Hethio – she herself received a succession of sendings from her glabrezu lover and cohort, Narab. He had been charged – together with Tebdeluz** – with maintaining a close guard upon Lehurze, whose capacity for treachery, Nhura suspected, was exceeded only by her usefulness as a tool. Lehurze had been appointed the task of reopening a dialogue with the Devils who maintained a presence in Afqithan. In fact, the suavity of the succubus did not match the oratory finesse of Titivilus and Furcas – two of Hell’s foremost rhetoricians – and she quickly found herself beating a hasty diplomatic retreat.

None of this mattered, because Narab’s sendings conveyed a dire message to the Lillend. Mere hours had passed in the demiplane since the departure of the Ahma and his party:

Ainhorr holds Afqithan. Three legions plus daemon mercenaries. Devils remain – assaults upon tower ineffective. Loquai capitulated quickly. Lehurze location unknown. Tebdeluz eliminated. Annexation took five minutes.

No, not sweet Tebdeluz! Nhura swore profusely. Disposition and location of enemy? Generals? Ainhorr returned to favour? What of Soneillon? Graz’zt?

Bar-lgura; some chasme. No dretches – highly mobile. Nycaloths. Seven mariliths; auxiliaries and specialists include goristros, kelvezu, retrievers, many succubi. Ainhorr armoured and rearmed. Soneillon location unknown. Graz’zt presumed Azzagrat.

Nhura groaned. She had half-anticipated some form of inquiry from Zelatar when the periodic gate opened – hence her own intentional absence. But this was unexpected. Lehurze may have sold her out. As could any one of a dozen others, for that matter. And three legions – close to twenty thousand demons – was hardly a token presence.

What to do now?, she wondered.


**

"You expect me to do what?" Eadric asked, incredulous.

"Do you think that you could deal with him – hand-to-hand – if his magic were neutralized?"

"No. Not alone."

"But with – for example – Ortwin and Iua?"

"Probably," Eadric conceded. "But I think that they would both require extensive inducements to participate. Ortwin would be the first to admit that he favours the appearance of valour over valour itself; and generally prefers money to morals."

"When Zelatar is looted, Eadric – as it certainly will be, after the fall of one of Graz’zt’s stature – then Ortwin, I suspect, will be there to take the choicest pickings. Have you any idea of the extent of the Prince’s wealth? Scavengers from a thousand different realities will descend upon Azzagrat like flies. News travels quickly."

"Then it would rapidly become the least desirable place in the cosmos to be," Eadric sighed.

"I doubt that Ortwin will see it that way."

"You speak as though the outcome is a foregone conclusion."

"Graz’zt can be eliminated. You must be the bait."

"He will not rise to it."

"You must force his hand. You are capable of doing this, Eadric: rousing his ire to such a degree, that he loses all perspective in his lust for vengeance."

"I had considered Afqithan to be a possible locale for an encounter."

"As had I," Soneillon agreed. "And his mind is already turned there. He is attempting to unravel the events that transpired there."

Eadric gave an inquisitive look.

"Ainhorr has just annexed the demiplane."

Eadric groaned and his eyes bulged. He considered briefly. "Why? I mean, why you, now? What do you stand to gain? I don’t believe that all of your action springs from vindictiveness and the desire for revenge. You are too considered. Too methodical."

The Demoness laughed. "The Ahma sees with clear eyes. Because there is something of mine that I would dearly like returned to me. He stole it. I want it back."




In Nhura’s throne room, in the palace built by Irknaan in Afqithan, Ainhorr gloated over the loot brought to him by the bar-lgura which leapt madly through the halls. Most of the Loquai who dwelt in the fortress had translated to Shadow or Faerie and eluded capture, but grizzly examples were made of their servants and those unfortunate enough to have been caught unawares.

Demons and sendings had raced back and forth. Menicau, Samodoquol and a dozen other nobles had immediately sued for peace. Within an hour, tributes had been lavished upon the Balor by fawning aristocrats. Ainhorr’s contempt for them was offset by his immense greed, and a recognition that the Loquai – ultimately pragmatic in their outlook – would prove no threat.

The Demon set his pristine slaadi-forged blade across his knees, and relaxed into an immense throne of steel – erected in place of Irknaan’s delicate chair of tenebrous coral. He intended to enjoy his tenure as despot of Afqithan.

He gazed through the deep-set windows across the lawns – strewn with the bodies of demons, Loquai, and fey and goblin slaves – and through the trees. Fifty nycadaemons now soared menacingly around the diabolic tower. Its inhabitants – three Dukes of Hell and their retinue – were reportedly contained. As much as it was possible to contain three Infernal magnates.

Which was to say, Ainhorr sneered to himself, not at all.







*At this point, Mostin had two fifth-level, one sixth level and one seventh-level open slots left. All of his prepared high-level spells, except for a plane shift and a discern location had already been cast.


**Narab and Tebdeluz: big glabrezu – advanced to 24 HD – and bound to Nhura by Irknaan himself as part of their nuptial agreement. Narab was given the stone of sendings – lost by Shomei – to continually apprise Nhura of Lehurze’s actions, as well as the maneuvering of the various Loquai nobles in her absence.


Note:

Nwm’s spell (She is tired of your interference) was a spontaneous variation of another that his player, Dave had been working on. I had ruled that DC0 Epic Spells could be invented and cast "on the fly." In this case I also allowed the staff of the woodlands to be used as a (fabulously expensive) material component – I permitted the normal XP cost to create the item (3600 XP) to be used in lieu of part of the XP mitigating factors (i.e. –36 DC). It had wholly appropriate symbolism for the mood that Nwm was in, and the spell’s visual effects reflected that.

So Nwm was the first PC to cast an Epic Spell in the game – to the immense surprise of the other players, who had no idea that Nwm was capable (or even that he was 21st level, IIRC).

The demonic attack was kind of mean of me, I’ll admit (although the players had great fun playing the devas for a round or two), but it was within Nhura’s capabilities to organize the ambush, so I could hardly let it pass. The PCs were still all completely spent from their encounter with Crosod, Eadric was missing, and to throw the chthonic babau (CR 20 or so) and a bunch of glabrezu at them at this point was a little bit ruthless.


On a related note, this opened a whole new can of worms – that of allowing magical items to serve as material components for Epic Spells. I actually quite like the idea: its not as though such things can be freely purchased in the campaign, and I think it actually balances quite well – one form of XP sink (the item) is converted into another (the Epic Spell). The purpose and symbolism needs to be consistent on some level – so it wouldn’t be possible to use, say, Daern’s instant fortress to fuel a fire evocation.

Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 10-27-03

****


The Parley - Part 1

The meeting took place in early autumn at dusk, three days after the full moon, in a glade deep within the woods of Hethio. Mid-way – Nwm remarked ironically to himself – between Groba, where the Uediian rebellion had begun, and the eaves where Hullu’s last encampment of Bagaudas had been set. With the Tunthi tribesman’s abdication of leadership, the focussed organization of the Uediian uprising had rapidly degenerated into a motley rabble of outlaws and bandits, who now prowled the farmlands of Wyre’s richest province in gangs of twenty or more.

But not near here. All shunned this spot. Fear had descended upon the woods.

The Umbral Lillend, Nhura, was coiled in a posture which suggested both calm and confidence. To her left, mounted upon a griffon of singular size and evil disposition, Jetheeg – in her hag-form – sat impatiently, a look of cynicism and contempt upon her hideous face. Around them were arrayed Loquai knights of varying stature and reputation, who appeared as numinous shades from whom darkness flowed. To the right of Nhura, standing impassively below the Lillend’s standard – a hanging sable pennant upon which the device was utterly obscured – was Koilimilou the sidhe-cambion. All the company were surrounded by compacted demons – a score of jariliths which prowled and circled ceaselessly.

Sh*t, Ortwin thought to himself. This better be for real, or we’re all dead meat. Despite Eadric’s assurances to the contrary, the Satyr felt less than confident in the motives of the recently styled – and now exiled – Queen of Afqithan or her entourage.

Ortwin glanced over his shoulder. Behind him, Mostin, Shomei and Nwm stood silently; telepathically bonded and buoyed by potent wards and augmentations, and ready to unleash a devastating magical attack if things went awry. Iua raised her eyebrows in a gesture which combined reassurance with a sense of deeply appreciative irony.

Ortwin grinned, and trotted forwards.

"Beautiful ladies," he bowed, causing Jetheeg to scowl yet further. "Elevated Triptych of incomparable grace and poise. I am King Ortwin – welcome to my realm."

Jetheeg snarled.

The Satyr smiled appreciatively before continuing. "I believe that, in our haste to create a favourable impression with one another, we may have overstepped the normal bounds of propriety and – inadvertently – caused each other mutual inconvenience."

"Must we endure this fool’s prattling?" Jetheeg snapped, at no-one in particular. "Get to the point, Satyr. Bring out the box, bow and armour. And the other treasures which you have looted. And then we’ll speak."

"My apologies," Ortwin bowed again. "In a previous parley we may have acted somewhat precipitously, and this time I wanted to be sure to observe the formal niceties." The Satyr gave Koilimilou a sideways glance. "Believe me, I share your impatience."

He strode forward five paces, and unslung a heavy sack from his back. As he hurled it to the ground, it opened. Armour, a slender sword, a buckler, a compound bow, and several other enchanted objects of enormous power spilled forth. The box of shades fell upon the moss, and the Cambion inhaled sharply.

Nhura gestured, and two of her knights approached Ortwin with a black canvas held between them. It sagged with the weight of gear won from the Satyr and the Infernalist.

Nhura smiled. "I regret that, at this time, it is impossible for me to return your stone of sendings. It remains in Afqithan in the hands of one of my servants."

Inwardly, Shomei groaned. For her, it was a particularly useful item.

Ortwin licked his lips, and prepared to engage in more small-talk, but from behind him he heard Nwm – who appeared wilder and more unkempt than ever before – grunt disapprovingly.

"They are here."


**


Eadric’s return, some days before, had been a solemn event. The Ahma had seemed weighed down with concern, and his eyes had conveyed a sense of pain and horror. He had witnessed near infinite brutality and suffering. The brief ecstasies enjoyed by demons – at the expense of naked souls, whose eternal lot was perdition within Soneillon’s Abyssal demesne – coupled with Throile’s madness-inducing warp of dimension and time, had left a knot of sickness and loathing in his gut.

Upon his arrival at Deorham, at the climax of a furious storm of Nwm’s devising, his heart had sunk yet further. The courtyard of Kyrtill’s Burh had been spattered with celestial and demonic ichor; human entrails lay strewn about, and the doors to the chapel were smashed against the base of the Steeple.

Outside of the entranceway to the sanctum, a great blackthorn reared, its sudden growth demonstrated by the shattered cobblestones nearby. Several of its branches were like huge, barbed lances, upon which the stricken forms of demons hung motionless, pierced and raised skywards as if in dreadful sacrifice to the storm and the Goddess.

Eadric had barely glanced at the tree as he walked into the chapel. Inside, his servants sat quietly in a small group whilst Iua had stood guard over them. Mostin and Shomei had been close in whispered conversation, and Nwm had appeared catatonic and wrapped in a heavy cloak.

Ortwin had grinned, and tossed him his weapon. "Glad you could make it. Better late than never, I suppose."

"I have struck a deal with Soneillon," Eadric had said.

Shomei had looked up with an expression which combined awe with profound concern.

"Welcome to the Path Sinister," she had sighed. "May your progress be as traumatic and as bewildering as mine."

"There are no paths, nor were there ever any. I act from instinct now."

"You are an adept already," she had smiled.

*

It had happened as the Ahma had predicted. The next morning, a summoned succubus had arrived in order to impart a message from Nhura: a parley in five days, if all were willing. An exchange of captured goods was to take place. Eadric had explained that it was part of the agreement reached with the Queen of Throile.

Nwm had groaned loudly. "She has maneuvered everyone into this situation. Irknaan and Crosod are conveniently eliminated – no doubt Soneillon doubted their tractability. Has it occurred to you that she may herself have had a hand in betraying Nhura to Graz’zt?"

Eadric had nodded.

Shomei had shrugged. "Such is the nature of demonic alliances – they shift from hour to hour. It requires considerable will and insight for a leader to maintain any kind of cohesion. We should not even begin to think that we understand her true purpose, however. It will remain hidden for some time yet."

Eadric had mentioned that the demoness wanted something ‘returned to her.’

Mostin had tutted and shaken his head. "I don’t suppose that she mentioned – in passing – what this ‘thing’ was?"

"No."

"I thought not," the Alienist had sighed. "You are perceptive, Eadric – that much I reluctantly concede. But surely you cannot actually trust this creature?"

"I trust her to do that which is in her own best interest," Eadric had answered. "I think it is up to us to try to determine exactly what that is. I don’t pretend that it will be easy. We have little other choice. Afqithan is an obvious locale for a confrontation – and neither you nor Shomei will be bound by the Injunction there. You may conjure hideous entities to your heart’s content."

"I fully intend to," Mostin had replied casually. "But why five days? Why not today?"

"I need time for reflection," Eadric had said simply.

Four days later, he had returned to Throile again, to the dismay of Nwm. He would meet them at the appointed time and place.

"Is he ensorcelled?" The Druid had asked Mostin.

"Not to my knowledge," the Alienist had answered. "But I make no claim to omniscience."


**


Within the glade, Ortwin took several hasty steps back again as the Void began to manifest. Fear spilled from it – dream-phantoms which lingered in the waking world, before evaporating in the ruddy sunset.

Eadric’s form materialized. Next to him, almost as though she were a ward in his care – or his lover, the Satyr wrily observed – was a slender girl clad in a traditional folk dress.

So that is her, Ortwin thought. Intriguing. Less compelling than I had imagined.

As if in response, her eyes brushed over him for the briefest moment. The Satyr immediately felt desire of a magnitude he had never before experienced. His stomach twisted into a knot, and his head span.* He was thankful that he was mind blanked and he knew instantly that, without protective magic, had she laid even the simplest enchantment upon him, he would have been utterly incapable of resisting.

Under the watchful eyes of Nhura, Jetheeg and Koilimilou – suspicious that the Alienist might attempt a time stop and attack – Shomei erected a screen and Mostin fabricated a large, circular table and thirteen chairs from an oak tree, together with a wooden awning supported by slender pillars.

"Not bad," Shomei remarked nonchalantly, and immediately sat down. Eadric watched her – despite her bravado, he knew that she was tense and nervous. Demons – and their allies – were less predictable than her usual diabolic associates.

Soneillon stepped away from the Ahma and smiled.

"Thank-you all for coming," the Queen of Throile said softly. "As you either know, or have guessed, I am Soneillon. At this moment, we share a common purpose which outweighs any other petty concerns which we might have. How we have arrived here is now irrelevant, and we should put these thoughts behind us. This is a parley and a truce. No weapon will be drawn, and no offensive magic will be invoked on pain of annihilation."

Mostin looked sceptical. "You are powerful, but hardly omnipotent, Soneillon. The same conditions apply to you: I will blast you if I suspect counterfeit or magical manipulation, and if the last act I commit is to have you dragged screaming to Uzzhin then I will die happy – I suspect that your dubious ontological status will prove to be of no importance in that paradigm. You should be aware that you cannot effectively be both an arbiter and an interested party in this matter."

"Graz’zt is your enemy, Mostin, not I."

"That remains to be seen," the Alienist countered. "But as none of us trust each other, I am inclined to proceed with utmost caution. I should like to ask several questions before we go any further."

"Are all Wyrish Wizards so arrogant and disrespectful?" Jetheeg asked incredulously. "And openly insulting a Demon Queen is an act of questionable wisdom."

"Truth – even if presented in a most bombastic way – may be my ally at present. I would be misrepresenting myself if I allowed Soneillon to dictate the terms of this arrangement."

Ortwin’s eyes bulged. Eadric smiled. Nhura said nothing, but her eyes narrowed as she studied the Alienist. Very powerful. Very dangerous, she thought.

Soneillon seemed unfazed, and opened her palm, indicating that Mostin should proceed.

