(IR) IR Interlude between Turns 3 and 4 (thread 2) - Page 10


What's on your mind?

  1. #91

    rules question

    any Pl's I use to help another player at the end of the turn they are returned to my pool are any Pl's I use gone permenantly?
    * Picture of me in a charred pink tutu removed

 

  • #92
    A funny thing happens, regarding those Black Brotherhood prisoners.

    They're dead. Actually, that's an understatement. They're withered corpses, seemingly dead for centuries. Their souls are gone beyond all reaching. Resurrection, or even true resurrection is not an option. Neither is speak with dead. Whatever it was they wanted to tell you, you will never hear now.

    And the worse thing is that the bodies seem to be smiling...

  • #93
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    ø Ignore Maudlin
    Acererak and the Scarlet Brotherhood also experiment with the new substance...

    Out of curiosity, a contingent of Scarlet Brothers dumps a large amount of it in the Jeklea Bay, just to see how it would react to water.

    Edit - Did I understand correctly that everyone with 10th level magic can just melt the red metal off the backs of their opponents in battle, thereby dissolving said opponents as well? That's a net advantage of +3/+4 to those with 10th level magic then

    Edit edit - An extra 500 PL of Angels just joined the good guys? Twitch.
    Last edited by Maudlin; Friday, 8th March, 2002 at 01:49 AM.

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    ø Ignore Forrester

    Vecna the immortal?

    Question -- precisely what good does it do to kill Vecna?

    He was just killed, and somehow, miraculously, he's back to normal (pretty much instantaneously) and causing trouble. Just because of the phyactery.

    Is he at least weak for awhile? Does he take some time to come back?

    Or is all that killing Vecna does is send him back to the Shade for a day?

    Just curious.

    Forrester

  • #95
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    ø Ignore Edena_of_Neith
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    Answers to the above Posts

    ALZEM

    rules question

    any PL's I use to help another player at the end of the turn they are returned to my pool are any Pl's I use gone permenantly?

    ANSWER: Any PL you use to help another player with return to you at the beginning of the next Turn.
    Your PL in armies is always considered to belong to you, regardless of where your armies are, or who is playing them.

    - - -

    RHIALTO

    A funny thing happens, regarding those Black Brotherhood prisoners.
    They're dead. Actually, that's an understatement. They're withered corpses, seemingly dead for centuries. Their souls are gone beyond all reaching. Resurrection, or even true resurrection is not an option. Neither is speak with dead. Whatever it was they wanted to tell you, you will never hear now.
    And the worse thing is that the bodies seem to be smiling...

    ANSWER: One thing the Black Brotherhood is really good at, is dying.
    They die so throughly that even their souls die.
    This is a boon, in that you cannot question them.
    It is a bane, for when you are dead like that, you are dead!

    - - -

    MAUDLIN

    Acererak and the Scarlet Brotherhood also experiment with the new substance...

    Out of curiosity, a contingent of Scarlet Brothers dumps a large amount of it in the Jeklea Bay, just to see how it would react to water.

    Edit - Did I understand correctly that everyone with 10th level magic can just melt the red metal off the backs of their opponents in battle, thereby dissolving said opponents as well? That's a net advantage of +3/+4 to those with 10th level magic then
    Edit edit - An extra 500 PL of Angels just joined the good guys? Twitch.

    ANSWERS:

    You drop a large amount of the Red Goo into Jeklea Bay, eh?
    That is playing with matches, in a room full of dynamite, in this case. There is a lot of power in that Red Goo.

    There is a massive explosion, and water geysers hundreds of feet into the air.
    Then, the whole region of water turns black, then red.
    After a period of many hours, the water ... slowly ... returns to normal.

    I never said anything about 10th level magic being able to melt the Red Armor off the backs of anyone.
    What I said was: 10th level magic will allow you to turn red steel and anything made out of it, back into Red Goo, within limits.
    I said that 10th level magic could destroy Red Goo, in very limited quantities.
    9th level magic and below can only destroy very tiny amounts of Red Goo, on a spell by spell basis, and the dangers to the caster are high.

    I never said 500 PL of Angels joined the IR.

    The ANGELS are not becoming involved - even Alzem does not run them. I reserve that right as Moderator in this case.

    The Solars, Planetars, and Deva (all three types) are being played by Alzem.

    The Angels of the Seventh Heaven do not come at anyone's beck and call, nor do they operate according to military tactics, nor do they operate according to any regular form of thinking.
    They are Angels, and they transcend mortal thinking, and mortal ways.
    They cannot intervene in this IR unless the war goes into Realmspace itself, and THEN they will only become involved if certain, special conditions are met.

    It is true that you have a new 500 PL force of Torilians to deal with, in addition to Forrester's.
    But it is also true that Vecna is about to wake up a 300 PL force with an attack/defense of 6/6 to fight, he hopes, these Torilians.

    - - -

    FORRESTER

    Vecna the immortal?

    Question -- precisely what good does it do to kill Vecna?

    He was just killed, and somehow, miraculously, he's back to normal (pretty much instantaneously) and causing trouble. Just because of the phyactery.
    Is he at least weak for awhile? Does he take some time to come back?
    Or is all that killing Vecna does is send him back to the Shade for a day?
    Just curious.

    ANSWER:

    I intended Vecna to be a pain in the rear.
    I intended Vecna as a person everyone could, and would, hate.
    I want you to hate Vecna; he is a truly hatable being. He is probably the single most evil being on Oerth, and I have the dubious honor of playing this horrific NPC.

    You cannot kill a lich by killing his body.
    Even a normal lich would recover in a few weeks from such a death, regaining energy from his phylactery.
    Vecna is not a normal lich.
    Vecna is not even an ultralich like Acererak or Larloch.
    Vecna is the greatest lich who ever existed on Oerth.

    Vecna recovered within hours of his physical form being destroyed.
    Vecna is dangerously close to being a God, but he is not a God; he can be killed permanently.

    You can kill Vecna even before the beginning of Turn 4 (but not before he awakens the City of the Gods, which he did immediately after his statement Let The Fun Begin.)
    All you have to do is cut a deal with Lord Melkor, and have the phylactery handed over to Forrester.
    Then destroy the phylactery. And Vecna is instantly and irrevocably dead.

    Edena_of_Neith
    Last edited by Edena_of_Neith; Friday, 8th March, 2002 at 02:23 AM.

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    ø Ignore Alyx
    The wind whips around a silent figure, sending his crimson cloak waving. He is kneeling, waiting, watching. His green eyes steadily flicker as he turns his head slowly from the southwest to the east.

