(IR) IR Interlude Turn 4 - 5 (thread 2) - Page 18





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  1. #171
    Originally posted by creamsteak


    I am here to examine what has happened to my lands and the people living in them because of this war. If you doubt that I care... well just go ahead and doubt my intentions. Do you sense even a feeble thought of chaos in my mind? Do you see any faultering in my lips? Outsiders... well I call many of them neighbors, as long as they do not overstep their own territory. If you are speaking of Forrester, please remember that he never took any land from his friends. The shade, however, did take the lands of Greyhawk. Preserving Life and Nature... am I one of those men... I ask that of myself sometimes, and the only conclusion I can see will come to me in death.

    So whom are you, and for what purpose have you approached me this night? I have answered your questions of my intentions, if you have any more, you are free to ask them.

    Sanctus Punitor moves over and sits by a half destoyed tree.
    "I am what I am. I am the creator, the mother of this earth whom I hold so dear. The forests, and the earth itself has cried out in pain through these tragedies, right now the earth is being slowly poisoned..."

    Silence pursues...

    "You don't believe me it seems, but even if you don't I assure you I am a preserver and that I am against destroyers, take a look at my face, do you sense any evil?"

    Mistress Tao walks out into the clear, into the moonlight...

    "But I know for sure you are a preserver, I sense the sadness in your words...something consumes your soul...with what? Vengeance? If you would help me avenge this world's grief, would it fulfill something that may be missing from your soul? If not, I am willing to get help to smite these villains so far as to pay you a price, if you have one."

    Mistress Tao places her hand on Sanctus' shoulder, so to let him feel the calmness of her, so it can relieve whatever inner pain he is feeling right now...
    Last edited by Sollir Furryfoot; Saturday, 16th March, 2002 at 03:29 PM.

 

  • #172

    And For What Price?

    The wind stank of death. It always did, near the goo pools. Oerth was dying, but the Solistarim lived. The Flannaes, their homeland, had been reduced to smoldering desert, blown by wind until it was smooth as glass. The scourge of the poison fields was slowed, but not stopped, inevitably dooming them to eventual consumption and death as Oerth shriveled and died around them.

    For some, this would be considered justice. For Anabstercorian, it was unaccaptable. Only vast, vast power could end the disease, and heal the boil of Oerth. But this power must not belong to another, for then, all of his life, all of his struggles to bring the Illithid back to their once lofty position atop the multiverse would have been wasted, dashed. He must a find a way. He will find a way to take this power for himself.

    << Ilsensine... I will not fail you. The Illithid are dying... Our people are lost. But I will find you a new people... And you will mold them to your liking. You are not lost yet, Ilsensine, nor are the Mind Flayers. We will be victorious. Penumbra will rise again. >>
    "No! Bad Illithid! No genocide! Bad! Bad! Put down the nuclear fire or no cookie!"

  • #173
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  • #174
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    The Wanderer appears again

    The elderly man again approaches the gates of Veluna City.
    The guards, under orders to let him pass, open the gates.

    Through the streets of the ancient city, relatively untouched by the Barrage, strodes the man.
    Yet his face is twisted in bitterness, and nothing he sees lessens that bitterment.

    He knocks at the doors of the Church of Rao.
    When the doorwardens see him, they back away, and let him pass.

    The man enters the chamber of the sun, and sits on the stone edge of one of the great cisterns of water.

    He looks around at the trees and shrugs growing indoors, in the lofty chamber.
    He looks upward at the glass above, through which the sun shines brilliantly down on the holy edifice in the center of the great room.
    He looks around at sparkling water, and carefully tended plants, with stone walkways between them.

    He speaks, to nobody in particular:

    There are three kinds of beings.
    One kind are those guards out there. They do their jobs, try to survive, try to obey the laws, and try to endure the reality around them.
    Then there are those who try to remake reality as they see fit. Some wish to remake reality to better those whose lot they think should be bettered, and some try to worsen everyone's lot. Yet they all try to remake what is.
    Then there are those who try to unmake all that is, destroy the world and all that is in it, and they do this out of the darkness of their own hearts.

    The Wanderer frowns darkly, and grumbles on in his husky, rough, aged voice.

    Most of the Torilians are of the first sort.
    I have no problem with them; they are as much victims as my own people.

    The Wanderer growls angrilly.

    If it had not been for the sacrifice, first of the Psionic League, then the Church of Toril, all the people of Toril would be dead.
    Their world would have died.
    Will such miracles save us??!

    The Wanderer glares.

    For the second kind of people run Toril.
    They will have it all as they please.
    They will rule men's lives, and tell all how they must be, and must act, and must live.
    They are not content with ruling the lives of men!
    The very winds of the world must blow as they see fit.
    The climate is as they say it shall be.
    The mountains, are sculpted to please them.
    The oceans, are set at the temperature comfortable for them to bathe in.

    The Wanderer looks really angry.

    The animals must behave as they dictate.
    The trees must grow as they are told.
    Even the sun itself must shine as they desire it to.
    In their arrogance, they choose to make themselves Gods, these rulers of Toril.