"What is this thing that you desire to repossess from the Prince of Azzagrat, and what is Rhyxali’s role in this? What becomes of his sanctum if he is eliminated: can another demon – magnate or no – benefit from its power, or is it attuned only to him? How many succubi within your retinue are sorceresses, and what is their relative power? And what is your defense in Throile against assault from Azzagrat? I assume that, on that count, there is some kind of ongoing spell or magical protection in effect – or the Prince would have overwhelmed you long ago. Finally, I would be grateful if you enlightened me with regard to Pazuzu’s involvement – if any – and, out of intellectual curiosity, any information regarding the entity Carasch would be much appreciated."

Eadric glanced over the Loquai. Despite their practiced hauteur, he detected discomfort among several of them when the name of Rhyxali was mentioned. Nhura’s emotion, if she experienced any, was unreadable.

[Shomei]: ?
[Mostin]: There are hidden fingers in this pie. I am merely informing her that I have considered the possibilities of who they might be.

Soneillon gave a wry smile and leaned forwards towards Mostin. "Your speculation is insightful. Have you heard of Pharamne’s Urn?"

Mostin wracked his brains. "I confess that I have not."

"This is the item that I wish returned to me," the Succubus said simply.

"Evidently, it is not yours by right, else it would be called Soneillon’s Urn. What is its function, and who is – or was – Pharamne?"

"An Aeon**," Soneillon answered.

Mostin looked dumbfounded and stared at the Ahma.

Eadric groaned. "Please, Mostin, explanations surrounding these matters may take all night. Since I last mentioned this item, I have made inquiries and Soneillon has been forthcoming – I will explain later. Rhyxali’s involvement will also become clear in due course."

"Then she is implicated?"

"She is the heretofore secret co-sponsor of the Loquai. Koilimilou is her chief representative."

The Cambion tilted her head, and stared venomously at Eadric. The air seethed with unmanifest arcane power. Nearby, the jariliths began to bay and snarl.

"Stay your temper, Koi," Nhura said drily. "It would appear that Queen Soneillon has thoroughly instructed the Ahma – for reasons I’m sure she will divulge presently."

"Rhyxali will lend aid in any effort to retake Afqithan," Soneillon explained.

"I would have been informed," Koilimilou hissed.

"You are a thrall, nothing more," Soneillon said lightly. "Do not overestimate your importance."


**


The two kelvezu, Cociz and Dramalaz – erstwhile servants of Prince Socothbenoth, but lately retained by Graz’zt – took due pleasure and satisfaction in the task appointed to them in Afqithan. As Ainhorr’s chief inquisitors, they left, in a matter of hours, a trail of mangled and mutilated forms which stretched across the breadth of the demiplane. Their retinue – which consisted of a variety of lesser demons – soon found that the fear evoked by the rumour of their arrival manifested itself in generous bribes from a number of Loquai nobility.

The information which was relayed back to Ainhorr, and thence to Graz’zt, was of a conflicting nature. A Duke from Faerie – Rhalid – had been in Afqithan with a hunting party. Rhalid or one of his cohorts had, in fact, been the despised Eadric of Deorham. Soneillon was implicated. Irknaan had been involved, but was slain because of an internal feud. Lehurze. The Infernal nobles Murmuur, Titivilus and Furcus were somehow enmeshed in the affair, as were a number of Afqithan’s significant figures who were now, apparently, on the Prime – Nhura, Koilimilou, Jetheeg, Crosod and Threxu.

Graz’zt immediately smelled a plot, retired to his sanctum, and deployed a potent divination.

Upon emerging from his reverie, the Prince of Azzagrat acted swiftly. The periodic portal in Afqithan – upon which Irknaan’s palace had been built – had closed, but Graz’zt opened a series of further gates. He reinforced Ainhorr’s contingent with thirty nalfeshnees and around a hundred glabrezu. He issued orders to the marilith Janiq – one of his most experienced, competent and trusted generals in the field – to vigorously renew her assault within Throile, and bolstered her armies there. For the sake of completeness, the ongoing war against Orcus – which had raged inconclusively for millennia across a dozen planes, and absorbed most of the Prince’s resources – was stepped up a notch.

The succubus, Nehael – by Graz’zt’s arts now stripped of her flesh, rendered insane, and subjected to continual torment – was confined alone within a prison world mere yards across, and warded against location by any form of magic or supernatural power. The only gate to the prison was sealed and similarly hidden, and the key – a silver cylinder some twelve inches long, and carved with indecipherable glyphs – was secreted in a location known only to the Prince himself.

Graz’zt turned his mind to the three Infernal Dukes present in Afqithan, and pondered upon Murmuur’s tower and how best to overcome it. The connection between Titivilus and the Ahma was known to him, but Murmuur was a Duke of the Order of the Fly, not a vassal of Dispater. His involvement was a concern, and bespoke the machinations of subtler devils, and tacit agreements between Dis and Malbolge. And Murmuur’s tower was close to impregnable: Graz’zt recalled its deployment upon the Blessed Plain – along with the other contrivances of the Adversary and Belial – in the early stages of the Great Revolt.

For an instant, a feeling of enormous poignancy welled up from within him: a profound melancholy, which consumed him utterly. Ideals and ancient oaths broken, and bright visions of bliss and freedom brought guttering to cold ash.

When it had passed, his brow furrowed in dark reflection. It was becoming hard to recall, and the memories seemed like dreams: divorced and incomplete, as though another, and not he, had taken part in those awful events.


**

"What of the succubus who followed me through the reality maelstrom," Mostin asked. "She is your cohort?"

Soneillon smiled. "Sometimes."

"And presently?" Mostin asked irritably.

"Her name is Lehurze," Nhura answered. "Narab indicated that she disappeared prior to Ainhorr’s attack. She is very slippery. If we meet again, I will likely kill her out of caution. I suspect that she covets Afqithan; Irknaan intended for her to supplant me."

"And where is she?" Mostin asked, exasperated.

Soneillon stared hard at the Alienist: she had no doubt that he could locate Lehurze if he so desired. "She has returned to Azzagrat."

Nhura cursed. "I knew that the whore was a turncoat, but…"

"Graz’zt does not know that she is there," Soneillon interrupted, "although, doubtless, he knows that she is somehow involved in events to date. He probably also guesses that she has Maihodrot’s cubic gate. Before you ask, Mostin, Maihodrot was the demon responsible for overseeing Afqithan. Graz’zt executed him for dereliction."

"That was long overdue," Nhura remarked acidly. "He was an incompetent fool."

"What of the devils?" Shomei asked. "What is their rôle in this?"

"I suspect that they are waiting to see how events unfold before acting." The Succubus answered.

"Ainhorr has more than sufficient strength to force their retreat."

"Not so," Soneillon countered. "He can partially contain them, nothing more. They have erected a tower which is all but impenetrable. It is also a planar nexus, and leads to a number of worlds – including several Hells, no doubt."

"But Graz’zt himself could overcome it?" Mostin asked.

"Yes, given sufficient preparation. As could I. Or you maybe, Mostin; or Shomei. Or the understated Nwm. I know what you did to Hazihe, Druid. It was most impressive."

"I would have done the same to you," Nwm said coolly. "My current concern is to see you – all of you – return to whatever grim, depressing realities that you issued from. Or at least out of mine, in any case. I am hoping that this parley might expedite the process."

"You arrogant bastard," Jetheeg snapped. "As I recall it was first you who trespassed in Afqithan. And now you cry foul at our presence here? Mortals are perpetual hypocrites."

Eadric held up his hand. "The point is well-made. I think, however, we should move on before it becomes a point of contention. What has passed, has passed. The root question, which everyone is carefully avoiding, is this: can Graz’zt be lured to Afqithan and eliminated? Do we have the wherewithal? More importantly, I have yet to be convinced of the authenticity of you, Nhura, and your company: when allegiances change as quickly as yours, you must understand that it is impossible for me to hold even a modicum of trust. I speak the plain truth. What is preventing you from betraying us to Graz’zt?"

The Umbral Lillend laughed. "Nothing at all, Ahma. But Graz’zt is somewhat unforgiving of those that deceive him. And Soneillon would, doubtless, punish me for any transgression against her. And Ainhorr sits on my throne, which irks me more than a little."

Shomei shook her head. "I think that if Eadric of Deorham were delivered into Graz’zt’s hands, then he would forgive more than a little. Perhaps even the Queen of Throile has considered as much. We can, however, assume that this course of action did not appeal to her: she has had the opportunity, and did not act upon it. Here is your answer, Nhura: if you betray us, be sure that we are all dead. Because if either Mostin or I survive, we will find you, and kill you. But first, the glooms will stalk you, and the horrors will tear your mind apart. I am more vindictive than others here."





*It’s worth bearing in mind that Soneillon’s stratospheric Charisma – 50, when buffed – is close to impossible to portray meaningfully in game terms. Given the fact that she is primarily a sexual being (or nonbeing), Ortwin’s response – given his predilections – was natural.

**Aeons are (or were) understood to be cosmic celestial entities; emanations (or possibly avatars) of Oronthon. They are charged with tasks of great magnitude: establishing physical and metaphysical laws; the creation and maintenance of matter, space, energy and time. Orthodox Oronthonianism denies their existence, and long ago branded speculation regarding Aeons as heretical. Both Irrenite and Urgic belief, however, have a place for Aeons within their respective schemas: they are amoral or trans-moral but finite; removed by several degrees from the standard celestial hierarchy, and unconcerned by relative terms such as good and evil. Irrenite belief links them with the Inevitables, who otherwise occupy a very inconsistent place within the Orthodox world-view.

Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 11-23-2003

****


The Parley - Part 2. And Afterwards.



The jariliths prowled ceaselessly around them.

Nwm observed Soneillon with curiosity as she spoke. The demoness seemed utterly calm and imperturbable, as though she possessed every answer to every question that might cross a troubled mind. Somehow, in her own way, she seemed to have resolved all paradox. He understood Eadric’s fascination with her – if it was fascination – but simultaneously wondered whether it was a façade, and hoped that the Ahma held the same doubts.

The Queen of Throile spoke at length about Graz’zt: his subtlety, guile and prescience; his dominion, and the worlds that it extended to; his insatiable ambition; his allies, great and small; and his personal power, which, if he were given the opportunity to augment through sorcery before any meeting with them, might prove beyond even their collective ability to counter.

Kostchtchie, his most formidable ally, was discussed: to what extent would he remain steadfast? Who amongst the Prince’s servants – demons, daemons, demodands, lamias and half-fiends of every hue – would be loyal in the event of a serious threat to his hegemony? How far was his control already compromised: three of his balors had been eliminated and two – including Rurunoth – were missing. Only Ainhorr remained.

"Ainhorr is now armoured," Nhura said, "and, according to Narab, wields a slaadi blade."

"The weapon is called…Heedless," Soneillon said, after searching briefly for an accurate translation of its name. "It is a ten-foot vorpal sword. He won it from the death slaad champion Rshgu in the Vestibule of Lamentation: he was not idle after you broke his blade, Eadric, and sought eagerly for a replacement. Heedless is, as its name suggests, a notoriously fickle weapon, even by slaadi standards.* It is immensely powerful, and may actually present more of a threat than the Balor himself. Ainhorr may or may not be capable of controlling it – it has only been in his ownership briefly. Graz’zt must have lent him aid in his efforts to secure it, prior to the assault upon Afqithan – Rshgu would have crushed him under normal circumstances."

"Charming," Ortwin smiled. Privately, his stomach turned over. Ainhorr remained something of a bugaboo for him. "You seem remarkably well-informed regarding these matters."

"Yes," Soneillon agreed.

"You are also less than altogether forthcoming," Mostin added, "but this is not entirely unexpected. Earlier, I posited a question regarding the Prince’s sanctum. He is an arch-fiend, and much of his power stems from it – would it benefit you, if you were in possession of it? Could you actualize its potential?"

"I have no interest in replacing Graz’zt as the ruler of Azzagrat, if that is what you are asking – albeit obliquely. And no, it is his. Neither Ainhorr, nor even Kostchtchie could ascend and claim it. It would quickly wither upon his demise."

"And Azzagrat itself? Does his Will maintain the cohesion of the realm?"

"Azzagrat would eventually return to Void, from which it was carved. But only after a billion life-ages of the universe. In this regard it is no different from any other Abyssal domain."

"Your brand of nihilism is unique," Shomei said. "Perhaps you could expand further upon this theory?"

"Philosophy does not interest me," Soneillon replied dismissively.

"Adyell, Helitihai, Orychne and Chaya," Mostin pressed on. "These are your chief servants. Given your propensity for powerful spells, Soneillon, I assume that they are well-used to acting with you in magical concert? And by drawing energy from them into yourself, or diffusing it, you prevent them ever becoming a challenge to you."

[Soneillon]: Your mind is exquisitely tortuous, Alienist. I would greatly enjoy penetrating its mysteries. [Image] [Image]

Nwm coughed and Shomei raised an eyebrow as the telepathic bond relayed the information to them. Eadric smiled sympathetically. Mostin seemed to be somewhat flushed and embarrassed.

"I am intrigued by where your questions are leading," Soneillon remarked, apparently nonplussed.

[Shomei]: !? Mostin, you cannot be serious…

[Mostin]: With you, and Nwm, and Mulissu, and Jetheeg, and Koilimilou, and the succubi it would be possible. I would need to fine tune the spell. We should not discount the possibility.

Mostin breathed deeply. "Heretofore, you may have considered two options: to negate the Prince’s spellcasting and to overcome him through force of arms, or to subject him to a titanic magical barrage in Afqithan and hope that his defenses can be overcome. Both involve considerable risk. There are two other choices, which you are not aware of: given a cabal of sufficient ability, it is within my means to conjure the Prince and contain him; or I can gate a pseudonatural entity which I have come to know affectionately as The Horror and attempt to deploy it against Graz’zt." The Alienist winced as he said the demon’s name.

Soneillon looked dubious. "I doubt your ability to devise such a spell."

"It is mine already. I inherited it from Fillein."

Nhura hissed. "That spell? It would seem unreliable, at best."

"The dweomer is perfect," Mostin countered. "I believe that the Prince was intentionally released the last time he was bound."

"Then there is no need to leave this place until that is accomplished," Koilimilou said. "He can be bound here, and…"

"No," Nwm said.

"The Druid refers to the Injunction," Nhura explained. "Outside of the proscribed area, however…"

"No," Nwm said, "I do not. I will neither participate in nor condone the imprisonment of a Demon Prince within the Green. If you proceed regardless, I will release him."

Mostin sighed and nodded. They had already discussed this at length. "We would need to find another location."

"In this case I would not recommend Afqithan," Nhura said coldly. "Not out of any concern that he would be bound in my vicinity, but because his release might be too easily accomplished by his own agents: there are many cultists loyal to him."

"I will seek for a suitable locale," Shomei grimaced. "An obscure demi-plane would be the best option. Alternatively, I could create one – although I currently lack the wherewithal to do so. And I suspect that the debt incurred in casting the binding spell would be large."

"Colossal," Mostin corrected her. "I also currently lack the means."

"Then why are we even having this discussion?" Jetheeg snarled. "You spend too much time in idle speculation. We should assault Ainhorr before his grip tightens – enough of the Loquai have escaped to Shadow or Faerie or obscure regions of the Abyss. They can be rallied and deployed en masse. If Rhyxali really purposes to lend aid, it will be easy enough to retake Afqithan. Graz’zt cannot denude his forces elsewhere to that great an extent. And if this mortal here," Jetheeg waved curtly towards Eadric, "is really such a prize, and Graz’zt comes in person to add his weight to the fray, then all the better."

Eadric shook his head. "He must be lured, if we follow that route. If he comes expecting war – armed to the teeth, surrounded by bodyguards and warded by spells that we cannot hope to penetrate – then it will go badly for us."

"Challenge him to single combat," Ortwin said drily.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I’m not suggesting that you actually go through with it," Ortwin said, as if instructing a child. "But he probably knows that you’d like to, and therefore it wouldn’t come as a total surprise to him if you did, in fact, issue the challenge. It is a plausible deception."

"It is absurd," Eadric replied.