    From the southwest a red hand stretches over the world. A foul enveloping taint emanates from that place with cruel intensity. All Oerth seems to tremble from that taint. The sun is struck in the very sky. The ground moans in pain. Red ooze creeps forth from dark pools of bloodlike liquid. The red elf favors that crimson colour, but this approach is defilement twice over to him. Red means danger and death, is that not enough? Why now taint, as well?

    Then from the east approaches a different taint. Here the light is met by an opposing cloud of floating darkness. Light is overborne by an evil blackness, a much more tangible taint that is nonetheless subtle enough to accomplish what it desires. And oh yes, the shadow is indeed alive. The red elf is not fooled. This shadow is not satisfied by peace. It would not survive in a land without war. It only wishes to kill, to torture, to attack.

    "How can this end?" He whispers softly, a silent proclamation of doom. When one is surrounded by shadow and taint, by failed dreams, by fallen comrades and evil tidings, hope seems lost; or at least far away. What can one do to fight the invincible darkness, the inexorable defilement, when all the earth itself seems to fight with them against you?

    Then the red elf stands, his left hand flourishing with a habitual twist that he takes comfort in. A blade springs into his crimson glove out of nothing, a blade tinged in a soft glow of ruby and scarlet. He stands tall once again. His mind forces unwelcome thoughts into an unconscious box. He speaks strongly into the open, still clear air about him. “If we do not win, we can at least stop the tide from flowing, if only for a time. Such is our fate before, and such is our fate now, and my hope is that our future fate will also remain thus.”

    With those words, he turns to the west.

    When one’s fingers are to be used to plug a broken dike, it is best to bring an army to aid you in the effort. And to the west was that army.

    The nations of Celestial and Nippon led the center, endless rows of dedicated swordsmen and peerless lancers on horse after horse. These horses were chargers, trained to flinch never in the face of combat and against the mightiest of spells. With this physical force came another one of monks, clerics and wizards, dedicated forces that trained daily against one another in mock duels.

    On the left wing was another force, a legion of elves from Varnaith, borne over the seas in defense of another nation. Every man and woman in that army fought as a unit. The hierarchy of command was clear and yet flexible if needed. This army knew order and embraced it even amid the heat and flurry of battle.
    On the right wing came another force, the mariner elves of the Lendores. They had seen much action in this war, be it on the water against their natural enemies or in the black swamp in a desperate flurry of slashing cutlasses and knives. They were veterans now, they had learnt how to fight on land the hard way. Each soldier was a warrior trained to attack fiercely and to finish any opposition.

    But it was in the vanguard that the heart of the army came.

    The forces of Celene marched solemnly through the remains of their nation, grim fighters in battered armour that nonetheless still held. They marched with very little sound. Something inside them had been destroyed – each had lost a home, a family, and friends – and that had scraped away their soft exterior, leaving only a rock inside. As the sword is forged on fire, the hearts of the olves had been forged for battle. They did not want blood, did not care for hate, and did not yearn for revenge. What they wanted was to fight, to die if they could, and in doing so strike a blow to shake the world.

    The red elf stood now on the crest of a silent hill, looking at this force. He had forged these separate and disparate peoples together, long ago. Now it had led to this, a force that would have outnumbered and outfought any other in the days of the Greyhawk wars. Now, after recent events, it was not so imposing a force. But it was, perhaps, enough.

    “If one is doomed to die and fade into the night, perhaps it is best to do so with a song.”

    With these words, the red elf turned to solidly face the east. The shades would not remain content with what they had. And when evil moved to strike, the forces of the sun would burn away whatever darkness attacked it. Or die trying.

  • #97
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    ø Ignore Edena_of_Neith
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    ALZEM MUST READ THIS POST

    TO EVERYONE IN THE IR:

    Alzem was a major player in the 2nd IR, which took place entirely in Realmspace (and mostly on Toril.)
    Alzem founded Hope Isle, a refuge from the war ravaging Toril for the people of that world.
    Hope Isle went on to become a powerful nation all of it's own, independent of the Technomancy and other great powers of the 2nd IR.
    The Angels came, and blessed Hope Isle, and lent their protection to it.

    Hope Isle remained independent when everyone else joined the United Commonwealth of Toril, and remains independent to this day.

    Hope Isle has 5,000 PL in force, but 4,000 of that is in Angels from the Seventh Heaven, and they do as they will, and follow only their own internal morality.
    They protect and defend Hope Isle, but they do not generally otherwise involve themselves on Toril.
    Even on Hope Isle, they are rarely seen.
    There aren't actually very many of them: only a few hundred at the most.
    That few hundred, is more than enough. Enough to give Hope Isle that 4,000 PL.

    Hope Isle's remaining 1,000 PL comes from it's understanding of Toril's superscience and high powered magic.
    It's Solars, Planetars, and Deva.
    It's valiant and noble people.

    As with Forrester, they cannot bring their superscience and great magic to Oerth, for magic and science work differently on Oerth than on Toril.
    Thus, Alzem's PL is halved, to 500 PL.
    That is the total PL he can bring to bear in this IR.

    But that is not the point of this article.
    That is background information for you.
    I need a crucial piece of background information relayed to Alzem.

    Alzem has NOT read the Sending of the Wanderer.
    It is crucially important that he do so.
    Alzem, after all, is playing a Torilian Power, a Torilian Power of strongly good alignment and lofty ideals, of enlightenment (and indeed, Hope Isle is a paradise for it's people.)
    The Wanderer does not see it that way, and Alzem has not heard his pitiless slandering of the Torilians that began this IR, and the war that has ensued since.

    I, therefore, will copy the Sending of the Wanderer, and place it, IN TOTAL, on this post.

    I request that you e-mail Alzem, tell him the Sending of the Wanderer is vital reading for him, and that it is here, on this post, in this thread.
    I request this. Please do this for me, if you would, folks.
    Alzem, if you are reading this, brace yourself.

    Brace yourself.

    You will NOT LIKE what the Wanderer had to say about Toril (Hope Isle, or anyone else) !!!

    Here follows the Sending of the Wanderer:

    - - -


    THE SENDING OF THE WANDERER

    Note - the Sending of the Wanderer is rather disgusting and offensive In Character, and was
    meant to be so ... In Character.
    NOT Out of Character. The Sending has no OOC implications or messages of any sort.

    - - -

    40 years have passed since the Greyhawk Wars ended.
    40 years of peace.
    Peace fought hard for, hard won, and well deserved.
    A time of respite, a time of rebuilding, a time of growing prosperity and hope for everyone.

