Sins of Our Fathers II - New Art Uploaded - 1/25
Destan
Citizen of Val Hor
Nasma said:
Should Baden have remained, he probably would have perished along with the others under Dwarfking Droggi. Note that Josh introduced Baden "after the fact" - that is, Baden had already left Axemarch under "less than good" reasons.
Now, that being said, Baden's "problem" is not that he would have been a difference-maker had he stuck around, but rather that he never should have left. Leaving the clan is, generally, a "bad thing". It just so turns out that Baden's departure was horribly timed - shortly after he left, the Deepingdelve erupted with a bunch o' baddies.
To use an analogy: Let's say you were to embark on a ship with some friends. At the last moment, you decided to stick around. Shortly after departing the harbor, the ship was wrecked by a storm. Could you have prevented the ship from sinking? Most likely - no. But do others look at you a bit differently because you survived whilst others perished? Perhaps. That's sorta what's going on here.
And, of course, Ularta has some of her own reasons for acting the way she does at the moot - but that doesn't really come out until later in the story. In fact, her motivations have not yet become clear in the campaign even at its current point - though I suspect Josh/Baden may have some ideas.
Thanks for the question.
D
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Lela
First Post
You mean she isn't just a selfish, bombastic, shrew who can't concieve of being wrong?
Really, Baden could be considered quite the threat to her power. Given time to regain the love of those dwarves around him, it would be easy enough to wind up more beloved than she. And that assumes he isn't already.
Really, Baden could be considered quite the threat to her power. Given time to regain the love of those dwarves around him, it would be easy enough to wind up more beloved than she. And that assumes he isn't already.
First off... Thanks to all of you that heaped your praise upon Baden. It was much appreciated. 
Well... not entirely true.
Baden isn't nearly so wise as his friend Kellus. He also has a limited knowledge of magic. Truthfully, the option to disbelieve never crossed my mind. Baden was expecting some or all of her reaction, just not the animosity it was driven home with. Baden may not have understood it but it was certainly 'believeable' to him.
Now the spoiler/hint Destan dropped a couple posts back:
There was indeed a more sinister force at work behind Ularta's charming exterior. And 'disbelieve' would not have worked anyway had I tried it. We only recently learned the truth of that encounter and it was shocking to say the least. To say more would certainly earn me the wroth of an already evil DM so you'll just have to hang tight.
Keep bugging Destan to post. Hehe
Frostrune (Baden Dost)
Nasma said:
Well... not entirely true.
Baden isn't nearly so wise as his friend Kellus. He also has a limited knowledge of magic. Truthfully, the option to disbelieve never crossed my mind. Baden was expecting some or all of her reaction, just not the animosity it was driven home with. Baden may not have understood it but it was certainly 'believeable' to him.
Now the spoiler/hint Destan dropped a couple posts back:
There was indeed a more sinister force at work behind Ularta's charming exterior. And 'disbelieve' would not have worked anyway had I tried it. We only recently learned the truth of that encounter and it was shocking to say the least. To say more would certainly earn me the wroth of an already evil DM so you'll just have to hang tight.
Keep bugging Destan to post. Hehe
Frostrune (Baden Dost)
Destan
Citizen of Val Hor
Chapter III
Moril Karrisbane, courtier of Valudia, followed the Oghmite priest down spiraling stone stairs.
They passed a number of landings - each leading to vast, subterranean floors crammed with shelves holding all manner of books. Moril glanced about in a world gone black and white - he and the priest both wore pendants of darkvision. The Oghmites forbade fire within their library-temple, for flames were held to be the bane of knowledge collected on parchment and vellum.
On his first visit, Moril had suggested the Oghmites utilize everburning torches - for such items were both heatless and vastly less expensive than the pendants. Evidently, Moril mused, they did not heed my advice.
The priest halted at the base of the stairs. Moril stepped onto the wide tiles next to him. This final level, unlike those above, was entirely bereft of books. Empty shelves and reading tables spread outward beneath vaulted ceilings.
The Oghmite, Reader Janul, gestured toward the cavernous room. “We go this way,” he whispered, “as is written.”
Moril suppressed the urge to scowl – he disliked having to strain to hear some eccentric priest’s soft murmuring. Must these infernal Oghmites always speak in hushed tones?