"If he refuses, then brand him as craven before his peers. Kostchtchie, Pazuzu, Fraz Urb’Luu, Orcus, Rhyxali. The gentle Lady Soneillon." Ortwin gave a mock bow. "Issue multiple sendings to a variety of Abyssal dignitaries declaring your intentions."

"You are insane."

"I will act as your herald to Graz’zt. I can make him believe it. Outside of the Infernal host, few liars approach me in guile or believability."

"That is quite a boast, Satyr," Jetheeg hissed. "And even if it were true, so what? Deceiving a mortal, or even a demon of low rank is one thing. But Graz’zt? I think not."

"I am capable," Ortwin replied nonchalantly. "Graz’zt is no different to any other demon, except that he is less gullible than most. In order to make him believe, one simply needs to be a better liar. If a mind blank is not adequate to the task, then Nwm will devise a spell to make my lies undetectable by Graz’zt’s magic…"

"Will he?" The Druid raised an eyebrow.

"But not yet," Ortwin added quickly. "We need to rile him beyond all rational behaviour first. And I agree that it would be better if he were not accompanied by a dozen mariliths. His reaction needs to be so utterly violent and deranged that he immediately translates to Afqithan in order to kill Eadric. Overwhelming his forces there and eliminating Ainhorr might be a good start in our achieving this state of transcendental ire in the Prince – although I would recommend that we keep our identities hidden again for the meantime."

"He will obliterate you before you can even deliver the message," Nhura scoffed, "and if not, then certainly in response to such a challenge."

"Perhaps," Ortwin said, "in which case Nwm will reincarnate me. Although I suspect that he will not assail me. I will, after all, be in disguise."

"And what would you be disguised as?" Nwm asked, sighing.

"Not what, but who. As Titivilus, dear Nwm. As Titivilus."

"You would dare impersonate an Infernal magnate?" Jetheeg asked, incredulous.

"Yes," Ortwin replied. "Diplomatic immunity would be useful in negotiating with Graz’zt."

"That is unwise," Shomei said quietly. "It would attract displeasure in unwanted quarters. And the Nuncio of Dis himself might be your least concern."

"I will weather it," Ortwin grinned. "The opportunity of executing one of the greatest counterfeits in history is difficult to resist. It will be my magnum opus."

Eadric exhaled sharply. "We have a variety of options, it would seem. Having multiple redundancies in our plans is no bad thing, however. Nhura – how long before you could assemble the remaining Loquai?"

"They are dispersed. Some weeks, in your time. Several days in mine."

"And the creature you have mentioned, Mostin. Is it reliable?"

"I don’t know," the Alienist replied. "If Shomei and Nwm were to help me, I believe I could coerce it. A fourth caster would guarantee success and a reasonable degree of safety." Mostin stared meaningfully at Koilimilou.

"Now just wait a minute…" Nwm began.

"It will involve an immense backlash," Mostin continued.

"Would you gate it?" Koilimilou asked.

Mostin shook his head. "I think with four of us, I would use a planar binding. Holding it long enough to subject it to a compulsion would be no problem."

[Nwm]: I am uneasy about involving this cambion in magical concert.

[Mostin]: As am I. She has raw power, however, and is now our ally. Fillein/Jovol was right: cooperative casting is where we should focus ourselves, Nwm. The potential is immense.

"Nhura will translate to Faerie," Soneillon said, "and rally the Loquai. I will send word to those that have fled to Shadow, or to Rhyxali’s demesne. I will also speak again to Rhyxali herself, and contact Lehurze in Azzagrat." Eadric, return with me to Throile. There is much that I would share with you.

Eadric swallowed. "We should meet again in three weeks. We have some breathing time, at least. Nhura, issue a sending and we will translate to your location."

"We have yet to find a suitable staging ground," Nhura remarked. "Faerie and Shadow both entail certain risks."

"I will leave it to your discretion," Eadric replied.

"Is that trust I hear, Ahma?"

"It is pragmatism."

[Soneillon]: Come with me, Eadric…

Eadric closed his eyes, and refocused. "I will go to Morne," he said.


Mostin nodded, but felt uncomfortable. The connection between Graz’zt and Rhyxali was the subject of scholarly debate amongst those with more than a passing interest in demonology. Was their resemblance to one another merely superficial, or were they cut from the same block? Did they share a common essence? Was she, somehow, his anima?

His stomach knotted. He desperately needed to consult the web of motes.


**


The Triune met for the second time on the autumn equinox, at Mostin’s manse, in the woods southwest of Deorham. Orolde – somewhat awed by the presence of the three powerful mages – nonetheless ensured an agreeable environment in which they could discuss whatever weighty matters they needed to discuss. Unlike Mostin, the apprentice had made peaceable contact with the nearby sprites, and several pixies – whom Mostin eyed suspiciously – acted as temporary cooks and waiters.

After a sumptuous repast, the Infernalist, Elementalist and Alienist sat upon the porch in silent telepathic communion.

[Mulissu]: Here is the spell [Formula] I have avoided any unnecessary squandering of your valuable reservoir, Mostin.

[Mostin]: (Analyzes) If Nwm can be co-opted, collectively we could do this: [New Formula]

[Mulissu]: (Eyes widen) That is most impressive.

[Mostin]: (Smiles) That is only the beginning. We could then do this [Formula] and then this [Formula].

[Mulissu]: (Dumbstruck).

[Shomei]: (Wrily) Effectively, the Green dissipates the backlash. Nwm has set certain conditions upon his involvement, however.

[Mulissu]: Whatever they are, we should accept them. No-one has ever gone this far before. Whatever secrets Jovol could unlock from the web of motes will be trivial in comparison to the insights that we could gain. What does the Druid require?

[Mostin]: That, collectively, we petition the Claviger for an amendment to the Injunction. And assurances from each of us that while the augmented condition persists, we will only use its benefits for the purpose of divination.

[Mulissu]: (Ruefully) The latter, I will happily guarantee. But I am not sure that the Claviger can be so easily persuaded. What is Nwm’s request?

[Shomei]: A tightening of the rules regarding summoning.

[Mulissu]: In response to the actions of the Loquai?

[Mostin]: Partly. And Soneillon. And the devas at Kyrtill’s Burh, amongst others.

[Shomei]: No extraplanar entity should be permitted to enter Wyre. Period. Or the Claviger will dispatch the Enforcer to eliminate them.

[Mulissu]: I have no objection to approaching the Claviger on this point. I am dubious about its reaction, however.

[Shomei]: Is a quorum more likely to gain a favourable response?

[Mulissu]: I would say no. The Claviger is the Claviger. It abides by its own rules. Its motives are unguessable, and its intelligence quite alien.

[Mostin]: I believe that it would compromise the Claviger’s paradigm – which is geared towards the actions of Wizards. What if the Sela were to gate a solar to Morne? Would Gihaahia intercept it? It would be a conflict of interests, and would, in fact, throw the entire Injunction into question: its key tenet is still ‘no intervention in non-arcane politics.’ Moreover, an incident between the Enforcer and a cascade of celestials would be better avoided.

[Mulissu]: You forget that Rintrah was complicit in the idea of a Second Injunction. Jovol’s relationship to the Celestial Host and Tramst was – or is, assuming that Jovol’s essence persists – ambiguous, to say the least.

[Mostin]: It is beyond the Claviger’s purview. However sympathetic I am to Nwm’s position, I think he is on his own.

[Mulissu]: I am surprised that Nwm doesn’t object to the presence of the Claviger itself.

[Mostin]: (Humourously) He does. I think he regards it as the lesser of two evils, however. Untrammelled summoning is worse for him. It is amusing to speculate upon an organizing principle in this regard. Jovol, Rintrah, Nwm – all are working within the same framework, but to attain different ends.

[Shomei+Mulissu]: !

[Mostin]: I said amusing. I am not suggesting some metacosmic conspiracy.

[Shomei]: In any case, we should approach the Claviger. It can do no harm. And I am curious to experience it.

[Mostin]: Agreed. Nwm himself also indicated that he would like to join us in the petition.

[Mulissu]: (Sardonically) Then if the Enforcer is unleashed against us, we may, at least last a few seconds longer.

[Shomei]: I doubt it. When I inspected the web of motes it was quite apparent that the Claviger possessed significant deific powers. It would likely magnify** the Enforcer before any encounter with an entity that might otherwise prove a viable threat.

[Mostin]: Are you then suggesting that the four of us acting in concert might present a ‘viable threat’ to the unaugmented Enforcer?

[Shomei]: Certainly. We are, after all, the most potent spellcasters in the world.

[Mostin]: That is worrying. I had simply assumed Gihaahia to be unassailable. If a cabal of powerful mages were to attack her…I am thinking of posterity, here.

[Mulissu]: (Acidly) The point is moot. The Claviger has great prescience, and is virtually omniscient with regard to all things magical. It knows we are having this conversation, and has already determined its course of action with regard to our petition. It may have reached its decision ten billion years ago. Things will unfold as they were meant to.

[Mostin]: I expected better from you, Mulissu. I am tired of fatalistic musings – is it a philosophical fashion that somehow escaped me?

[Mulissu]: Realities are changing faster than I can apprehend them, Mostin. One must find some kind of calm center. Angst becomes tedious after a while. Should I contact Nwm now?

[Mostin]: (Nods).


*

Mulissu issued a sending and, shortly thereafter, Nwm stepped from a nearby elm-tree.

"I assume that my proposal received a favourable response?" The Druid asked wrily.

"It is ingenious," Mulissu agreed. "I should caution you that, even collectively, we cannot assure a similar reaction from the Claviger. We cannot coerce it – only appeal to its guiding principles."

"If it agrees, how will its decision manifest?"

"I don’t know," the Elementalist replied.

"When can we make the petition?"

"There is no time like the present."

"Should we forewarn it of our impending visit?" Nwm asked.

Shomei smiled. "Don’t worry Nwm. It already knows."

Nwm raised an eyebrow.


*

In a small, dry cave in the hills of Mord, a child – with shoulder-length blonde hair and possessed of an ambiguous gender – suddenly materialized before an upright marble slab nine feet tall.

The great tablet, engraved with a thousand or more paragraphs of detailed arcane legalese, seemed to hum inaudibly and pulse invisibly. It had presence of an unusual kind, although the exact quality of its sentience was difficult to determine – its very inscrutability was the quality which marked it as far removed from the mundane.

The child watched patiently as, descending into the chamber down a narrow flight of rough-hewn steps, a trio of Wizards and a Uediian priest shuffled nervously.

Upon seeing the child waiting, Mostin was seized by an almost uncontrollable bout of panic, and attempted to push past Mulissu, and back up the staircase.

The Druid scowled at him, blocked his egress, and gestured for him to continue on into the cave, to which he only reluctantly complied. As the four assembled before the diminutive figure, Nwm watched the Alienist carefully. The last thing he needed was for Mostin to suffer one of his ‘episodes.’

"I am…" Nwm began.

"…Nwm," the child finished for him.

"Are you…"

"…the Claviger, or the Enforcer?" The child completed his sentence again. "We are joined now. It makes little difference. I am the mostly benign part."

Mostin relaxed somewhat.

"You know why we are here," Nwm, Mostin, Mulissu, Shomei and the child said in perfect synchrony.

"Yes," the child said.

Mostin swallowed. "Is the…"

"…Injunction immutable, or is it subject to change? Both. You should have read it more closely. It contains a clause which ultimately gives the Claviger discretionary power in its interpretation. A law which is static and unyielding is of limited utility. The answer to your question, incidentally, is no. The Enforcer will not be deployed against ‘extraplanar’ targets – if you insist on using such naïve terminology – simply because they are present."

Mostin grinned smugly, his confidence returning. "I told you…"

"Your analysis is incomplete," the child interrupted. "Unfortunately, due to your meager perceptual faculty, you lack the ability to reach a comprehensive understanding."

Mostin scowled. "Perhaps you could…"

"…enlighten you? It would be a futile exercise to even attempt it. Could you instruct a rodent meaningfully in the higher magical arts?"

"It could be…"

"…awakened, yes. In which case it would no longer be a rodent per se. The metaphor is apt – if the Claviger were to change your faculty to be capable of understanding, you would no longer be Mostin the Metagnostic. Dismiss the possibility from your mind – the Claviger has no intention of deifying you. You may now ask one question regarding the web of motes."

Mostin shook his head, and gestured vaguely in the air. Obviously, vocalizing his question was an entirely superfluous act.

"Yes," the child answered unequivocally, and vanished.

Mulissu gave a quizzical look. Her hair crackled in mild irritation.





*Slaadi blades are almost invariably sapient.

** i.e. bestow one or more divine ranks.

Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 12-15-2003

An Untitled Update



Eadric stood next to Sercion upon the roof of the Temple in the warm autumn sun, and gazed out across Morne. Much of the damage caused to a thousand private residences in the wake of the wave of hate had been repaired, although, in places, clusters of blackened buildings remained. Industrious craftsmen still busied themselves with numerous minor projects, and from sunrise until dusk the tap-tapping of stone hammers, and the rasp of saws echoed across the city. The scaffolding which surrounded the Fane itself, however, was silent and abandoned – no mason or carpenter had worked there for two weeks.

The Temple coffers were empty. Many of Wyre’s aristocrats – appalled at the fact that the new Primate had distributed huge quantities of gold to Uediian peasants – had ceased to pay the now-voluntary tax. Promissory notes issued some months before had been delayed by church bureaucrats to such an extent that most of the guilds in Morne now refused to deal with the Temple at all.

Eadric scowled. “What is the debt, Sercion?”

The Templar grimaced. “Around two hundred thousand crowns, Ahma. Or so I am told.”

“I will honour it,” Eadric sighed.

“Good,” the Sela said, ascending onto the roof behind them.

Eadric bowed.

“For long term sponsorship, we need to look to Sihu and Tagur to set the example,” Sercion said. “Unfortunately, they are still paying for the war. Wars are expensive.”

“There needs to be a coherent financial strategy,” the Sela remarked wrily. “Alas, Oronthon chose one with no expertise in this area to be his representative – hence I depend upon a staff who are more competent in these matters than I.”

“The Temple estates are vast,” Eadric pointed out.

“But undergoing a sweeping monasticization,” Sercion added. “Negotiating their relationship with the secular order will be a huge challenge. Foide and Skilla are already grumbling about the tax differentials.”

“I confess that I am somewhat behind the times,” Eadric said.

“How is your relationship with Skadding?” Sercion asked.

Eadric looked confused.

“Will you be attending the investiture, Ahma?” The Templar continued.

“He will be sworn in as Duke of Trempa in ten days,” the Sela explained. He seemed rather amused.

Eadric sighed, and shrugged. This was news to him. The mundane affairs of Wyre – even those which concerned him directly – seemed a world away.

Tramst gestured for Eadric to follow him. “Come. We need to talk.”


*


The Sela – whose demeanour that particular morning, Eadric noted, seemed more mortal than divine – opened a small cabinet, retrieved a bottle of amygdala, and gestured for Eadric to sit in a wooden chair with a worn leather cushion. The reception room – once sumptuously furnished during Cynric’s tenure as Archbishop – was now bright, airy and spartan. Eadric smiled. The Sela had, after all, achieved his perfection in the company of Urgic Mystics in Ardan, renowned for their austerity and modesty.

“How is Titivilus?” The Sela asked ironically, handing Eadric a carved wooden goblet filled with the almond liqueur.

“He is enigmatic and confusing,” Eadric replied.

“And Soneillon?”

“Doubly so. I have yet to comprehend her place in the scheme of things.”

“It will doubtless become clear in due course,” Tramst said opaquely.

“I should like to voice my concerns, and ask some questions, if I might,” Eadric ventured.

“Try to avoid metaphysics,” the Sela smiled.

“I will address them tangentially, if at all,” Eadric replied. “Pharamne’s Urn…” Eadric began.

The Sela groaned.

“I am not about to ask questions regarding the ‘truth’ in what was previously considered heretical doctrine, nor am I about to inquire regarding the properties of this thing. But if such an object were to exist – is there any reason that I should not allow it to fall into the hands of the Demoness. Actually, I do not seek an answer to that question either, Sela, I merely wish to impress upon you that it is something which currently preoccupies me.”