    War looms again now, however - a war more terrible than the Greyhawk Wars ever were, and
    the general population of Oerth is in despair, and they cower and hide, hoping to escape the
    coming storm.

    A magical sending comes to the people of Oerth.
    This magical sending conveys both sound and sight, a series of images with vocal
    accompanyment that goes on for some time.
    Every sentient being on Oerth, from the semi-intelligent gray ooze to the supra-genius gold
    dragons, and all between, receives this sending.
    Every sentient being in Greyspace receives this sending.
    The Sending is heard by the Torilian Border Guard.
    The Sending is heard in the Border Ethereal where it touches Oerth and Greyspace.
    The Sending is heard near Gates in Sigil that lead to Oerth or Greyspace.

    Vecna alone does not hear the Sending, for he has not arrived in the Present yet (he will
    arrive within a few hours of the Sending, though, and from his magic learn about it, and
    everything said or shown in it.)

    Nobody knows who made the sending.
    Many think it is the mysterious Wanderer (see the Ivid the Undying internet supplement.)

    Nobody knows for sure, but all receive the sending, in sight and sound, from beginning to
    end, and all clearly understand everything shown and said.


    - - -


    Everything shown and said in the Sending, happened.
    The Wanderer is showing things that actually happened (in the first two IRs) and things
    actually said (in the first two IRs.)

    In Character, spells like Detect Lie, Augury, Divination, Commune, Limited Wish, Wish, and
    Miracle will all reveal that everything shown is the truth.
    Anyone travelling to the Outer Planes, to discuss the Sending with their dieties, or their
    Proxies, or the Planars, or attempting Contact Other Plane, finds that the Sending is
    showing truth.

    The spells and visits show the Sending depicts the truth and no falsehood.
    However, the spells and visits also show that the Sending is not the whole truth, nor is it
    necessarily a truthful depiction of the truth.

    Here is what is heard and seen:
    The voice of an elderly man, frail and spectral, is heard ((given in parenthesis below))

    - - -

    (There was once a land like ours, called Faerun.)

    - - -

    The image of that land appears. There are the mountain ranges, snow capped and mighty.
    There are the fields, castles tall amongst them, manor homes and peasant homes
    sprinkled throughout.
    There are the forests, green and verdent, from the tall boreal forests of Luruar to the lush
    tropical rainforests of Chult.
    There are the cities: mighty Waterdeep, noble Silverymoon, proud Zhentil Keep, menacing
    Mulmaster, Calimport in all it’s sprawl, Candlekeep with it’s endless libraries, and many
    more.
    Like the Flanaess, there are the scars of wars and magic ... the High Moor is bleak and
    barren, the desert of Anarouch shimmers in the heat.
    Like the Flanaess, there are places of mystery and wonder. The Halls of Eveningstar, the
    Star Mounds, Ironfang Keep, the mysterious magehalls of Nimbral, the buried wonders of
    Raurin.
    Like the Flanaess, there are places of great beauty: Evermeet, a green and shining island of
    wonder in the middle of the blue sea, the stately grace of the islands of the Moonshaes,
    rising in green covered cliffs out of the froth, the grandeur of the Great Rift, the glittering
    caverns of Mithril Hall.
    The elves of this land are like the elves of Oerth, pretty much; some are blue and some are
    gold, and some are even green, but they are all elves. The dwarves are like those of Oerth,
    noble and strong and stout. The gnomes are the same, short and clever and darkly
    humorous. The halflings are similar; some are peaceful gardeners, and some are lonely
    foresters, but all are reasonably non-violent.
    Except for the altered geography, and the fact that there are more mages in this land, and
    they are slightly stronger than the mages of Oerth, this might well be the Flanaess.

    - - -

    (The people of this land, choose to walk a path that diverged from wisdom and the Light.)

    - - -

    Images appear, in order, one by one.

    A stately old inn is seen, probably over a hundred years old. It is made of wood, it is
    aesthetically beautiful, the price is fair, the service excellent, and the food superb.
    But now a large number of people are converging on the inn, and with picks and axes they
    are chopping it down, reducing it to kindling, and hauling off the remains.
    And with the inn goes all the trees and shrugs around it, all hewed down and carted away.
    An ugly building, 3 stories high, made out of dinghy stone, is put up in it’s place.
    The new owner, a gnome, looks it up and down, smiles and nods: ‘This is progress. We will
    make much more money now.’

    A pleasant country village is seen, with a scattering of homes, churches to various dieities,
    the general store, the blacksmith, the cobbler, the bakery, everything.
    But they are tearing it all down, and people are being evicted from their homes by force.
    Again, all the buildings are demolished, and all the trees and shrugs hewed away, and
    everything carted off.
    In the place of the town rises a set of what look like tall stone block buildings (apartment
    tenements), and a new industrial center rises at the center of town, ugly and black, filled
    with odd and nonsensical looking pipes, beams, wheels, and long tall stacks.
    The people are made to live in these stone buildings. They do not look happy.
    Now, smoke begins to rise out of the tall stacks at an incredible rate. It very quickly changes
    the color of the sky to a murky blue, and the fumes cause people to gag, to cough, to hold
    their hands over their mouths as they hurry to and fro.

    - - -

    (They chose to walk a crooked path, a path that went wrong, terribly wrong.)

    - - -

    The same town, but now it is a city.
    There is not a tree or bush in sight.
    There are endless rows of tenements, hundreds of them, filling the entire vision, no
    countryside to be seen at all.
    Gigantic buildings tower over the tenements, but these are not churches; they are great
    buildings of iron and stone, and an awful sound comes from them.
    The sound of bellows, of steam, of hammers, of chains, of some unholy uproar, as if all the
    demons were loose and on the warpath.
    The people in the narrow, grimy streets are rushing to and fro like a hoard of demons were
    coming for them; pushing through each other in an incredible jam, beggars and the
    destitute and the homeless evident at every corner, being splashed by the filthy slime
    thrown from the streets as the passerbys step in the murky water.
    From the great tall cyclindrical towers are coming multiple plumes of smoke - so much
    smoke it seems like a forest fire is in progress. No amount of wood could produce that much
    smoke unless whole forests ARE being cleared to produce it.
    The sky is a sickly yellow brown color, and the sunlight coming through the smoke is weak
    and reddish.

    - - -

    (The people of Faerun went wrong. As they continued walking their new path, reason and
    care were discarded on the grass.)