Their sandals whisked quietly on the flat stones as the duo traversed the vast undercroft. Janul halted before a wall before pausing with insufferable drama. "Here," he said, and reached outward to press his hand against the stone.
Where once there had been a wall, now there was an open archway. Janul - quite unnecessarily - announced as much. “Behold," he murmured, "where once there was wall, now there is an archway. As is written.”
Moril, nerves chafing, followed the priest as he stepped through the archway and began yet another descent. A adamantine door, covered in glyphs beyond Moril’s capacity to understand, greeted them at the base of the final stairwell.
Janul paused – of course - before touching the adamantine surface. The doors swung inward. “The doors have opened, and so now do we enter the final chamber. As is written.”
Moril found most things in life unimpressive, but the Shadowgate was not one of them. He had seen the planar gate – How many times? Six? Seven? – yet still it remained…intimidating.
Across a wide, octagonal room swirled a portal of shifting ebony. Two obsidian arches, fashioned to appear like feminine arms, embraced the standing circle of twilight-streaked gloom.
Between Moril and the portal stood a number of cowled figures, six in all. They were the Shadugul, the Guardians of the Portal. The six of them formed a crescent, facing the portal, heads bowed and hands at their sides. Moril stared at those hands – long, tapered, gray. Just as one’s skin tans beneath the sun, the flesh of the guardians had been tinged with drear from long exposure to the Shadowgate.
Moril did not know much about the Shadugul or their charge, and what little he did know repulsed him. They were followers of Oghma, sworn to silence and vigilance. Only the most devoted - demented, more like - priests could hope to obtain membership in the Shadugul. Upon acceptance, a chosen priest would enter this room – once – for never would he leave it again.
His former fellows, the Oghmites reading and writing in the library-temple above this dark room, provided sustenance to the chosen guardians. Other than acolytes, who entered this room only to remove excrement and scrub urine stains from the tiles, the life of a Shadugul guardian marched onward without change or interruption.
Unless, of course, some shadowy abomination attempts to pay the Material Plane a visit. Moril chuckled in spite of himself. I wager the acolytes would have a few more piles to clean, should that occur.
Speaking of the acolytes - it looked as if the Oghmites had been remiss in their custodial duties. Moril held the hem of his robe against his nose, eyes watering from the stench. Lunatics. All of them.
Moril stared over his robe to fix Janul with his most imperious stare. “You must watch the Shadowgate, for we may have need of it in the near future. I know these…guardians…stand as sentries against shades that seek to exit their native plane. I am here to tell you, all of you, that you must also be wary of persons wishing to pass from our plane to the Shadu Planoth. That portal is both exit and entrance.”
Moril gestured toward the adamantine doors with his free hand. “Both directions must be guarded. Do you understand?”
Janul nodded. Did Moril see a hint of disdain on the priest’s morose features? “The Shadugul watch the Shadowgate, Master Karrisbane, as they have watched it for over one thousand years. Never have we broken faith. As is written.”
“Well,” Moril grimaced, “that may be – but shouldn’t some of them turn to face the stairs?”
“They knew of our coming. They were not surprised. They cannot be surprised. As is writ-”
“Yes, yes – as is written.” Moril was suddenly tired of the whole charade. He ostensibly was a courtier representing the Three Popas here in the city of Deepcove, but his real superior – his father in name if not in blood – was Destan. And Destan had commanded him to check, yet again, upon the status of the Shadowgate.
“See that your guard remains as strong, then, as your confidence. A millennium of vigilance can collapse in a single day of carelessness.”
Janul nodded. The priest’s disdain, now, was grossly evident. “As you wish, Master Karrisbane.”
“No,” Moril corrected, “as Destan wishes. Do not forget such.”
Moril was accustomed to displaying disdain, not receiving it - certainly not from some glorified scrivener. Moril turned to go, but could not help tossing one last barb toward Janul while within earshot of the Shadugul. “If you fail here, Reader Janul, your entire Church will suffer and be no more.
“Put that in your damned books.”
***
The door burst open.
Kellus leapt to his feet reaching for a mace that was no longer there; the Lathanderites, under the supervision of Brother Daladon, had removed his and Raylin’s weapons upon entering the Cathedral.
Daladon, too, was on his feet.