“As it should,” Tramst agreed.

“There is also the question of those I number my allies: A demon queen – or possibly two, if I include Rhyxali – and a variety of umbral fiendish feys and their cohorts. Not to mention Mostin and Shomei, who have dubious connections, to say the least.”

“And Nwm?” The Sela inquired.

Eadric laughed. “Once, I considered my friendship with Nwm to be scandalous. Others felt that it compromised my faith. These days, we argue little – our philosophical differences are relatively minor compared to the others with whom I deal.”

“What is your relationship to me, Eadric?” Tramst asked unexpectedly.

“I do not understand…”

“I mean, do you regard me as your confessor? As your teacher? The absolute spiritual authority whom you follow? Your Archbishop? Or do you regard yourself as my equal in some ways?”

Eadric looked horrified. “You are the Sela. You are…”

Tramst held up his hand. “Yes, yes. The Infinite Perception of God. No value judgement is implied in the question, Ahma. What is your function? What is the purpose of the Ahma?”

“To pave the way for you.”

“Well, now I am here. You remain the Ahma, however. What is your purpose now?”

“I think I am still defining it,” Eadric answered carefully.

“I once asked you if vengeance and retribution were within your purview. Have you come to a conclusion yet?”

“To define my rôle purely in those terms makes me somewhat uncomfortable.”

“I said nothing about vengeance and retribution being exclusive qualities. They do not preclude mercy, for instance. But the question remains: is this now the primary purpose of the Ahma? Is this why he wages war on Graz’zt?”

Eadric shook his head. “I would bring aid to Nehael. None other will come.”

“For mercy or love then? Perhaps you resent the fact that Enitharmon has not ordered a host to descend into Azzagrat?”

“I do not resent it – who am I to dictate action to the Celestial Marshal?” Eadric sighed. “Although, sometimes, I regret it,” he added ruefully.

“But if Oronthon were to appoint a powerful representative in order to expedite Nehael’s release, and to bring justice to Graz’zt, you would deem it appropriate?”

“Yes, I would.”

“Despite the fact that she turned her back upon Rintrah when he extended Oronthon’s grace to her?”

“Perhaps because of it,” Eadric answered. “She seeks a higher perspective.”

“Maybe Rintrah was sent to tempt her,” the Sela said, smiling. “To offer her an easy way out.”

“That is a peculiar inversion of conventional truth.”

“The fact that it can be inverted is the quality which defines it as conventional, Eadric. And perhaps Enitharmon cannot act, because he relates to that aspect of Oronthon which is conventional, bounded and finite. It is not within his remit.”

“That is unfortunate for Nehael,” Eadric said grimly.

“I don’t see why. Oronthon has merely opted to use a more unconventional tool.”

Eadric looked confused.

The Sela sighed. “You, Ahma, you. Whilst your humility is an endearing trait, sometimes it can be painfully difficult to make you understand your own importance. You are a liminal entity, Eadric. You relate to facets of reality which have no place within the beliefs of Orthodoxy, or the understanding of celestials. This is why the acceptance of self-determination is most important to you – perhaps Cynric himself foresaw this. After all, whatever you do, it is the Will of Oronthon.”

“But I can still Fall.”

“Oh yes,” Tramst nodded. “And harder, faster and with more brilliance than any have done for a long while. Do not make the mistake of thinking that you have transcended the paradox, or even that the paradox can be transcended.”

“You give most conflicting lessons, Sela.”

“Thank-you,” Tramst said.

“I have another question,” Eadric said, averting his eyes. “It is somewhat presumptuous. You may feel the need to chastise me for asking it.”

The Sela smiled. “This should be interesting.”

“It regards your nature – both finite and unbounded. I recognize that this is a necessary dialectic for the transmission of saizhan: you cannot be purely Man or purely God.”

“I had not perceived it in those terms. It is an interesting speculation. You are also trespassing dangerously near the province of metaphysics, now.”

“Sometimes, you appear as more mortal than divine to me. At others, you are the Godhead manifest. Is this merely a reflection of my understanding, or does it have a basis outside of my own experience?”

“Is there a difference?” Tramst asked.

The Ahma nodded. Saizho. The capacity for the human mind to perceive is also something which I frequently meditate upon. I refer to Mostin’s plans…

“You are concerned that his expanded awareness may be dangerous?”

“Yes,” Eadric replied. “Especially with regard to the web of motes. The idea that he can acquire as much prescience as that offers. And Shomei…”

“Do not concern yourself with Shomei. She has a healthier perspective than Mostin, although she will soon be confronted with an enormous burden.” Do you wish to know what it is?

Will the knowledge benefit her, or anyone else?

“It might,” the Sela replied. A look of sympathy briefly crossed his face. “Shomei will soon die.”

Eadric’s jaw dropped. “But…”

“She will perceive her own demise when she inspects the web of motes, just as Jovol did.”

“It cannot be averted?”

“She can choose to make the manner of her passing meaningful.” Tramst explained.

“But Nwm can…”

“I have opened the door for her, Eadric. Death will be a less unpleasant experience for her, the second time around. She may be unwilling to give it up. Bliss is not easily surrendered.”

“Then she will have failed, according to her own philosophy,” Eadric sighed. “When the struggle ceases, what then for Shomei? It defines her being. It is the essence of what she is.”

The Sela smiled. “I think that, for Shomei, overcoming her desire to overcome may be the ultimate antinomian act.”

Eadric grimaced, and nodded.

“That is all, for the moment. Has this conversation helped you?”

“Oddly, yes,” Eadric replied.

“Good. And beware of Soneillon, Eadric.”

“Yes,” the Ahma replied.

He stood, bowed, and exited the reception room, and began to walk down the steps towards the cloister. But before he had descended even half-way, he was met by a familiar figure – hooded in purple, bearing an ornate rod, and about whom the faintest hint of cinnamon hung. He swallowed, and his mind span. For a fraction of a second, he wondered what she and Tramst would talk about. He wondered how often that – since their initial exchange – she had come here to see the Sela. It was hardly the kind of detail that she would be inclined to share.

“Hello, Ahma,” she said with a wry half-smile.

He nodded in acknowledgement, but did not meet her eyes.

Passing out of the cloister, beneath the scaffolding and across the courtyard, Eadric made his way to the stable, where three score Temple steeds – many of celestial descent – were quartered. The place was strangely serene and, aside from the horses and two grooms, entirely empty. Contundor’s stall, like the others, was open and ungated. The destrier bore no harness, and stood waiting patiently.

“I will not ask you to come with me…” Eadric began.

I will come.

“Thank-you,” he smiled.


**


Ortwin and Iua – together with the sidhe-cambion, Koilimilou – sped through the twilit skies of Afqithan. They were mind blanked, invisible, polymorphed and buoyed by several other augmentations. Ortwin was, for once, serious in his attitude and demeanour. There were demons everywhere: they could afford to take no risks.

Koilimilou said nothing during their progress. Her face remained impassive. Ortwin found her presence and demeanour utterly disconcerting.

They were bound for Chaltipeluse, the castle of Ytryn, a Loquai noble who preferred the style of ‘duke’ rather than ‘king’ – although it reflected nothing on the actual power at his command. His fortress, carved by indentured dao from the rock of a mountain-peak long ages before, would – in a more conventional conflict – have been altogether unassailable. In Afqithan, it was no less vulnerable than an unwalled village upon an open plain.

Ytryn was, as Irknaan had been, an aristocrat with two demonic sponsors – although Koilimilou didn’t doubt that he had been one of the first to support Ainhorr when the Balor had invaded the demiplane. Loyalty to either Graz’zt or Rhyxali was not so much an issue as the opportunity offered by service to one, or the other, or both. Ortwin, in order to demonstrate his glibness and power of persuasion, had volunteered to address Ytryn, and win him on board – or at least find a way to compromise him sufficiently to turn Ainhorr’s suspicious eye towards the Duke. If his position became untenable, he might be forced to rally to Nhura out of desperation.

It was a dirty plan, Ortwin thought, but then again they were hardly observing the niceties of Wyrish chivalry. Not that anyone really observes them in Wyre, either, the Satyr mused.

If all else failed, Koilimilou would – hopefully – ensorcel Ytryn with a geas*. They would likely also need to eliminate the Duke’s consort, a hag named Chavrille. And anyone else present when Ytryn was enchanted.

Ortwin felt his pouch nervously, to check that the two scrolls hastily scribed by Mostin and Shomei, a plane shift and a sending – to be used only in emergencies – were still there. It had been a long time since he had read a spell from a scroll. He hoped they wouldn’t backfire.

“Will there be demons there?” Ortwin asked. “Or has Ainhorr granted a modicum of autonomy to his new subjects?”

“There will be demons,” Koilimilou replied stonily.

“Is that speculation, or do you know for a fact?”

“The palace will be crawling with Ainhorr’s agents. Some will be disguised. Others will be openly present in the capacity of ‘advisors.’ There may or may not be a garrison – which may be of a temporary, permanent or indefinite nature.”

“Then how can we even gain a private audience with Ytryn?” Ortwin groaned. “I mislike the idea of attempting to coerce him in the presence of a marilith and half a dozen glabrezu…”

“You work it out,” Koilimilou snapped. “You are the one who claims to be able to talk his way out of anything. And to think you had the presumption to assert your ability to dupe Graz’zt himself.”

“Actually, I am more concerned that my innuendo will need to be so subtle, that Ytryn himself may not understand it.”

Koilimilou scowled. This satyr was a braggart.

Iua sighed. “The real problem is, as Mostin continually points out, that any demon in Afqithan – and I include Ainhorr himself in that statement – is only two teleports away. Ten seconds.”

“If we see any demons abruptly vanish, then so should we,” Ortwin replied.

“And if we don’t see them at all?”

“Then we’re screwed,” Ortwin admitted. He groaned. “How can we fight this war? I see only repeated guerilla raids of teleporting demons, and umbral sidhe who vanish back to Shadow after brief forays. Is there nothing which can be likened to a conventional force?” The Satyr considered Mostin – the Alienist had, amongst other duties, agreed to reflect upon possible strategies for combating large numbers of demons.

“That is a conventional force,” Koilimilou said irritably. “At least by Loquai standards. They favour campaigns of bloody, tit-for-tat attrition. Graz’zt knows this, and has deployed leaping demons as his main troops – they are teleporters. Dretch would be of no use at all to him, even in vast numbers. Hence, also, the kelvezu, although no-one knows how many – their services are exceedingly expensive. There again, Graz’zt is unfathomably rich. Strike and retreat. Intimidate. But every Loquai stronghold has areas which are dimensionally locked to prevent precisely this kind of assault. And many sit on gates to one plane or another. Some are known, some are jealously guarded secrets.”

“And Ytryn’s fortress?” Ortwin asked.

“Has a portal which leads to Faerie,” Koilimilou answered. “But I do not know its location, or its appearance.”

“But his inner chambers – wherever his Ducal seat is – will be in a place which is proof against extradimensional movement?”

“And scrying,” Koilimilou replied.

“And his sanctum – where he practices magic?”

“Pah,” the Cambion sneered. “Ytryn has no great ability. He is a warrior, nothing more. Chavrille is a necromancer of some skill, however.”

“And, aside from the Loquai and any demons, is there anything which we should expect?”

“Gargoyles and manticores. Displacer beasts.”

“Of the umbral fiendish variety, no doubt?”

“Naturally,” Koilimilou replied humourlessly.

“Does this…quality…which Afqithan possesses have a source?” Ortwin had been about to say taint, but decided that it might be undiplomatic. “A wellspring? A locus? Is there a place where the umbral bleed is strongest?”

“You adequately demonstrate your cosmogonic ignorance with regard to Afqithan,” Koilimilou sneered.

“Shomei speculated that it may be a splinter of Faerie which was shivered during the Fall…”

A look of contempt crossed Koilimilou’s face.

“Pray enlighten me,” Ortwin said drily.

“Afqithan is Afqithan, just as Azzagrat is Azzagrat. Speculate all you like. The umbral flux ebbs and flows. Sometimes, Shadow is closer, at others it is further away.”

“But the pure malignancy,” Ortwin asked, deciding that diplomacy was wasted on the Cambion. “That is not a trait native to Shadow.”

Koilimilou smiled darkly. “That is the touch of the Lady Rhyxali.”

“But…”

“She was venerated here long before the name of Graz’zt was known. This place is sacred to her. And whatever temporary steward takes control, Afqithan is, and always has been, hers.”

“Ah,” Ortwin nodded dubiously, raising his eyebrows.


**


“There is too much to do,” Mostin grumbled. “And too little time.” Within the extradimensional space of his manse, his desk – normally immaculate in its organization – was strewn with books and papers. Several imps – temporarily compacted – acted as scribes: finding references, bringing books to Mostin, or taking notes as required. The Alienist’s mind held every title of each of the nine hundred volumes which Shomei had loaned him. He merely needed to decrypt them and scan them for relevant information – during the time that he wasn’t working on the second in the series of spells designed to interpret the web of motes. His head span.

Pharamne’s Urn. Carasch. The Horror. Rhyxali. Soneillon. Titivilus. Murmuur’s Tower. Graz’zt. The Ahma. Nehael. Throile. Afqithan. Azzagrat. Lehurze. Ainhorr. Nhura.

“Perhaps you should retreat to a slower time-stream,” Orolde suggested unhelpfully, eyeing one of the devils suspiciously. It leered back at him.

“Perhaps you could retrieve Tersimion’s Last Diatribes against Arcanism and insert it into your fundament,” Mostin replied with uncharacteristic vulgarity. “It would be a fitting resting place for that tome, in any case.”

“I will make some tea,” the Nixie sniffed.

“That is an excellent idea,” Mostin nodded. “Orolde, in case my attention lapses, do not allow any imps into the house proper. If I were censured for violating the Injunction at this time, it would be highly regrettable.”

Orolde nodded, and withdrew.


The Alienist issued a sending to Ortwin:

What progress? Ytryn ally? News of Titivilus? Soneillon? Do we have timeline? Need viable, secure base of operation.

Patience. No contact made yet. Still considering options. Dimensional Locks in Chaltipeluse may prove defensible.

Mostin sighed, and idly tapped upon the nigh-indestructible sphere of black crystal which sat in front of him.

Nufrut’s head appeared. She scowled.

“Your knowledge of strategy and tactics in the sphere of Abyssal warfare is immense,” Mostin said.

“Yes,” the Marilith sighed.

“And your knowledge of Afqithan itself, not inconsiderable.”

“That is correct. Get to the point, Mostin. You are being boring.”

“I would remind you that you are the disembodied head, and I am the powerful wizard whose patience has recently been tried overmuch,” Mostin said drily.

“The point is well made,” Nufrut admitted.

“If you had eighteen thousand bar-lgura, a thousand or so chasme, several hundred nycadaemons, as many succubi and palrethees, a hundred goristros, and – how many kelvezu do you think Graz’zt has had the opportunity to enlist, by the way?”

“Now that is an interesting question, isn’t it?” Nufrut smirked.

“In any case,” Mostin continued, “is there a classical model or scenario for annexing or invading a demiplane such as Afqithan?”

“I’m sure there are several hundred, at least,” Nufrut answered.

“But their organization – presuming they have any?”

“Do not make the error of assuming that because of their philosophical inclination towards freedom and satiation, that demons are an undisciplined rabble when gathered en masse,” Nufrut chided. “Who are the Generals? Captains?”

“Seven mariliths. And more recently arrived – according to Nhura – two dozen nalfeshnees and a hundred or so glabrezu.”

“Seven? Graz’zt is taking no chances, it would appear,” Nufrut’s condescending smile was beginning to irk Mostin. “You should give up now, Mostin. You have no hope at all.”

“Correct me if my analysis is wrong,” Mostin said, ignoring the Marilith’s enjoinment to despair. “Goristros are, being largely immobile, confined to the capacity of point-defense and guarding important tactical positions; succubi and palrethees act as scouts, messengers and aerial light cavalry, so to speak…”

“That is correct,” Nufrut replied enthusiastically. “They are seldom deployed in units of more than six to twelve. Also, the capacity of some succubi to act as infiltrators should not be underestimated.”