    - - -

    A large gathering of gnomes, bald men and women in red robes, men and women wearing
    black garments adorned with the symbols of a skull or other ghastly markings, and many
    others are congregated around a table.
    A conversation is in progress:

    ‘We have perfected Permanency, and now it can be cast without any penalty to the wielder’
    ‘Yes, but will it take on items?’
    ‘Indeed, for we have modified it so that it will cover most spells, and most items.’
    ‘We can create magical items on an assembly line.’
    ‘Show us some of these items.’

    ‘Here is an arquebus (the device) that fires three times as fast as a normal arquebus, it
    never misfires, and it is twice as accurate.’
    ‘Here is a cannon (the device is shown) that loads itself, and we are working on making
    Bolts of Holding for the ammunition.’
    ‘Here is a device that will propel a ship through water without sails, employing steam, and its
    steel blades won’t break from any normal cause’

    But now one of the gnomes steps forward, and presents a flask of greek fire.

    ‘When this is thrown, it will burst with 10 fold effect, and nothing will put out the fire until the
    oil itself has burned out!’

    - - -

    (Walking their path, they abandoned the care and caution of magecraft. They abandoned
    the responsibility of power. They chose to turn a blind eye to consequences. Only power
    mattered, and that was pursued ruthlessly.)

    - - -

    The forests are being hacked down, trees falling, crashing, thundering to the ground.
    The new and horrible sound, the sound of chainsaws, is heard, and the forest is being
    destroyed at an appalling rate, an incredible rate.
    Two iron or steel rails have been laid through the cleared area, and a gigantic machine is
    sitting on the rails, or a series of gigantic machines. The logs are being laid upon them,
    piled high, until thousands of trees are laid on the train, for train it is, and the engine roars
    to life, and with black puffs slowly accelerates, pulling the massive assemblage of logs and
    steel vehicles away, with a noise like steadily rising thunder.

    Some of the trees that were cut are not hewed apart, but instead stripped in mills - strange
    mills filled with the deafening scream of magical saws, and then placed straight up.
    Long rows of these naked posts are set up, then wires - made of some unknown substance
    - are hung from them, again and again, and more and more posts go up, and more wires,
    until they seem to block out the sky.
    A bird lands on one of the wires, then contacts a second wire. With a flash like lightning, the
    bird is incinerated. Grumbling gnomes are seen climbing up and working on the wires with
    devices that are unrecognizable.
    They kick the corpse of the bird into the nearby river, which is murky and has a strange
    sickly smell to it.

    The view pulls back, and it can be seen that the devastation to the forests is far and wide,
    and everywhere these steel beams have been placed over the ground, and the poles and
    wires are everywhere.
    All the quaintly old towns and villages are vanishing, and vast cities are springing up.
    Cities where the air is so toxic men and women and children die from breathing it, people
    are made to live stacked up 10 stories high, 5 to a room, where beggars and the destitute
    rot in the narrow streets, and where endless vast factories, forbiddening, black, pour endless
    amounts of smoke into the atmosphere, filling the whole sky with a black pall.
    The rivers are poisoned, and those who fall in come out sick, and they die, or must be
    magically healed ... but magical healing is still as rare as ever, and the clergy are raking in
    the money more than the new bankers or stock brokers are, shouting and yelling and
    brandishing slips of paper in a meaningless (and endless) cacophony of sound.

    - - -

    (Some among them had never chosen to walk the crooked path, and had retained wisdom
    and reason. They gave battle to the gnomes and technomancers, fought to keep them from
    making Faerun over as they pleased.)

    - - -

    The druids are gathered in conclave in the sacred grove.
    Next, they are seen in the blackish pits of the machines, the factories, throwing their magic,
    wrecking the machines, stopping the smoke from billowing out into the sky, stopping the
    poisons from flowing into the rivers.
    The sacred grove appears again. Into said grove march figures sheathed in armor, head to
    toe. The armor is strange; the figures look like they are covered in giant shells. Each figure
    is carrying a long tube that spits fire: fire that melts rock, and devours trees and shrubs,
    burning them quickly to cinders.
    The grove burns, wails of protest by the dryads as they die unavailing them, for those who
    are attacking are without pity or remorse.

    The image of a court appears. The gnomes are the judges, and the jury.
    And the executioners, and the druids, men and women, are taken out and hung, by the
    hundreds, their bodies left to rot in the poisoned sunlight.

    Wizards with red robes shoot blazing beams of light, whether magic or technology is
    unknown, and those beams cut down trees in a flash, like they’d been struck by lightning.
    Mile after mile of forest is destroyed, then fireballs and thousands of the new greek oil
    explosives are thrown in, incinerating all.
    The screams of the dying druids are matched by the screams of dying animals, birds, and
    the Faerie, trapped and unable to flee the firestorm.

    The scene of a dungeon. Druid women hang in rows. With great glee, the men and women
    who are their jailors, wearing the hideous skull symbol seen earlier, begin their work of
    torture, ultimately multilating the victims beyond recognition.

    - - -

    (Drunk with power, victorious over the peoples and forces of reason, they chose to willfully
    abuse the very magic that had made them strong, and to hand the secrets of its power over
    to those who should never have been allowed to even know of such things.)

    - - -

    A man and a gnome are sitting, facing the hideous visage of a great orc, and a small
    grinning kobold.
    The man speaks:

    ‘This is the new gatling gun, with Permanency and Haste, and with bullets augmented with
    explosive magic.’
    ‘Here is the secret of mass producing the new rifle. With this weapon, you can kill your
    opponents at thousands of yards, and their arrows cannot touch you.’
    ‘Here is how you build a factory to mass produce weapons of war ...’

    He hands the weapons to the orc and kobold, and shows them extensive schematics.

    ‘Here is how to make Permanency effective over and over, without cost to yourself.’
    ‘Here are the secrets of magic, which have been wrongfully withheld from you.’
    ‘Here is how to cast high powered spells.’
    ‘Here is how to combine magic with science.’

    A new image appears. It is like a Nibelungen cavern, for it is full of the den and uproar
    those dwarves would make.
    But it is kobolds who are making this den, as they work in the hellish uproar of a great
    underground war factory. Magical blades, magical bullets, magic firearms, magical armor,
    and a number of unrecognizable oddities are all being made, while kobolds gloat over
    them, grin over them, and peer over schematics.
    The scene shifts, and now an orcish city is seen. It is worse than the human cities ... they
    didn’t even bother to build tenements for their workers, and most live in huts.
    But their factories tower into the sky, unleashing ungodly torrents of smoke, and from those
    factories come great vehicles mounted on the twin rails, and huge versions of the arquebus,
    over 10 feet long, are sitting on them. The orcs jump and howl with glee as their first
    magical artillery rolls out the door.