A man wearing the resplendent raiment of an Archbishop of Lathander – the Archbishop of Lathander upon the isle – stood framed in the doorway. Behind him were a number of priests and sunguards. And also, Kellus noted with no small sense of relief, Raylin.
“Brother Daladon, my child,” Mariadon intoned in a voice more suited to giving mass than engaging in conversation, “why is it you are here, with these men, in our catacombs?”
Daladon bowed low. When he stood, his face was serene but smirking. “Both men, the fallen priest and the Tundreth wanderer, were brought into the city by a number of Calahen clansmen-”
“Clansmen,” Mariadon interrupted, “who had been hired by the Fifth Archmage of the Tower. Clansmen who took their coins from Destan of Val Hor. Clansmen who had a task placed before them, and not one of our giving. You know as much. So, I ask again - why do I find these two men here - with you?”
“I wished to ascertain their motives for the betterment of our holy church, Your Grace. I was questioning them for but a moment, and then – if all should prove benign – would see them escorted to the Archmage’s estates.” Daladon was the very picture of a victim. “Have I offended Your Grace in some way?”
“No,” Mariadon answered. “Daladon has always been a loyal child of the Morninglord.”
Kellus had had enough. “Your Grace, this is not Dal-”
Mariadon stopped him with a cut of his hand. “Speak not, Kellus Varn the Younger.” His tone brokered no defiance. The Archbishop fixed his gaze upon the feratu masquerading as Daladon. “I would not see bloodshed, in these halls, on this day.”
“I know.” The voice was no longer Daladon’s. It was a long, high-pitched coo.
Mariadon’s face grew dark. “Get thee hence, ‘lest my restraint prove less than my religion.”
Daladon smiled as the priests and sunguards behind Mariadon looked onward in mute confusion. “May I have your leave to go, Your Grace?”
“You have it.” Mariadon stepped aside and, at a word, so too did the assembled priests and sunguards.
Leaving but one man.
***
Raylin stood, bearded and bedraggled, his wide frame blocking the doorway. In his hand was an unlit torch.
Daladon stopped short of the exit, faint surprise on his features. He looked up at the ranger. “Step aside, clansman, as His Grace commanded.”
Raylin, without taking his eyes from Daladon, spoke in a low voice. “Kellus, who is this man?”
Kellus looked to Mariadon. The Archbishop’s face was uncompromising. “He is a priest of this temple,” Kellus answered, after a moment’s hesitation. “He shares the faith of Sir Anar, whom you have met.”
Daladon seemed to grow agitated at the name of the paladin. “I say again – step aside.”
Raylin did not move. “You took my swords. I would have them ‘ere you go.”
“But, ranger, they are not mine to give! The Calahen clansfolk – you remember them, no? – those kind men who saved you from certain death in the Boarswood? They kept your gear as payment for services rendered.”
Daladon spread his hands, chuckling. “Surely you do not begrudge them their reward, no? What value do you place on your life?”
Daladon made to step past Raylin, but the ranger moved forward as well. Both of their chests were nearly touching, now. “A better question - what value do you place on yours?”
Mariadon strode forward to flank Raylin in the doorway. “Master mac Larren, you are among friends here. I beseech you, allow Brother Daladon to pass.”
A few of the sunguards frowned at the sight – doubtless they were unaccustomed to their Archbishop pleading with anyone – let alone a Larrenman from the wilderness.
Raylin looked as if he had swallowed something distasteful - a questioning look was upon his face. The ranger concentrated upon Daladon, stared hard at the priest, but apparently no answers were forthcoming. He spoke to Mariadon without looking away. “You are not my priest, but this temple your home. I would be a poor guest were I to spill blood-”
Daladon gave a curt nod. “Indeed you would.”
“But I am not a guest,” Raylin’s eyes were flat, unforgiving, “for never was I invited into this place.”
Daladon scowled. He reached out to push Raylin aside. The ranger’s empty hand whipped outward, his fingers pressing deeply into the flesh of the priest’s arm. Daladon grunted in surprise and pain.
“Daladon,” Kellus murmured, eyeing the priest’s back from across the table, “you had best be very, very careful.”
Mariadon reached out – slowly – and placed a hand atop Raylin’s arm. “Release him, friend. Here is not the place.”