“But the chasme are deployed in larger groups?”

“Squadrons of forty or fifty,” Nufrut replied. “They are extremely effective when massed. Their collective drone will be close to irresistible.”

Mostin’s stomach tightened. He hadn’t even begun to consider the implications of that. “And the heavy-hitters? The nycadaemon mercenaries?”

“Three or four companies are sufficient to use as shock troops,” Nufrut leered, “and expendable. But I wouldn’t anticipate a pitched battle, in any case.”

The Alienist’s mind was already developing a plan. And the more he thought about it, the more he liked it. He needed to address the root of the problem. “Let me pose another question, Nufrut: if I could force a pitched confrontation. If the ability of these demons to teleport was temporarily suspended…”

“That is pointless speculation,” the Marilith sneered.

Mostin ignored her. Formulae were flooding through his psyche. He picked up Nufrut’s sphere, and handed it to the imps.

“Take a five-minute break,” he said to his compacted scribes. “Do not leave this extradimensional space.”


As the diminutive fiends gleefully tossed Nufrut’s head to one another, Mostin brushed all of his collected books and papers from his desk with a swift sweep of his arm. He retrieved a single, blank sheet of paper, and with a quill pen which made him feel particularly dangerous – boldly still bearing its feather – he wrote at the top:

Mostin’s Grand Astral Flux Inhibitor

He sighed, crossed it out, and pondered briefly, before writing:

Mostin’s Quiescence of the Spheres

Much better, he thought. Not that he really had time to begin this. But it couldn’t hurt to analyze a few formulae. Just to see if it was a plausible idea.

Within five minutes, he had decided that it was plausible, and all thoughts of Pharamne’s Urn and Carasch had left his mind. He now had seventeen days to develop two transvalent spells.

Orolde returned shortly thereafter with a large pot of tea, which Mostin liberally fortified with a variety of alchemical stimulants.






*Koilimilou would use a limited wish to achieve the desired effect. 1 action being better than 10 minutes.

Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 02-16-2004

**


Three Webs.



Eadric rode alone from Morne to Trempa upon Contundor, passing by his own keep at Deorham without pause late in the afternoon of the second day of the journey.

His decision not to take Tatterbrand, who had been quietly at work within the Temple apiary, was based in large measure upon the knowledge that his squire – upon learning of the Ahma's intentions – would have insisted upon accompanying his master to Afqithan. And Afqithan was a place beyond Tatterbrand's ability to comprehend and, likely, survive.

Mostin's message, I can lock part of the demiplane. It will be possible for you to go as yourself, without duplicity, if you so desire, was a simultaneous cause of both relief and concern for him, and he considered the implications as he rode.

Somewhat later, when Eadric made camp by the wayside, Mostin himself appeared and they discussed the likely unfolding of events. Soneillon was engaged in delicate negotiations with Rhyxali, and Ortwin made overtures to Duke Ytryn in Afqithan. They waited for Nhura to rally the remaining Loquai in Faerie and Shadow, and give the signal. Mostin seemed confident that the spell that he was devising and – with the aid of Nwm and Shomei – would invoke, was proof against even Graz'zt's attempts to dispel.

"Provided, of course, that he does not enlist a cabal of his own," Eadric said drily.

"Demons are not renowned for exhibiting a preference for cooperative magic," Mostin sniffed.

"Except Soneillon?" Eadric asked.

"She is unusual in that regard, but not unique," Mostin nodded. "You know her better than most. In your judgment, will she involve herself personally, or act through others?"

Eadric shrugged. "I've no idea. I'm surprised that you trust my ability to read her."

"I don't," Mostin agreed. "But I trust mine less in this regard. And I have not been to Throile. What did…"

"I'd really prefer not to talk about it, Mostin."

"Ahh," the Alienist nodded.

"And Throile itself is under renewed attack."

"Evidently, she keeps you well informed," Mostin raised an eyebrow. "When you were there, did she…"

"Mostin…" Eadric sighed.

"I'll not ask again. Apparently you feel a little reticent to speak of it."

"How perceptive of you, Mostin. And when will your spell be ready?"

"Soon enough," the Alienist answered. "I am somewhat pressed for time, however. And Shomei is nagging me to complete my part of the cycle which will allow us to interpret the web of motes. She is ready, and so is Nwm."

"Then don't let me keep you," Eadric said, arranging his blanket meaningfully.

"She is not idle, however," Mostin continued, ignoring the hint. "I believe she has approached several Infernal magnates regarding possible support in the Afqithan endeavour."

"On whose authority?" Eadric was aghast.

Mostin laughed. "I don't think that she requires any. Shomei is very well connected. And she is also making inquiries regarding the presence of Titivilus in the demiplane."

"This is becoming too complex." His mind boggled as he considered the connection between the Sela and the Infernalist. A microcosm of the Irrenite perception of Oronthon and the Adversary? The Left Hand of the Numinous. Do not start thinking that way. It leads to madness.

"What do you expect?" Mostin sighed. "The prize is enormous, after all."

"Afqithan? Hardly."

"Azzagrat is the prize, Eadric, with its untold wealth. And the fall of Graz'zt. Such events – or the promise of them – tend to attract attention. Lots of attention."

"Mmm. Yes. I suppose they do."

"Are you actually beginning to grasp the full ramifications of this, Eadric?" Mostin asked sarcastically. "You realize that the spill-over will be immense, of course? It will be like dropping a boulder into a puddle."

"Azzagrat is a puddle?"

"Cosmically speaking, yes. And if we succeed, we create something that Abyssal nature abhors the most."

Eadric gave a quizzical look.

"A power vacuum," Mostin explained.


**


Had Rintrah been mortal, and subject to the vagaries of pride or honour, he might have rejoiced in the grace bestowed upon him, or experienced ecstasy at his newfound closeness with the Godhood. As it was, lacking in such faculties, or even a differentiated sense of self, the temporary Perfection of the celestial registered as nothing more than a recognition that he was a more efficient tool for carrying out his Shining Master's Will. His thoughts reached out to find an omnipresence which mystics might have regarded as comforting and all-embracing. Lacking an ego to begin with, the experience was less profound for the Messenger.

Wreathing himself in flame and darkness, Rintrah descended rapidly into the lowest pit of Hell. After a brief and unknowable exchange had occurred, the celestial struck out across the infinities which stretched toward the Abyss, perceived by his mind's eye as a spiral which led to Nothingness.

In Morne, the Sela sat in a state of saizhan, the interaction of entities of tremendous power appearing merely as facets of the dialectic revealed to consciousness. Whether his mind reflected reality, or reality responded to his intention was unknown. Causality, synchronicity and coincidence: all were meaningless terms.

The Messenger reached an interface. A bubble of separation. Sealed, inviolable; the labour of centuries of sorcery. Even before he touched it, Rintrah knew that he could not penetrate it.

Oronthon Magnified him. He passed effortlessly through.

Pain waited beyond. It was as if all the agony in the cosmos had been distilled into this single space, mere yards across: a perfect sphere, the walls of which were graven with glyphs and runes of torment. Their power passed over the celestial, and around him, and through him, but caused less than the slightest discomfort. Rintrah's eyes, incandescent with potency now, glanced upwards to behold a semblance of a form: wracked, inchoate, stretched and twisted beyond recognition, its pattern diffuse at its margins. It seemed as if the slightest of breezes would cause it to evaporate. Its grasp on existence was tenuous.

Under the force of the Planetar's selfless Will, the quiddity of the sphere began to change, and reshaped itself according to his direction. Empty space assumed pleasing forms: a tree, a small pool with lilies, a tiny rock garden. The upper hemisphere gave off a soft, azure radiance, reminiscent of a cloudless day in late summer.

Rintrah rested briefly: the effort of creation was not insignificant. He glanced at the artificial sky, still etched with sigils of dreadful power which emanated madness and pain, before his wings lifted him gently aloft. As his hand trailed lightly over the runes, each one shattered, disjoined into its separate components. They fell like a silver dust upon the rockery, or to float upon the surface of the pool.

The formless thing, still suspended in the centre of the sphere, quivered palpably and then relaxed. For an instant, Rintrah was concerned that the sudden removal of the tension that it had experienced might cause it to dissociate. He swiftly grasped the essence and held it in his hands. Cohesion and perception returned to it. Responsive to the celestial's ministrations, it corporeated rapidly.

Rintrah laid her by the bole of the tree, hallowed the sphere, and vanished. Nehael slept for the first time in her immeasurably long existence.


The Sela shifted his position, and a single bead of sweat trickled from his temple. It had been a particularly difficult meditation.



**


Ortwin, Iua and Koilimilou waited in an antechamber of blacks and muted greys, the vague and insubstantial walls of which were carved with exquisite yet gruesome scenes. They depicted torture, mutilation, and an erotic exultation in pain and depravity which upset even the Satyr's normally liberal sensibilities.

This may be the stupidest thing I have ever done, he thought to himself. Ainhorr must know of our presence by now. Inwardly, he fretted desperately. His outward appearance was one of practiced, imperturbable nonchalance.

Ytryn, one of the most powerful of Loquai nobles, had kept the trio waiting for an hour. What counsel was he taking? Whose orders was he following? Dammit, why hasn't anything happened yet?

The Cambion said nothing, her perfect face remained impassive, perhaps bearing the slightest hint of contempt.

Gods, I hope her name still carries some weight in these parts, Ortwin regarded Koilimilou. I hope they buy this. And then, He knows I am here. He must. He knows what I am, who I am. He knows that I was there when we hit Feezuu. He knows it was me – and Iua – at Khu. Why has he not acted? I should be dead by now, or at least undergoing painful dismemberment.

A pair of doors opened. Ortwin's stomach turned over, and bile rose in his throat. He smiled lazily.

"After you," he said easily to the Cambion.

Polymorphed and mind-blanked, Ortwin and Iua followed Koilimilou into the great hall. The Satyr had assumed the shape of a sidhe again. Iua's form – a death slaad – was designed to cause maximum confusion and concern amongst Ytryn's vassals and his demonic courtiers. Ortwin hoped that she could pull it off – Iua was a fine liar, but lacked his own finesse.

Koilimilou bowed her head.

Ortwin strode forward, aware of the many gazes upon him, bowed with considerable flair before Ytryn's throne, and spoke in a calm, confident voice. His Sylvan was full of archaic inflexion, as befitted a representative of the oldest of fae lineages.

"Greetings, your Grace. My thanks for receiving this embassy, and the hospitality of your court. Queen Nhura sends her regards from her exile in Faerie, and trusts that you remember your old acquaintance."

As Ortwin's head rose, his eyes took on the full scene before him. Ytryn reclined upon a low seat. To his left, coiled and menacing, a marilith was poised like a viper. Two kelvezu flanked the Duke, and at least thirty Loquai knights stood about in silent vigil. Umbral quicklings darted around the periphery of his vision, and a palrethee hovered in the air nearby.

Sh*t, the Satyr thought.



**


Eadric's decision to attend the investiture of Skadding, Foide's' son, as Duke of Trempa, had been made quickly. Despite his ambivalence towards the House of Thahan, and his distrust of the Lord Chamberlain and his tedious plots, Eadric actually felt a measure of confidence in Skadding. The boy was naïve and overly trusting – qualities which, in many ways, the Earl of Deorham regarded as positive and which his father had, apparently, failed to divest him of.

Besides, one must fulfill one's feudal obligations, after all.

After a brief detour to visit the Abbey of Osfrith – where he instructed the nuns to arrange the transport of the insane Urqual to the Fane in Morne – Eadric rode through the open gates of the castle at Trempa on the evening before the ceremony. The outer courtyards were crammed with tents and pavillions. Knights, courtiers, maids and entertainers ate, drank and mingled in the dusk. Heads turned quickly to regard him, and from somewhere his own ladon – his clarion call – rang out from a trumpet.

Passing swiftly beneath the Tower of Owls and into the inner bailey, his presence caused more chaos and hysteria than he was altogether comfortable with. Trempa's Oronthonians – the first to embrace the new order when it had swept across Wyre – prostrated themselves and hailed the Ahma, a virtual demigod. The Uediians – who comprised most of Trempa's northern aristocracy – regarded him as a saviour from Temple taxes and the indentureship of pagan farmers. In that regard, he had held true to his word. Caur of Har Kumil shouted and greeted him warmly.

Foide regarded Eadric suspiciously behind a veneer of politeness and civility. The satisfaction that he had enjoyed for the past month – at his family's possession of two of Wyre's great fiefs – now turned to sourness in his mouth. Foide was reminded of one simple fact: with the blessing of King Tiuhan or no, this ceremony could only pass with the support – whether open or implicit – of Eadric of Deorham. He was above the law, whatever protestations he might make to the contrary. He was invulnerable: mortal weapons could not touch him, they said. Men would follow him happily to their death, assured of their place in paradise. And if he had wanted the duchy for himself, he could have taken it.

And he rides into Trempa, travel-stained and without an entourage, like some errant or hedge-knight.

Eadric dismounted, and knelt before Skadding, his new liege-lord. Somewhat abashed, the Duke-to-be ushered him to his feet.

"My sword is yours," Eadric bowed. "And my counsel and guidance, should you ever require it."

Foide of Lang Herath chewed his lip and brooded.


**

Mostin’s lidless green eyes were glazed and his body motionless, as he floated – transfixed – within an infinite sea of light. A hundred billion motes surrounded him.

His intellect, swollen by magic to titanic proportions, reflected briefly upon the series of spells which had brought him to this place. Potent dweomers, which only a handful of Wizards in Wyre’s long history would have been capable of mastering, seemed – from his new perspective – like paltry cantrips fit only for neophytes and dabblers.

Cradled in the palm of Mostin’s hand was Graz’zt’s mote: dark, erotic, brooding, and seething with potency. The Alienist inspected first one facet, and then another. The fact that he could not determine the location of Graz’zt – in spatiotemporal terms, at least – was indicative of the fact that the Prince was mind blanked. But it made no difference: there was another mote, anchored by a taught radicle, in close proximity. What one could not read directly, one could infer obliquely with little effort in an expanded state such as this: Lord Kostchtchie stood before Prince Graz’zt within the great hall of the Iron Palace in Zelatar.

Mostin scowled, and rapidly plotted the trajectories of several hundred possible futures, scanning each for resonances with Eadric, Nhura, Soneillon, Rhyxali, Ainhorr, Titivilus, Nehael and himself.

Kostchtchie will move to support Ainhorr in Afqithan, he thought. Fiendish giants, he mused, and some are powerful sorcerers. His eye caught a new thread of probability. What is that?

[Inspection. Analysis.] Blightfire, he groaned inwardly. The Lord of the Ice Wastes had potent allies of his own.

Mostin returned his attention to Graz’zt’s mote, and abstracted his perspective. He noted the tenuous rapport between himself and the Prince of Azzagrat – alluding to Graz’zt’s own prescience.

But I see both more clearly and more deeply than you, he thought. For the moment, at least. Your machinations are transparent to me. Graz’zt could not grasp the entirety of the Afqithan nodality any more than Mostin could, but the fragments of which Mostin was aware – scattered and incoherent as they were – were more complete. He considered the immense dimensional lock that he had developed, projected the catenary of the pseudonatural Horror onto the lattice of interconnected points, and then superimposed Shomei’s glooms on top of that. The nodality rapidly reorganized itself to show a number of different probable futures.

None showed Graz'zt in Afqithan.

He is afraid, Mostin knew. And rightly so. He is not unassailable. He will not come.

Mostin cursed. One plan at least – to lure the Lord of Azzagrat to Afqithan with the promise of Eadric's head – could not be realized. Mostin did not underestimate Graz'zt's shrewdness or cunning, but had hoped that his temper would be sufficiently unstable to betray him.

The Alienist projected a scenario which involved the swift subdual of Afqithan, the removal of Ainhorr and Kostchtchie – and whatever wights the Ice Lord brought with him – and an immediate subsequent assault upon Azzagrat itself. It required Shomei to secure twelve legions of Bathym's barbed devils and the commitment of Rhyxali's main force of babaus in addition to her shadow demons. But there would be no second dimensional lock and no glooms – Shomei herself had vanished from the picture, slain by kelvezu before she could articulate her own power.