    - - -

    (Those that should have stopped them, failed in their duties. And when the illithid, aroused
    by the turmoil Above, choose to make themselves masters of the Underdark, nobody even
    bothered to look for the danger until it was upon them, and they were slaughtered.)

    - - -

    The Chosen of Mystra sits in her dressing room, peering at herself in the mirror. She looks
    gaunt and sad, and is holding a sheath of papers.
    On those papers, is a long list, the list of druids and elves slain by the gnomes and humans
    of the Technomancy, as it now calls itself, and by the new and greatly feared Humanoid
    Alliance.
    She shakes her head, and says: ‘We must not interfere. We must allow the world to make
    it’s own choices, for good or evil. We shall not stop this thing.’

    The scene flashes to a drow city 2 miles below her.
    The drow are being slaughtered, the mind flayers (illithid) are blasting them, incinerating
    them, blowing their brains out, devouring those they can catch.
    Soon all the drow city is in ruins, and the last survivors are rounded up by the illithid, and
    march off as mindless automatons under illithid mental domination.

    The great House of Baenre falls, and Narbondel breaks in half and falls, shattering, shards
    flying everywhere. Menzoberranzan is whelmed by the illithid.
    Blingdenstone, the home of the Svirfneblin, lays silent and empty, no remaining life in the
    ruins, every last gnome carried off to the illithid cities.
    The priestesses of Ghaunadaur fall to illithid mental power, and their servants, the puddings
    and oozes, halt, and acknowledge the overlordship of their new masters, the illithid,
    supreme rulers of the Underdark.

    - - -

    (Their path led to the ruin and multilation of Faerun. In that ruin, even those peoples of
    reason and lore were pulled down into folly and darkness. Amongst the technomancers who
    had perpetrated this wreckage, no act of madness was now beyond their scope of thought.)

    - - -

    The dwarf king roars in anger: ‘The elves started this trouble. I want Queen Amlaruil of
    Evermeet and all her mages brought here so they can be tried, properly found guilty, then
    drawn and quartered! Do you hear me?!
    The elven emissary gasps, and states: ‘That is not reasonable, m’lord. The elves are
    victims of this war also.’
    The king glares. ‘Bring me the Queen, or face the wrath of the dwarves!’
    The elven emissary looks offended, and says ‘I shall depart now, and come back when you
    will be courteous and have thought upon the matter, and realized that what you ask is
    impossible and unjust.’
    The dwarven king jumps to his feet in anger, points at the emissary, and states ‘I want him
    taken, chained up, and given 50 lashes. I want it done now.’
    The elven emissary looks horrified and shocked. ‘I am a diplomat. Have the dwarves chosen
    to throw aside all diplomacy??’
    The dwarven king roars ‘Make it a hundred lashes, and to the bone. If he starts to die, heal
    him! Then throw him out the front gate to rot!’

    The flogging is carried out, the dwarves grim and strangely eager to the task, and the
    screams are deafening. What is left of the elf is tossed outside the Gates, which then slam
    shut.

    In the deeps of some great building, beings sit around a table.
    One is a human, one is an orc, and one is ... a horned devil.

    The human smiles and speaks ‘We welcome the alliance with our new friends, the orcs and
    the kobolds, and we embrace all the humanoids. May they be ever welcome in our lands
    and our cities.’
    ‘With them shall we share all our magic, and all our science, and they shall come into their
    own.’
    The orc speaks up ‘We welcome the friendship of the Technomancy, and we shall work with
    you to destroy the elves forever, exterminate them utterly from the planet, and drive all of
    our common foes from Toril.’
    The human looks at the horned devil and smiles again, and says ‘With our Pact, the might
    of the Fiends is with us, and they shall overcome your elves, and any who dare oppose you.’

    The horned devil, just smiles, and says nothing.

    Another dark place, probably a cave. A demon is there, speaking with shadowy figures.
    One of them speaks ‘With demonic aid, we shall carve our own place out in this world, and
    destroy all those who oppose us.’
    The demon speaks ‘Just give me and mine fresh blood, the blood of innocents and children,
    and we shall be as a destroying wave upon your foes.’
    The shadowy figure grins, and says ‘We have children aplenty and to spare. For the
    demons, nothing is too much to ask for, and nothing is to much to give.’
    The shadowy figure is seen holding out one of the new machine guns to the demon, the
    machine gun glowing bright green with immense magical power. The demon takes it, eyes it
    speculatively, then blows the far side of the cavern to pieces with it. The demon seems very
    pleased.
    The shadowy figure comments ‘We have thousands like that, and even better weapons,
    which shall be put at your disposal at once.’
    The demon smiles ...

    In Evereska, the ancient crystalline buildings are shattering, crumbling.
    Great machines, glowing green with Protection from Normal Weapons and Protection from
    Magical Weapons, Stoneskin and Resist Fire, with Hasted tracks instead of wheels, aim huge
    barrels at the buildings, and massive explosions herald each new round of tank fire.
    Figures in glowing green armor, which appears to be weightless - they are moving like it is
    weightless - are pointing glowing firearms of every kind at the elves, and an endless rain of
    multicolored destruction is flying into the defenders.
    The elves are massacred. Blown to pieces, body parts strewn over the shattered
    cobblestones. More buildings crumble, elven archers, men and women, crushed as they fall
    with the structures.
    Overhead flies an evil dragon, grinning and firing gouts of acid that melt buildings and elves
    alike, and with each strike those on the ground cheer.

    When the battle is over, they doff their helmets, and the hideous visages of orcs, bugbears,
    kobolds, gnolls, every kind of humanoid in some unholy harmony, are seen.
    With glee they clap each other, like old war buddies, and they prepare for the victory feast.
    The elves, are the feast.
    By the hundreds, elven corpses of men, women, and children, adorn the spits, while kobolds
    turn them grinning, and bugbears add seasoning, and orc chefs preside over great ovens,
    their knives flashing as they prepare special dinners for the guests.

    Into the camp comes walking a large group of humans, carrying the ensignia of the
    Technomancy.
    Cheers, roars, and shouts of greeting, and clapping, is heard from every corner as these
    allies of the Humanoids take their places at the seats of honor, and join in the dining with
    the humanoids.
    As the food is wolfed down, and the ale flows, the human leader and the leader of the
    humanoids, a great orc, raise their glasses, and toast each other, and another great cheer
    erupts from all sides.