But Raylin had made his decision – Kellus could see it in his friend’s countenance.
“No,” Raylin agreed with the archbishop, “but outside, on the street - there is the place. Come, Daladon – if such is your name – I will walk you out.”
For the first time since Mariadon’s sudden arrival, Daladon appeared uncertain.
Kellus, then, made his own decision. “Raylin,” he called, voice soft. “Let him go.”
“I am not your hound-”
“No,” Kellus interjected, “you are my friend. And, as your friend, I am telling – asking – you…let him pass.”
Kellus could see that his words were ineffective. His friend did not release his hold upon Daladon. The fingers of Raylin’s other hand were white-knuckled as they squeezed the heavy, unlit brand. The ranger meant to spill blood – here, outside, wherever - it did not matter.
Kellus tried one final tack. And if this doesn’t work, then the hell with it – I’ll help Raylin kill the bastard, come what may. “You are angry because John is dead. I am too, Raylin – believe me. But this man – this priest – he is innocent of John’s death.” I think. “Enough bloodshed, I say.”
John’s name seemed to strike a chord within the stoic ranger. Raylin’s shoulders slumped. Kellus watched, holding his breath, as the Larrenman finally – after long, long moments – released his hold.
Daladon did not tarry. He stepped around Raylin and disappeared into the outer corridor.
Kellus listened as Daladon’s – no, the feratu’s - footfalls receded up the stairs. He swiveled his gaze away from Raylin toward Mariadon. “You know what he is.”
“I do.”
“And yet you allow him to leave this place.”
“I do.”
“I believe you have erred, Your Grace.”
Mariadon did not reply.
Moril Karrisbane, courtier of Valudia, followed the Oghmite priest down spiraling stone stairs.
They passed a number of landings - each leading to vast, subterranean floors crammed with shelves holding all manner of books. Moril glanced about in a world gone black and white - he and the priest both wore pendants of darkvision. The Oghmites forbade fire within their library-temple, for flames were held to be the bane of knowledge collected on parchment and vellum.
On his first visit, Moril had suggested the Oghmites utilize everburning torches - for such items were both heatless and vastly less expensive than the pendants. Evidently, Moril mused, they did not heed my advice.
The priest halted at the base of the stairs. Moril stepped onto the wide tiles next to him. This final level, unlike those above, was entirely bereft of books. Empty shelves and reading tables spread outward beneath vaulted ceilings.
The Oghmite, Reader Janul, gestured toward the cavernous room. “We go this way,” he whispered, “as is written.”
Moril suppressed the urge to scowl – he disliked having to strain to hear some eccentric priest’s soft murmuring. Must these infernal Oghmites always speak in hushed tones?
Their sandals whisked quietly on the flat stones as the duo traversed the vast undercroft. Janul halted before a wall before pausing with insufferable drama. "Here," he said, and reached outward to press his hand against the stone.
Where once there had been a wall, now there was an open archway. Janul - quite unnecessarily - announced as much. “Behold," he murmured, "where once there was wall, now there is an archway. As is written.”
Moril, nerves chafing, followed the priest as he stepped through the archway and began yet another descent. A adamantine door, covered in glyphs beyond Moril’s capacity to understand, greeted them at the base of the final stairwell.
Janul paused – of course - before touching the adamantine surface. The doors swung inward. “The doors have opened, and so now do we enter the final chamber. As is written.”
Moril found most things in life unimpressive, but the Shadowgate was not one of them. He had seen the planar gate – How many times? Six? Seven? – yet still it remained…intimidating.
Across a wide, octagonal room swirled a portal of shifting ebony. Two obsidian arches, fashioned to appear like feminine arms, embraced the standing circle of twilight-streaked gloom.
Between Moril and the portal stood a number of cowled figures, six in all. They were the Shadugul, the Guardians of the Portal. The six of them formed a crescent, facing the portal, heads bowed and hands at their sides. Moril stared at those hands – long, tapered, gray. Just as one’s skin tans beneath the sun, the flesh of the guardians had been tinged with drear from long exposure to the Shadowgate.
Moril did not know much about the Shadugul or their charge, and what little he did know repulsed him. They were followers of Oghma, sworn to silence and vigilance. Only the most devoted - demented, more like - priests could hope to obtain membership in the Shadugul. Upon acceptance, a chosen priest would enter this room – once – for never would he leave it again.