    What right do they have to do any of this?
    They appoint to themselves that right, and with their 11th level power, they enforce their dictates on all of reality.
    They have forgotten the blessed coolness of autumn, the colors in the trees.
    They have forgotten the beauty of the spring, the eager blooming of flowers.
    They have forgotten the majestic mountain peaks, snow covered and untamed.
    They have forgotten the viril aliveness in the howl of the wolf, the gleam of intelligence in the dolphin's eye.

    No, for them it is all a playground, where the animals exist to perform stunts and amusements, and the trees grow sideways, or upside down, and the mountains are reshaped as they wish.

    The Wanderer looks gloomy.

    Then there are the Unmakers.
    They killed and destroyed.
    They ate children while they were still alive.
    They wrecked magic, so that millions died.
    They nearly blew up the entire world of Toril.
    They took their frightful machines, and laid waste to the surface of the world.
    They set chaos upon Realmspace, and nearly brought oblivion to all the Crystal Sphere.

    The Wanderer looks up

    The hearts of men, are the hearts of men.
    They may say kindly things, they may pretend to change.
    Yet I know - and YOU know - that the hearts of men, once set, do not change.
    And that goes for the hearts of humanoids and demihumans too.

    The Remakers and Unmakers of Toril came to my world.
    They interfered in the doings of my world.
    They did not ask permission of the people of our world to interfere.
    They did not consult me, or any other leader of this world, before they interfered.
    They began a process whose end cannot be foreseen, but which will - and has - cause tremendous loss of life, tremendous destruction, and they did not ask us how we felt about it.

    The Remakers and Unmakers on THIS world eagerly jumped on what these Torilians started.
    It caused a chain reaction.
    It led to Vecna not being attacked.
    Vecna should have been destroyed the moment he appeared in the Present.
    Vecna should have been effaced from the Oerth the instant he appeared.

    Why did you not do this, O Remakers and Unmakers of Oerth?
    Did you think the Torilian Remakers and Unmakers would do it?
    Why did you concentrate on each other, and let the Torilians divert your attention?
    Why did you allow a mad dog to live?

    My people are starving.
    My people are hurt.
    My people, are dead.

    The Wanderer turns black with fury

    The Barrage killed half my people.
    I could not protect them, anymore than any of you could protect your people.
    My people were innocent. They committed no crime, did nothing wrong.
    My people were slaughtered because you failed to deal with Vecna, because you were too busy fooling around with the Torilian Remakers and their strange machines!

    Now, the Unmakers of Toril, who you call the Shade, have created the Blood Waste, and it poisons my world, and sickens my people.
    I do not see the other Torilian Remakers coming to stop these Torilian Unmakers.
    I see that the Torilian Remakers just picked up, and went home, leaving our world to suffer the consequences of the Unmakers.

    And you - YOU! - choose to participate in this Unmaking and Remaking.

    You wonder why I am angry?

    Who are you, to assume the rights of the Gods?
    Who are you, to reshape the mountains and change the temperature of the seas?
    Who are you, to make the sky the color you want it to be, and to change the alignment of all beasts to please yourselves?

    And yet, that is the course you have chosen.
    You walk in the footsteps of the Torilian Remakers.

    What if no miracle comes for us?
    What if there is no Psionic League or Church of Toril for us?
    When our world perishes, I will perish with it, and you will perish with it, and we shall be unlamented.

    I tried to stop you from walking this path.
    My Sending was meant to stop you from choosing this path.
    I am an elderly man with much wisdom, but my wisdom was ignored.

    Now look around you, and behold the consequences of the road you walk.
    Ruin.

    Ruin.
    Deserts. Red Poison. Millions of skeletal corpses.
    Our people suffering, dying, starving.

    The Wanderer glares

    I know all about Hope Isle on Toril.
    A nice place.
    Why doesn't Hope Isle allow our people to enter?
    Why don't the Angels allow our people to share the paradise?
    If they are so lofty and noble as you make them out to be, then why do they choose to allow our people to rot in the desert this mad course of events has created?

    I would like some answers to my questions.
    I don't want excuses.
    I don't want idiot reasons either.
    I want good answers, and I have a right to expect good answers!

    Do you hear me?
    DO YOU HEAR ME?!
    I EXPECT SOME ANSWERS!!
    BY BEORY, I DEMAND THE EMISSARIES OF HOPE ISLE TO EXPLAIN TO ME WHY MY PEOPLE SHOULD SUFFER, WHEN PARADISE COULD BE THEIRS!!
    Last edited by Edena_of_Neith; Saturday, 16th March, 2002 at 10:08 PM.

  • #175
    An attractive young woman approaches the Wanderer. She is wears a dark purple robe, fastened with a brooch depicting a spiral. On the front of the robe is a strange symbol two shapes like the steps of zigguraut heading downwards.

    "Ahh, Wanderer... So filled with hate... Wouldn't it feel so good to simply--let go and give in to it..."

    She smiles at him.

    "These people have already proven they do not care for your wisdom. Perhaps, they should feel your rage..."

  • #176
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