    The last charred ruins of Evereska are blasted into rubble, dissolved in acid, and the ground
    itself is erased of all vegetation and any sign that anything ever lived there.
    The blood of the elves, sinks deep into the earth, and the bedrock groans in pain, and if
    one listens carefully, weeping can be heard ... the very earth is weeping, as the elven blood
    saturates it.

    In Leuthilspar, still untouched, it’s tall spires touching the sky, the elves hail their friends
    the Faerie.
    Pixies, sprites, grigs, sylphs, compliment the main body of the sidhe who have come to
    stand beside their mortal brethren, while the more powerful nymphs, and the unearthly
    beautiful eladrin stand to one side.
    The elven Queen, Amlaruil, raises her hand, and speaks ‘We shall endure, the magic will
    endure, and we will not fail our trust to the world.’

    - - -

    (Queen Amlaruil spoke falsely, and she failed utterly in the trust placed on her. For she
    joined her people, united them as one, with the very humanoids who had massacred and
    devoured her kindred.
    Ultimately defeated and broken by the wars and the new order in which no place could
    possibly exist for them, the Faerie departed.)

    - - -

    The Faerie. But they are leaving. Pearly gates open, the Faerie step through, and the Gates
    close behind them ... forever.
    By the hundreds, by the thousands, the Faerie, many mourning and weeping, are leaving.
    The very lifeblood of the world is stricken, the Weave falters, the forests are permanently
    less verdant and green, the power of life is forever diminished.

    The elves of Evermeet ... but now they are in underground caverns, cavorting and dancing
    and feasting as elves do ... with their new friends the orcs, gnolls, bugbears, kobolds, and
    all the others.
    The daughter of Queen Amlaruil, beautiful and radiant, kneels before the great orc king,
    and kisses him on the feet. Then he sweeps her up in his arms and kisses her deeply, his
    body pressed to hers.
    With a cheer and a roar, dozens of others do the same.
    Bugbears sweep up elven women in their arms, elven women clasp kobolds lovingly, elven
    and humanoid faces stare at each other lovingly, and there is comradery and merriment ...
    and many children.
    Children.
    Half elf half orc. Half elf half bugbear. Half elf half kobold. One third elf one third orc one
    third kobold. One quarter orc one quarter goblin one quarter flind one quarter ogre.
    A great dance begins, as elves and humanoids swing their partners around in glee, and the
    orc king sits with his elven concubine in his arms (she is totally naked, along with three
    quarters of the crowd), fondling her, while she grins and giggles.

    Over all are two statues. One is of Father Grumsh, the Wise Old Sage, venerated by all
    elves and humanoids, and Mother Sehanine, the Mysterious, who all humanoids and elves
    venerate for magic and psionics.
    Well, actually - only a few venerate these two. Most of the elves and humanoids abandoned
    their respective religions long ago.

    The temples of the Seldarine lay silent and empty. They were not laid to rest with care, but
    were looted and ransacked, and the sacred shrines defiled.
    More importantly, it was the elves who did this.
    Elven swords hacked down the statue of Corellon, even arrows are embedded in the great
    murals, and elven swear words and curses are written on the walls and the shattered altars.

    - - -

    (In the new world the gnomes and technomancers had created, depravity became the norm)


    - - -

    A great cathedral, complete with stained glass windows, looms all about.
    The sunlight shines down upon the congregation.
    The congregation, is having an orgy.
    But this is not just any orgy; this is an orgy of the Church of Toril.

    Mind flayers are using their tentacles to pleasure women. Beholders are being stroked along
    the eyestalks by loving dwarven hands, even as the Beholders kiss each other and those on
    the floor, licking with their long tongues.
    Kender giggle in the background, stealing everything as they move through the crowd,
    pointing out (as if it needed pointing out) in eloquent detail each new scene they witness.
    Several ogres are present, wearing girdles of giant strength. They are quite popular.
    Even more popular are the half reptilian Yuan-Tin, with their long snake-like tongues that
    give a new definition to the words french kissing.
    An aboleth is present, and is serving as a carpet for two lovers, who are busy with each other
    even as the aboleth fondles them with it’s many tentacles.
    It would appear several undead are present - their cold embrace is a novelty to the living,
    and spectral figures merge with the warm, living ones.
    Even a few skeletons are present, drawing their long bony hands up and down the backs of
    those present, sending delicious tingles up and down the spines of men and women.

    Meanwhile, the high priests and priestesses are having a private romp of their own.
    A human woman wraps herself in magically altered Grey Ooze, and as it pours into her
    mouth and other places she convulses with pleasure (breathing apparently is optional), and
    it would seem the Ooze itself is radiating a sense of delight of it’s own.
    The halfling woman prefers the Black Pudding. Its thousands of tiny microscopic mouths are
    giving her thousands of tiny nibbles, from head to toe, like a thousand kisses on her flesh,
    and she croons with the joy of it.
    The elven woman yonder prefers the classic, high style version: the Ochre Jelly. As it pours
    into her every orifice, she cries out in delight, trying to wrap her arms around it as it encases
    her in it’s gooey substance.
    Men, women, slimes, jellies, and oozes all meld with each other, merge with each other in
    joyous passion.
    Of course, the succubi and even a few erinye are present, with all that entails, and they are
    a definite hit with the men ... and the women.
    Cries of passion and cries of pain compete with each other for dominance in the air, which is
    thick with reddish incense; powerful aphrodasiacs working upon the lungs and minds of all in
    the room.

    - - -

    (Their society became strange beyond all strangeness.)

    - - -

    A new scene appears. Here is a drow city, dark and forbidding with it’s homes of stalactites
    and stalagmites, lit by sorcery.
    A group of elves and drow face each other. Gold, silver, green, and dark elves.
    One elf, a silver, smiles, and he gestures, and changes into a female silver elf, and all the
    elves applaud.
    Then, apparently to outdo him, a gold elf gestures, and becomes a green elf male.
    The green elf laughs, and becomes a gold elf female.
    Then the silver elf smiles wickedly, and turns into a drow male, grinning wildly.
    The gold elf snorts, and turns into a drow female.
    One of the drow males, watching all this, smiles, and turns into a silver elf female.
    Then one of the drow females, turns into a green elf male.
    The elves continued to shift and change, cheering each new incarnation.

    Over off to one side is a great pile of wreckage. There, the symbols of Corellon and
    Sehanine lay together with those of Lolth and Kiransalee.
    All have been smashed and broken, trod underfoot, and desecrated, and it is obvious that
    all of the elves and drow took part in this.

    Now, the elves, in all manner of form and sex - none of them their own race or sex -
    congregate together. Lips touch lips, and arms entwine around bodies. A new revel, a new
    orgy, is beginning ...