He examined a string of possible futures which involved the binding of the Horror, and its travel through a gate to Azzagrat in order to assassinate Graz'zt. Fourteen of the twenty-three outcomes resulted in Graz'zt escaping to his sanctum before the Horror could complete its mission. Five of the remaining futures involved the coercion of the Horror by Graz'zt and its subsequent redeployment against its summoner: I'd better make sure it's adequately buffed, If we go that route, Mostin thought. Two futures promised Graz'zt's demise, and two were ambiguous – depending on the reaction of the Arch-fiend's courtiers.

Mostin meditated upon the interaction between the motes of the Horror and Graz'zt, seeking tendrils of possibility to exploit. Graz'zt would need to be weakened – divested of a sizeable portion of his reservoir – before the Horror could be used efficiently. Of the hundreds of powerful spells within Graz'zt's repertoire, one – and the name exquisite domination sprang unbidden to Mostin's mind – was sufficiently potent to threaten even the Horror's virtual immunity to magic.* If Graz'zt could shoot off two spells – a superb dispelling variant followed by the compulsion – then the chances were good that the Prince could assert his will upon the pseudonatural. Graz'zt's reservoir was immense, and he could absorb an unholy amount of backlash before being troubled.

Mostin breathed deeply, and focused his mind. He remembered where he was – within the dome of Mulissu's mansion, floating within the web of motes. His thoughts reached out to the Infernalist.

[Mostin]: [Very complex semiotic pattern] (= The Horror cannot accomplish an assassination in Azzagrat without prior softening of the target. And he can dispel your glooms effortlessly, and still deal with the pseudonatural. And this assumes he is not even within his sanctum.)

[Shomei]: [Complex semiotic pattern] (=That is inconsequential. If he were, then he could prevent the gate opening in any case. Come what may, I will send the glooms tomorrow.)

[Mostin]: !

[Shomei]: (Emphatically) [Semiotic pattern] (=It is time that he realized he is vulnerable in a tangible way.)

[Mostin]: [Semiotic pattern] (=He will quickly overcome them.)

[Shomei]: [Semiotic pattern] (=He will bleed first. And they will cut deep.)

[Mostin]: [Semiotic pattern] (=Have you seen something I have not? If so, please share it.)

[Shomei]: [Complex semiotic pattern] (=I am walking a narrow line, Mostin. Every action I take from now onwards must be calculated for maximum effect.)

[Mostin]: [Complex semiotic pattern] (=Please do not sink into a fugue, Shomei. I thought that you had finally made it through the nihilism.)

Shomei smiled, and shook her head.






*The prime benefit conferred by Mostin's insanely buffed Intelligence was the bonus granted to Knowledge (Arcana) checks. Whilst difficult to rationalize in terms that we might understand, the answers to questions such as "what spells does Graz'zt have in his repertoire which might affect this possible course of action " would spring into Mostin's mind at appropriate times. I had already optimized around twenty ELH spell variants for Graz'zt – i.e. increased the XP burn and pumped up the backlash to bring them within his ability. I assumed that he had several hundred more – after all, he is X billion years old, and it only seemed reasonable. It is unfortunate that it is impossible to play a character with an Int of 22, much less one with a (temporary) Intelligence of 150. What does it mean to be that Intelligent? It is impossible to even begin to conceptualize how thought processes can work on that level. Thankfully, this has been the only time that such cosmic heights have been reached. It is simply too much of a headache to DM.

Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 02-22-2004

Untitled Update




[Mostin]: Thus. (Conjure the Horror. Lock area around Irknaan's palace – two mile radius. Simultaneous arrival of Rhyxali's force here. Highest probability of Kostchtchie's appearance here. Portals to Faerie here and here and here will allow Nhura access to Afqithan, although I estimate thirty minutes before she can order her forces. Soneillon variable too complicated to calculate because of events in Throile [diagram].)

[Shomei]: Perhaps this. (Chaltipeluse secured as beach-head: already warded against teleportation. Ytryn ally/eliminated. Ortwin has a high chance of success in this endeavour.)

[Mostin]: But. (A Feint here [Picture: the stronghold of Queen Menicau] will draw out Ainhorr's main force. Then possible to open gates, then lock and assault Irknaan's palace directly.)

[Shomei]: Unlikely. (None will assume that role. Too dangerous. Unless you can persuade a group of demons to sacrifice themselves for the greater good. [Irony])

[Mostin]: We two and Nwm - look. (Shapechange and multiple conjurations can achieve the same effect. If you and I each open two gates…)

[Shomei]: My reservoir is close to empty, Mostin…

[Mostin]: Then this. (We should take a short holiday – In fact, I would suggest Afqithan. Get used to your new form, feel the power course through you again, and wreak some random havoc. And take the airs, of course. Nwm will likely come along – he enjoys flying around and destroying things, however much he denies it. And if we cause enough of a ruckus on our first visit, it will cause an overreaction on the second one – which is precisely what we want. [Diagram])

[Shomei]: [Calculating probabilities]. We must be something terrible, that will give Ainhorr pause for thought. Solars? Klurichirs?

[Mostin]: Hellfire Wyrms. [Diagram]

[Shomei]: Nice. Very nice, Mostin.

[Mostin]: Why, thank-you.

[Shomei]: But this. (Multiple summonings with multiple empowerments and I can pull around twenty narzugons into the fray and still retain a high enough valence to contribute to the quiescence of the spheres).

[Mostin]: (Nods). That might be preferable. I will gate a couple of pit fiends in, just to be sure we're taken seriously.

[Shomei]: Titivilus, Furcas and Murmuur will likely shoulder the blame.

[Mostin]: Such is life. I believe the augmentation just ended, by the way. My cognitive faculties have resumed their normal ant-like status.

Shomei sighed, a look of profound relief crossing her face. "I'm weary, Mostin. It has been insightful, but I'm glad it's over: my ego was beginning to fray. We should translate in a couple of days. Flex our muscles with an attack on Samodoquol's fortress."

Mostin nodded. "There are three hundred chasme there, and around a dozen glabrezu enforcers as well as other demonic agents. They are commanded by the nalfeshnee Jamua – who is something of a heavy-hitter. Samodoquol is fractious, and Ainhorr needs to keep him in line. But I suggest that we strike some smaller strongholds first – minor Loquai nobility who have capitulated with the current regime. It will send the message that the Balor's grip is less than ironclad, and won't give as much of an opportunity for Ainhorr to react. And when Nhura finally arrives, it may be that she can expect some support."

"Nhura in the capacity of redeemer and liberator?" Shomei asked ironically. "Now that is an amusing prospect."

"It's all relative," Mostin replied. "Still, attacking Samodoquol must be undertaken with the knowledge of the risk involved. Chasme are hardy."

Shomei shrugged. "Let the flies drone. We will burn them from the sky."

"Reinforcements will arrive within thirty seconds of our arrival."

"Then we will depart." Shomei said easily.

Mostin's eyes betrayed an excitement which made the Infernalist slightly nervous. "We could go tomorrow," he said.

"Two days, Mostin," she replied. "Tomorrow, I send the glooms to Azzagrat."


**


The anointment and investiture of Skadding as Duke of Trempa took place on a cold morning in late autumn on the Howe, a green hillock outside of the castle gates reserved for such grand occasions.

In the past, the Abbot of Trempa (or the Bishop of Thahan, had his other duties permitted it) would have performed the ceremony. As it was, the prior incumbents of each position had, in the wake of the Sela's assumption of the Prelacy, opted for a monastic life: both had been conservative in their view, and the Bishop had been one of the Ahma's foremost detractors. Neither position had been since filled, and Tramst was in no hurry to reestablish the episcopacy until the internal revision of the Temple had been completed. It had therefore been assumed that the ascension of Skadding to the Ducal seat would be a secular affair, and, given the disestablishment of the Temple and the general move away from Church infeudation, that seemed appropriate.

During the feast before the investiture, to Foide's horror and dismay, the thane Ekkert – after consuming large quantities of mead – had suggested that Eadric perform the ceremony. The idea had been greeted by rapturous applause by Trempa's assembled aristocracy, despite the fact that it was highly irregular for an Earl to anoint a Duke. Trempa's customs had always been eccentric, but such a notion verged on the insane.

Eadric had politely declined.

"You would be acting in a religious capacity," Ekkert had drawled. "I don't see what the problem is."

"I am not empowered to anoint Dukes," Eadric had said simply. "Besides, a third of Trempa's inhabitants are Uediian. I am not about to begin a new round of disenfranchisement."

"Then ask Nwm to participate," Caur had suggested cannily.

"Regrettably, his whereabouts are unknown to me," Eadric had replied uneasily. It was true – he had no notion of the Druid's location, and no means to contact him.

Foide, thinking that the Ahma had closed the subject, had breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

Later that night, however, as Eadric had strolled in the gardens in an attempt to aid his digestion (he seldom ate rich food, and boar did not agree with him), the soil between two rose bushes had begun to warp and ripple. Nwm had appeared, rising from the ground in the shape of a pillar of earth which had rapidly assumed a more recognizable, human form.

The druid had shaken his head, and dirt had fallen out of his tangled hair.

"I understand that I am to officiate at Skadding's investiture tomorrow," he had said in a matter-of-fact way.

"How did Caur contact you?" Eadric had asked, sighing.

"He didn't," Nwm had answered.

"Then how do you know?"

"At this present moment, I know pretty much everything," Nwm had replied. It was true – the Druid had been buoyed by the cycle of augmentations devised by Mostin, and in which he had taken part. "Although, actually, a wizard of our mutual acquaintance informed me of the probability that you would be asked to anoint the new Duke, and that you would refuse on the grounds that it would alienate the Uediian faction."

"I assume that the interpretation of the web of motes is passing according to plan, then?"

Nwm had shrugged. "I'm leaving it to Mostin to work out."

"And what have you been doing?"

"Watching birds, mainly," Nwm had answered.

"And you have discovered…?"

"Nothing that I didn't already know," Nwm had admitted. "I'm telling you, Ed: omniscience isn't all it's cracked up to be."

Eadric guffawed.

"In any case, we'll both perform the ceremony tomorrow."

"I don't think so…" Eadric had begun.

"There is actually an eighty-eight percent chance that I will change your mind in that regard," Nwm had grinned, "so you may as well just throw in the towel now, and save yourself the argument."

Eadric had sighed. "Skadding will…"

"He'll agree too," Nwm had interrupted.

"But Foide…"

"Will come around. What choice does he have, Eadric? Vox populi and all that: he is nothing, if not politically astute. He won't want his son to begin his tenure in a climate of apathy and indifference. You'll be doing the boy a favour. Trust me, Ed. Press this point now, and save yourself some grief down the road. Now, I'm hungry. Is there any food left?"


So it was that Nwm the Preceptor placed the coronet – a twisted wreath of ivy, mistletoe and oak-leaves – upon the head of Skadding, and Eadric anointed him with holy water.

The company – over a hundred noble families – made a slow procession from the Howe to the Hall of the Seat, which had stood empty since Soraine's death at the hands of Rimilin five months before. Skadding assumed his place amidst much panoply, and began his large – and depressingly administrative – set of duties. He had a huge backlog to contend with. Aristocrats bickered about land ownership, hunting rights, debts, impending marriages and when the next tourney should be held. Commoners waited outside in droves to voice their complaints regarding the bread dole, the theft of pigs, taxes on beer, and the quantity of devalued coinage in circulation. Several sought recompense from soldiers for unwanted pregnancies in indiscreet daughters. Representatives from the Guild of Clockmakers preened themselves in anticipation of an audience. Entertainers seeking employment breathed fire, sang ditties or performed minor tricks of prestidigitation.

Eadric looked at Nwm. "And you wanted me to do this job?" He said in a low voice.

"On reflection, I think maybe you were right."

As the Ahma took his leave of the new Duke, he bowed, placed his hand upon the marble floor, incanted, and touched his eagle pendant in what most there assumed was a final blessing. A feeling of indescribable calm descended upon the Hall of the Seat. Nwm felt a frisson of power and suppressed a look of astonishment, and questioned Eadric as soon as they were outside again.

"Did you just do what I think you did?" The Druid asked.

"That is entirely possible," Eadric nodded.

"And since when could you just do that?"

"I don't know," Eadric shrugged. "I've never really tried before."

Nwm nodded. "Good," he said. "This may save me considerable effort and labour in the future."


With a passing thought, Eadric had hallowed the hall, and with his brief invocation had laid a zone of truth upon the place. No fiend – openly or in possession of another – could enter there, and, for a year at least, no lie could be spoken there without considerable effort.

Skadding was young and inexperienced, and already had enough to contend with without falling prey to the scheming mendacity of vassals, peers, ambassadors, and family. Or demons, for that matter.


**


Ortwin sang. Purportedly, a composition in Ytryn's honour, commissioned by Nhura as a gift to the Duke.

Whatever else he does, Iua mused to herself as she listened, lying aside, Ortwin does this best. He was an arrogant, self-indulgent, narcissistic erotomaniac – to be sure – but he had an uncanny ability to tap into the aesthetic sensibilities of his audience. His song was dark, brooding, and melancholic. It conveyed a lust for blood, it exalted pain, and suggested the promise of a grim satiation which would be all-fulfilling but transient; and then the birth of the next desire, which would, in turn, be pursued to its empty and bitter conclusion. Ennui. Psychosis and apathy. The fleeting release from the curse of immortality.

Iua didn't even understand the words: Ortwin sang in an archaic dialect of Sylvan.

The duelist watched Koilimilou carefully, but if the cambion was moved by the Bard's performance, she displayed no outward sign of it. But neither Iua, nor Koilimilou, nor the marilith Sethee were alerted to Ortwin's true message – directed at Ytryn alone, and concealed within the song.

[Make no response to this communication – I suspect you lack the subtlety possessed by yonder demoness, and she would quickly realize your intention.

Graz'zt's hegemony here will shortly end. His enemies already mobilize themselves. Nhura is returning, and her allies will crush Ainhorr. Rhyxali – your other patroness – is poised to retake her rightful property. Soneillon craves vengeance, and her designs will soon bear fruit.

Where will your loyalties lie, Duke Ytryn? To whom will you pledge your treacherous sword? Listen well, and you will survive the orgy of death and prosper in the aftermath. When the gates to the other worlds open, and the demons at Chaltipeluse are recalled to the battle before the walls of Irknaan's palace, you will slay those that remain here. You will mobilize your army, and join Queen Nhura in the fray.

In payment, Nhura will grant you Someranth: Menicau will likely not survive the upcoming conflict and if, by some strange chance she does, she will not survive long after it. If you fail, then Nhura's ire will turn towards you, and like those others who betray her, you will die painfully.

And Ytryn, in case you forget, I am an ambassador from Faerie and you will guarantee my safe passage and lend me such aid as custom dictates. Koilimilou and the slaad Qhrsjh are under my protection. Do not underestimate my influence or my reach. If I am assailed, then the Hunters will descend upon you, and drag you to a doom which even you cannot imagine.]

…and of frost
and unrelenting pursuit
and jealous death.

Ortwin finished his song. His innuendo had conveyed information which was – to his knowledge – at least partially accurate. Admittedly, he might have been a little liberal with his interpretation of the facts, and his promises might not have been sanctioned by Nhura. No matter. He had no doubt that Ytryn believed him – it was merely a question of how the Duke would react to what he had heard.*


**


There had been two of them. They had been fast: faster than he was. Their motion was precise, calculated and deadly. He had been taking his pleasure when they struck.

His feeling had been one of outrage, coupled with incredulity. How had they reached him here? There were precious few areas in Zelatar where it was possible to teleport or open a gate. Places which – by necessity – were not dimensionally locked, and he knew them all intimately. Most of them were known only to him.

He had been alerted by a blur of shadowy motion, and a feeling of pain which ripped through his shoulder, piercing demonic flesh and sinew and spilling his ichor upon the floor of his own harem. He had been stabbed nine times more before he had reacted.**

Fearing for his very existence, Graz'zt had emanated a shroud of death and destruction which had instantly annihilated his assailants, together with three succubi and the marilith Chuschi – his current favorite.