His former fellows, the Oghmites reading and writing in the library-temple above this dark room, provided sustenance to the chosen guardians. Other than acolytes, who entered this room only to remove excrement and scrub urine stains from the tiles, the life of a Shadugul guardian marched onward without change or interruption.
Unless, of course, some shadowy abomination attempts to pay the Material Plane a visit. Moril chuckled in spite of himself. I wager the acolytes would have a few more piles to clean, should that occur.
Speaking of the acolytes - it looked as if the Oghmites had been remiss in their custodial duties. Moril held the hem of his robe against his nose, eyes watering from the stench. Lunatics. All of them.
Moril stared over his robe to fix Janul with his most imperious stare. “You must watch the Shadowgate, for we may have need of it in the near future. I know these…guardians…stand as sentries against shades that seek to exit their native plane. I am here to tell you, all of you, that you must also be wary of persons wishing to pass from our plane to the Shadu Planoth. That portal is both exit and entrance.”
Moril gestured toward the adamantine doors with his free hand. “Both directions must be guarded. Do you understand?”
Janul nodded. Did Moril see a hint of disdain on the priest’s morose features? “The Shadugul watch the Shadowgate, Master Karrisbane, as they have watched it for over one thousand years. Never have we broken faith. As is written.”
“Well,” Moril grimaced, “that may be – but shouldn’t some of them turn to face the stairs?”
“They knew of our coming. They were not surprised. They cannot be surprised. As is writ-”
“Yes, yes – as is written.” Moril was suddenly tired of the whole charade. He ostensibly was a courtier representing the Three Popas here in the city of Deepcove, but his real superior – his father in name if not in blood – was Destan. And Destan had commanded him to check, yet again, upon the status of the Shadowgate.
“See that your guard remains as strong, then, as your confidence. A millennium of vigilance can collapse in a single day of carelessness.”
Janul nodded. The priest’s disdain, now, was grossly evident. “As you wish, Master Karrisbane.”
“No,” Moril corrected, “as Destan wishes. Do not forget such.”
Moril was accustomed to displaying disdain, not receiving it - certainly not from some glorified scrivener. Moril turned to go, but could not help tossing one last barb toward Janul while within earshot of the Shadugul. “If you fail here, Reader Janul, your entire Church will suffer and be no more.
“Put that in your damned books.”
***
The door burst open.
Kellus leapt to his feet reaching for a mace that was no longer there; the Lathanderites, under the supervision of Brother Daladon, had removed his and Raylin’s weapons upon entering the Cathedral.
Daladon, too, was on his feet.
A man wearing the resplendent raiment of an Archbishop of Lathander – the Archbishop of Lathander upon the isle – stood framed in the doorway. Behind him were a number of priests and sunguards. And also, Kellus noted with no small sense of relief, Raylin.
“Brother Daladon, my child,” Mariadon intoned in a voice more suited to giving mass than engaging in conversation, “why is it you are here, with these men, in our catacombs?”
Daladon bowed low. When he stood, his face was serene but smirking. “Both men, the fallen priest and the Tundreth wanderer, were brought into the city by a number of Calahen clansmen-”
“Clansmen,” Mariadon interrupted, “who had been hired by the Fifth Archmage of the Tower. Clansmen who took their coins from Destan of Val Hor. Clansmen who had a task placed before them, and not one of our giving. You know as much. So, I ask again - why do I find these two men here - with you?”
“I wished to ascertain their motives for the betterment of our holy church, Your Grace. I was questioning them for but a moment, and then – if all should prove benign – would see them escorted to the Archmage’s estates.” Daladon was the very picture of a victim. “Have I offended Your Grace in some way?”
“No,” Mariadon answered. “Daladon has always been a loyal child of the Morninglord.”
Kellus had had enough. “Your Grace, this is not Dal-”
Mariadon stopped him with a cut of his hand. “Speak not, Kellus Varn the Younger.” His tone brokered no defiance. The Archbishop fixed his gaze upon the feratu masquerading as Daladon. “I would not see bloodshed, in these halls, on this day.”
“I know.” The voice was no longer Daladon’s. It was a long, high-pitched coo.
