| Orgone Accumulator
Join Date: Apr 2002 Location: Portland, OR
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Tahl was first, and Rede was second.
When the Ahma brought the former Master of the Temple back, he found that Tahl's assessment had been correct: a righteous wrath had been Oronthon's gift to Rede of Dramore, whose realization of the truth had come too late.
Eadric had descended together with Tahl into the catacombs, and they had smashed sarcophagi open. Saint Tahl prayed as the Ahma, who alone of Oronthon's mortal servants possessed the power,* had called them back, breathing life into them: Tuan Muat, an Inquisitor of singular determination; Kustus of Mord; Wurz, the founder of the Mission; Moda the Exorcist; Tarpion the Rash; Anaqiss Twice-Apostate, who had briefly supported both the Irrenites and the Sophics before recanting his heresies; Haubi of Thahan. Former grandees and luminaries in the Magistratum, some of whom had been dead for two centuries or more. All had perished violently: in war, or at the hands of demons or assassins, or through acts of betrayal by those who sought to supplant them. Unquiet spirits who – gifted with new life and vigour – pledged themselves both to Eadric and to the teachings of Saizhan, body and soul.
Tahl called steeds to serve them: a brood of ancient celestial griffons of prodigious size, whose names were buried in forgotten temple tomes.** Eadric took Hauthuts, hot-tempered and proud, whose feathered mane bore a silver sheen. He knew that before the Fall, Murmuur's steed had been kin to them, and mused how many had descended with their masters into damnation: their adherence to virtue seemed already precarious. Within a week, there were twenty of them. They consumed horses more quickly than Eadric could have imagined possible.
The date of the embassy drew near, and Eadric considered his possibilities. After agonizing over the choices, he opted to retain Rede and Tarpion, deploying the others – including Kustus, who possessed great strategic insight – to order the Sela's position south of Wyre. Tuan Muat, Wurz, Moda and Anaqiss were powerful spellcasters whose presence was sorely needed in the Temple camp; Tahl, he would not spare.
Nehael's initiative would be formally ratified by the Small Council in the august presence of King Tiuhan, a political move organized by Prince Tagur: Tiuhan approached his fourteenth birthday, and his majority. But Mostin and Daunton would join the party later, beyond Wyre's borders. Mostin had indicated that there were diplomatic considerations that should not be overlooked which prevented his official involvement.
Ugh. Politics, Eadric thought.
"Will you seize power, if a time comes where it seems necessary?" Tahl inquired archly of him. "There are rules you have yet to break."
The Ahma sighed. "Probably, knowing my luck."
"Do you think if they get us all in one place, they will try to overwhelm us with one, swift stroke?"
"Maybe," Eadric nodded. "But I think they'll fail if they do. They are not yet prepared. And we aren't so helpless. Now uncertainty vexes them, and it may be we can force their hand. Time is no longer on their side."
Tahl nodded. There were nine hundred sarcophagi in the Temple catacombs.
**
The fortress, which perched upon an island of matter, drifted in a haphazard fashion through a grey, featureless astral planescape.
Sho stood in the courtyard and gazed up at the expanses above her. She felt no desire. No fear. No joy. But neither did she feel nothing: oblivion was a state denied to her. She experienced only a perpetual, mild discomfort, as her incomplete psyche attempted to balance two irreconcilable commands:
Preserve what you are. Become other than what you are.
Her creator's gift to her – other than a semblance of life – had been a lingering existential malaise. She sighed – because that is what she understood was appropriate – and entered the keep: a round bastion pierced with narrow windows, from which issued the bluish-green light of a dimensional lock. She made her way by a narrow staircase into a chamber in the bedrock, where the Alienist was closeted.
Potent wards protected the place. Mostin paced back and forth, irritated. Within a thaumaturgic diagram, a solar – Taruz – stood in glorious, radiant, blissful meditation. Captured by a superior planar binding – a spell developed by Shomei – the celestial had refused point-blank to deal with Mostin until it was released. Events were not transpiring as the Alienist had hoped.
Mostin glanced sidelong at Sho, but refused to meet her gaze. He would not look at her directly – something which Sho knew should make her feel upset. She decided to pout, but the expression was lost on Mostin.
Orolde – who sat on a low stool – smiled at her, and raised his stump. He hopped down, and scurried over.