    A beholder appears, terrifying with it’s 10 eyestalks. Known for their incredible self-pride,
    seeing themselves as the epidome of perfection, individual beholders are very antisocial
    even to their own kind, and look down on all other beings, except their masters the
    phaerimm.
    However, this beholder is busy laughing and throwing beer steins with telekinesis at an orc.
    The orc is throwing beer steins back. Both are covered in ale, both are being laughed at by
    the entire room, and the town guard is rushing in and threatening them both with a stiff fine
    if they don’t quit.
    Cowed and chastened, the beholder apologizes politely to the guard, eyes lowered, and
    even goes so far as to clean up the mess itself with its magic.

    The gnome is standing at a pupit, giving a speech, in which he is explaining the basics of ...
    well, it is gibberish really (quantum physics).
    An audience of learned sages, illithid, a number of phaerimm with beholder servants,
    humanoids, githyanki, and other assorted beings are present, listening.
    When the diminuitive gnome is finished, they all stand and applaud him, even the
    phaerimm.
    Now, you are inside the gnome’s head, hearing his thoughts, as he watches them applaud,
    and he is thinking ‘We have shown that we are superior to all of them, we gnomes, and they
    appreciate this now. About time.’
    You are now inside the head of one of the phaerimm, whose magic and genius is legendary.
    And it is thinking ‘It is a privilege to learn at the feet of he who holds the Seat of Academia.
    If only I could actually get to meet the distinguished professor, that would be very nice.’

    The next speaker is a kender. The kender, to a great ovation, takes the pupit (he climbs up
    on a high chair to reach the podium) and speaks:
    ‘It is a great pleasure to be here today. I think you all are great, and I know you think we
    kender are great too’
    A big cheer from the crowd.
    ‘I shall tell you the story of my Uncle Trapspringer, how he befriended the gully dwarves,
    and the adventures that befell them!’
    A kender speech, uninterrupted, then is heard for the next hour. Since the Sending to the
    people of Greyhawk does not allow for you to stop listening, or even to only half-listen, you
    are made to hear every word, every last one, with no chance to stop it, interrupt it, or escape
    from it. For those of you who know kender, I need say no more. For those of you who do
    not: within 10 minutes, you are desperate to shut the kender up. Within 20 minutes, you
    think you’re going to lose your mind if he doesn’t stop. In 30 minutes, you’d kill the kender
    to shut him up. In 60 minutes, by the time another speaker finally comes and takes his
    place, you’d kill yourself to shut him up.
    But the crowd applauds and cheers wildly, and they mean it too. A standing ovation is given
    to the kender.
    One of the dwarves, who seems a bit weary, is thinking something, and you hear his
    thoughts:
    A law was passed. Harming or killing a kender means the offender is automatically
    sentenced to the Gentle Reeducation (where gentle, prolonged, maddening, and magical
    brainwashing is used to make you love all kender, to think of them as royalty.) Kender are
    above the law, outside the law. A kender could walk into your shop, steal everything - for
    those who do not know kender, they are all thieves - and your only legal recourse is to hope
    the authorities can locate your items and return them to you.

    An aboleth, horrible and sickening in appearance, comes out of the sea, and a brace of
    kuo-toa with it. It is wearing a ring that magically levitates it’s amorphous mass, and
    enables it to survive in air.
    As it and the kuo-toan walk and float down the street, the passbys nod with respect and
    even some awe, as if these beings were angelic, were worthy of respect, praise, and even
    worship.
    You are taken inside their minds ... that is what they are thinking.

    A spidery neogi is sitting atop it’s umber hulk servant, and having an argument with a
    commoner.
    ‘I demand recompence for your incompetency’ demands the commoner.
    ‘I did my best’ whispers the neogi, looking quite chastened.
    ‘Well, it wasn’t good enough, and my property was damaged. So pay up, sir.’
    The neogi looks very embarrassed, and it whispers to it’s umber hulk servant ... who then
    opens a belt pouch and hands 5 pieces of paper to the commoner.
    ‘That’s not enough. I think 10 is more like it’ growls the commoner.
    ‘Oh come on, be reasonable’ protests the neogi.
    ‘I want my money. I think that is very reasonable.’ says the commoner.
    The chastened neogi orders his umber hulk servant to pay the commoner the full 10, and
    kneels (if a spidery thing could kneel) and apologies for it’s clumsiness.

    - - -

    (They had walked their path into unrecognizable strangeness. And they took Faerun, the
    whole of Toril, indeed the very firmament of reality around them, into that strangeness.
    From that strangeness, the world and it’s fundamental realities would never return.)

    - - -

    An image of the sky. It is not blue. It is green, a bright vivid green, through which the sun
    shines creating a light green halo.
    And the sun itself is all wrong ... it is yellow and round, but great clouds and streamers of
    yellow, orange and red surround it, and have drifted away from it, until all the sky is
    dissected or blotted with multicolored hues of brightness.
    Beneath this green sky is a green carpet. The carpet covers everything, without a break,
    right up to the mountains, right over the mountains, right to the mountain peaks.
    You are now brought into the green carpet.
    Pine trees are growing alongside palm trees. Cactus are growing aside swampgrass. The
    trees are growing in a riotous way that is not normal ... they are entwining their branches,
    but the shade is not killing the leaves ... the trunks of trees wrap around each other for
    hundreds of feet upward, even bend straight sideways, even bend until they are pointed
    DOWN, and still they are healthy and green.
    The heat is choking, the humidity suffocating. It is probably 110 in the shade ... in that one
    respect the dense, impassive foliage is of some help ... and the heat index is around 140.
    You suddenly realize it is like this every day, every year, without pause or letup.
    Eternal, steaming, stinking, heat. Nor cool winds ever come here, no snow ever graces this
    landscape, no seasons exist anymore ... the balance of nature has been utterly overthrown.j

    You are now at the pole, and the sun is low and weak on the horizon, although it’s
    streamers light things up brightly enough.
    Here too it is warm, and here too is the green carpet. Here too is the suffocating heat and
    humidity.
    There is no place on Toril that is not like this, it would seem.
    A great thunderstorm comes up, with hurricane force winds and torrents of rain. The great
    downdrafts momentarily ease the heat, but the rains come in a colossal deluge, and
    everything is flooded in seconds.
    Within minutes flash flooding is in progress, and still the rain pours down, and the lightning
    flashes, thunder booms, and the wind blows.
    The storm passes, and the sun comes out. The moisture starts evaporating, the flooding
    subsides gradually, and the air fills with steam.
    It FILLS with steam, suffocating, awful, almost unbreathable, as the sun beats down on it,
    and the heat is now far worse than it was before.