The glooms had evaporated, returning to whatever shady realm they had issued from. They had been summoned creatures, and possessed no final reality.

Immediately afterwards, Graz'zt had locked the whole of Zelatar, except for the gate room – where the guard was quadrupled. Brutal interrogations of scores of demons – mainly nalfeshnees in possession of cubic gates who presided over various conquered worlds – ensued. A wave of tortures, mutilations and assassinations flooded through the citadel and city as the Prince's paranoia asserted itself, and his demonic servitors found an opportunity to settle old scores.

Graz'zt retreated to his sanctum, rapidly healed his wounds, and gave thought to revenge.






*Ortwin – benefitting from a multiply empowered eagle's splendour comfortably made a DC 50 Bluff check – enough to 1) convey his innuendo successfully without alerting the others present; and 2) simultaneously lie sufficiently well to convince Ytryn that he was an important sidhe of powerful connections, and crossing him would result in the Duke's rapid demise. All was hidden within the context of a song which rivalled those composed by the most accomplished of faerie bards and minstrels.

**Graz'zt's DR – 20/Cold Iron and Epic and Good – actually saved his bacon. Still, the +10 keen daggers used by the glooms filled him full of holes.

Early on, Sep didn't use formatting. You could just copy and paste from the screen. Later on he did- subtle stuff, at first, an italics here, and a bold face there.

As soon as I noticed I hit "quote" first, and then cut and pasted. A few of the very first formattings might have slipped by me.

I also was not 100% consistent about whether to leave in background details or not. Especially when Sepulchrave was answering questions at the beginning of a post. Mostly I didn't, but here and there I left stuff in. Marc (Eadric's player) gave some good background to the Church of Oronthon- that stayed.

It would be interesting to see if there are any significant variances between these two versions.

Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 03-02-2004

****



Dragonplay


The tower was a slender, delicate structure, rising some thirty fathoms from a low hillock and twisting deliciously before reaching its crest. It was carved in intricate relief and inlayed with precious metals which seemed to capture and then amplify the perpetual twilight, and stars glistened softly at its apex. Around it, arranged in elegant symmetry, five more towers – the hues of which were subtly different – rose in close proximity to half the height of the central spire, their shoulders attached by narrow buttresses of both aesthetic and functional design.

It was the home of Shondipere, a Loquai aristocrat and vassal of Queen Menicau. Shondipere was a noble of middling means, who nonetheless boasted an excellent pedigree. His title – if translated from the Sylvan – might have been 'baron' or 'thane': in fact, the Loquai admitted to greater variation within their order of precedence than most human cultures.

Only fifteen Loquai dwelt with Shondipere, and all were related. The remainder of his household consisted of a handful of umbral quicklings who acted as messengers and spies, two charmed fiendish trolls who served as door-wards, a dozen slow-witted gnome slaves, and the noble's pet monster – an abyssal basilisk named Turchin. Shondipere kept a stable of twenty griffons, although he seldom ventured beyond the confines of his castle, content to busy himself composing morbid verse, or indulging his dark and violent fantasies.

Shondipere had spent the last several hours – or was it days? he paid little heed to the passage of time – closeted alone in an airy rotunda pondering upon various aspects of the nature of pain. His reverie had been interrupted when two palrethees and a small troop of bar-lgura – agents of the balor Ainhorr – had arrived and required that he surrender his daughter as hostage, together with a large portion of his portable wealth. Shondipere had remained impassive, and conceded to their demands – he felt no particular attachment to his offspring, and was anxious to return to his contemplation. His primary concern regarding his daughter was that, were she to die, he would be without an heir – precipitating a need to find another mate and to sire further progeny.

Shondipere was therefore vexed when the quickling Khimpa darted into the rotunda and bowed her tiny head to the glass floor at his feet. Shondipere gestured irritably, a sign that the sprite should speak.

"Two devils require an audience, Lord," Khimpa squeaked rapidly, her malevolent face betraying a certain wicked glee at the discomfort that she knew the news would cause her master.

Shondipere observed the quickling's features, and made a mental note to have her punished for insubordination later. A brief spell with the trolls might encourage her to act with more civility, or at least hide her emotions better.

"What is their order?" Shondipere inquired coldly.

"A horned devil and an erinyes, Lord," Khimpa replied.

Shondipere scowled. What was a cornugon doing here? He had been informed of the presence of the three dukes in Afqithan, of course, but whatever their purpose was, it didn't concern him. It seemed likely the arrival of two devils at his own gates was connected – unless it was a ruse devised by Menicau, or maybe Ainhorr himself: to test Shondipere's loyalty, or perhaps out of sheer perversity.

"Order the household to assemble," he sighed. "I will receive them in the heptagon in ten minutes."

As they approached, Shondipere – cautious of being drawn into some diabolic intrigue which he had no desire to enmesh himself in – studied the devils carefully.

Something isn't right, was his last thought.


**


Eadric and Nwm – together with Contundor, Sem and Gheim – wind walked to Deorham. The Druid intended to dispose of the blackthorn tree which occupied the courtyard of Kyrtill's Burh, together with its grizzly fruit – the carcasses of the demons who had assailed the keep. More than a fortnight had passed since the attack, but Eadric's servants had been disinclined to deal with the spectacle, concerned that some taint might infect them, and generally shunning the northern and western parts of the bailey. And the Ahma was anxious for things to return to normal – for their usual brief while, at least.

In the event, Eadric changed his mind. The remains of the demons should probably go, he suggested wrily, but the tree itself could stay. It would act as a reminder to himself – and any potential threats to him – that he was not without allies, albeit strange ones which he often failed to understand.

In a businesslike manner, Nwm used his magic to clean up the mess he had made, removing the flags which had shattered upon the sudden growth of the tree, and replacing them with a small garden around the blackthorn's bole. Concerned that the tree might still appear rather dark and gloomy, he caused it to flower, and tiny clusters of white and pale yellow appeared on its spiky twigs. It was out of season, but a justifiable tinkering, given the circumstances. The spell which Nwm invoked to achieve the effect was, however, of less than pinpoint accuracy, and the ivy which clung to the Steeple and the keep burgeoned into a thick cover. Eadric sighed and entered the chapel.

Of the quartet of celestials called by Tahl, the single remaining deva, Saphrez, was deputed by Eadric to guard the sanctum. The celestial remained near the altar, invisible, and was enjoined to bestow whatever blessings it might upon those who came to pray there. The decision was both timely and unfortunate – it transpired that a group of pilgrims from Ialde were already boarded at The Twelve Elms, the only inn in the village of Deorham, some two miles distant. When Eadric – reluctant that his home become a shrine – conveyed his concerns to Nwm, he received an unsympathetic response.

"I'm surprised it took this long, actually," the Druid said laconically. "If it troubles you that much, just ask Mostin to move in. I'm sure he would discourage any pietists from undertaking the journey here."

Eadric grumbled. It occurred to him that his intent – to have the deva act as a support for his staff, and a source of healing for those locals who required it – would rapidly foster a situation which attracted zealots and fundamentalists. But he could hardly deny succour to those who came to Kyrtill's Burh seeking it.

"Keep the gates open," he wearily instructed his servants, "but allow visitors access to the well and the chapel only, and encourage them not to linger too long."

Later that day, after Nwm had retired to his glade, Eadric watched from a window within the Steeple as a party of twenty pilgrims with travel-stained clothes made a slow procession up the knoll, across the bridge, through the courtyard and into the chapel. Hopefully, he mused wrily, none of them were cursed, diseased or injured, Saphrez could remain inactive, and news of miraculous goings-on at Kyrtill's Burh would be delayed for a little while. But it was only a matter of time. And if any petitioned him directly for spiritual aid, he was duty-bound to provide it. Whilst he did not resent it, he could feel no upwelling of generosity or compassion while he still had so much more to do: first and foremost, he remained a soldier.

As the Ahma leaned upon the sill, gazed down from the tower, and ruminated on his various responsibilities, a sudden breeze caused his hackles to rise and the faint scent of death and lotus reached his nostrils. A pair of slender arms encircled his waist, and a soft face pressed against his back. Wings began to fold around him, beckoning him inwards. He swallowed, and pulled himself away.

The void-that-was-a-demon-who-was-a-girl had returned, apparently seeking reassurance.


**


Mostin rapidly changed his form, shedding his diabolic body and assuming the shape of a dragon fifty feet long which barely fit into the lofty reception chamber. His scales kindled to a searing flame, and he breathed a gout of infernal fire over Shondipere, the four knights who flanked him, and a pair of unlucky quicklings who happened to be hovering in the wrong place. All were instantly immolated.

Chaos erupted all around. Gnome slaves and sprites fled for cover, and several of the remaining Loquai immediately plane shifted to Shadow. Others shakily targeted Mostin with spells or arrows, none of which affected him. He leapt upwards, smashing his head through the delicate glass dome, shattering the plinths either side of it, and took to the sky briefly before settling upon a slender buttress, which began to crack under his weight. Mostin flapped his wings inexpertly to compensate.

Inside of the heptagon, Shomei had taken the form of another wyrm. Hellfire erupted again briefly, before she joined Mostin above the castle, perching upon the topmost spire.

"We should give the gnomes a few minutes to escape, and then just flatten the place," she called down.

Mostin nodded enthusiastically. Shapechange was rapidly becoming his new favourite spell.


**


"Are they yours?" Titivilus asked Furcus, smiling.

"No indeed," Furcas replied, stroking his beard.

Titivilus sighed inwardly. It was a pointless question – the Count of Rhetoric was almost as good a liar as himself.

"Apparently, they are very large ones." Titivilus said. "And they have levelled four strongholds already. I cannot scry them – they are warded. I am returning to Dis. Duke Allocer should know."

"Is that wise?" Furcas asked. "They might be his."

"They may also be rogue," Titivilus countered, wondering whether Furcas dissembled and, if so, what his motive was.

"One, perhaps; but two? Unlikely. Murmuur would…"

"I think it best that we do not inform Murmuur," Titivilus interrupted. "If they are his, it is better that he doesn't know that we know."

"Murmuur's knights are mandated to intervene in affairs if necessary," Furcas scowled. "And he is here. Are you suggesting that we withhold information from our commander? That is a bold course to take."

"Not at all," Titivilus replied, careful to avoid any possible accusations of insubordination. "I'm merely saying that, if they are his, then it may be that we are not meant to know. I would regret upsetting any wider plan because of our over-diligence in information gathering."

"It may be related to your former protégée's petition."

"Perhaps," Titivilus nodded, not knowing what it was that Furcas referred to, but unwilling to make that fact known, "but which petition? Now that another has been made, it merely complicates things further." He had to return to the Iron City, to find out what was going on. He discreetly studied the face of Furcas for a response, but the Count evinced none.

"And she may have made several others, news of which has not yet reached us," Furcas pointed out, curious as to whether Titivilus lied about the second petition and, if not, to whom it might have been addressed. "On reflection, perhaps you should return to Dis. I will guard our interests here in the meanwhile."

The mind of Titivilus twisted, wondering whether that had been Furcas's intent from the outset. The Confuser decided to play along with it. "It might be prudent to mobilize some of your troops," he suggested, "in the event that an unknown rival Duke is involved. I could bring a communiqué to Sobel* to that effect, if you so wish."

"I would prefer to relay such a message myself, should the need arise," Furcas said drily. "I would be embarrassed if the information was somehow misapprehended."

"That is understandable," Titivilus agreed. "Perhaps you should appoint an aide whose mental faculties are more sharply honed."

Furcas smiled thinly.

"Do you then have no requests?"

"That depends. Are you planning to visit Malbolge as well?" Furcas inquired.

"Only if our Dread Master demands it," Titivilus replied, the merest hint of sarcasm in his voice. Malbolge was a tedious, brutal environment, which lacked any sophistication: a far cry from the subtleties and intrigues of Dis.

"It might be prudent to ensure that Murmuur's troops are adequately prepared.**"

"That is a wise precaution," Titivilus concurred.

"And give my respects to our Lord, should you see him," Furcas smiled.

"Naturally," Titivilus lied.


**


Soneillon appeared in her natural form. She seemed utterly drained, although, at first, Eadric was nonetheless cautious that it might be a ruse. It was as though, somehow, the Void had diminished in stature. Ens had polluted her, diluting her with matter and energy. It had the effect of making her seem more tangible and real than normal.

A faint tracery of scars – wounds which she had recently received, and the vestiges of which had not yet entirely vanished – covered her arms, neck, wings and torso. Blackness stained the skin beneath her ears and nostrils, where enormous backlash energies had caused her demonic body to rupture. Her hands and fingernails were caked with dried ichor: when she had spent her last spell, Eadric knew, and they had grappled her within the unlight which surrounded her, she had torn at them in a frenzy with her claws.

"The Paling*** has been breached," she smiled wrily. "Adyell disjoined a section of it before she defected. Janiq's bar-lgura are pouring through. I am asking for your help."

Oronthon, he swore silently. She really is vulnerable. He sighed. "Very well. How long do we have?"

"Helitihai and Chaya patched the defenses with multiple walls of force, but they were being systematically disintegrated by daemon mercenaries as I left. It is impossible to say. Throile must not fall, Eadric."

He nodded. "We need Mostin. Can you issue a sending?"

"I am spent!" Soneillon snapped. "I have magic enough to return us to Throile, that is all."

"Or to issue a sending?"

The message sped to Afqithan:

The Ahma commands that you attend him in his stronghold. Events are spiralling out of control in Throile. Your assistance is required.

Mostin raised a draconic eyebrow. He turned to Shomei. "I have just received a sending from Soneillon – she is labouring under the impression that I am somehow Eadric's servant. No matter. It seems as though the second Throile thread is crystallizing."

Shomei groaned. "That's the one with the ultrodaemons."

"Unfortunately, yes."


*


The pious were gathered in the courtyard, speaking amongst themselves in hushed voices, when one of them noticed the Ahma walking towards them from the base of the Steeple. Excitedly, he pointed out Eadric to his companions.

Their sense of religious awe was replaced by a feeling of confusion as, beneath the blackthorn, Soneillon manifested. There was talk of a demoness associated with the Ahma, of course, but rumour spoke of her being genteel in appearance. This creature was wild, naked, bloodstained.

Effortlessly reading their thoughts, Soneillon smiled. Despite all that had transpired, the temptation to charm these hapless mortals was still almost too much to resist. Eadric stared stonily at her.

Above them, the sky darkened momentarily and a fissure in space ripped open. As two enormous wyrms, wreathed in infernal fire thundered through a gate, beyond them a scene from a dream – or nightmare – was briefly revealed: a twilit sky, streaked with deep indigo, saffron and vermillion.

The pilgrims fled from Kyrtill's Burh, adequately instructed, Eadric considered, in the application of the dialectic.








*Sobel – the lieutenant appointed to Furcas by Dispater – is an advanced erinyes with considerable tactical savvy. Although Furcas holds wide estates and can muster 29 legions of devils (primarily barbazu), he takes little pleasure in martial pursuits. Sobel watches the Duke of Rhetoric and communicates his activities to Dis, but Furcas still values her advice and military expertise.

** i.e. find out exactly who, and what, and how many, and whether any hellfire wyrms had been deployed.

*** The enormous magical outer defense which surrounds Soneillon's citadel in Throile. It is impenetrable to normal physical movement, and inside it teleportation is severely restricted, although gates may open within its confines. Access to the citadel is controlled through three portals which open or close according to Soneillon's will.

Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 03-08-2004

For the record, I use the terms yugoloth and daemon interchangeably, depending on my whim.



****



More Than You Can Chew: Part 1


"I think that three of these wyrms might arouse a little too much suspicion," Nwm groaned, looking up into Mostin's enormous, sunken, draconic eyes. "It might also cause an unpleasant escalation – has it occurred to you that the Devils currently in Afqithan will probably be blamed?"

"Well of course it has," Mostin sighed. Flames cascaded over his crest irritably. "If you'd spent your time productively, studying the web of motes…"

"It is a non-issue," Shomei said to Nwm. "It will cause confusion, certainly, but events are hardly likely to 'escalate' any more than they have already: how can they? Besides, even if news reaches Graz'zt, what can he do?"