"The celestial is being less than accommodating," the Sprite whispered. "Where is Mei?"
"She still reads," Sho answered. Orolde was kind to her. She felt that she should like him.
She coughed, in an effort to attract Mostin's attention.
The Alienist scowled.
"I should like to explore," Sho asserted. "May I leave the keep?"
Mostin raised an eyebrow. "I think you might find the landscape hereabouts rather dull – although I would advise caution nonetheless. But I am not your master. Do what you will. Perhaps Orolde will accompany you."
The Alienist watched as they departed. His clumsy efforts to nudge the simulacra towards self-realization had, thus far, had negligible results; they had demonstrated nothing which could be described as genuine individuation. It would take time, and magic of a magnitude he could barely begin to comprehend, to effect that change. And there was never enough time.
He dwelt briefly on the possibilities offered by Shomei's infinity of pseudoanalogues, before dismissing them from his mind.
After invoking powerful protections, Mostin turned to Taruz. "Don't try any funny business. Don't try to intimidate me – it won't work. And spare me your moralizing."
He waved his hand, and a little of the powdered silver which formed the protective circle around the celestial blew away. Taruz stepped forth.
"I know you have a very good reason for this, Mostin," the Solar's eyes bored into him.
**
The Arcanaloth, Tholhaluk, gazed into the scrying mirror, observing Iua's endless progress through the maze within his basalt fortress with an expression of malicious curiosity. At whiles, she would stop to regain her bearings; or, alternatively collapse for an hour in uncontrolled bursts of tears as memories cascaded through her mind. She was perched precariously on the edge of sanity. The Daemon smiled – it was important that she not be pushed too far if she were to be effectively harnessed, and not utterly broken.
Surab, who had moved into her rapier, prompted her as necessary. Always in proximity to Iua, he could reinhabit her at need – should her actions become too suspicious or threatening. He played masterfully on her wild, impulsive nature; the instinctual chaos which was her elemental self. She had taken to the corruption which he lavished on her, greedily absorbing the taint whilst simultaneously rejecting it in disgust. Angst raged through her: she was empowered and violated; stripped of her will, yet granted boons which no mortal could hope for. She found it increasingly difficult to separate her own identity from the evil which drove a dark desire to maim, rape and kill.
Sensing her own damnation, she wept spasmodically in despair, all the while exulting.
Within the shifting walls of the maze – from which, it was becoming apparent to Iua, there was no real exit – Tholhaluk had placed a number of conundrums. Perverse scenarios wrought of shadowstuff, in which Iua was forced to act as the protagonist in a play whose choices always dealt misery, pain and death – but, for her, granted an ecstatic release which left her calm and sated. But only for a little while.
Eadric – the Ahma – might have fared better, she mused as she watched fiendish trolls idly butcher children and gorge on their flesh. Her spirits soared as her body heaved in revulsion.
But I am not Eadric. What hope do I have? They are breaking me.
She laughed maniacally. She knew that the pain would finally end, when she could recall her own mother's murder with delicious satisfaction.
*
Even after abandoning Graz'zt – a decision which Tholhaluk wrily observed he might later come to regret – the daemon remained on favorable terms with a number of Azzagrat's proxies. The initial assault upon Zelatar by death knights, blood fiends and Abyssal ghouls had seemed, at first, overwhelming. Tholhaluk had panicked; bursting free from the sealed palace with a powerful disjunction which had ripped a hole through defenses erected by Graz'zt; for which, the Arcanaloth knew, he had gained the everlasting enmity of the Dark Prince. However, Tholhaluk believed – correctly – that he was low on the list of Graz'zt's priorities as far as potential targets for revenge were concerned. He would have a few centuries, at least, before his former sponsor's eye was turned towards him: if Azzagrat endured at all through the current crisis.
Yaugot – the fearsome king of Terkenutung – still paid for the services of thugs provided by Tholhaluk, and the daemon had seized upon the vacuum of opportunity left by the withdrawal Graz'zt's troops from that world. Mazikreen – one of the few succubi to have successfully disentangled herself from the webs of Queen Alrunes to forge a kingdom of her own – had graced him with a visit in his citadel soon after Orcus had invested Azzagrat. Suudjut – a balor who rivalled Ainhorr in his power – had also made overtures to Tholhaluk; apparently eager for trade in souls but, in fact, the daemon knew, anxious to procure the sword Heedless, which was reported to be still in Afqithan. Tholhaluk, who had lost a veritable host of mercenaries in the Confrontation, was understandably reluctant to pursue any enterprise there. And now the heart of Afqithan was in Faerie: woe betide any fiend who roused the Sidhe-Lords from their languor.