    The ruins of coastal cities show, their tallest spires rising out of the waters of the hot ocean.
    No land is in sight, save maybe distant green mountains.
    As one heads inland, the water of the ocean extends to the horizon.
    All the land is drowned, the skeletal remains of forests sticking up out of it, the tops of hills
    almost grazing the surface.
    Swamp grass and mangroves are everywhere, and a green slime covers the water.
    At last, maybe a hundred miles inland from the drowned city, the new coastline appears on
    the horizon, drowned in it’s green carpet of jungle.

    Even the air is wrong ... in some way that is difficult to figure out, but it is there, tangible to
    the senses.

    - - -

    (WAKE UP AND PAY ATTENTION. IS THIS WHAT YOU WANT FOR OERTH? IS IT? IS IT??!!
    FOR EVEN NOW, THEY SECRETLY TRAIN THE GNOMES AND DWARVES OF THE LORTMILS IN
    THEIR WAYS, AND THOSE PEOPLE EAGERLY FOLLOW THEM.
    LOOK!)

    - - -

    Images of the Lortmil Technocracy, until now totally shrouded in secrecy, appear.
    Men and women from the world of Toril are instructing the gnomes, enabling them to make
    centuries of progress in decades.
    Already, the firearms are piled in great stacks.
    Already, the first machine guns are being eagerly tested.
    A cave wall explodes as a great lumbering monstrosity emerges, with a long barrel sticking
    from it. The barrel end flashes and booms, fire flies through the air, and the far wall of the
    cave explodes, rocks raining down in an avanlanche.
    Running on strange treads, the vehicle lumbers across the cave, and through the far end.
    The machines of that other world, are now on Oerth.

    There are great regions of fire and dust, where the roar of machinery is deafening. Dwarves
    and gnomes run about, tending the machines, while vast clouds of smoke arise.
    Above the Lortmils, through vents in the mountains, that smoke is rising.
    Already the sky is wrong. Already it has turned from blue to a cloudy yellow, the sunlike
    poisoned as it filters through the haze.
    The trees on the mountain sides are all dead or dying, axphixiated by the poison in the air,
    and in the creeks that run down the hillsides, there are no longer any fish.

    What was fulfilled to devastating fullness on Toril, has begun here on Oerth.

    There is a chamber, and the men and women from that other world, Toril, are talking to the
    gnomes and dwarves.
    One of them comments ‘The people of this world are savages. We will bring enlightenment
    to them, and make their world like ours.’
    A gnome replies ‘Aye. They are barbaric brutes, who know nothing but swordswinging and
    little spells. We will teach them better things.’
    A woman from Toril then comments ‘Their religions are as barbaric as they are. The Church
    of Toril shall become the Church of Oerth. We will forbid them from practicing these
    backwards practices.’
    Another man from Toril says ‘Actually, the Church of Mercy will become the great church
    here. Seeing what we do, they will flock to us, abandoning their warlike and cruel Gods.’
    A dwarf speaks up ‘What about their feuds, their wars, their little squabbling nation states?’
    The man comments ‘We will incorporate their nations into the Commonwealth. They will be
    made to submit. It is not a bad thing. Our laws and ways are better than theirs, and they will
    realize this after a time.’
    To which the woman comments ‘They should not be allowed to practice their primitive ways,
    and follow such idiotic and backward laws ... we will reform them, make them realize how
    much better our way is.’
    The dwarf chuckles ‘And if they will not listen?’
    The man speaks up ‘Then, we will have to use sterner measures, obviously.’
    Another man speaks up ‘That we will. They understand force, and only force, on this world.
    We will show them force beyond their wildest imaginings. They will heel, trust you me!’

    A lone voice speaks up ‘Don’t you think these people should be allowed to evolve in their
    own way? Don’t you think they might have a right to their ways, their religions, their
    cultures?’

    The answer comes ‘They are primitives. Their have no culture worth mentioning, much less
    respecting. They must be enlightened. What are you saying, sir? These people will thank us,
    in the end, for this!’


    The Wanderer ends his sending, with these words:

    (We are the people of Oerth.
    I cannot choose for you, but I choose for myself. And I choose to deny these Torilians and
    their ways. I choose to not heed their words and advise.
    They come in arms against us. I will arm myself, and I will fight. I will not submit to them
    and their new way.
    I do not wish to see our world suffer the fate they have brought on their own. I will fight for
    Oerth and our people.
    I am hoping some of you will listen to me, and take up arms against these emissaries from
    Toril.

    And I am hoping the Technomancy of the Lortmils is stopped, before they bring their
    Industrial Revolution to all of our world, and people are tempted to walk the path the
    Torilians walked.

    However, I am but one man, one old man. I cannot do this thing alone.
    Last edited by Edena_of_Neith; Friday, 8th March, 2002 at 02:40 AM.

  • #98
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    ø Ignore Forrester

    Re: Answers to the above Posts

    Originally posted by Edena_of_Neith

    You can kill Vecna even before the beginning of Turn 4 (but not before he awakens the City of the Gods, which he did immediately after his statement Let The Fun Begin.)
    All you have to do is cut a deal with Lord Melkor, and have the phylactery handed over to Forrester.
    Then destroy the phylactery. And Vecna is instantly and irrevocably dead.

    Edena_of_Neith
    Let me just say that given it's been made clear you cannot transport others' troops with 10th level magic, or create gates to lead them into combat, it'd be pretty iffy for Vecna to be able to wake the City of the Gods AND transport them around.

    If he COULD do that, I should know about it <shows 10th level magic badge>

    By the way, Edena . . . why, precisely, hasn't Vecna used his 10th level magic to get his Phylactery *back* from Talos?

    Forrester

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    ø Ignore Edena_of_Neith
    My communities:

    Forrester, Vecna cannot transport the robots of the City of the Gods.
    That is not his intent.

    His intent is to lead them to you in person, physically.

    As for why he has left his phylactery with Melkor ... he is a fool.
    He may be the greatest mage who ever lived, but he is not the wisest.
    Indeed, he is not wise at all.
    He is insane.

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    ø Ignore Forrester
    Edena, question: I noticed in the Lists that a lot of people have a bunch of powerful NPCs working for them.

    Are the powers of these NPCs included in their totals, or do they get them for "free" somehow?

    I ask because it's about time that my . . . . considerable force had some leaders. And I want to know if I get these leaders for free -- like everyone else seems to.

    Forrester

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