Mariadon’s face grew dark. “Get thee hence, ‘lest my restraint prove less than my religion.”
Daladon smiled as the priests and sunguards behind Mariadon looked onward in mute confusion. “May I have your leave to go, Your Grace?”
“You have it.” Mariadon stepped aside and, at a word, so too did the assembled priests and sunguards.
Leaving but one man.
***
Raylin stood, bearded and bedraggled, his wide frame blocking the doorway. In his hand was an unlit torch.
Daladon stopped short of the exit, faint surprise on his features. He looked up at the ranger. “Step aside, clansman, as His Grace commanded.”
Raylin, without taking his eyes from Daladon, spoke in a low voice. “Kellus, who is this man?”
Kellus looked to Mariadon. The Archbishop’s face was uncompromising. “He is a priest of this temple,” Kellus answered, after a moment’s hesitation. “He shares the faith of Sir Anar, whom you have met.”
Daladon seemed to grow agitated at the name of the paladin. “I say again – step aside.”
Raylin did not move. “You took my swords. I would have them ‘ere you go.”
“But, ranger, they are not mine to give! The Calahen clansfolk – you remember them, no? – those kind men who saved you from certain death in the Boarswood? They kept your gear as payment for services rendered.”
Daladon spread his hands, chuckling. “Surely you do not begrudge them their reward, no? What value do you place on your life?”
Daladon made to step past Raylin, but the ranger moved forward as well. Both of their chests were nearly touching, now. “A better question - what value do you place on yours?”
Mariadon strode forward to flank Raylin in the doorway. “Master mac Larren, you are among friends here. I beseech you, allow Brother Daladon to pass.”
A few of the sunguards frowned at the sight – doubtless they were unaccustomed to their Archbishop pleading with anyone – let alone a Larrenman from the wilderness.
Raylin looked as if he had swallowed something distasteful - a questioning look was upon his face. The ranger concentrated upon Daladon, stared hard at the priest, but apparently no answers were forthcoming. He spoke to Mariadon without looking away. “You are not my priest, but this temple your home. I would be a poor guest were I to spill blood-”
Daladon gave a curt nod. “Indeed you would.”
“But I am not a guest,” Raylin’s eyes were flat, unforgiving, “for never was I invited into this place.”
Daladon scowled. He reached out to push Raylin aside. The ranger’s empty hand whipped outward, his fingers pressing deeply into the flesh of the priest’s arm. Daladon grunted in surprise and pain.
“Daladon,” Kellus murmured, eyeing the priest’s back from across the table, “you had best be very, very careful.”
Mariadon reached out – slowly – and placed a hand atop Raylin’s arm. “Release him, friend. Here is not the place.”
But Raylin had made his decision – Kellus could see it in his friend’s countenance.
“No,” Raylin agreed with the archbishop, “but outside, on the street - there is the place. Come, Daladon – if such is your name – I will walk you out.”
For the first time since Mariadon’s sudden arrival, Daladon appeared uncertain.
Kellus, then, made his own decision. “Raylin,” he called, voice soft. “Let him go.”
“I am not your hound-”
“No,” Kellus interjected, “you are my friend. And, as your friend, I am telling – asking – you…let him pass.”
Kellus could see that his words were ineffective. His friend did not release his hold upon Daladon. The fingers of Raylin’s other hand were white-knuckled as they squeezed the heavy, unlit brand. The ranger meant to spill blood – here, outside, wherever - it did not matter.
Kellus tried one final tack. And if this doesn’t work, then the hell with it – I’ll help Raylin kill the bastard, come what may. “You are angry because John is dead. I am too, Raylin – believe me. But this man – this priest – he is innocent of John’s death.” I think. “Enough bloodshed, I say.”
John’s name seemed to strike a chord within the stoic ranger. Raylin’s shoulders slumped. Kellus watched, holding his breath, as the Larrenman finally – after long, long moments – released his hold.
Daladon did not tarry. He stepped around Raylin and disappeared into the outer corridor.
Kellus listened as Daladon’s – no, the feratu’s - footfalls receded up the stairs. He swiveled his gaze away from Raylin toward Mariadon. “You know what he is.”
“I do.”
“And yet you allow him to leave this place.”
“I do.”
“I believe you have erred, Your Grace.”
Mariadon did not reply.