Tholhaluk was, as always, treading carefully. But Iua was an opportunity. He would work with Surab for as long as it took for one of them to destroy the other. With grim appreciation, Tholhaluk knew that he wouldn't be the corpse at the end of it.
**
"What would you require of me, in order to secure unqualified celestial aid?" Mostin asked bluntly. "If, for example, I needed a handful of cherubs to aid me in casting a spell?"
The solar's eyes went blank for a moment.
The bastard is communing with his superiors, Mostin knew. Don't they ever think for themselves?
"A genuine recantation of your prior crimes," Taruz smiled beatifically. "That you wholeheartedly embrace Oronthon, and demonstrate – through your deeds and words – a dedication to His cause. If you achieved such a state of grace, however, I suspect that the likelihood of you wanting to cast such a spell would be zero."
Mostin groaned. "Who are you speaking with? Enitharmon? You're certainly towing the Orthodox line, aren't you?"
"Your dealings with fiends have not endeared you to the celestial host."
Mostin held his tongue, as mentioning the name Soneillon would have merely elicited rhetoric from Taruz regarding the mission of the Ahma which the Alienist was in no mood to hear.
"The fact that I am in a position to defend Wyre – and the faithful – from an inevitable demonic assault, and that you show reluctance in aiding me in my efforts might be construed as rather short-sighted, don't you agree?"
"Your lack of faith in the vision of the Sela merely demonstrates your unworthiness in this area," Taruz observed.
"It was the Sela who suggested that I contact the host!" Mostin was becoming increasingly frustrated.
"That is known," Taruz nodded. "As is your participation in the coming mission to the Cheshnite sect. Hence, I am demonstrating a greater tolerance of your binding me than I might otherwise."
Oh, for Shomei's rod, Mostin lamented, and cursed the Akesoli. He thought deeply for a long while.
"I need allies, Taruz. Powerful, effective allies who can be trusted, and who will not bleed me dry in the coming months. Allies whose agendas are not entirely at odds with my own. But my spirit is mine, and you may not lay claim to it: I have transcended, and I am beyond your grasp. I will not recant my sins, for in my judgment – the only judgment to which I am beholden – I have committed none. I propose a mutually beneficial arrangement. Is that so hard to wrap your feathery head around?"
"The thought of looking to the obvious has come late to you."
"Don't be so damned smug!"
"There will be no cascade," Taruz said firmly, "unless Enitharmon so decrees it. Nor will the celestial host aid or in any way condone your efforts to bind Graz'zt – or any other fiend for that matter. You will not subject celestials to bindings: it is inappropriate."
"Inappropriate? And why no cascade? You were willing enough at Khu."
"Why does Oronthon choose to incarnate himself? Why does he not reorder creation so that it is more to his liking?"
"Trust me," Mostin scowled. "You do not want to have this conversation with me. Go on."
"If you open a gate to call archons or devas you will find them well-disposed towards you. Payment will be waived and reciprocal service will be considered rendered if they are deployed in a manner consonant with the will of the Ahma and the Sela. I should also point out that your options are running out."
"Thank-you for your keen observation. I accept the terms – with one caveat. Under no circumstances are celestials called by me to trespass within the borders of Wyre as defined under article nineteen-point-zero of the Injunction. The Enforcer would have my head on a stick for such an infringement."
"That is understood."
"I also reserve the right to summon any fiend, in the knowledge that our agreement will expire at the moment that I do. I expect no retribution if this occurs."
"I can make no such promise."
"I'll take my chances," Mostin said drily.
**
The sword Heedless was brought to Jaliere – the smith of the gods – with great pomp and ceremony, as befitted Ortwine's whimsy. Nwm had opened a doorway between two great trees – a banyan in Afqithan and a fir in Sisperi – through which a procession of gnomes bearing the weapon appeared with great solemnity. They were followed by dancing nymphs and flights of portunes – the tiniest of sprites, each no bigger than a thumbnail. Satyrs blew copper horns. Sundry minor feys capered and applauded.