"He will not come himself?" Eadric asked.

"No future that I have observed involves Graz'zt leaving Azzagrat," Mostin said.

Eadric clenched his jaw. "But the plan…"

"The plan to lure him forth is unworkable," Mostin hissed. "My apologies – that was more condescending than I intended. These vocal cords are not equipped for comments that don't sound sarcastic. Graz'zt will remain closeted in Zelatar, irrespective of our actions. We shouldn't be surprised: if his venturing forth entailed even a one in ten thousand chance of his demise, then he would not do it. It would be foolhardy, from his perspective. He has not retained an aeons-long regime by acting precipitously."

Eadric scowled, and his eyes bored into Soneillon. "You knew this."

"I would have guessed it," she smiled.

"But you allowed us to entertain the possibility, nonetheless?"

"You are the Ahma," she said simply. "It is reasonable to assume that you possess a degree of insight that I do not. Our perspectives are complimentary, Eadric, not antagonistic."

"Then…"

"I have acted already," Shomei sighed. "Mostin and I deemed it appropriate to increase his paranoia. I sent two glooms to assassinate him yesterday."

Eadric gaped. He didn't know what a gloom as, but they sounded impressive.

"They were unsuccessful," Shomei added quickly. "But he has locked Zelatar in reaction. He is currently busying himself with purges."

Soneillon looked bored, and yawned.

Mostin nodded. "I get the hint. One moment please." He turned to the Druid. "Nwm, if the hellfire wyrm is an unappealing form, you might want to try this.*"

The Alienist rapidly shifted into a monstrous, winged, four-armed brute of truly terrifying aspect. Its hyena-like head was surrounded by a mane of spikes which dripped venom, but its most unsettling feature was its torso. In place of a chest and abdomen there gaped a vast, toothed maw and pincers which twitched rhythmically.

"What would I do?" Nwm asked.

Mostin wiggled his pincers. "You cut their heads off."

"That doesn't seem terribly efficient," Nwm said drily. "Let's just go with the dragon."


*


Nothing could have prepared Nwm for the mind-shaking insanity which was Throile at war. As the rift between the worlds closed behind them, the full spectacle impacted on his consciousness like a tidal wave. This was likely as far as he would ever be from Wyre: by Mostin's reckoning, three hundred realities – most of them filled with demons – lay between him and the Green.

The sky was a purplish haze – at least, purple was the colour which it most closely approximated to his draconic eyes. The citadel of Soneillon below him was a colossal structure, built like a five-sided ziggurat but boasting a thousand towers which sprang from vast piers of black stone in concentric rings around its circumference. Its topmost pinnacle soared a mile above the treetops of a plush, verdant jungle which stretched as far as his eye could see.

The forest stretches to infinity, he thought. In all directions. It was a meaningless observation. His mind could not grasp the magnitude of it. An infinite jungle. It breathed malice and death.

Beyond the citadel, encircling it to a distance of a league – until the trees marched upon it – was a swathe of bedrock, filled with immense shafts from which fear and an agony of violence erupted like gruesome and intangible tephra. Perhaps the pits were filled with the damned – undergoing whatever punishment they had condemned themselves to – or maybe it was some phenomenon peculiar to Throile, where a cursed earth spewed its evil into the tainted airs, in a supernatural cycle where evil itself was propagated, and diffused, and finally reabsorbed. For four fifths of its area, the blasted rock beyond the walls of the fortress was utterly devoid of motion: neither demon nor monster walked there. But in one area alone, in a sight that made the Druid's heart pound in his scale-armoured chest, the ground and skies seethed with chaos.

Drawn up like two enormous wedges, the apices of which barely touched each other, the Abyssal armies of Soneillon and Graz'zt – the latter under the command of the marilith Janiq – faced each other in an orgy of pain, destruction and death. At their interface – the connecting point between the two spearheads – was the gap within the Paling which the succubus Adyell had disjoined. The aperture was only eighty feet wide, and demons seethed through from outside of the invisible magical wall. Sporadically, blossoming rapidly inside of the barrier, cadres of bar-lgura manifested as first one, and then hundreds, found purchase within the warded interior where they could teleport with impunity. Groups of succubi and palrethees descended upon them, or flew to intercept the units of yugoloth mercenaries who had overwhelmed the initial defense of the opening in the perimeter. Nycadaemons and yagnodaemons pushed through relentlessly, despite the frenzied resistance offered by packs of jariliths and goristros.

The mental static was terrific: thousands of demons screaming telepathic commands, which spilled over into Nwm's thoughts as unconscious urges to commit cruelty and violence. He gaped as demons summoned more demons, fell prey to compulsions and switched sides, invoked patches of darkness, or dispelled them.

Further outside of the Paling, clamouring for the opportunity to press forwards, countless dretch and hordes of rutterkins, uridezu rat-demons, and jovocs surged in restless waves. Under the supervision of hezrous, they crawled and clambered over each other, eager to claw, and bite, and rend. Quasits flitted in black swarms above them.

Emptying her bracelet of power, Shomei had rendered herself, Mostin and Nwm invisible and had mind blanked the Druid and the Ahma. All had been hasted. None of the spellcasters, however, were fully prepared to engage in an offensive, and the Infernalist inwardly lamented the fact that their wards might be woefully inadequate.

In the airs next to them, Soneillon relaxed into the form in which they had first encountered her in Afqithan – a shape of unbeing, around which an aura of annihilation began to glower menacingly. She folded her wings – now appearing as gaps in the fabric of reality – about herself, before invoking the nullity which was her essential nature and which had, for a brief time, been suppressed. Utter blackness encased her.

Soneillon, Eadric spoke into her mind.

Her thoughts regarded him ironically.

You need to instruct your troops not to assail me.

Naturally, Eadric. The Void vanished, only to reappear an instant later, a thousand feet below them, and in the thick of the press.



"A prismatic wall would do the trick," Mostin sighed. "Unfortunately…"

"Nor I," Shomei nodded.

"Before we can plug the hole we need…" Mostin began.

"To take out the ultroloths," Shomei finished. "I know, I know. We need to find them first."

"How many are there?" Eadric asked, sighing.

"Five," Mostin replied. "And two arcanadaemons."

Eadric closed his eyes briefly and concentrated. A holy aura kindled around himself and his unlikely companions – three hellfire wyrms. Daylight suffused him.

Shomei raised an eyebrow. "That's a useful trick."

"Mostin, can you teleport me to a position just inside of the opening?"

The Alienist was about to say something else, but thought better of it and clamped his jaws shut. He watched as a hundred bar-lgura began manifesting below them. "Yes," he replied.

"Good," Eadric said, drawing Lukarn.

"Hmm," Mostin replied.

"And Mostin. Nwm."

"Mmm?" They answered in unison.

"Don't take too long in getting there. I have a feeling that I may be unduly targeted."

"You think?" Nwm replied drily.

"And Shomei."

She looked at him.

"Choose your time wisely. This may not be it."

She swallowed. He knows. The bastard knows.

Mostin cocked his head.


**

For a brief period of time – which seemed like an altogether unpleasant eternity – the Ahma was alone. His appearance on the battlefield was a surreal event, which had even demons – who routinely dealt with the bizarre and the insane – baffled. The cursed ground at his feet smoked in revulsion at his presence as he manifested within a knot of bar-lgura. They reacted rapidly and pounced on him. Eadric's shield and armour turned their buffets, and the demons which struck him recoiled, blinded by celestial light. He swung Lukarn in a great arc, slaying all of those within his arm's reach. Scorching rays struck him but fizzled impotently, and he shrugged off a dispel magic which targeted him. Darkness would not adhere to him.

A shadow covered him, and a flurry of claws and blows hammered down on him from above as a nycaloth lashed at him viciously, but the holy aura flashed brilliantly, blinding the daemon. Two others – the source of the magic which had struck him – descended rapidly towards him.

This isn't so bad, he thought to himself. But now the leaping demons around him seethed forwards again, clutching at him with powerful hands and attempting to bear him to the ground. He hewed at them, felling three of them, and thrusting one away, blinded. Others pummelled him, and he swung again, cutting a swathe through them about himself. In his mind, Lukarn sang, exulting in its potency. Almost as an afterthought, Eadric slashed upwards, striking the nycadaemon above him three times. He sidestepped as it crashed to the ground, thrashed its huge wings briefly, and expired. Another slammed into him, almost bowling him over, and thrusting him backwards five paces into the waiting clutches of the third: Eadric felt venom-tipped claws finding gaps in his armour, puncturing flesh and pinning him. Eight enormous, muscle-bound arms were groping at him in an attempt to overpower him. From his left, a disintegrate struck him but failed to overcome his protections.

Above, Mostin grunted to Shomei. There's one.

Deftly – and impossibly – Eadric twisted Lukarn in his wrist and began to slice at the creatures restraining him.** With four, powerful strikes, he slew one of them. The remaining daemon clung on desperately, screaming telepathically for assistance. Two of its enormous hands pinned Eadric's arm while two more pried his weapon from his grip.

The nycadaemon, unaccustomed to bearing a sword of Lukarn's power and temperament, gave a look of astonishment as it began to hack at itself with the captured weapon.

Before the next onslaught could reach him, Eadric spoke a single, quiet, holy word. The Abyssal rock beneath him shuddered in agony, and around sixty bar-lgura within a broad circle about him burned away into vapour. The nycadaemon – and three others who had come to its call – were stricken instantly.

Eadric stepped forwards, and retrieved Lukarn from the paralyzed monster's grasp.

Great Goddess, Nwm thought as he plummeted towards the battlefield. He is made for this. This is his purpose. He is like a machine. He finally understood just how much Soneillon needed the Ahma.

The Druid discharged a cone of Infernal fire over the demons below him, simultaneously becoming visible. Behind him, Mostin and Shomei thundered over the field, burning bar-lgura footsoldiers with gouts of fire in the vicinity of where one of the ultroloths was suspected to be.

Below them, the hordes quaked.

The situation was uncannily familiar to Mostin, and he experienced a profound déjà vu as he winged away. His eyes widened, as the vision of a future half-remembered flashed across his mind.

Ainhorr, he thought to Shomei. Ainhorr will come.

She groaned. Are you sure?

Yes. No. Yes. I'm sure.

She swallowed. The vorpal sword was a vague recollection of death for her. But only one of several.

*

A succubus – a scout named Semhel who exercised no great power and held no particular responsibilities – appeared before Janiq. The marilith remained in the rearguard of her force, flanked by glabrezu bodyguards.

Semhel prostrated herself. "There is a mortal here – or a celestial. I cannot tell which."

Janiq, of quick mind, and wise to at least some of the many schemes in which her dark master was embroiled, narrowed her eyes and hissed. Adyell had confirmed that the Ahma had visited Throile on at least two occasions – in fact, the doubts held by the succubus regarding Soneillon's actions had, in large part, been responsible for her defection. She barked an order at her aide – the arcanaloth Xehez.

"Issue a sending immediately to Azzagrat. Eadric of Deorham is here."

Knowing that when Janiq said 'immediately,' she meant immediately, Xehez used a limited wish to expedite the message.

In his sanctum, three words resonated in Graz'zt's mind:

Deorham in Throile.

The Prince's reply was equally succinct:

Detain him. I will send aid.

Janiq – along with her retinue – teleported to a position which offered a better vantage of the battle, and watched, incredulous, as three hellfire wyrms – emanating holy auras – appeared above the vanguard of her army.

She screamed telepathic orders to her aerial heavy cavalry – the nycadaemon mercenaries – immediately instructing the entire force to withdraw from the goristros and to intercept the dragons.

Her orders to the ultroloths – whose loyalty she still doubted – were couched in the promise of reward. Capture the mortal, and Graz'zt will lavish gifts upon all of us. Bring the wyrms down.

She dispatched Semhel with instructions to her reserve force of bar-lgura – who waited several thousand miles away – to join the fray, and smiled. Drawing six unholy swords from scabbards across her body, the Marilith prepared for battle.

*

Mostin gyred in the sky, his aura blinding the succubi around him. In his belly, he felt the fire rising again as dozens of nycadaemons began to take off, or to manifest in the air around him.

At that point, he was struck by two simultaneous targeted greater dispel magics, and two quickened unholy blights.

Oops, he thought as his most of his wards vanished and he was forced back into his natural state. He vomited but retained his composure, cast a quickened dimension door and appeared among a screeching mob of bar-lgura, sixty feet ahead of Eadric, in the aperture in the Paling.

Shomei screeched. Are you insane? She herself was struck by a greater dispelling but, to her relief, retained her draconic shape. A horrid wilting failed to affect her. But her mind blank was gone, and to the demons and daemons present who possessed true seeing, her real form became apparent.

Mortal! The voice of an Ultroloth echoed in the minds of the lesser daemons.

Gleefully, eight Nycadaemons tore into her. Many more flapped nearby, eager for the chance to engage an obstacle which now seemed as though it could be overcome. Still, they could barely penetrate her armour.

Shomei shapechanged. Her scales thickened and brightened, swiftly acquiring a flawless, mirror-like sheen. Her size doubled to titanic proportions. As her wings powered her backwards in the air, and daemons lashed at her, she breathed upon those in front of her head.

Fourteen paralyzed nycaloths dropped like stones to the ground, flattening dozens of bar-lgura below them.

*

A wave of malice washed over Eadric, attempting to dominate him, and his head turned to face the source of the compulsion.

It was a faceless creature, whose empty visage swam with tiny pin-points of light, and whose dark cloak seemed to blow with unnatural slowness in the gale issuing from above. It stood seventy feet away, flanked by nycaloths and behind a great, armour-clad yagnodaemon which bore a huge sword.

He began to run towards it, over the ashes of the bar-lgura and past the stupefied forms of nycadaemons. Power coursed through him as he invoked as much strength as he could muster. Hasted time simultaneously slowed to a crawl, and sped to a blur. Nycadaemons clutched at him as he moved, and the yagnoloth interposed itself fully between Eadric and his quarry. The armoured fiend's sword bit deep into him, but he forced his way forwards, his shield slamming into the bodyguard's legs and bowling it over. He smote the ultrodaemon, and blackness poured from it. It emitted a thin, high-pitched scream.***

As the yagnoloth clambered to its feet, the Ahma turned and smote it. It struck Eadric again, with enormous force, blinding itself in the backlash from the holy aura. Two nycaloths moved in, and ripped at him in a frenzy, drawing blood with envenomed claws.

Gambling, the ultroloth spoke a power word. The capture of the Ahma was a prize for which much should be risked. Eadric's celestial defense failed, and for a fraction of a second the daemon exulted. But still Eadric did not succumb. He struck, and the daemon perished. He stepped sideways, and the sightless yagnoloth lashed out again, smashing through his armour. Eadric smote it again. And again. Eadric struck again, but wearily, and as it crumpled next to him, he knew that his strength was waning swiftly.

A huge claw snatched him from the battlefield, and carried him aloft.

"Thank-you," he said to Nwm.

"Hmm," the Druid replied.

But, struck by a dispelling, the shapechange on Nwm fizzled and vanished, and both he and Eadric plummeted back to the ground.

















*I have retained shapechange on the Druid spell-list.

** This was a potentially dangerous situation – one of the nycadaemons Bull Rushed Eadric and the other began a grapple as an AoO – Eadric had already used his AoO for the round when countering the bar-lgura's attempted grapple (and Cleaving from it. Sigh.) Lukarn, however is a sunblade – i.e. it's treated as a light weapon, and could therefore be used in a grapple.

I use Pants's 'loths, btw. Nice work, Pants.


***This incident is worthy of note. Eadric's player – Marc – has this annoying habit of pulling off stunts like this. One would think that sticking a yagnoloth (a 10th level Fighter yagnoloth, to boot) directly in the path of a size M creature would ensure the ultroloth some space to either use a few more spell-likes, or to teleport away if things got sticky for it.

But, no. Eadric invoked the Strength domain and Righteous Might, charged, overran the yagnoloth, Power Attacked at +20, smote the ultroloth and scored a critical hit, reducing the daemon to around 30 hp.