Ortwine signalled for quiet, and an excited hush fell upon the assembled throng. As Heedless was rendered to Jaliere's apprentices, one satyr could restrain himself no longer, and began blowing a raucous note on his horn. Ortwine quickly silenced the offender, and smiled benignly. Her expression changed to a scowl as the doors to the smithy were closed and locked tight; Jaliere would admit his secrets to none.
As the feys cavorted through the roads and courtyards of Mulhuk, Nwm turned to Ortwine.
"How did you make the sword quiescent?"
"I charmed it, of course. I have utterly seduced it. It adores me."
"It may come to resent its bondage."
"I predict an uneasy relationship," Ortwine agreed. "Nonetheless, at present, Heedless and I are newlyweds. We should bask in the first flush of romance."
"I suspect that it may harbor less good feeling towards you after its shape has been contorted and bound to another blade."
"Love is pain, Nwm."
"How long will you be remaining?" Nwm asked. "Jaliere may take a month to complete his work."
"How long does the gate remain open?"
"The portal is permanent," Nwm replied calmly.
"What?" Ortwine screamed. A fury crossed her face.
"It is not the first."
"How dare you!" She was still screaming. Evidently, Ortwine valued her isolation more than Nwm had anticipated.
"Not just to Afqithan, but to other areas in Faerie, to Nizkur, to places which you are not worthy to behold. I forge connections, Ortwine. It is my fee to you and the Nireem. Call it a finder's fee."
"Contact me in a month, or whenever the thing is ready," Ortwine hissed.
"Trust my foresight!" Nwm snapped. "I do what I must; that includes squeezing my friends for their debts: if you think you can unravel yourself from your past deeds, you may not find it so easy."
"I will have it dispelled."
"Afqithan is in Faerie now, and you do not own Faerie," Nwm sighed. "Your direct hegemony is limited, whatever title you choose to assume. Do not thwart me, Ortwine, but accept that my vision is sound. Return with me to Wyre. Events transpire in which we should be part."
"Wyre bores me."
"Annihilation threatens."
"So what? You tell me this when I have no weapon?"
"I'm sure Eadric has a spare."
Ortwine glowered.
**
Anumid, the mouthpiece of Cheshne, knelt in supplication before his eleven masters – hierophants, necromancers and blood magi. Some were living, some were dead. Some were human – or had once been. All were immortal. His voice sounded as a dirge, as he recounted the disposition of the Wyrish embassy.
"The Ahma, and three of those whom he has resurrected – Tahl the Incorruptible, Rede and Tarpion; also Nwm the Preceptor, Mesikammi the Shamaness and the witch Hlioth; Prince Tagur of Einir, and twelve of the finest knights in Wyre; Ortwine the Sidhe, usurper of the throne of Afqithan; Daunton and Mostin, champions of Wyre's fledgeling collegiate system of wizardry."
"Ahh, the heralds of the new order," Sibud spoke. His inflection was two thousand years old, but well-known to those there: Sibud was a primal vampire of ancient pedigree, the sire of many masters.
"Daunton insists upon a dimensional lock. Mostin has enough magical support to invoke his quiescence of the spheres, and will likely do so."
"So be it," Yeshe the Binder nodded. "Let them spend their strength thus. I will go: I should like to meet the Ahma."
"And I," Naatha purred.
"As would I," Sibud smiled. "Set the meeting for midnight."
"At Galda?" Anumid inquired.
"If Mostin requires that it be outside of Wyre's borders, we should indulge him," the lich Choach rasped. "I will also attend."
"Anumid will accompany us, and Visuit," Yeshe decreed. "Let the remainder of the company, to the number of two dozen, be chosen as each of we four see fit."
*Long ago I house-ruled raise dead to be a 7th-level spell and (true) resurrection to be 9th-level. In the Temple's history, raise dead has only been cast a handful of times. Before Eadric, no resurrection had ever been made. Prior to the advent of Saizhan, there was a necromantic taboo associated with both spells.
**The griffons are advanced (10 HD) celestial monsters of legend with the haste and spell-turning special abilities. I rule that when templated creatures are called with planar ally spells, each +1CR of a template counts as 2HD for purposes of determining whether a creature is subject to it.
N.B.: Contundor got smushed by Nalfeshnees in Afqithan, something which I neglected to mention previously.
Last edited by Sepulchrave II; 25th June 2006 at 11:56 PM..
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